On receipts and memos and envelopes, I sketched centerpiece ideas: dog houses from boxes, with dog photos on sticks, and paw prints, and boingy silver things and metallic shreds. All the ideas seemed to require mass materials - styrofroam blocks, cardboard boxes, spray paints, photographs, disco balls. About two weeks before the party, we thought we had a winner. Me, Greg, and our friend Korrin - an OCD crafter and all-around good sport - huddled at the third floor craft table, each trying to make a prototype work. But they would not work; the boxes were too big, the paper too thin, sticks toppled off. Korrin got a headache, and left. Greg saw something in my eye he’d seen before, and left. Alone at midnight and surrounded by crumpled silver shreds, I had a short but weepy pity party, followed by a hearty round of why-the-hell-am-I-doing-this. Still, I’d made tea and the house was quiet, so I sat down fresh at the table, switched on the HBO show “In Treatment,” and started doodling again. By now I hated the failed ideas - so tacky, overblown, “regular.” Why did we need so much stuff? Could we create something but not take anything home? Forty-five soothing, Gabriel Byrne-filled minutes later, an answer:

We would build a small tower of items from the Lawrence Humane Society’s wish list - pedestrian stuff like paper towels and dog food, but exactly right for Josie, who volunteers there, and reusable to its core. Applying wedding cake logic, I sprayed cardboard cake rounds silver, and used them to separate and stabilize layers. The paper towels were bound, cake-style, with paper and ribbon. We could donate the towel rolls and dog food, recycle the paper and cake boards, and reuse all the ribbons. Only the balloon toppers were a one-night stand - but they were lovely.

Whether you’re throwing a big event or a cozy party, I urge you to try reuse/recycle decorations. Our guests appreciated both their funky “found-art” looks and the care behind them. Plus, you don’t need to be an artist or a serious crafter to pull it off. Can we apply this idea to different events? Here’s a few to start:

Child’s birthday party: even for a small party at home, decorate with short stacks of give-able items, like toy trucks for a truck theme, stuffed animals, etc. Donate to a local homeless shelter, hospital, or social service group.

Garden party: make the stacks from terra cotta pots, seed packets and small plants. All can be given to guests for planting, or donated to a local community garden.

Pizza party: (Josie’s idea!) Use disposable pizza pans to separate “layers,” and stack with flour bags, cans of tomatoes or sauce, onions or canned olives. Top with fresh tomatoes. Donate all to a local shelter that cooks and serves hot meals.

Your ideas? Share them below and craft away.

“The Center of Everything?” The post title references a well-known Lawrence writer who, rather than mess with centerpieces, just produces great books.

Moments after finishing my first pot of caramel sauce – first melted sugar, first caramel anything – I pulled up an apron corner, wrapped the burning handle and carried it down twenty-seven steps, past an audience of snickering older students, past my teachers, not breathing until the pot finally reached the hands of a famous West coast chef standing onstage, waiting with a microphone and tapping a plate.

At twenty-three I cooked more than most and baked swell pound cake, but the fact remained that I’d been in culinary school just 32 days. Famous Chef was visiting to perform a cooking demo, his advance food prep so demanding that a scroll-length memo was issued to teachers, lists and diagrams attached.

Shari was my bench partner, and we were deep in earnest chopping, piles of 1/4-inch carrot dice, when our teacher, Chef Karmin, pulled my jacket from behind. “You two,” he said, handing us a stapled sheaf, “I have a job for you. Make sure your knives are sharp.”

He turned to leave, and I glanced at the list.  Searing tuna, burning sugar, chopping exotics. “Um. Chef,” I said, “it’s just…Chef, we haven’t done any of this. This stuff.”

He talked out the door as he left. “It’s not too bad,” he said, “and you’ve got oh, two hours. You can do it.”

We gaped. Shari looked sick. I regretted those gobbled croissants off the sheet rack, now rising as we grabbed steels and began frantically honing knives. I finished quick but Shari kept sawing, blade flying like a mad violinist. Back and forth, back and forth, five minutes gone and the list untouched.

