I’m paranoid by nature. When I read that part of the licensing requirements for my business is having an emergency evacuation plan in order, and emergency supplies for all, at the ready, I couldn’t prepare them fast enough. The day after the earthquake in Japan, I went through every single item, making sure that we were all prepared. And now I have a suitcase under my bed, packed with a three day supply of clothing, first aid kit, flashlight, important phone numbers and copies of documents, and dried, packaged food. As the seasons change, the clothing changes, and the expiration dates on perishables are checked to ascertain that they last another six months.

It’s true that I have an inclination for being over-exaggeratedly anxious. I am constantly reminded of it. I have friends who laugh at me because of it. They shake their heads and roll their eyes. They tell me to lighten up. But I can see that I give them something to think about: their narrowed eyes, their pursed lips… So, I don’t mind. As long as they go home and prepare the same for their families, it’s all good.

And then there are the drills. But that’s a whole other post.

So, how about you? How prepared are you for an emergency?

(You all know how much I LOVE making lists. If there is any interest in what to pack and/or how to plan an evacuation, shoot me an email.)

It is dark when mom awakens us from our nap. The apricot painted walls are softly lit by the white world outside. Mom comes in and closes the wood shutters, turns on the chandelier overhead. The room is cold, the fire in the tiled corner fireplace, low. We bundle in our itchy woolen sweaters and follow mom into the hall. Dad comes in, snow glistening on his shoulders, dragging behind him a tall evergreen. He positions it into a corner of the square-shaped room where it will keep watch for the next few weeks.

The box of fragile ornaments is brought in, as well as a box of baked goodies, and one of oranges recently received from the States. I am given permission to select an orange, which dad then peels and hands to us in slices. The citrus taste, so unexpected and refreshing, overtakes my taste buds. I am in love with this taste! I have never tasted anything this good! Of course I want more. We all do.

But mom counts the oranges, making sure she has enough for the carolers stopping by. She threads the oranges and hangs them on the tree. After the oranges comes the ribboned, golden walnuts, then the foil wrapped home-made chocolate, followed by the Christmas candy in its fancy paper, and finally the jewel-toned glass baubles. Mom does all the work. The rest of us are her audience. The last waxy candle is clipped to the branches and lit, and dad turns off the lights. We stare in silence at the enchanting beauty before us.

My dad starts an ancient carol about the holy mother and golden pears and silver apples. When his voice trails off my mother starts one she’s learned at her grandmother’s knee, about lambs, treasure and holy men. We end the carol singing with “Silent Night, Holy Night.”

The candles are extinguished and the light turned on. Even dimmed in its glory, the tree holds us spellbound. In the other room the table is set. The carolers are on their way.

Nuvrei: Photo courtesy of Elena Wilken Cristurean

This is what I want to be. A confection. Even if I feel like a slice of whole wheat most days, nutritious, necessary, boring, I want to be dessert. And not just any dessert, I want to be a Parisian macaron.

I don’t know when it was that my profession became my identity. Perhaps a long time ago, and I just hadn’t noticed, or perhaps more recent, but all the frivolity and elegance is gone. I am serious and dependable, which can also translate as anxious and exhausted. And for what? My kids are growing. I’m astounded how quickly the years pass. Before I know it they’ll be in college and I’ll be contemplating a face lift. I don’t want to be staring at myself in the mirror wondering where my life went, not recognizing the lined face staring back. Regretting the life I could have had, all the while I was caught up in everybody’s needs but mine, to pursue it.

Can anyone tell me, how do I go about becoming a Parisian macaron? Or at least, how can I find some balance?

(And if you’re in Portland and haven’t stopped by Nuvrei on NW 10th and NW Flanders, what are you waiting for?)

This is my recipe for dressing well and looking good. With the holidays coming and parties galore, I’m often tempted to go shopping for things to wear. However, I do have a smallish problem: I have no fashion sense. Perhaps some of you are like me? Yes? No? Anyway, this is what I’ve learned through the years from my super stylish friends, and from the mistakes I’ve made. I hope this post saves at least one of us, from looking like we belong in the wrong decade, or looking a decade older.

