Wish I Were A Writer Like...

I love reading books about writers.

Clarification: I love reading novels about writers. I admit it...I live vicariously through them, imagining that I too can have the fabulous house and exciting life...all on a freelance writer's salary naturally.

Case in point: Rona Parish, the heroine of a series of books by mystery writer Anthea Fraser. Fraser reminds me of a combination of Rosamunde Pilcher and Agatha Christie, with much of the book focusing on Rona's life and family, and the whodunit all wrapped up in just the last few chapters--if not pages.

Rona has an amazing life. She lives in a great house in Marlsborough, England, and has a dog, Gus, whom she takes around everywhere with her. (The number of restaurants in England that allow dogs must be enormous.) She's married to an artist...who lives in his own cottage just down the road three nights a week since he teaches night classes...so really, she has the best of both worlds. She's a twin, has a loving father and slightly kooky mother, plus great step-parents. Best of all, she and Max have an amazing life of going out to dinners and parties and three-week trips to Greece, all funded by Max selling the occasional painting and by Rona writing one--ONE!--article every few months for Chiltern Life--a local (not even a national) magazine.

In the meantime, of course, Rona stumbles across a murder and often has to fight for her life, but still.

I had a marathon Anthea Fraser reading session last weekend, and at the end of it, told my husband: "You know, Rona has been involved in five murders in the course of a single year!"

Now that I think about it, maybe that isn't such a great trade-off.

First Day

I've always wondered what it would be like to live the life of a freelance writer. Now that I've taken the leap, put in my notice and started walking the five steps every morning to my new home office, I've found out.

I wrote the following a few days into my new life as a freelancer...now that I'm three months in, the rollercoaster of emotions is still about the same, but I'm still enjoying the ride:).

Day 1, 8:30 a.m.: Listen to my husband putter about getting ready for work while enjoying the feeling of the smooth sheets and our snuggly down comforter.

8:32 a.m.: Realize I don't really have to get up at all if I don't want to! Sweet!

8:40 a.m.: "Bye, baby," my husband whispers as he heads out the door. A moment of guilt, then determination, then out of the bed I jump.

9:15 a.m.: Ready and dressed in jeans, brown boots and cream sweater, topped by my camel princess cut coat. I feel particularly well heeled and imagine myself as a stay at home wife (which, in a way, I am!).

9:30 a.m.: Oil change! and time for me to sit in the lounge to make calls and write notes in my pretty new turquoise day planner. That takes about 15 minutes as no one picks up and I leave messages. Stare at the other customers for a while, who are either blankly staring at magazines or books or texting. Wonder if they're unemployed, like me. Feel depressed, which is not helped by the fact that the TV is blaring the People's Court. Is this what my life is going to be like from now on? I can't even get through to get clients and will sit at home all day watching bad court TV???

10:30 a.m.: Still waiting for my car. Read magazines to get inspired and psyched up about magazine writing. Feel a little better.

11 a.m.: Finally finished! And they washed and vacuumed! What a nice surprise! Off to Radioshack to get new phone batteries so I can successfully complete phone interviews.

11:15 a.m.: Twitch in line as the cashier takes minutes to read her customer's receipt, look over the merchandise she's returning, show her another option, chit chat with her and the other customers in line ahead of me. Hurry up!!

11:17 a.m.: Take a deep breath and realize I don't really have to hurry up, do I? I can just relax and enjoy. I begin to smile at small children and listen to the cashier. Wow, she really is offering great customer service. Think about a story idea about small businesses and customer service.

11:30 a.m. The cashier takes her time with me as well and as the customer, I appreciate it. And tell her so. Smiles all around.

Noon: Make my lunch with a friend. She pays. I'm poor now after all.

1:30 p.m.: Meet another friend who will help me with my website. I love having talented friends!

2:30 p.m. and on: Make more pitch calls, then obsess over my website and business cards during and after dinner. Bedtime!

Day Two:
9 a.m.: Late start today...feel a little worthless. But decide to work out to get a jump start to my day!

10:30 a.m.: It's 10:30 and I'm just now getting to work! The exercise high is wearing off and I'm feeling worthless again, but start to work through my to do list. Emails to possible clients coming up.

Noon: I've sent out several emails with my resume and clips. My husband comes home and starts making lunch. Feel guilty...isn't that what I should be doing since I'm home now? We decide to work together on lunch.

2 p.m.: Meet with a potential client on a large, potentially months-long project. Excited but cautious. This one-time project could eat up a lot of time and could I keep building my client base and working on other projects too?