My assigned partner was ambitious but nervous, moved slow in the kitchen as she thought before moving. Shari asked permission to peel potatoes, carried tiny handwritten points on scaling fish. She measured the carrots. Now she ground knives while I studied the list, bobbing her tiny head and huge dark brows. It would be a long two hours.

The list gave her fits. We were to prepare complete versions of Famous Chef’s dishes, all requiring various first-try skills: searing tuna with lavender and peppercorns, shaving priceless deep woods fungi, braising eggplant he’d carried in-flight.  I flinched at the clock, flabbergasted. Why would the powers entrust rookies, one more neurotic and green than the next, with their crucially high-priced plans? The last task was dessert, a bread pudding. Soak currants in rum, okay, bake brioche, I don’t think so, and make caramel sauce.  Caramel sauce from scratch. Melting sugar. I looked up and saw Shari across the room, hunting for books about tuna.

The brioche was mercifully baked by advanced students who, delivering bread and surveying our challenged kitchen, got the best laugh of their day. We struggled down the list, producing a string of near-disasters until there was fifteen minutes left, and we’d finally reached the caramel. A little butter, some sugar, how hard could it be? While Shari mulled the perfect pan, I dumped sugar in the pan we had. She returned to the stove and saw me cranking the heat.

“We can’t do this,” she said. “We don’t know what what we’re doing. I don’t want to do this.”

I told her me either. I have no idea, but we have twelve minutes left. They are waiting for us.

“What, we have to go in there?” Good god, I’d met someone crazier than me. Stirring water into sugar, I was lifted by this thought.

“Okay,” I said, “let’s watch it. It’s supposed to bubble, then turn colors.”

“Someone set a pan on fire last week,” she said. “They walked away and it caught fire.”

“Uh-huh,” and I looked at the clock. “It’s bubbling.”

“Take it off,” Shari said, “it’s turning!”

“Not yet,” I said. It doesn’t look right. I had no idea how it was supposed to look. But not yet.

The clock ticked and the color inched forward with each second, now gold, now golden.

“TAKE IT OFF,” Shari begged, “we’ll get it wrong. It’s wrong.”

I swirled the pan, by now pleasantly deviant, blind but going for broke.  I didn’t know anything but knew enough to keep going, despite Shari yelping and the hot breath of time. Better too much than too little, better mahogany than beige, trust whatever it takes to get this thing done.

Now the color was toffee and it smelled like caramel, only better. I showed Shari. “What do you think?”

“OH MY GOD they are in the auditorium.”

“Okay…now.”

We yanked it off, whisked in the butter, the vanilla and cream. Shari! I think we made sauce.

She nodded her brows - well, I guess - but would not walk in there.  So I ran across the hall clutching an apron-wrapped handle, running as fast as any person who is late with scalding liquid. The sauce shimmered left to right as I wobbled down the aisles, passing students step by step. Most had already interned, already worked the line, and here’s me with unsupervised caramel, not breathing, feeling naked but getting it done. Finally, I climbed three stairs to the stage and gently set the pot on the table. Empty-handed, I stepped back to leave.

“Let us thank our little helper,” Famous Chef boomed, and while the students were roaring, he glanced at the sauce and whispered to me. “Color could have gone longer.”

My face burned. Hey - if it was up to my partner, you might have been looking at clear.

Still, I was grateful it hadn’t been said at the mike. Chef isn’t too bad, I thought, everyone has to fly blind sometime, he must know. The Chef motioned for me to stay, stay up there; things seemed to be working out.  Then he drizzled our sauce on the plate, and held it up to show the crowd. “It should not look like this.” 

Okay. Maybe not.

He paused and raised it higher, so caramel stripes dripped off the rim. “But alas, this is how it looks today.”

