What’s better than a freezer full of porky goodness? April delivering it herself, and staying longer than she’d planned, sitting with Cleo’s head in her lap and a mug of hot tea. We talked and talked, and though we’d met once before, it was, as always, nice to fill in the gaps. It’s not unlike focusing a camera, filling in the gaps, and each time you do you get a clearer, stronger picture of this person, the image of a friend.

Several times a year I try to replicate my beloved Chicago deep dish pizza, especially pizza from Lou Malnati’s, my family’s traditional place. 13 years away and I’m finally edging close to pizza truth; it seems the longer I’m out of Chicago, the nearer I get to my pie. When Paige Orloff, writer and Sister Project genius, first visited Simmer, she left a comment, asking about a recipe for deep dish. It surprised me to realize I don’t have one, that I’ve never written it down and I shrugged, thinking I probably never would. Then I got to trading tales with Paige, and by the time she described me as a “kindred, unruly-haired spirit” – not to mention a virtual “dysfunctional family member,” I knew it might be time to try. The next time I make pizza, Paige, you’re with me in the kitchen. In spirit.

And then there is dear Sara Reddy Coyne, from Culinerapy. I haven’t cooked anything for Sara – not yet – but did cook her something up, and now it can be told: The Baker’s Alphabet post was a gift for an expectant friend, and that friend is Sara. When I posted in mid-July she was still not-hungry, nauseous, and not ready to reveal; but ah, the second golden wave. The fog lifts and you start eating again, ravenous, shiny, content. I’m very happy for Sara and her husband Paul, and wish them many shiny, contented days as their new life begins. It’s lovely to know Sara might walk the floors whispering donut rhymes – something that started in very real midnight hours with Josie, and then went to the virtual world, and now in another pair of real hands, might see daylight again.

I don’t know why I’m so astonished that true connections can be made offscreen, but I am. Every blogger I’ve met says the same thing: worried that in person, they will somehow be disappointed, or disappointing.  Since you’ve already glimpsed behind that person’s scenes – a given with childhood pals, but meeting adults, who gets the chance? – expectations may be high, but results even better. It seems that if you put out food, words and trust, new paths may open and in time, circle back.

I’ve been following Jane’s blog for some time now.  Back in the pre-Simmer days, when I was writing about building our house, I discovered that other people also wrote about lighting, and stove shopping, and doorknobs. Jane’s blog was filled with design inspiration, great pictures of her garden and the Long Island shore, and featured quick sketches of her family, her travels, her dogs. I dropped in, and stayed.

So, if you read someone’s blog for two years, you know them pretty well, right?

Well, yes. And no.  Each time I’ve met a blogger in person, the effect has been the same: what you see (or in this case, read) is what you get – plus.  That is, you get that voice you read, and more.  You fill in certain gaps: the smile behind the words, seeing how the wheels turn, and putting a real sound to the voice.

And oh, was there sound. Talk and talk and talk. We sat in a restaurant downtown, dipping bread from a breadboard Jane recognized right away. So much fun to sit across from real-life Jane – laughing eyes, UK accent still strong – and build on my Tell Simmer knowledge by listening to her journeys, her family, and the things she loves.

The thing about lunching with a fellow blogger is this: you do a lot of talking. Not so much eating. It’s like making up for lost time, I’d tell Greg, later. He’d ask “what can you possibly talk about for five hours?”  Fair question, but an easy answer. You’re confirming everything you know, and finding out what you don’t know. Back and forth, between bites. It’s simple – whoever’s fork is down…

…is the one listening.

After the world’s most vocal lunch, we walked a few blocks to my house. Oh, she got a tour, and met Greg and Josie, and made much fuss over Cleo – but mostly we stood around the kitchen, talking. I’d baked rugelach that morning, and they were still on a sheet pan. I pulled them off the parchment while we talked, which allowed us to nibble idly at the burnt, melted sugar left on paper.  We sipped Limoncello in little glasses, the last of the stuff I’d made for Josie’s bat mitzvah. Jane brought me a present – gorgeous vintage German cookie molds.

Honestly, why would she think I’d like antique baking stuff?  No idea.

We headed back downtown for coffee, and sat around chatting about Kansas, about New York, about prices and people and why we do we what do, about how we’re all different, and same.   She met a favorite barista, and some of my friends, and some passers-by.  We walked Massachusetts Street, and full of Lawrence booster zeal, I told her more about Lawrence history than she needed to know.

