About twenty Christmas’ ago I was working in a Waldenbooks at the mall. A grandmother, her children, and her approximately ten-year-old grandchild came in told me they were looking for a book as a gift to a family friend.
I got a rough idea of what they needed and showed them the correct area.
Then I turned to the little girl and said to her, “Let me take you to the kids’ area, and you can look around while the grownups shop.”
With a keening howl that sounded like it was violently flayed from her very soul, she responded, “But I haaaate booooks!”
In response to that, Gentle Reader; I had nothing.
At first, it was kind of funny. 
In retrospect it was one of the saddest moments I’ve ever experienced. In this child’s entire life, no one, not family member nor teacher had helped her discover how magical books could be.
With a book, a child will never lack for entertainment or friends. They can learn in the least painful, most enjoyable way possible. Reading grows imaginations and shrinks ignorance. 
I believe that not exposing a child to books and encouraging them to read is a form of child abuse. It will handicap them for life.
If there’s a child in your life, buy them lots of books. If you have funds but no children to buy for, donate books to homeless shelters, hospitals, or become Johnny Bookyseed and leave books in random places where children will find them. Put a little post-it note on the cover telling kids that their found book now belongs to them.
And, if children’s literature is terra incognita for you, I have some reading level-based suggestions.
Birth-3: Love You Forever by Robert Munsch and Sheila McGraw. It is biologically impossible to read this book without choking up, so bring a hanky.
Wait! Maybe that’s why I love bears so much…
The Mitten by Jan Brett. This was a favorite of mine as a child.
The Velveteen Rabbit by Margery Williams
Early Readers: Dr. Seuss was the master of helping kids learn to read. You can’t go wrong with anything by him.
The Sesame Street Dictionary by Linda Heyward. This is a terrific tool for learning to read. All the words are charmingly illustrated. Kids will spend hours teaching themselves to read by accident.
First chapter books: Billy and Blaze books by C.W. Anderson, stories of a boy and his horse.
It’s crazy old school, but the Bobbsey Twins, by Laura Lee Hope.
Childhood of Famous Americans (COFA), from George Washington to Wilma Rudolph (various authors), reading one of these always made me want to know more.
Experienced Child readers: The Great Brain series by John D. Fitzgerald: From the point of view of his little brother, the Brain’s an adolescent confidence man living in the late 1880’s.
For horse crazy kids, any book by Marguerite Henry. Also, the My Friend Flicka trilogy by Mary O’Hara.
And Elizabeth Enright’s series about the Melendy family beginning with The Saturdays.
The Betsy series, by Maud Hart Lovelace span all reading levels. They start with Betsy as a very young girl told in a simple picture book, and progress in age and level until Betsy is a married woman. She’s one of my most treasured childhood friends.
A childhood deprived of books is a tragedy. To help instill the love of the printed word is a huge, heroic act that will forever change a child’s life.
To become a hero, Hercules had to kill a bunch of stuff, clean the stables of 1000 cows, and steal fashion accessories from an Amazonian princess.
Lucky you.
All you have to do is buy a book.
Thanks for your time.
I highly recommend giving this recipe a go. I’ve never met a fellow human who did not love these cookies like hairspray at a beauty pageant. 
Just press pause.
Is there someone on your list who’s tough to buy for? So, don’t. If you know them well enough to give them something, you know something they’ll like.
Maybe it’s a secret Santa gift, or you want to give something to someone who surprised you with a gift. A treat from the kitchen, or something useful that you’ve made is nonspecific yet personal.
So, Gentle Reader, you’ve decided to take the plunge and rock a homemade holiday. The inevitable next question—make what?
Kitchen gifts: Everybody loves a food gift. Not sure? Think about the last time somebody brought some unexpected grub to your place of work. Grown responsible adults turn into gleeful children at the appearance of a box or tray of goodies.
Do something crafty: Do you knit or crochet? Are you a woodworker? Sculpt barnyard animals out of chewing gum you find under bus seats? Make it!
Thanks for your time.
A couple weeks ago I was in Food Lion and hungry. Normally at that point, I take one of two paths.
2.) I walk around, getting grumpier and grumpier, all the while those beautiful sweet treats become, in my sugar-deprived mind, more and more healthy, and less and less caloric.
Honeycrisps bruise easily, so they must be handled carefully. The price we pay includes all the apples that were too damaged to sell. They can only travel so far safely, so the west coast orchards, which produce much more apples, supply the western half of the country, and the east coast is serviced by east coast orchards.
When I was in high school, my friend Cheryl’s mom used to make these amazing fritters as a treat when we weren’t being especially annoying. Without using a recipe she’d whip them up in mere minutes.
1-quart vegetable oil for deep-frying
Heat oil in large, heavy pot to 375 degrees F.
They say an apple a day keeps the doctor away. If that’s true, I will never be sick again. My immune system could probably cure the people around me. I may even live forever…as a superhero.
Thanks for your time.
When you’re raised with a parent in the military, you move around a lot. As a consequence, you don’t really have a hometown.
Military brats get to choose their own hometown. It might be where we were born. Or maybe the hometown of our parents, normally visited enough to instill both history and familiarity. For some kids, it’s the place we were living when our parent retired from the military. Others choose the town where they lived the longest, or went to college, or vacationed as a child.
Or rather, I chose the place I fell in love with.
Always more lunchbox than three martini lunch, the small city suffered mightily. Stores and homes went vacant, became boarded up, and fell into decline. Crime went up, and its reputation, already less than glamorous, plummeted.