3 p.m.: Start networking to determine pricing for this project. Awed at how nice and supportive all my friends and acquaintances are. Everyone wants to help!

5 p.m.: Ordered my business cards and started work on the site map for my website. I'm determined to walk away from my computer at 5 p.m. and am successful for a while, but after dinner, I'm back. My husband says it's because I'm loving what I'm doing. I think he's right.

Day Three:
7:40 a.m.: I'm up and brushing my teeth!

8 a.m.: I've decided this will be a robe day. I turn on the computer to find that my first story has been accepted and payment is on is way! Whoo hoo!!

8:30 a.m. and on: In delirious happiness the entire day. So excited and love this job!!

Sometimes Scary Moves Pay Off

This year, I did the thing I was most afraid of....I (wait for it) quit my full-time, fully salaried job (with my own office, own bathroom...and did I mention the salary?) to move into freelance writing full time.

It has truly been the scariest thing I've ever done..scarier than jumping out of a plane (at least if that ended badly, it would be quick), scarier than my first kiss, scarier, even than the time the giant roach divebombed my face as I cowered, naked and wet from the shower, in the corner of the bathroom.

So far...and I say this with plenty of knocks on wood and handfuls of salt thrown over the shoulder, it's been good. Honestly, I absolutely love it. I find that I don't mind working til all hours or waking up exhausted. Because I really do love the fact that I get to write all day--and most of the time, get paid for it! It's a huge, huge thrill.

The gig that I love the most is that I was just named the restaurant reviewer for our local paper, the Augusta  Chronicle. My column is called Dine & Dish (a name I came up with all on my own!).

I promised myself that I would treat myself to a day at the salon with my first paycheck; while I was there, I chatted with my hairdresser, who competes on a dirt bike in his spare time. His whole face just was alive as he talked about taking the hills and turns at speeds up to 90 miles per hour. You could just tell that he absolutely loved it.

I think I know the feeling.

The Cookies are Crumbling (But That Doesn't Stop Us From Eating Them)

My love of baking comes from my Aunt Dot. She owned one of those 1950s era Betty Crocker cookbooks bound in a three-ring binder with full color spreads of the most beautiful food I have ever seen.

Otherworldly, fanciful delicacies that I as the daughter of Chinese parents never saw. I was far more used to rice and duck and soy sauce chicken and bitter melon soup. Not rows upon rows of iced cookies shaped like snowmen and bells and rocking horses; or three-layer yellow cakes iced in white with flaming peaches on top; or brunches with fat doughnuts, sugar and nut crusted coffee cakes and pancake stacks heavy with syrup and butter.

My mom, being from Hong Kong, cooked mostly traditional Chinese meals; my Aunt Dot did too, but Aunt Dot had a strong streak of Southern in her. Aunt Dot wore printed shirtdresses, sounded like a Southern farmwife (she called scuppernongs scuffledimes) and introduced me to fried chicken dredged in a batter of flour and water then fried in an inch of oil. I loved her very much.

She was also the one who introduced me to the sweets I salivated over in her Betty Crocker cookbook. Having a sweet tooth herself, Aunt Dot's favorite Saturday afternoon pasttime was making cookies and I was always her willing assistant.

One of her best cookies was actually a recipe that didn't come from Betty Crocker. I'm not sure where it came from, but we still have the original, written in a flowing cursive with a slightly shaky hand. I love how she instructs us to bake the cookies at 350 or 375 degrees. These were the cookies she made for each of us during holidays or as college care packages.

I made them recently again for the first time in years. Pulling the sheets out of the oven with their familiar brown sugar, nutty smell brought back memories of Aunt Dot, all buttoned up in her red and blue kitchen smock, with a spatula in hand and a big smile on her face.

Cornflake Cookies

1 cup of unsalted butter (2 sticks)
1 cup of white sugar
1/2 cup of brown sugar
2 eggs
1 tsp of vanilla
1 1/2 cups of flour
3 tsp of baking powder
1/2 tsp of salt
1/2 box of cornflakes
1/2 cup of nuts

Preheat oven to 350 or 375 degrees (or compromise like me to 360 degrees).

Cream softened butter with both sugars. Add eggs and vanilla and mix well. Add flour, baking powder and salt and mix. Add cornflakes and nuts and mix one more time. It will seem like there are way too many cornflakes for the batter, but don't worry! It will mix in.