By the time The Guy picked her up and they drove away with rugelach, we’d filled in most of the gaps, lessened the spaces in between.  Thank you, Jane, for the gift of a real voice. I know you’ve got Polly & Sadie, your own lovely black dogs, but just look: after you left, Cleo was despondent.

Come back soon!

You’re back from Vegas, she laughed.

How did you know we were there? We hadn’t seen them lately.

Oh, I saw it on the blog.

You read the blog? Grinning, me and the Chianti leaned over.  Jeez, I’m so happy to know you’re reading!

She put a hand on my arm.  I scan it.

My friend Peter called one morning last week, and we caught up, talked about dinners, writing, current goings-on. I confessed I’d been procrastinating, and not any regular putting-off, either, but a lethal strain of not-now that includes mentally burying evidence of things I need to do. I’m afraid I’m stuck, I said.  I think I’m stuck.

“What can I do to help you?” he said.

“What?”

“I said, what can I do.  To – help – you.  Today.”

“That is the nicest thing I’ve heard all day.”

“Clearly, you haven’t had much of a day.  What can I do?”

Wow.

“You can give me something.”

“What,” he said, “chocolate chips? Brownies?”

“Give me a deadline.”

“What?”

“Give me a deadline.  I…need to finish things.  Writing things, house things, life things.  My own deadlines don’t work.”

“What do you mean, don’t work?”

“They…expire.  I make new ones.”

Silence, then two sips of coffee.  My old penguin mug, chipped.

“Okay,” he said. “You’ve got three weeks.”

“Three weeks for what?”

“To finish whatever you started.”

I put down the penguin.

“Deal.  And thank you.”

“For what?”

“The kick. Exactly right.”

Pulling on my gray pea coat, I’m ready to leave the coffee shop but I pause to chat with a friend, a successful writer.

Jen has wavy brown hair that she pushes back once before disappearing into her novels and non-fiction – quiet and unaware, she gives off no bothersome hum. She likes to sit in the front window nursing a latte, peering at stacked manuscripts, glasses down her nose and pen in hand.  I’ve told her many times how I envy her lack of laptop, that I can’t even write longhand anymore, that surely real ink fosters creative prose.  She’s prolific in a way I’m not and appears to use her time wisely, far away in good writing, meaningful work.

Three days ago, she told me her secret:  “Stare out the window for an hour.  Then write for five minutes.”

I knew it!

We’ve worked in the trenches together for so long.  How long? Let’s take a look.

Good times, and not always pretty.  But – look past the scars. This kitchen helper was more than just useful, more than burnt batting – a mitt with real oomph.  Sure, he’d run into a burning oven for you. But he could also be tender…

…bashful even.

And the talent! Always with the clowning in the kitchen.

There was The Manatee…

…the Jumbo Jet…

..and of course, The Diving Orca.  After the Broiler Grab Incident of ’99, that one was never the same.

If I had my druthers, he’d never go to that big Bed Bath in the sky.  But…it’s time.

I salute you too, my friend.  I will warmly remember you forever.

Or at least until trash day.

Hold on – my mom will need a moment after spitting out her tea.

Um…yes. I was on a high school trip, and we were all hopped up on city freedom. We ran around buying mini-cheesecakes on the street – creamy little chocolate chip cups – and every 14-year old I knew called them “orgasmic.”

“These are or-GAZ-mic!”

“This cheesecake is totally orgasmic.”

“Oh my god it is the most orgasmic EVER.”

I said it too. I popped cheesecakes and hot pretzels and swore they were orgasmic. But I’d bet on a stack of graham cracker crusts – I’d touch the crack in the bell and swear to god – that not one of us had any idea what it meant. The counselors made us cut the talk. Oh well, I thought, I‘m away from home, and gee this cheesecake is good. Tra la la!

Ahem. Back to my friends – the new Philadelphians. They’re quite capable of finding their own tasty treats, but today I’m posting a sort of food-finding PSA: where to eat, what to eat, how to eat in Philadelphia?

So, let’s hear it, Philly: where’s the best coffee, the best blintz, the best seafood, and – no fisticuffs now – the best cheese steak? Give these crazy kids some advice – and for their sake, I hope every bite is orgasmic.