Herban Sprawl

I’m going to round out the first year of the Sprawl with one last rant, but not before I wish each and every one of my readers a very happy new year. We have rough times ahead of us, but with any luck, 2009 might become a better year than we think. Let’s hope so!

This last rant is something I have been thinking and yapping about for a long time. In yesterday’s newspaper, I read an op-ed piece from Barbara Shelly, who writes for the Kansas City Star editorial board. It was called Please drop everything else. In very reasoned fashion, Shelly revealed how she realized that inattentiveness played a role in her conversations with her elderly mother. Citing a whole lot of studies and statistics, she stated what we already know: multitasking is a series of accidents waiting to happen. So here it is, and for those of you who are among my nearest and dearest, you undoubtedly will read about yourselves. I’d apologize, but what I really want is for you to reform your wicked ways, so pay attention and understand that I’m bitching because I love you and I fear I will lose you.

Shelly was doing an internet search while talking to her mother on the phone. She was distracted. Here is where her self-awareness kicked in – she wasn’t paying close attention to what her mother was saying and, although she didn’t put it this way, got to feeling guilty about her bad manners.

Cell phones and computers have changed our lives, there is no doubt. In some regards they have become life savers, literally. In others, they have become killers. The operative word here is inattentiveness. I know I sound like the schoolmarm that I am, but let’s be honest. If you are talking on the phone while you are driving, you aren’t going to have all your attention focused on the road and the other drivers who don’t have all their attention on the road. I’m speaking here of the large purple behemoth that loomed up to my rear bumper while its occupant ran his mouth on his cell phone. I was aware of him, but I do not for one lousy minute believe he was aware of me. What if my attention had been on a conversation, as well?

Then there is the general rudeness. I have been on both ends of that equation, and I can tell you, it is annoying as hell. Somebody explain to me why the person at the cash register should have to put up with a person who is not attending to business. If I had a PENNY for every time I have been held up in a grocery line by some inconsiderate person who cannot cut the cell umbilical long enough to pay attention and settle up the bill, I’d be able to bail out GM all on my own. How many times have you been in a store and been nearly run down by some blabbermouth with a cell phone who cannot steer a cart and talk at the same time? Or dodged an aimless wanderer who drifts from rack to rack while grunting the occasional affirmative? Or been subjected to a loudly profane attack on another person’s character? Or sat across the table from someone who has invited you to dine and who “has” to “take this call”? Or tried to run errands with someone who doesn’t know how to let the voice mail pick up? Or attempted to carry on a meaningful, but brief, conversation with a person who puts you on speakerphone, thus ending any semblance of a to the point discussion? Or tried to converse with someone who sat behind that computer screen like ‘the man behind the curtain,’ manipulating a mouse (I know you’re only playing solitaire, so give it up!)?

Do I sound a little peeved? Just a little? Well, I am, dammit, and I’m sick of it. I’m sick of the poor manners associated with inattentiveness, and I’m sick of the time it wastes. And I’m as mad at myself for the occasional lapse as I am with those around me.

I received a darling message from a young man I’d worked with in the Obama campaign office. It was on my cell phone. I didn’t get it until a week after he’d left it. Guess that tells you I don’t have that phone on 24/7. I don’t need to. I don’t need to be needed that desperately and I don’t want to be found every waking moment. I also do not think other people need to be connected that much, either. They just think they do, because they can. It never occurs to them that they are invading when they call. It never occurs to them that the rest of us shoppers do not want to hear their conversations, either.

Shelly refers to it as the BlackBerry Brush-Off. This is what I get when I am mid-sentence and my darling friend ignores me and checks a text message. Does she understand that she has placed importance of a face-to-face conversation below that of a person who can easily wait ten or fifteen minutes for a response?

Remember when people called your home phone, and if you weren’t there, the phone rang and rang? They called back the world didn’t come to an end. We found answering machines to be helpful. Voice mail is also helpful. Call waiting is an abomination. I have it. I do not leave a conversation that is in progress. That beep simply serves as a signal to me to check voice mail when I hang up with the person currently on the line. I cannot say the same for most of my friends. They treat call waiting as the Hold button in a busy office. I say there is a time and place for that. If you are expecting an important call, then don’t call me while you wait around for that other party to ring you. (If you are at the office and have to hang up to take a business call, I expect that, and rightly so.)