Using a large tablespoon, drop half spoonfuls of cookie dough on baking sheets. I usually fit 12 to a sheet. Bake for 15 minutes; cookies should have flattened and be lacy and golden brown.

Cool for a moment then remove from baking sheets. Yields about 4 dozen crisp, crumbly and delicious cookies.

Writing Envy

I wish I had written this:
"But my husband has seen me at my worst, at my most vile. And he has seen me at my best. He knows the things I don’t tell anyone, and the lies that I tell everyone but him. I have made sacrifices for him and been angry about it. Sometimes his flaws are so egregious, so blatant, they are all I see. And sometimes his kindness is so stunning that I am humbled."--Sarah Healy, "When the Words Don't Fit," New York Times

And this:
"I must learn to love the fool in me--the one who feels too much, talks too much, takes too many chances, wins sometimes and loses often, lacks self-control, loves and hates, hurts and gets hurt, promises and breaks promises, laughs and cries. It alone protects me against that utterly self-controlled, masterful tyrant whom I also harbor and who would rob me of human aliveness, humility, and dignity but for my fool." -- Theodore I. Rubin, MD

Chasing Chitlins: A Thanksgiving Folk Tale

A couple years ago, I worked on a travel story for a local magazine. I had always wanted to attend the annual Chitlin Strut in Salley, SC, and this offered the perfect opportunity.

The chitlin, for the uninitiated, is the intestine of a pig. Rinsed, scrubbed, this white rubbery organ (I hesitate to call it meat) still is never quite released from the pungent odor that you might imagine it would hold after being intimately associated with, let's face it, pig poop. Yet, roughly 25,0000 people descend on Salley (pop. 398) every year at Thanksgiving time to ride carnival rides, shop for arts and crafts, and eat literally miles of the stuff.

As Asians, you can imagine we've dined on our share of innards. My aunt and mom have served us pig stomach (tripe), chicken feet (with the fingernails still on!), deeply burnished ducks that stared back out of one glaze-covered eye. My mom once gave my husband, who is not Asian, a pig tail in soup, and like a trooper, he ate it.

So the whole family caravaned to Salley to try our luck at chitlins. As we crept along downtown Salley's narrow streets, narrowly missing striking pedestrians, my husband rolled down his window and shouted out to the crowds filing past, "Where are the chitlins?" And they shouted back, "This way." "No, over there." "Try that church over there, they're the best!" We were surrounded by hordes of helpful tourists who seemed to know what they liked and were eager to initiate us.

We soon found ourselves standing on a crowded lawn ringed by food vendors of all description, but classified in that category known as fair food. Where were the chitlins? While my husband and brothers went to investigate, the rest of us scoped out and staked our claim on a patch of green grass.

Success! in a rectangular styrofoam box! And terror! as my sister exclaimed, "Oh my gosh, I thought that smell was the port-o-potties, but it's the chitlins!" Yes, the rank smell that we had caught a whiff of every now and then was eminating from the innocent and attractive box of deep fried nuggets (with a side of hot sauce).

My sister, my brother and my husband all made it through one bite and one hard swallow. I spat out my mouthful after two chews. My second brother on the other hand, snacked his way through an entire chitlin nugget and even went after more. My sister, looking at the photos later, said, "He smiles his biggest smile ever...while he's eating a chitlin?"

Yes, the fair food was there to wash down the taste once you tried the chitlins. Yet we couldn't tear our eyes away during the first annual Chitlin Eating contest, where contestants were given small buckets of boiled (yes, not even given the helpful flavor and crunch of breading), bare, hideously white chitlin tubes, that they shoved down in massive quantities.

The Salley Chitlin Strut is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity--not to be missed, for the bragging rights alone. But the takeaway? Know your limits, always carry hot sauce, and when in doubt, don't stand downwind.

The 46th Annual Chitlin Strut takes place in Salley, SC, on Saturday, November 26. The event features a parade, bands, carnival rides, tractor show, chitlin eating contest, hog calling contest and strut contest. For more information, visit their website at www.chitlinstrut.com.

Happy Holidays!

Even though it's still pushing 90 degrees here in Augusta, I'm unabashedly embracing fall, pulling out my sweaters, thinking about soups to cook (already made my first bouillabaise!), and looking forward to the holidays.

Two of my favorites--which you won't see on any calendar--are "Leaf Day" and "Bird Day." I was so thrilled when I found out my husband had already found out about these holidays. There's always one day every fall when suddenly the air is full of falling leaves. I've been lucky enough to be outside for this day only a few times in my life...at the house where I grew up, at recess at school, even at college. But it's been years since I've caught that day.