The heartbeat of this town is the rhythm of people from all different races, classes, religions, and philosophies. Living together, working together, and getting along together. It wasn’t all Kumbaya all the time, there were disagreements, controversies, and tragedy.
Then something happened.
But, thirty-two years after we made the move, my hometown is one of the coolest, friendliest, most diverse, and economically viable cities in the South. My quirky little metropolis has won awards and accolades from all over the world. But it still keeps that bohemian, working class, wealthy retired, soccer mom, hipster, hi-tech, low-pretension vibe that made me fall in love all those years ago.
The other night I walked out of a funky new restaurant into a bustling, revitalized downtown. The strains of a solitary saxophone floated through the streets like an incandescent ribbon. I was so proud of my hometown, I almost cried.
It’s the very definition of, “Be careful what you wish for.”
Thanks for your time.
Have you ever noticed that the reaction to one unexpected, completely out of character action is often another?
Some say it comes from me…
To understand the earth-shattering quality of my mom’s query, you must understand a few things.
My mom was born into the deprivation of World War II and raised during the convenience food heydays of the fifties; but in a large family on a limited budget. Her mother used lots of fresh, locally grown foods, and cooked from scratch. There wasn’t money for shiny cans, boxes, and kits.
I never saw fresh asparagus until my twenties, only canned. Until I was in my teens, I thought all lettuce was iceberg lettuce. I thought all peas were olive drab and mushy. Mashed potatoes came from a box, and soup from a can.
So, when I passed on my mom’s request for fresh cranberry relish, I was met with a deep, flummoxed silence on the other end of the phone. The only time my child is silent is when sleeping, and if asked for a Christmas wish list. Truthfully, even coming from my own mouth, my mother’s words felt badly awry.
Well, this week my little altruist is in Canada, working for a charity, and hasn’t yet come through with a cranberry dish for Gramma. So, I stepped in.
Put everything except pecans and raisins into heavy saucepan and bring to simmer. Simmer until apples are tender and most cranberries have popped (10-15 minutes). Check for sweetness (add more honey if needed) and stir in raisins and pecans. Let cool, then refrigerate, for up to three days. Will thicken as it cools. Before service thin with cider if needed. Serves 12-18.
For leftover sandwiches, mix it with equal parts Dijon mustard and mayo for a creamy, tangy spread. 
Thanks for your time.
Some people love the summer. They love the sun, and the heat, and the beach. They adore the green, fertile earth, and the sounds of birds and crickets. They look forward to the long days, baseball games, and cookouts.
They’re Canadian, British, or live in northern New England. If a North Carolina resident says this to you they’re either lying or transplants who’ve never had the peculiar joy of receiving twelve brand new mosquito bites walking to the mailbox. Or paying $75 for a blow-out and have the humidity make your new coiffure transform into a cheap fright wig in the time it takes to walk from salon to car.
All honest North Carolinians must admit that our summer is a hellish endurance contest. Research tells us that native Alaskans have 280 names for snow. People living in the heart of Carolina have 187 names for sweat. And, another 72 for chafing.
I’m usually over our summer by about May 14th. Then I exist in sweaty limbo until the weather breaks.
Almost every day I put on my wellies, and the dog and I disappear for hours into the woods. We follow paths and make our own. We climb, and jump, and splash through puddles, ditches, and creeks. And occasionally, when the Akita known as Crowley is nose-deep in a hollow tree and still for a moment, I take a look around.
It is the very definition of beautiful. Even the lane cut and maintained by the natural gas folks looks like a Hollywood set for an autumnal movie. The underbrush has died back, making the forest floor manicured and verdant. Leaves with colors Titian had no name for dance and swirl in the breeze. The air has a crystal quality that makes everything look glossy and photogenic.
And this ostentatious, glorious Monet landscape is only one block from my house. I wouldn’t trade it for ten pairs of Stuart Weitzman boots and all the Lindt milk chocolate truffles in Christendom (but it’s probably best that no one’s ever offered me that deal…).
I treasure my solitary hours among the trees—all of it. I can loudly, badly, sing along to Aretha Franklin with no one to critique, but seconds later stumble into giant, sticky spiderwebs or briar patches that leave me plucking thorns from bloodied flesh.
So this week, Gentle Reader; I urge you to take it outside. And you can do it gently. Drink your morning coffee on the porch. Sit outside with the kids while they do their homework. Eat lunch al fresco (Outside, not naked, but hey, you do you.).
Thanks for your time.
Men eat their favorite comfort foods to celebrate. And the edible indulgences further raise an already elevated mood.
Women crave comfort foods as remedy to the stress and gloom of bad days.
So women, instead of thinking of food as an antidote, let’s think of it as neutral; neither magical nor evil. Healthful food that we need, and occasionally, some well-deserved, mindful indulgences. Let’s take a page from men, with their uncomplicated, rational view of food. It’s not our adversary, it’s not out to get us—it’s just food.
Last month while judging at the King Arthur flour contest, I was lucky enough to sample one of the best bites, and possibly the very best pie I’ve ever been lucky enough to taste. It springs from the confectionary mind of Melissa Bentley, of Zebulon, and recipient of my sweet tooth’s eternal gratitude.
1 ¼ cups King Arthur all-purpose flour
They sell tubs of chocolate chip cookie dough made safe by the removal of the eggs. It’s meant to be eaten raw.
Thanks for your time.
bull city mom 