The other day, I was at the cash register in a store. Shannon called. At least I figured it was her because we were planning to get together that day when she finished work. I didn’t even bother to fish the phone out of my pocket because IT WOULD HAVE BEEN RUDE! I waited until we had finished transacting business and I could step away from the register and out of hearing range of the rest of the customers before I even put my hand on the device. Why? Because as much as I adore our Shannon, she could wait. It wouldn’t kill her. Besides, I didn’t need the entirety of Steinmart to listen in. I don’t have a need to demonstrate how important and integral I am.

Multitasking has turned into some sort of martyr-like activity. It is this self-appointed importance that makes me roll my eyes. I would rather someone do one thing at a time, do it right the first time, and then move on to the next task. Instead, you get slipshod work from people who aren’t really paying attention to what’s important. This refusal to prioritize and be mindful of the consequences of a poorly done task is pervasive, even among those of us who know better.

I used to work with a woman who was very good at what she did. Unfortunately, she suffered from that “I am indispensible” syndrome, and multitasked all day long. Deadlines were met by the seat of her pants, things were disorganized and anything that required time and focused attention got pushed off until it couldn’t be pushed off any longer without severe penalties.

When she left the organization, I inherited all her tasks except those that dealt with bookkeeping. I set up a schedule, put things on my desk calendar (the old-fashioned kind) in different colored ink for the categories of tasks, and everything got done. My boss was notorious for not getting print copy finished on time, so I moved his deadlines up a little. He knew what I was doing, but he let me get away with it because he was grateful I had willingly taken on all the other work with no raise.

My entire point was to show that it could be done without all the drama. If you focus on something, you can get it done. When you take a shotgun approach, nothing gets finished. I’m a huge procrastinator, so I know this.

People who think they are indispensible have a problem. They need to be the center of the universe. That phone, BlackBerry, or computer feeds their egos. I’m not saying they are egotistical so-and-sos, I’m just saying they can’t just BE. They crave the connectedness because it makes them feel important, and validated. It hurts to see people in that kind of emotional state.

This is a pretty long rant, but it’s been simmering on my back burner for a long time. In fact, it’s fair to say that this topic was on my list of rants from the day I launched the blog in January! Am I asking my friends to make me the center of attention when we eat together? Yes. Am I asking my friends to sit down and converse with me when they call me? Yes. Am I asking my friends to ignore their phones when we are out shopping? Yes. Am I begging my friends not to talk (or text) and drive? Most emphatically, yes. Am I asking my friends to do anything more than mind their manners when I ask them to do the above? No.

Miss Manners has written extensively on this topic. It seems to have the same effect as her admonitions about including where the bride has registered with the wedding invitation. It’s rude as all get out, but people are still doing it. But Barbara Shelly has placed this phenomenon into its cultural context, examined all sides of the issue and still came out with the same conclusion: multi-tasking isn’t efficient. Miss Manners would add that if it includes a form of communication, it is also in poor taste.

I’m going to end this by adding the quote Ms. Shelly used because it spoke to me.

“To do two things at once is to do neither.” Publilius Syrus (1st Century B.C.)

Parents frequently muse about the differences in their children, noting that one is laid back while another is anxious, one always has a book open while another is bouncing a basketball, one eats anything you put on the table, another picks at food – People who have cats make the same observations. No two cats, littermates or not, are alike. As this first year of Herban Sprawl comes to a close, it’s time to write about my third fellow, Simon. He reminded me of this yesterday morning, but I started cleaning my office and that was that.

Even as a kitten, Simon was different, but we had no idea what we were in for. He lay, upside down in the crook of Grandpa’s arm. We thought we had a really laid-back cat. And we did, until the window perch became dislodged and overturned. For several weeks, Simon crept through the dining room, belly to the floor. He was never the same. Suddenly, the energetic kitten became suspicious, territorial and feisty.