Josie’s sundae: vanilla bean ice cream, caramel sauce and fresh cherries

Make your own caramel sauce - it’s taste years away from jarred and the perfect pair for ice cream. Think you can’t? Of course you can. As in all caramel matters, I recommend not thinking at all. Run sweet and blind. It comes out better that way.

Classic Caramel Sauce

1 cup granulated sugar

1/4 cup water

1 cup heavy cream

5 tablespoons unsalted butter

2 teaspoons pure vanilla extract

pinch sea salt (optional)

Put the sugar in a medium-sized heavy saucepan. Pour water over the sugar, swirling until sugar is “moisturized.” Cook over high heat until sugar dissolves. Dip a pastry brush in hot water and use it to brush down any crystals from side of pan - OR - cover pan with tight-fitting lid to steam off crystals, then remove to continue cooking.

Continue cooking over high heat, watching closely, until mixture starts to turn a rich amber color, but does not smell burned. Remove pan from heat and carefully add the heavy cream, whisking. Mixture will puff and steam, and some sugar might harden. Return pan to heat and cook, whisking, until mixture appears smooth. Remove from heat and add butter, stirring to smooth. Finish by whisking in vanilla and, if desired, generous pinch of sea salt.

Serving: serve sauce hot, first cooling to desired thickness. May be refrigerated for several weeks and reheated in microwave or on stovetop as needed.

Makes 2 cups, enough for several ice cream bowls and more than a few spoonful snacks.

adapted from Favorite Old-Fashioned Desserts, by Pat Bailey

Later that day we feasted at the legendary Brookville Hotel, serving fried chicken heaven since 1915.

It was an early Father’s Day dinner, and we saluted my husband and father-in-law, both great Dads. But the piping, crunchy chicken - seemingly endless legs, thighs, breasts, wings - reminded me who was missing at the table. A holiday for fathers, and for the first time without my own, eating a not-so-often treat he adored. I pushed back the hard gulp and saw what he would see - platters worth diving into, a laughing night of gluttony, a family taking pictures, rolling eyes and passing biscuits.

Back in Dep-haired teen years, my family’s favorite takeout was Brown’s Chicken - no Brookville feast, but plenty good paired with cole slaw, hush puppies, and honey. Dad would pick up his car keys, clink, and say “want to go for a ride?” Picking up stuff with Dad meant 8-track tunes and quick, friendly questions about boys, friends, classes, boys. Eyes would roll, but I didn’t mind. Something about the car rides was pleasant, okay even in teen view, an argument-free zone with a bag of warm chicken on my lap. Dad tapped out songs on the wheel and drove with his elbows, a knee, a thumb.

My father loved corn - on the cob, in a fresh juicy heap, or creamed, as we had it here, passed around the table more than once. His stomach forbade him to eat the corn, but not to say he wanted to eat the corn. “I love corn,” he’d say, “but I can’t eat it.” A predictable three minutes later, “well…maybe this once.”

Happy Father’s Day to you and yours. Great men aren’t here just once.  They go where we go, and I will snicker and cry and pass around more biscuits. All the best parts are still with us at the table.

* my father passed away December 5, 2008. Here’s the place to read more about him, and the eulogy I delivered that day.

It came easy to me, but editors warned of a common fault: for rhyming cards, they said, not so much “moon June spoon.” Meaning avoid the common rhymes, and don’t go for easy sound. Standard goods like “you, do, blue, and new” also made the list; what was a sappy writer to do? Only so many words convey feeling and rhyme like sugar, and let’s face it, there’s no me-to-you without you. So I’d use them anyway, re-arranged and refreshed enough to slip an editor’s eye, and they sold, sold like candy, proving that as long as it sounds pretty, people will hear whatever they want.  A moon that loves you in June pleases; blue without you, nothing I can do?  Like honey.  And my friends, a man who buys cards on the sweet side will not do better than honey.