Ingredients:

1.)   Know the weaknesses and strengths of your body and work to emphasize or de-emphasize as needed. Be honest with yourself about this. Have the discipline to say ‘NO’ to the wrong skirt, pant, shirt, sweater, shoe.

2.)   Buy the best shoes and handbag you can afford. If they are made well, they will last for years and years.

3.)   Avoid trends. I read somewhere that trends are like fast food. So true. And if you’re like me and you wear what you have until it goes to pieces, remember this: nothing will date a look faster (or bring attention to a sagging bottom) than the velour sweatpants with ’sexy’ written on the backside.

4.)   Ditto cheap, synthetic fabrics.

5.)   Bulky pants or skirts do not go with bulky tops, unless you’re super tall and super slim.

6.)   Smile. Blind everyone with your pearly whites and they won’t notice what you’re wearing.

7.)   Stand up straight. Look people in the eye. And if you don’t know what to do with your hands, grab a drink, or put them in your pockets where they should stay without clenching and unclenching.

8.)   Be well groomed. Hello…

9.)   Develop your own style: classic, cutting edge, bohemian, glamorous, the list goes on.

10.) Boring=safe. And safe does not equal fashion disaster. So when in doubt, wear black.

Now, if you mix all these together, I promise you, no one will roll their eyes when you pass by. But since this is a recipe which takes kindly to adjustments and the addition of other ingredients, what do you all recommend?

When I was a little girl, I loved sneaking looks into my mom’s or aunts’ purses. Treasures awaited. Every little scribbled note was a mystery, a secret message. The backs of wallet photos were especially important. I was looking for hearts and xo’s and I love you’s. Zippered compartments with their spare change, ticket stubs, receipts, and discarded candy wraps were scrutinized with suspicion. Perhaps I was just looking for candy. Or perhaps I was looking for something more, something deeper. A look inside the hearts of these women so dear to me.

I was remembering all this as I cleaned out my purse today. It was starting to weigh me down, starting to slow my walk. And I got to thinking about the things I carry with me and within me. How much is treasure, and how much is trash? Hoarding wrappers and unacknowledged addictions, receipts and guilt, lists and forgotten dreams, photos and great love, love notes and memories. Getting rid of the junk, and keeping the real.

It was surprisingly easy to let go.

Following is an email I received at the beginning of the week. With the sender’s permission I am publishing it. She wishes to hear what advice the readers of this blog have.

Hi Angie. I am writing from Argentina where I lived these last 12 years with my husband. I am a victim of domestic violence except that here in this country that is not considered a crime like in the United States. Sometimes I believe my husband bring us to this part of the world on purpose so that he could prove to himself that he is the male and has all the authority in our house. We have three little girls, 2 years old to 9 years old, obviously that’s one of the reasons I’ve stayed. The other is that I’m raised Catholic and the sanctity of marriage was ingrained in me from when I was a baby, to leave my husband will cause extreme heartache for my aging parents and also all my friends in the church, the only friends I’m allowed, will turn their backs on me. Besides all this I have no money and I’m far from the American embassy to go and ask for help but they are the only ray of hope I have.

My husband is a cruel man. He criticized me the first night of our marriage and gave me a black eye on the second day of our honeymoon and hasn’t stopped hitting me since then every chance he has. When the littlest daughter was two weeks old he got angry because I said something about his brother’s wife who is always mean to me and we were in the kitchen. He picked up a knife and ran to me while I was holding the baby in my arms. I was so scared and thank God I was close to the door, I ran outside with the baby. I went to my neighbors house and stayed there for hours afraid of my other girls at home but more afraid for what could happen to me if I go back. When he went to work I threw all the knives away and kept just one in a safe place to use for cooking. I know that if he wants to kill me he can do it even without a knife.