At the same time, never have either of us had – mind you, between us, we’ve logged a number of felines – such an affectionate cat. Simon, in an amorous mood, will snuggle up and bestow kisses, head butts and paw pats that would melt the heart of the most avowed cat hater. Of the three, the most attached to his people is Simon. The morning after we’d returned from a week in Colorado, I discovered him under the covers, tucked against my stomach, a paw atop my hand.

The undisputed king of the back windows or the chief porch lobbyist, Simon patrols his perimeter with the fervor of a one-cat street gang. If there is going to be a stare-down, he leads the charge. Heaven forbid if one of the others wants in on the fun. He will hiss and box his brothers as though they are the enemy. Yesterday he was puffed to a fare-thee-well thanks to a neighborhood tabby who’d come by the yard for a fix. (I have mentioned that we are the neighborhood dealers, haven’t I? Our catnip is the best – just ask around, any cat will tell you the patch by the stone wall is some good shit, man.) Mr. Cat was going to sidle on down the steps to the back patio for a hit on the patch in the Detectives’ Garden, but he saw me standing at the window and made for the neighbor’s fence. Old Puff and Hiss wasn’t satisfied. He patrolled until he just had to have a nap.

He’s also the herb kitty. We noticed it when he hopped up on the bathroom counter after Big Kitty had brushed his teeth. The tea tree oil in the toothpaste drew him and when I walked into the bathroom, he was busy swabbing down BK’s beard and mustache! BK couldn’t stand it anymore and his amused, but tightly clamped, mouth broke open in a grin. Simon proceeded to swab his teeth! (Listen, we swap spit with cats every time we pet them, so no fair being grossed out!)  When I chop fresh basil in summer, my hands get a thorough washing with his rough tongue. All the things cats are supposed to hate, he likes. Basil is in the mint family, as is catnip. If you know your plants none of that is surprising. But limes?

He’s jealous of his siblings and even though he’s claimed ownership of a lap, a passing brother will receive a swat from above. Crabby Tabby will muscle one out of a warm nap site if it suits him. And just as he might be craving affection, he will turn around and snap with the jaws of a steel trap. (Neither of the other two bite us – maybe each other, but not their people.)

In the evening, he greets Big Kitty by a well-timed and executed leap to his thigh, whereupon BK will respond with a quick movement upward and maybe a steadying hand. Simon then settles around BK’s neck, where he nuzzles and grips with his paws. He’s been known to muscle in on my smooch for BK. Brat.

Visitors have a hard time distinguishing Simon from Barney, even though Simon has a bull’s-eye on his sides. He’s not as flabby, that’s for sure, and he doesn’t weigh quite as much, but he’s just as large. When he settles on my lap, my joints feel it, especially when I’m on the floor sitting pretzel style, reading the Sunday paper. He demands my undivided attention and will brook no excuses, making his displeasure known by means of retaliatory puddles on the kitchen counter. Luckily he hasn’t done that in a long time, knock on wood!

He rounds out the tribunal with his crabby nature one moment and kisses the next. Demanding and petulant, he claims ownership of us. Sharing is what others do. He manages us with the persistence of a border collie. The other two offer polite hints, but the Border Tabby routs us from whatever it is we are doing (You weren’t planning to sleep past five, were you?) and herds us to the food bowl.

Most onlookers would correctly assume that Big Kitty loves his boys dearly, but that he especially adores Simon. He’s the only one we got to name! He keeps us in line. It’s his job and he takes it very seriously!

Big Kitty and I ventured out into the world of post-holiday sales today. The trip had a purpose: cheap wine from the warehouse store and more holiday storage boxes. I would have been happy with cardboard had it not been for the discovery of evidence that spelled a moisture issue in the kneewall storage area. So we needed to find plastic storage - and vino, of course.

We found some bargains (can you believe it? more lights?) and we had some fun investigating the leftovers at Target. We finally landed at B&N, after Auntie scored a pair of giant bottles of her favorite Eye-talian lavender bubble bath at Maxx. There, the goal was the latest book by Ina Garten. I saw a copy of a D.C. magazine that had a fabulous cover picture of the Obamas, and had to sit down and read the pictures. (Uncle Cookie and I are fond of reading the pictures first, then going back to the articles when we get time.)