The second is the day when birds flying south for the winter decide to make their pit stop in Augusta, and suddenly our yard, our neighbors' yards, and the grassy median in our section of Olde Town is full of roosting, calling black birds.

I'm full of anticipation--maybe this year will be the year that I'll get to enjoy both! Do you have any special traditions or "holidays" you celebrate this fall season?

A Year Full of Happiness

Last year, I read "The Happiness Project" by Gretchen Rubin, a popular blog-become-book chronicling Rubin's pursuit of happiness. One idea I took away from her experiment was the importance of chronicling and really experiencing those happy moments that happen each and every day, but are so easy to forget.

About a week later, I was at the Country Living Festival in Stone Mountain, Georgia, where one of several freebies was an adorable pink and purple Remember Book, a mini daily journal, from Dress Barn. It felt a little like fate when I opened it, and read, "Memory is how we hold on to the things we love, the things we are, the things with which we never part." I started that weekend to collect those meaningful moments in my daily life, beginning with "Taste of Atlanta!" and "Country Living Fair, Stone Mountain" and "my new typewriter key necklace."

Over the past 11 months, I've jotted, crammed and sometimes struggled to fill each daily line with a true moment of happiness. Some days I can only work up to the happiness of "Coming home...and porkchops," while other days are gems of memory: "Laughing with Sean in the water at the lake," "Everyone loved the caramel cake," "Snow day!", "Finding Adam and Morgan the perfect wedding gift", "Laughing with Jamie and Becca; with Chris and Andy." And some sad, rollercoaster times: "No more pain for Uncle Robert," "The girls...during a stressful day," "The struggle to be good!". During this year, I also went through the stress of a reorg at work, an outside job offer, doubts, and second thoughts. While I made my choice, it wasn't without regret at any pain I caused, especially when I read, "I do like the girls!" and "R.S. and S...they're so nice!" and "Nice conversation with A.W."

I still have a month left before my little Remember Book is complete. And I find myself asking the same question that Gretchen Rubin did at the end of her Happiness Project: Am I any happier? Some days the answer would be a loud No! But I think I've come to the same conclusion she did: I'm more aware of my own happiness, and when it comes, I take the time to revel in the fullness of that feeling, be it something as simple as "The rain smell" or as complicated as "Little boy who looked like Harry Potter--I told Sean, 'Look, there's Harry Potter,' and he looked down all pleased."

I wonder what I will do now, without my little pink and purple friend on my bedside table? It's become a ritual, me laying on my belly, propped up on a pillow, thinking over the day and jotting down the one--or three--things that filled me with joy. As I look for replacements for my little book, I think--I hope!--I will keep it up. Because even on the bad days, now I can look back and remember, at least there was that smell of rain.

It's Fall!

The other night as we were walking to the car to head out to dinner, I stretched out my arms and spun for the sheer pleasure of feeling the cool air. Have you felt the chill in the mornings? (can you believe it?) It's fall! I'm ready to luxuriate in sweaters, the rich smell of fall leaves raked on a Saturday morning, and crisp days punctuated by blue skies behind orange trees.

The perfect fall outfit:

Where I'd love to visit this fall:

So welcoming!

Even more than spring, fall to me feels like the start of something new. Can you feel it?

DIY: In Which I Craft a Birthday Gift for Sean That Will Make Half of You Go "Awww" and the Other Half Go "Urgh"

It's always hard for me to think of great birthday gifts, especially for Sean. But I recently signed up for Pinterest and came across an idea I loved. I'd always wanted to do some sort of scrapbook illustrating all the reasons I love Sean. This was a scrapbook in miniature, using a deck of cards as the base. I also used images that I printed from the web, clippings from magazines and stickers to illustrate the "52 Things Dani Loves About Sean."

The end result: Sean was thrilled and I was happy to give him a unique and memorable birthday!

What You'll Need:
* Deck of cards (52 cards plus the two Jokers to be used as covers)
* Hole punch (I punched one hole but you may want to punch two...just punch one card and use as the template for the others)
* Binder ring (I recycled one I already had) or ribbon
* Resume paper (just something a little nicer than plain ol' computer paper)
* Color printer (if you're grabbing images off the web), magazines, stickers, photos, scrapbook paper...anything that you could use to illustrate
* Glue stick

The Process
Coming up with 52 things to say can seem somewhat daunting, but you'll be surprised how easily it flows once you start jotting them down. I did a mix of serious and sweet, silly and fun. Just depends on the "tone" you want for the book.