So. Why are we talking spoons in June and sending the very best?  Because it’s summer, and even if you couldn’t see the wide bright sky or smell sun off the pavement, you’d hear it.  We all have those sounds that ring summer, the slap of wet towels and flip-flops and no thoughts at all.  What are yours?  Mull it over, and while you do, try a few warm-weather sweets, pulled exclusively from the archives for your breezy dessert pleasure:

Key Lime Tarts say crashing waves to me.

Bowls inside or on the porch? Peach-Pecan Cobbler swings like a screen door.

Sizzling Banana Sundaes with Salted Chocolate Pecans. Now with built-in sizzle.

For pure June-moon bliss I’d also point you to Bumbleberry Pie and Good Kansas Limeade. Now - cicadas, campfires, bike bells. What’s your summer sound?

——————-

Knitter

Baker

Productivity breakers.

Talk and talk…

…rain, coffee, normal.

————

As we like to say around here, coffee is no longer optional; as in, I don’t think we’re getting special benefits, like perkiness or open eyes - it’s just plain required.  Do you have ten words on coffee?  Spill.

What.

Oh, I’m sorry…the Bat Mitzvah. Were you waiting for news of the Bat Mitzvah?

Well, the full recap will have to wait, at least until I can form whole words again. Luckily, my waking zombie state still allows for posting pictures - so here’s a sampling of our totally crazy, wholly delicious, once-in-a-lifetime weekend; three days in which I’m certain the universe crammed more than 72 hours.

Friday night’s Welcome Dinner featured sunflowers & Jayhawks. Because it was Welcome. To Kansas.

Abe & Jake’s, a riverfront barbed wire factory in Lawrence, converted to a college dance bar. Before the horde arrived.

Notebook favors. In which the 13-year old guys wrote funny things to Josie, then crumpled pages and chucked them in the river. They are suave, the young ones.

A wacky place, like no other.

Vintage never-used restaurant bags, bought on Ebay. They just say woof, no?

Centerpieces constructed from items on the Lawrence Humane Society’s wish list, like paper towels and canned dog food. A little silver spray paint, a little wedding cake logic, and it all got donated in the end.

Girls really do just wanna have fun. Just ask that DJ.

Yes - you, too can cut 200 dog bone-shaped papers in one viewing of “Quantum of Solace.” But if you wish to stick them on a few hundred chocolates, you’ll also need double-sided tape, one daughter and one mother-in-law.

And here is the coolest girl in the world.  Her day began with brilliant Torah reading and a thoughtful speech, but finished in a dance whirl; such debonair young fellows, all beads and cheap sunglasses - who could ask for anything more?

Finally, an extra treat: my friend Melanie’s six-year old son Eli and my cousin Robin’s son Jordi rocked out on stage. For two straight hours. If you want to electrify your next bash, these are the dudes to call.

Dance Party! from imamelanie on Vimeo.


My Mom & Josie. The smoked chicken egg rolls? The dipped pretzels, the teen romance, the bar bill? More to come.

Have a great weekend!

And there it is.  One day you’re reading Frog and Toad, the next day they’re out for sushi, sporting better accessories than yours. This is the circle of life.

Happy, Happy Birthday to my one and only, tootsie-roll-and-cranberry-eating, one of a kind girl. We love you more than blogs can say.

Well, bat mitzvah weekend - not a ceremony, not a party, a weekend - blasts off in just ten days. I kept thinking it was longer; someone would say, “wow, just a month now,” and I’d wave them off, no no, much longer. Plenty of time. Then Josie would say “three weeks!” and I’d laugh. Come now, it’s not. Then, a few days ago, a friend said “getting close, huh? Under two weeks.”

I said holy mother of kugel, you’re right. And after I stopped nail-biting and rocking in the corner, I came out swinging - and this is where I’ve been:

Buying candy and snacks and granola bars for guest bags. Punching holes in guest bags.

Ribboning guest bags.

Spray-painting 45 cake boards silver. By the time it was over, I resembled the victim of a Bond villain. Also, it’s a good thing I’m done having kids, because I now require an iron lung.