I was very lucky and saw my former haberdasher, Jeff. I truly missed his store when he moved out of the mall. I had to make it a point to get myself there in his subsequent locations, but by then his ladies’ wear just didn’t float my boat. In the days of my infamous size 4 period, I dropped a lotta checks in there - he had a couple of fabulous saleswomen, and he had clothes that were just what I liked - simple, classic and stylish. He also had the best alterations lady this side of the Atlantic! Anyway, he is busy being a landlord of the building he built in the county, and his youngster is making a name for himself as a great auto detailer.

I told him about my rant about pants. He gets it. Even his mother predicted that Talbots was headed for trouble when they tried to change their demographic. That there are no classic pants around these here parts is a testament to the shift in our retail mindset. We no longer have local stores who understand their customers and go to market with the practiced eyes of merchants accustomed to providing superior customer service, along with clothing that everyone knows came from their store.

As we blunder our way through the dark side of an economy that still hasn’t been fully revealed to us, it is essential that certain things change. Americans won’t have the loose change for lots and lots of clothes and accessories. Furthermore, many of us are disenchanted with the high cost of clothing manufactured in Third World locations that cost peanuts to produce. We see that our own skilled textile workers are out of jobs and we see the move to offshore manufacturing for what it is: union busting.

Even now, the concessions expected of the automakers are being focused on the working stiffs, but not the high dollar executives. The bailout of Wall Street reeks of no oversight, and we’re all jittery. Banks requesting a piece of the bailout pie who don’t need the injection of cash, only want the money so they can buy up other failed banks. Where is the pride in what we make?

Pretty Woman was on last night. Remember the part where Vivien comments that Edward doesn’t make or build anything? Remember how it hits him that he’s missing something in his life by only tearing apart and never building? Is Edward Lewis a metaphor for our country?  Will this country wake up like he did? Or are we doomed to a life of pants that don’t make anyone look good? Are we destined to an existence of cheap goods because we can no longer afford to support the pillars of middle class society? Is Royal Worcester-Spode truly history?
I hope we don’t have unrealistic expectations of this young president-to-be, but I, like a lot of people, really do want to be hopeful. It’s just tough to feel positive when you can’t go out and get a decent pair of khakis or jeans. Ah, well, there is always chocolate, this new cookbook, and a treadmill for afterward!

I hope everyone out there in the blogosphere enjoyed a happy and peaceful Christmas yesterday. We certainly did. With the familial visits out of the way, we settled in and examined our toys in greater detail, had a pleasant lunch with Big Kitty’s mom, and gave the fat cats way too many treats.

This morning I tried to tidy up and put things away, but got interrupted by the need to be taught how to rip a CD so I could load my new iPod. (I’m gonna be so cool… I cannot wait to make up my Motown mix and my Ultimate Tony Rice mix.) Something kept coming back to me from a conversation with the maternal unit yesterday. It was the same topic I had had with the matriarch of BK’s company, and her co-matriarch (aka sister-in-law). Pants.

A few weeks ago the Star City’s newspaper ran a big article about how to select pants that fit and are flattering. None of it made a bit of sense. The more I read it, the more I realized, the stores are full of these gawd-awful hip-huggers that do not look good on anyone except those of a stick figure. Even in my size 4 days of yore, I would not have liked them on me. The latest Talbots catalog, a combination of winter on one side and cruise wear on the other, was chock full of the miserable pieces of crap, and I thought it was very, very revealing that the pants were all modeled by the 16 year old sticks. The lone middle-aged model (she looks like the one who used to be my favorite from about 20 years ago) is fairly slim, and her so-called paunch is barely noticeable. She isn’t in any of those hip huggers. That should tell you something!

Looking around me as I bop around town, I see younger women with fat tushies crammed into these pants. The top of the pants (you cannot call that which never sees the waist a waistband) cuts into their flab and their figures take on the look of the Michelin man. It ain’t a pretty sight. I see older women trying to make it work, but they look ridiculous with their poochy tummies encumbered by all manner of waistband hardware. It just makes them look poochier. The pants do not drape well, and they are unattractive on everyone except the size 2 sticks.