Type them up and play with the fonts until you find one(s) you like. I used 20 pt Copperplate (title) for the cover, and 18 pt Perpetua (bold) for the reasons.

Note that a deck of cards is roughly 2.5 by 3.5 inches, so size your images and the length of your lines accordingly. I also did at least a double space on my reasons so they'd be easier to cut out.

Stumped on clever ways to illustrate what you're trying to say? Just Google search images based on your reasons for ideas...for example, for "You're green," I used a comic book image of the Incredible Hulk.

Finally, have fun! This doesn't have to look perfect...in fact, I think the rough look of it adds to the charm!

Eat Me: Pho Bac

My friend Grace has a million friends, always wears the prettiest dresses, and has the most adorable daughter on the planet. So when she said that we had to try a new restaurant called Pho Bac, I knew it had to be good.

This Vietnamese restaurant, tucked just off Washington Road (if you're heading out to Evans, turn left at the McDonalds in Columbia Square), offers heaping bowls of pho--rice noodles in broth with veggies and protein--along with rice plates, Vietnamese sandwiches and so much more.

Seven of us--Grace and her family, our friends Connie and Jake, and Sean and I--went there recently to celebrate Sean's birthday. The fact that our waitress stumbled over a name on the beer list ("We have Bud Light and M-Mish-lob? I don't know how to pronounce it, I'm only 18") only added to the charm.

Sean ordered something off the Beef Stew section of the menu; when it arrived, it turned out to be nothing like beef stew, but was instead a richly flavored mix of shrimp, beef, chicken and vegetables atop noodles lightly coated in a brown sauce. My spring rolls (whole pink shrimp and green lettuce and herbs peeking out through translucent rice wrapping) and salt and pepper squid (perfectly cooked calamari coated in crispy crumbs flavored with salt and pepper, and sitting on a bed of onions and jalapenos) were light, fresh and just right.

It was a long night of laughter and stories, with more Mish-lob ordered, and cupcakes at the end (from Sundrees downtown market, but that's another story). Pho Bac is a little hard to find...there's no sign on Washington Road to direct you, and you have to really look to see it, which is a shame since the staff is sweet and the food is authentic, or so it seems to this non-Vietnamese Chinese girl. And did I mention the karaoke?

Image: Squidoo.com

Book Review: The Paris Wife

In Hemingway's A Moveable Feast, one of my favorite novels, Hadley Hemingway is a strong, straight presence, all tan limbs, but not sexy, just motherly, and strong. I always liked her and felt for her. After all Hemingway ultimately leaves her, and she commits an almost unforgivable deed--en route to Switzerland to meet him on vacation, she packs, then loses every copy of the manuscript of his novel, as well as all the stories he was working on. I say almost unforgivable...but I don't know, for a writer, if a screw up of that magnitude could ever be forgiven or forgotten.

The Paris Wife is a new novel by Paula McClain that tells the story of A Moveable Feast from Hadley's point of view. Aside from aping Hemingway's style of writing from the earlier novel (which I find a little annoying), the story is fascinating. And the later chapters, as Hem and Hadley's relationship begins to fall apart and Hem falls for Hadley's friend Pauline, broke my heart.

A Moveable Feast was always an idealized memory of a time long past--with the bad bits (and Hemingway's own fault in them) glossed over. Or at least that's what I always thought. A Paris Wife gives us a another viewpoint...that perhaps that's how Hemingway viewed himself during those tumultuous months...a victim of circumstance. But at the end, McClain grants him awareness as well as absolution, before the final tragedy of his death by suicide.

A Paris Wife is a vividly drawn recreation of life in Paris, and those early passionate years before Hadley's husband became Ernest Hemingway.

Permission to Scream Out Loud

There's a scene in Coyote Ugly that a friend once said reminded him of me.

Violet (played by Piper Perabo) is a songwriter with big dreams...and stage fright. But (naturally) the only way she can get someone to pay attention to her songwriting is to sing. Her waiter boyfriend works with her patiently to help her build her confidence. In the end--the genre being what it is--she overcomes her fears, belts it out, and lo and behold, her song is picked up by Leanne Rimes, and she and Leanne and Violet's dad, played by John Goodman, end up performing and prancing around together in the Coyote Ugly bar.