Uh - making liqueurs.

That’s right - making liqueurs. Orange Spice, Blackberry, and Lemon. I read somewhere that in the old country - and I don’t mean Chicago - families made their own to serve at celebrations. This rang a warm little bell in my heart, and the other night, smashing blackberries, funneling vodka, it felt good - part haute, part Hasid, part hillbilly. The bottles are taking a nice dark nap before their debut. I’ll let you know if we go blind.

I have also been here…

…and here…

…and everywhere.

Josie’s busy preparing for her big show, but at twelve-almost-thirteen, you won’t be shocked to hear she has limited attention. What attention she does have is saved for friends, who are endlessly fascinating, rather than mom, who’s looking to paste place cards. She cuts, she glues, she snacks on chocolate, she leaves and comes back. A friend calls and she leaves again. If she faces me for five minutes and appears to be listening for two, I’m happy.

Where I have not been is blogging. I fret about that, and if Josie happens to pass during fretting, she’ll say “whatever, Mom. Just say you’ll see them after the 30th, when you’ll give them the biggest, best post ever.”

“Really,” I say, “and who’s going to write it, you?”

But she’s gone in a hair swing - handful of gummi bears, phone at her ear. It’s me and a book bag, dropped on the floor.

This bat mitzvah thing - it’s a celebration of growing up, or at least thinking about growing up. And past the candy and trimmings, dinners and brunches, it’s all about a girl who doesn’t have the time right now - but someday, I know, she will.

She might think of dad measuring cardboard for candy boxes, and handing pieces to mom, and mom cutting and folding and wrapping in paw paper, for god’s sake. She’ll roll eyes and remember, it was crazy. They were crazy. She might also remember that it all happened because she was there, and had a special something, and we told her so every day.  By then it might make sense. Anyway, I like to think we’ve reserved a future moment - who wouldn’t want a gift-wrapped, stashed-away spark?

A girl so special she gets the glittery place card.

Who glued it? One of us who’s not on the phone, that’s who. But the other one, she of the rolling eyes and socks on the floor - thinking about growing up is hard. She deserves it.

Jean, spoiling that kid.

In 1978 just three types of contraband existed for me and my pal Andie Lerner: shoplifted Bonne Bell makeup, those curious magazines in our brothers’ rooms, and Judy Blume’s teen sex novel, Forever. But at eleven, I feared juvenile cosmetics prison and declined the five-finger discount; despite many examinations of our brothers’ covert reads, Andie and I weren’t quite clear on the attraction; and finally, though we’d heard the title whispered and wanted it desperately, we were not wise to the horizontal goods in Forever. We were not actually wise to anything.

What we were was clueless, but lucky - a copy was circulating in our classroom by day, and pedaling home to bedrooms at night. The smudged paperback moved from desk to desk - when Mrs. Endicott turned to the board, one girl slid it to the palms of another, and by the time she turned back, the deal was done. Math resumed with two flushed faces, one triumphant and one hopeful - and one fine day during fractions, the palms belonged to Andie.  It was Friday afternoon, and our eyes locked in telegraphed plan: sleepover, toaster-oven snacks and a cover-to-cover inspection - no falling asleep like last time, Andie - of Forever.

Andie lived two houses down from our split-level, in a rambling old Tudor.  Her family snacked on flax bread, and ate lentil soup in hand-thrown pottery crocks.  Wide oak stairs led to a sunny living room crammed with macrame plants and art books and an enormous black Steinway, on which Andie’s dad would balance a glass of red wine and frequently bang out jazz.  My own dad liked to browse tax law, so I found it all thrilling, right up to the day Mr. Lerner met a young woman and left the grand piano - and Mrs. Lerner - behind. Andie’s mom started wearing bangles and scarves and higher heels, and buying potato chips, and was never home. Mr. Lerner’s unfortunate weakness had built a premier sleepover destination.