I cannot for the life of me understand why a retailer cannot see that at the end of the season, no matter how much lycra is poured into these travesties, they have racks of them left to try to unload in the post season sales.

The ladies I mentioned previously had the exact same complaints as I did, and all three are slim. All three have a tiny tummy and all three said the hip huggers all made their tummies look even bigger. One the so-called tips from that article suggested a wider and heavier “waist”band that would hold the tummy in. Oh, please. It only cuts the chub in two and creates the Michelin look. Even on a slim woman with a middle-aged poof, if looks ridiculous. If you have to run a full page set of tips that are as blatantly silly as those were, then it’s clear, no one knows what to do with the damn things and no one wants them.

My idea is to not buy them and leave the retailers high and dry. Maybe they will get some sense and return the stacks of unsold crap to the designers with a note saying, “Are you out of your mind? Americans are fat and they don’t have the money to spend on pants that are ugly and make them look worse than they already do!”

I’ve got extra poundage around my middle, that’s true, but I’ve always been able to find clothes that were well-cut and could be altered to fit my shape, which is, by all standards, hourglass. I’m pretty good at finding things that don’t make me look like a pear, but these pants make it very difficult. I gave in and bought some capris because I thought I was no longer fit for shorts. Not a good look for me, but at least I don’t have to see my spider veins and neither does anyone else. All my capris have what is euphemistically referred to as a contour waistband. I wore those in the sixties. They fit better then because they were truly a contour.

My mother-in-law and I were remarking on that yesterday. We even chuckled over our collections of belts that were contoured to fit. They lay perfectly just below the waist, instead of being straight things that cut into the flab. And that’s what’s wrong with this look. It’s supposed to be a little retro, but the designers are so poorly trained in tailoring that they don’t know how to make a true contour waistband.

I dunno. If the cruise wear is any indication, I can forget Talbots for pants for yet another season. What a rotten deal. We women need to just go on a buying strike. Unfortunately, the stupid fools would just whine that it’s the bad economy, not their crappy pants. I think I need another cup of coffee and a few cookies to cheer myself up!

This was one of those spur of the moment, design by the seat of my pants projects. My little alpine tree, decorated with tiny straw Scandinavian ornaments and other little Nordic mittens and such, needed a tree skirt. I went to the fabric store with the intention of getting a yard of red felt.

The plan was to cut out hearts and then stitch the red felt onto a white felt background. Very Scandinoovian, as they say up in da Windy City. Well, the felt was skimpy and there was a beautiful bolt of chili pepper red fleece. I went for the fleece, and when I ran into Peggy, and old herb pal, she decided the fleece was much fluffier than the stuff she’d picked out for snow, so she nabbed some white fleece. (Now her snow is washable!) The best part is that it was half price!

I was walking away from the cutting table when I saw some heart buttons. I went through the buttons, but, as with last year when I was on the hunt for large red heart buttons, the ones I saw didn’t blow up my skirt, so to speak. I wandered through the store and finally decided I’d had enough. On the way home, it hit me – white buttons from my mother’s button box.

After a few other errands, I arrived home seconds ahead of Shannon, who eagerly tucked her box of cookies into her car. (She’d been waiting for this box of treats all last week!) I dumped out a bunch of white buttons while she watched. Shannon doesn’t know about my “and then, and then” projects. Sometimes I can knock one off with the swiftness of a rookie Greg Maddox fastball. Other times I get bogged down trying to make something look like it looked in my head. This one was a quickie.

After she left, I pulled out a giant silver tray and traced a circle with it. I made a center hole and the opening. Then I hauled out some white #5 mercerized cotton thread and began to blanket stitch around the edges. Harry came by for his box of cookies, and watched with that kind of look that says, “I know you think you know what you’re doing, but I have my doubts.” In all fairness, he was whipped – he’d helped deliver 408 bags of groceries to 34 families in the Montgomery County area. He’s got a car dealer buddy whose staff takes up a big collection. The dealer matches the amount, and then the local grocery store sells them the food wholesale. The local teachers identify the needy families, and this year each family got 12 bags of groceries. Harry was pooped, and with good reason.