Me, I'm a pretty reserved person. In fact, when I was younger, I was shy to the point of being voiceless in a crowd. But this friend, and others, helped me come out of my shell. My own Coyote Ugly experience came one night at a local tavern when friends catcalled my name until I got on stage and did a 30-second booty shake in front of EVERYONE. It's a night that my now-husband, then-friend, says he still thinks about regularly. (Take that, Piper Perabo!)

But, I still get shy sometimes, feeling too serious and too grownup for silly fun. At concerts, I usually stand and do the body twitch in time to the music, along with all the other 30-somethings. So it's awesome when a band like Cowboy Mouth comes along, as they did during the recent opening of our local Kroc Center, and gives you permission to act out. Drummer, lead vocalist and band founder Fred LeBlanc won't let you take yourself too seriously. Right at the start, he jumped off stage and began cajoling, then ordering, "Come a little bit closer, come on, come a little bit closer. Hey you! in the Hawaiian shirt! Come a little bit closer!" until we were all moshed together near the stage. "I promise you, you will leave this concert feeling 100 percent better than when you came!" Then, as the thrumming of the guitars grew louder, "Come on, give me some rhythm, give me some rhythm," and once we were all clapping in unison, "Now, jump up and down and scream like you are five years old and you've had way too much Kool-Aid!"

I have to admit, I fell a little bit in love with Fred LeBlanc that night. He was brash, he was sweaty, he was loud, but he sure had passion for what he was doing. And for the hour and a half they played, so did we. Jumping up and down under the stars, screaming until we were hoarse.

Photo credit: allmoviephoto.com

Treadmill Fantasy

I hate treadmills. Not with the simple hate of someone who just doesn't want to exercise, but with the hate you have for an enemy that you know is out to get you.

But I use them. I use them because you can't always use the other machines. And once you've gotten dressed and grabbed your iPod and have gotten mentally prepared for a good hour of sweating, it's like you're letting yourself down to just drive home, eat a bowl of cereal and watch Seinfeld.

But I know that if I let my guard down for one moment, it's going to get me. My feet, usually uncommonly steady even while walking in heels over the unpaved street I have to cross every day while trotting across campus, I just know my feet in their big sneakers are going to trip over themselves. Or that the machine is going to all of a sudden speed up while I'm on it. And then, God forbid, I will wipe out, and because I didn't clip the little red thingy to my shirt, the rubber track will ka-thunk, ka-thunk against my face as I lay there, half-splayed on the carpet, "Goodbye to You" by Michelle Branch playing softly from the earbuds of my iPod.

I think I was scarred by watching someone go through this very thing during my early days of joining a gym (without the Michelle Branch and melodrama). And God love her, she got back up and on the machine, only to trip a second time, then slink off in utter shame never to be seen again, probably to drown her sorrows with Gatorade.

Which is why I typically have a deathgrip on those things. I try to play it cool, like I just want to make sure I can check my heart rate by keeping my hands centered on the metal sensors, but having to continually wipe my sweaty palms against my shirt is a little bit of a giveaway. I keep my focus on the placement of my feet, but try really hard not to actually stare at my feet, which you know will only have the opposite effect and cause you to fall. Mind you, this is all with the machine set at a brisk walk, because I don't dare run.

Although today, for the first time, I actually had the urge to run. I don't know if it was the smell of the sweat that kept wafting past but I just wanted to go and go and not stop.

I wish I could say that I did let go of my fear and ran my heart out. Instead, I thought up an elaborate plan of coming to the gym at 6 a.m. on a Saturday so I could try without an audience, and had a weird fantasy about the guy next to me sensing my fear, grabbing my hand and helping me defeat the treadmill (he seemed pretty into the female mind...he was reading a Charlayne Harris novel after all as he also walked on his treadmill, dignified and at a brisk pace, next to me). But instead, I jumped off, almost running into the elliptical behind me, gathered up my dignity and went downstairs to run on the track. Running on actual ground is kind of retro, but as I rounded the last lap with who else but Michelle Branch to close me out, my feet going ka-thunk, ka-thunk against the rubberized ground, I felt pretty vindicated. And looked darn good doing it.

OK, So Now What?

I never make New Year's resolutions, so that's not what I'm calling this. But, this year, I did decide to try to work even harder on building my freelance writing business. So I spent a weekend reading My So-Called Freelance Life by Michelle Goodman. You'd think after that I'd be energized and ready to go. But honestly, I'm scared. Scared of trying, then failing, finding out that I'm actually a horrible writer and people have just been being nice to me all these years. My brain completely seized up and I found myself sitting in front of the computer, unable to even will one good idea down onto paper.