I am at the end of my rope. I pray so much and feel so guilty because I have thoughts of suicide. I don’t know what to do. Some of the things he does to me I am too embarrassed to mention. Many times he locked me in the closet because I embarrassed him by being too ugly. I am not an ugly woman. I was voted the best looking girl of my senior class.

I am writing this from my neighbor’s computer. I read your blog and you have wise readers who give wise counsel. I don’t think there’s any help for me now. Maybe just prayer from people God listens to. For some reason I don’t understand, he doesn’t listen to my prayers anymore. Thank you.

Please respond, but please respond in kindness. I will not publish those comments that are otherwise.

A good woman will be laid to rest at midday. A loving mother, an attentive wife and a caring friend. I am saddened at this unnecessary death. I wonder what drove her out into the cold, wet, Pacific Northwest woods, dressed only in a housecoat, flip flops on her feet. I wonder at the despair she must have felt. At the terror she had attempted to flee. I wonder if there’s someway, anyway, anyone could have intervened.

Speculations abound. But I don’t like the words that are said just for the sake of feeding that vicious, hungry rumor mouth. Words about mental illness. And the other ones, that she had wanted to end her life. I don’t like how her memory is sullied with each one. I don’t want these ugly, unfounded accusations to be the last thing her children remember of her. I want these words and the people saying them to stop.

I’m thinking of her children. Of how unmoored and uprooted they must feel. How lost. How alone. There’s a tightness in my chest. A lump in my throat I can’t seem to swallow past. My heart wants to wrap itself around theirs and not let go. I pray that they will always remember her love. Her smile. Her words of wisdom. Her recipes. The songs she sang to them, and the prayers she whispered over their sleeping heads. I pray that they’ll remember her courage. Her kindness. Her faith.

If you have a moment, dear friends, whisper a prayer for the children, and think of them in the days ahead.

Yes, we do! Congratulations to commentator number 3! The lucky winner of Hidden in Paris is Pamela from the house of Edward.

Check her out, everyone. She is a marvelous writer, blogger, designer. Wishing everyone a good night. I’ve got a head cold and took a bunch of Nyquil, so I must get to bed. Until next time, love yourselves and one another, and, by all means, have another piece of chocolate.

It’s been pouring out. Nonstop. I’m sitting by the lamplit window trying to figure out what to write about, but instead am too busy watching the rain come down, gathering in puddles, making little lakes in my little garden.  Rain is so romantic, isn’t it? The sound of it, the look… But, I can do without the feel of its cold drops, like icy fingers, sliding down my back.

My favorite time to read is when it rains. A hot cup of tea or coffee in one hand, and a book in the other, is one of my favorite ways to spend a rainy day. An added bonus to it all, is the lonely sound of a train making its way to exotic destinations, glittery cities or majestic mountain resorts. I spend quite a bit of time daydreaming of being on the train myself, looking out the window at the rolling images of dark villages, their windows glowing like honey, steep slate roofs with smoke curling out the chimneys, the humming of the tracks as the train rushes along, and the cobbled train stations where people anticipate the arriving and departing trains with as much excitement as though it were Christmas.

I can’t imagine a more romantic way to travel, than by train. And, yes, most of my daydreams are about destinations unknown. Probably because I rarely ever go anywhere these days. Or perhaps because in my armchair travel adventures everything goes according to plan, and no luggage is ever lost.

How about you? How do you imagine travel at its most romantic? And how do you like to pass a rainy day? Do you like to read? Well, here’s a chance to read a great book and a travel to Paris, all at the same time. From the comfort of your own cozy chair. Here’s a story about friendship, love and delicious food, written by one of my funniest, cleverest blogging friends. We meet this past summer and over coffee and chocolate muffins I found her to be just as delightful and hilarious and intelligent as I had imagined her.

So join in the fun and leave a comment before midnight October 11th for a chance to win Hidden in Paris.