So it was in an empty house, in the sitting room that held just a sofabed and television, that we holed up with Forever.  Our props meant business: sleeping bags, Twizzlers, root beer, at least a dozen pillows and a few of their Persian cats. The fridge revealed one package of cocktail franks, and I’d brought a can of Wiener Wrap - a kind of processed dough you wrapped and baked around hot dogs.  We could bake them in the toaster oven.  I could sprinkle them with cheddar, and was excited about that, about sprinkling cheddar on Wiener Wraps.

But first, Forever.  We literally tore through it - pulling toward me, pulling toward her - until we finally took turns munching licorice and reading aloud, all about Kath and Michael, and what they were doing. But…what were they doing?  An hour later we’d read all the words, had a laugh - ha ha, he called his member Ralph - and while we knew what Judy Blume was saying, sex on a multicolor rug, we didn’t quite know what sex on a multicolor rug, or any rug, was supposed to mean.

So we put the book aside and chugged root beer, and watched  TV.  They were showing Planet of the Apes, and we were mesmerized by chimp makeup and funny lines.  Charlton Heston was yelling about something. “I bet he never had sex on a multicolor rug!” Andie said.  I pointed to Roddy McDowell’s ape. “Not him either!” I said. We howled and turned out the lights, and everything on TV was hilarious, and Forever fell to the floor.  Eventually we heard a key turn, and a clack-clack down the hallway.  “My mom,” Andie shrieked, “get the book!”  I reached under the bed for the paperback but couldn’t find it, scrabbling.  Mrs. Lerner poked her head in the dark room, then swept in all the way.

“You girls are stillll up,” she said.

“We’re going to sleep, Mom,” said Andie.  Mrs. Lerner smelled like sandalwood, and swayed on her heels a little.  Instead of leaving, she plunked down on the bed.  I breathed in, but inched away.  She leaned over.  “What’s this?” In one floral-sleeved movement, she brought the book off the carpet.

She took a flashlight from Andie. “What is it?” She shined one spot on the cover. “Oh ho,” she said, “oh yes I do see!”  My lungs collapsed.  I could run home, I thought, I could bang on the door and I could confess to having the book, but at least I’d be out of here.

Now Mrs. Lerner swung to face us.  Andie and I huddled on the sofabed, toward the wall. She turned the flashlight off for a moment, then on again. Then pointed it at us. “So you got this. Okay. Okay. Just tell me one thing, ONE THING.” We held our breaths. “Was it good?”

Was it good. I looked at Andie, who was looking at me. Good? Her mom was still lurching. “Was. It. Good. Was it good for her the first time?”

Oh, now we were truly up a creek.  Neither of us had an inkling, but from her wild-eyed jangly look behind the light, we sure needed an answer. Andie looked stricken.  So I gave her one.

“Oh yeah, it was great!”

She looked suspicious, pressed the book under her palm. “It was great. The first time.”

It seemed to be working, so I went on. “Yeah, fantastic! Everything was perfect!”

Mrs. Lerner slipped the flashlight off, and was silent for two minutes. I thought she might be asleep.

“Then it’s a LIE!” she yelled.  I touched Andie’s arm. “If it was good for her then it is BULL.”  She jumped to her feet, and yanked her beaded shawl. “All men are assholes,” she said, “and don’t you forget it.”  She reached down, grabbed the book, and left.

Andie and I sat frozen for five minutes. Not until we heard shoes on wood, then shoes hit a wall upstairs, and finally the flump of a body in bed, did we finally start laughing, laughing so hard that root beer came out my nose. We did not discuss Kath and Michael, nor virgins or moms nor multicolor rugs.  At two a.m. we went to the kitchen, preheated the toaster oven, and carefully wrapped pink cocktail franks in canned yellow dough. We sat on the brick floor in pajamas and tore open a bag of Oreos, giggling and crumb-faced, waiting for Wiener Wraps.

——————

* no illustration of Wiener Wraps; remember what happened last time?