I watched a 1957 movie, Band of Angels, while I finished the blanket-stitching, and then I started sewing on the buttons. It’s just about finished. There were two baby-sized buttons that need fine needles and thread. Then I’m going to add a little border of snowflake shaped buttons that are left over from the advent calendar project from last Christmas.  Budde’s buttons have a whole new purpose being proudly displayed against the bright red. Ta-da!

Whew! I just finished a marathon cookie baking weekend. This year, all those who used to get a gift or some monetary reward are getting cookies. Given the reputation of my kitchen, I kind of doubt anyone will consider us cheapskates. Actually, this is more like what Christmas should be. Gifts made with love and care  -

Anyway, I made pine nut tassies, kolacky (that’s ko-loch’-key to those who don’t know a word of Polish), cocoa snowflakes, three-nut fingers, cardamom butter squares, and the Hanukkah favorite, rugeleh (okay: ruh-geh-luh all short vowels). I’m big on making parts ahead of time and refrigerating until it’s time to put things together, so that’s why I could do a marathon in two days.

This evening, I packed samples of each kind into bakery boxes, tied them with ribbon and attached the little gift tags. Inside, I taped a kind of map like a Whitman’s  Sampler, so the recipients will know what they’re biting into. It was fun doing that and I’m really pleased to see a stack of seven boxes ready to be taken around tomorrow.

I have one more gift to organize - my nephew’s. I need to make a call during business hours for it, they won’t get it in time, but it’s the thought that counts. I also have a gift I am making for my sibling and her spouse, but it will be a while. It’s the cookies that were the big project and if I’d had any sense, I would have knocked those off a week ago!

So, here we are, the house decorated, the cookies baked, the cards mailed, a box sent to Chicago, and a few odds and ends to attend to. Now is the time to be sure to let that idiot in front of you into the line of traffic, even if s/he doesn’t deserve it. Hold the door for that nice lady who is scowling at you, and above all, smile and be patient. Good karma has a way of coming back. (Maybe someone will bake cookies for me!)

I just finished reading Willy Lindwer’s 1988 book The Last Seven Months of Anne Frank. It is the complete transcript of the interviews he did with six women who knew Anne Frank during her internment, and up to her death at Bergen-Belsen of typhus. I visited Dachau when I was eighteen, but I was not really prepared for what I read.

It is the season when we listen to Christmas music and celebrate a season of peace and charity to all. Ironically, many of our favorites were written by Jews, and indeed most of the albums I listen to over and over are Jewish performers. How can it be that someone who does not believe that the Messiah has come could write or perform the very moving Christmas version of From A Distance? Perhaps someone who is deeply in touch with his or her humanity?

The majority of the women Mr. Lindwer interviewed were essentially non-practicing Jews. In fact, one woman said that the Frank family celebrated the coming of Sinter Klaas while they were in Holland. (Mr. Frank was a non-observant Jew.) I didn’t find that so odd, given the fact that on Sunday night we will light the first Hanukkah candle and say the blessings – in Hebrew. Many of us have the ability to accept the faiths of others and to adopt that which feels right in our quests to find religious truth.

But what about those who would attempt to destroy an entire population? Where was their religion? Did they believe God wasn’t watching as they dehumanized women by forcing them to line up, naked, to be counted and recounted, hour after hour?

This week, we in the Star City were greeted by a headline that made some of us purr. It seems seven more counts have been added to the indictments against that neo-Nazi who is currently a guest in a Chicago sneezer. I am grateful to that grand jury and I am especially grateful to the judge who decided against allowing that person to bond out. This is not the season to have someone like that running around wreaking havoc with our country. We have enough trouble.

These people seem to believe that they are following some kind of martyr in Hitler. There is a fine line between genius and insanity, as we have come to realize. Sociopaths can walk among us, demanding our attention, insisting on their superiority, and there are always a group of deranged individuals who are willing to follow them unquestioningly. The bunker in Berlin was filled with just such a group, and they all wound up dead because they knew they had committed crimes against mankind for which they did not want to pay. It was hardly recompense for the women of this book, and the same goes for those convicted of war crimes and sentenced to hanging.