During this staredown with my computer screen, I happened to click onto a blog post by writer Nikki Loftin, detailing what she does to get unstuck. The final analysis? Just do SOMETHING. Another one of my Christmas money gifts to myself was a subscription to mediabistro.com, so after forcing myself to read a few articles, then heading to the local bookstore to leaf through magazines for inspiration, I'm happy to report that the pump is primed. Faltering in my non-New Year's resolution just 14 days into the new year isn't great odds by far, but at least I've reminded myself that if I take just one step, the next one is so much easier.

They Call It TATER Salad (Lee Brothers Style)

If there's one thing that's important growing up in the South, that's potato salad. Forget about sweet tea or fried chicken or anything else. It's the almighty tater, and how it's dressed for the occasion, that is a hotly debated topic. The wrong or badly made potato salad can ruin a picnic on the sunniest day of the year and get in-laws into a standoff.

Everyone has their own favorite recipe and special fixins. Do you add mustard or not? Onions? Slivers of ham? Chopped hard-boiled eggs? Dill pickles? Special spices? And most everyone's potato salad recipe is proudly proclaimed "the best" of them all.

Despite being Chinese, my father and his brothers and sisters (having been raised in the South) were firm believers in this as well. "Our" potato salad eschewed mustard, and had a flavorful but simple mix of onions and celery, diced small, combined with hard-boiled eggs and potatoes, dressed lightly in mayo and salt and pepper. The onion gave it heat and spice, the celery added crunch, and the rest was just a creamy heavenly mouthful.

My first attempt at making it was an absolute failure. My family is one of those who don't have measured recipes, and in my 12 year old confidence, I added this and that, mimicking my Aunt Dot who was our family's potato salad connoisseur. "Too many onions," my father growled after one bite, never one to mince words. I tasted, and he was right...the salad was just overcome with the heat of the onion and was almost inedible.

Fast forward some 20 years, and my recipe has been perfected...the right balance of onion, celery, dill pickles (my father would NOT approve), eggs and taters. So who messes with perfection? Since I have a bad habit of clipping almost every recipe in the weekly food section (and even the recipes in the coupon clipper), I would have to own up that it's me. The recipe that tempted me is in the Lee Brothers' new cookbook, Simple Fresh Southern (what a great title!) and the recipe is Green Goddess Potato Salad, another simple recipe that smothers hunks of freshly boiled taters in that rich, tangy herb-green dressing. My tweaked version (leaving out the white wine vinegar, which I didn't have, and with a few other small edits) is below. My husband, who is another die-hard potato salad lover and devoted to the dill pickle version, was crazy about it. "But next time, let's add eggs," he said. Perfect recipe, version 2.

Green Goddess Potato Salad (adapted from the Lee Brothers)

About six medium potatoes (enough to make four healthy servings--roughly 1.5 to 2 pounds?)
1/2 cup mayo (Hellmans)
1/2 cup sour cream
1/2 cup finely chopped parsley
1/2 cup finely chopped scallions (green and white parts)
Teaspoon of dried tarragon
Juice of 1 small lime
Salt and pepper to taste
Chopped hard-boiled eggs (optional)

Peel and cut potatoes into 1 inch chunks. Bring to boil (you can boil eggs at the same time if you're using them), add a couple teaspoons or so of salt, and boil for about 8 to 10 minutes, or until tender when pierced with a fork. While potatoes are boiling, combine the remaining ingredients in a bowl for the dressing.

Drain the potatoes, and peel and chop the eggs. Add to the dressing and mix to combine. Let cool in fridge, and add salt and pepper to taste before serving.

Photo credit: oprah.com

Surprise, Surprise

I LOVE surprises. Unfortunately, my husband is the worst at surprises. Or, maybe I'm the worst at being surprised. Either way, I usually know when he has something planned. "What size do you wear again?" he'll ask oh so casually, or just before a big occasion like an anniversary, he'll say, "I'm going to go up to Atlanta for the day...no reason." (I think it's his tone that puts my senses on high alert).

But lately he's figured out the best way to surprise me is by saying nothing at all. A few weeks ago, we'd had a tough day workwise and while dashing to the grocery store to pick up some last minute ingredients for dinner, he'd surprised me by walking into the kitchen with a bunch of pink and yellow roses held aloft. But the best and most recent surprise was my Christmas gift, a book I'd been coveting at the bookstore (we'd been shopping for books for him when I spied it so I didn't really feel right about buying something for me), and had filed away as something to get for myself sometime but had forgotten. The book, My So Called Freelance Life, by Michelle Goodman is a terrific resource for folks like me who are trying to figure out fitting freelancing into everyday life. I've already tapped into a few links she's mentioned and am coming up with my baby steps plan to growing my little freelance business. And I'm planning to let myself be surprised by what happens.