Certainly we must continue to remember what happened and fight against injustice wherever we find it. We must sing the songs of peace, the songs of hope and we must, particularly during this High Holiday, remember to say prayers of thanks for those whose lives were lost simply because they were different. The message of this season is all about learning to get along and to believe in something intangible that can transform even our worst enemies. We can do it.

I recently learned that two days after a stunning victory for America, the Royal Worcester-Spode china company filed for bankruptcy in Britain. What a sad, sad situation. The reason cited was a shift in peoples’ taste in china and cheap foreign competition.

Indeed, the recent offerings of Spode Christmas Tree have been made in Malaysia and China, which irked me. The pictures on the plates are decidedly different, with a muddier and darker look to them.

As I consider the way china has changed over the years, I must say there have been no patterns in recent history that were as beautiful as those manufactured years ago. Not only were the designs stronger, but the colors were magnificent. To quote the late Jane Mills, china maven for the C.A. Jensen Jewelers store in the old hometown, “These days it’s all begun to look like parsonage china.”  This was in reference to my 20 years ago choice of a very colorful pattern from Wedgwood that was manufactured for the Colonial Williamsburg trade.

My darling niece selected a rather plain pattern – French – with the au courant platinum banding. It’s very pretty, but very unassuming, as well. I like it, actually, because it has lovely lines. I had also liked a plain white French pattern, but Dad was traveling to England and Dad liked to buy china, so I chose English china. Not a hardship for me, by any stretch, but it really was hard to find a pattern that I thought wouldn’t go extinct right away.

This is an issue brought about by the less expensive china manufacturers. Instead of creating a pattern that would be around for a long time, enabling someone to collect the myriads of pieces, bit by bit, they would manufacture only certain pieces and then abandon the design in a year or two. The English companies had never done that, but in order to compete, they had to begin weeding out their styles. It was a tragedy. Truly beautiful patterns were cast aside in favor of namby-pamby parsonage china that resembled the cheap stuff from Asia. No wonder those companies have suffered.

To make matters worse, the stalwart proponents of fine tableware, Gourmet and Bon Appetit, quit having lots and lots of china and silver ads to tempt us. Gone was the Gourmet centerfold dinner – I looked forward to that with the same anticipation my male counterparts did to the Playboy centerfold! It was all about the table! Even Southern Living fell down on the job.

If you wonder whether those old patterns are worth having, consider the fact that Replacements is a multi-million dollar business, even in a recession. They just don’t make china that pretty anymore.

So the Royal Worcester-Spode people are hoping there will be a buyer. So am I. So am I.

It’s that time of year, as the song goes. I have the makings of two kinds of cookie in the fridge, ready for assembly and baking. I love cookies and the neat thing about this season is that the food magazines are burgeoning with new recipes.

Most of us have the idea that Christmas cookies should be the ones that take effort. They must be something special and we should have spent a lot of time making them look like the ones food stylists trot out for magazine cover art. I’m afraid I’m not into that. I don’t even like to make plain old cut-out cookies. On the other hand, a few of the ones I like a lot do involve some dough manipulation, so maybe I’m not so big a slouch after all.

Years ago my sister and I were each working our way through a cookie cookbook and after having discovered a cookie press in the dark corner of my mother’s pantry, I tried the spritz recipe. My sister went gaga over those and they’ve been a staple of our Christmas baking ever since. She also had the cut-out cookie recipe from a friend’s mother that she loved. I made those, too, but I never really like the flavor. They had sour cream in them and I finally realized I prefer a less acidic cookie. When they head to Chicago to spend Christmas with the kids, I’m sure Grammie and the itty bitties will be making those recipes. There are certain traditions in her family that are not to be altered. Period.

Last year I made a recipe from an old Gourmet. They had some odd name like Polish cookies, and I am here to tell you, a kolacky by any other name is still a kolacky. (You pronounce it koe-loch-key.) It’s a divine creation of cream cheese dough with a filling of apricot honey goo. Another season offered a little thing of butter cookie pressed into a mini muffin pan and filled with a pignoli mixture. (pine nuts for you non-wops) Also heavenly. The basics parts to those are in the fridge as I type.

There is another one I want to try that involves grinding about four different kinds of nut and shaping the dough into a little finger sized roll. I’ve been wondering why four different kinds of nut, actually, and trying to figure out if the individual flavors will stick out, or whether the combination will create a completely different nut. Should be interesting.

And thus it goes. My plan is to make about six different cookies and to package those up for gifts. If I have this worked out like I think I do, then I shouldn’t have too many of them left around here to contribute to our dreaded belly fat. On the other hand, if I don’t have enough for a few weeks’ worth of afternoon tea, I’m going to be irked. You don’t do a baking marathon and not get to enjoy the fruits of one’s labors, y’know.

When Harry was here yesterday, he volunteered his huge kitchen and convection oven to my enterprise. Harry ain’t kidding anyone. Harry likes cookies! Of course, what he’s really and truly wondering is what kind of chocolate creation will find its way into the rotation this year. If a doctor told Harry there’d be no more chocolate in his future, I think he’d plan his funeral. (Heaven knows, I’d be in the same boat. Life without chocolate? Ugh!)

We have a lovely day with the sun shining. After the dismal rainy week, it’s quite nice - On the other hand, our water supply has been helped by the constant soaking we got earlier in the week, so that’s to the good. Our trees and shrubs all needed a good stiff drink. It’s a good day to bake!

My cousin is singing that great old Tammy Wynette song that starts My D-I-V-O-R-C-E becomes final today… It has been a really long journey for her, but she has stuck to her guns and is now out of the whole mess. Granted, she’s temporarily bunking in with her mom (the daughter of The World’s Greatest Aunt - my cuz) and dad, but it’s a good solution for the time being.  Mopstick likes having her tribe around, and it’s time for her to start her holiday baking anyway.

So, what seems like an eternity ago, Buttercup started divorce proceedings. I was her sounding board for it whole thing, and in retrospect, that was maybe a good thing. She needed that unconditional support that you get from family, especially a family member with a doctorate in righteous indignation! Nothing was easy about this process but I was proud of the way she handled it, and even prouder of the way she stood up to the persistent attempts to beat her back. With each small victory, she seemed to gain a corresponding amount of self-confidence. When she set him up to fail, I was in awe. She knew just how to manipulate him!

Buttercup is no slouch in that department, and never has been, but still… I can remember her putting her brother and sister up to no good and then kind of fading into the background while the two wild and wooly ones got caught red-handed. My mother would just shake her head and mutter that someday it would catch up with her. Mom, I have to tell you – she made it work for her, and more power to her for trying it!

In the end, she pretty much got what she wanted out of it. It wasn’t as much as the rest of us thought she deserved, but she kept her perspective and didn’t get greedy. She was fair (she gets that from her mom) and she bargained skillfully (she must have been paying attention to Uncle Louie!). The bottom line is that she will have enough to start over and that’s what’s most important. He won’t be hurting nearly as much as he could have been, especially after he shoved her into a wall with a body check – she’d just had neck surgery and was home recuperating – Had Uncle Louie been alive, chances are good he would have made a few calls to Chicago! (We had some fun reminiscing about what might have happened if the old bird was still around, and that was worth all the laughs we got out of it.)

To be honest, I’m really sorry it didn’t work out. On the selfish side, it gave us the chance to bond and draw close, so I gained something very valuable in this deal. I’d like to believe Buttercup did, too. I know her folks had some difficulty understanding why she needed to add to her support system, but she was in good hands. I gave her what I thought my sainted aunt would have given me. And Aunt Mary was a great teacher. I learned the fine art of aunthood at the knee of the world’s finest, and all I did was offer up some of what she used to give me. (Aunt Mary also had a PhD in righteous indignation.) Big Kitty has had many a chuckle when I’ve repeated an Aunt Maryism.

Any of my male correspondents who are interested in a smart woman with a soft spot for pets and kids, let me know…she’s a looker, too. (She would disagree, but I’m telling you she is, so believe me.) She’s practical and not extravagant. She’s down to earth and witty. And she has a honey of a ladder…