Shopping for a Good Cause

When I signed up to volunteer for Toys for Tots at the North Augusta Wal-mart, I expected to be asking for donations, maybe sitting at a table selling pizza, whatever odd jobs they assigned me. But not, "Want to go spend $1,000?"

The organization gets donations of not only new unwrapped toys but also monetary donations throughout the year. And someone's got to spend the money. I just never imagined it to be me.

It's a pretty exhilarating feeling to be pushing a cart through Wal-mart with $1,000 to burn and a mission to buy toys for girls ages 0 to 2. The goal is to spend a dollar amount averaging about $10 to $20 per toy, with a max of $30. I took it pretty seriously. But a cart full and just $200 spent after a good half-hour of shopping and I had to ask the Marines (who spearhead the campaign) to help. So with two other Marines, we cleared some aisles and left with three carts piled high with shiny new toys. As we left, I told a manager, "I think you're going to have to restock back there." He laughed, "That's a good problem to have."

Love, Loss of Innocence, Kidnapping, Murder...Dance?

This much we know--Marie, a beautiful blonde, is in an enviable position, loved by two men, Luca and Marcus. Her arms are exuberant, her legs passionate and her face alight with joy, as she pulls them to her, first one then the other, torn between her decision. Then she chooses. And that's when dangerous and dark things start happening. But no matter how bad it gets, the movements and the music are always captivating, emotional and enthralling.

Parsons Dance, together with the East Village Opera Company, both of New York, present "Remember Me," a modern dance ballet set to rocked up versions of recognizable opera arias and other compositions, as part of the Augusta Ballet's programming this season. With Abby Silva as Marie, Zac Hammer as Luca and Miquel Quinones as the dangerous Marcus, "Remember Me" shows us how dance and music can express emotions more raw and intense than words ever could.

A sheet, combined with choreography that makes the most use of the floor, shows Marie and Luca's new love, with all its fresh discoveries, through loving, flowing, giving motions. So what a harsh juxtaposition it is when two scenes later Marcus has abducted Marie and attempts to mimic the same choreography with the desperate, stiff and unwilling object of his affection.

Abandoned by Marcus after fighting off his advances, Marie is shamed and lost, unable to reach Luca and unable to be saved. She dies, and against a dark stage with a chorus of dancers circling in shadow, Marcus is killed by Luca after the discovery is made, only to have Luca kill himself at the horror of the murder he has committed.

The vocalists, Tyley Ross and Annmarie Milazzo, play the parts of an ancient Greek chorus in this tragedy, moving in and out of the scenes, at times a part of the action as Marie flirtatiously hides behind the male vocalist as Luca and Marcus pursue her, and sometimes playing their own separate roles in mimicry, as when the vocalists draw together into an intimate slow dance during Marie and Luca's love scene.

But there would be no satisfaction if Marie and Luca were not reunited, and the creators of "Remember Me" fulfill that satisfaction. With Marcus flitting in the background like an uneasy ghost, Marie and Luca spy one another across a room of dancing couples and joyously fling themselves together. And the emotional rollercoaster ends in their embrace and their love. And happily for the audience, they just can't stop dancing.

Photo credit: supportdowntownaugusta.blogspot.com

A Few Things to Be Happy About

I have this great little book that one of my good friends, Karly, gave me during college. Called 14,000 Things to Be Happy About, it's a completely random list of all the things that make the author, Barbara Ann Kipfer, happy. I love to thumb through it. It has gems like "boys in caps," "Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer," "giant popovers," "waiters smiling when they see you," and "huh?"-inspiring items like "the small masher to crush herbs or mash baby food or pack butter in tubs" (HUH?). So in honor of this, one of my favorite books, here's the start to my list. Maybe it will make me famous one day, like Barbara Ann (who I would love to meet). Or at the very least, will make me happy when I read it.

Sleeping dogs
John Schneider (Bo Duke)
Furry blankets
Chicken paella
My special recipe for seafood gumbo
Loving and being loved
The Family Channel's 24 days of Christmas
Photos of us being young and free and happy
Peacock blue (color)
Blue and white china, tablecloth, curtains
Asheville, NC
Charleston, SC
Fall festivals
.....