Hey there. I’m sorry it’s been so many weeks since I last wrote. This past month wasn't so great and it was tough to to try to write about happy cakes when I didn’t feel all that joyful.

But things aren't all bad. They never are. I was lucky enough to take a solo vacation to Rome last month. And I even learned a few valuable things.

The last time my brother and I had dinner he brought me a present.  A cutting from his lush wandering jew. He had planted the little stem carefully in a bit of soil and made a small newspaper pot to transport it. He had carried it in hands on the subway all the way to Brooklyn, where I was living at the time. It’s the last physical gift he ever gave me. 

Our Whole Foods has a cookie bar. It looks like a salad bar but it’s stocked with cookies. Genius idea. I don’t know what the cookies taste like. Shockingly I’ve never succumbed to their calls. But they look appetizing. No matter how stale they must be. No matter how dry I’m sure they are. Piles of cookies look unbearably good. And seeing a setup that usually holds spinach and arugula replaced by shortbread and chocolate chips just makes the brain short circuit a little.

I feel like a miss. But lately I’ve been getting ma’amed all over town. I live in a youngish neighborhood by some standards. Perhaps in that context I look especially ma’am-like? I only have a handful of grey hairs. Maybe it’s the fact that my gums are receding and my teeth are just a bit gappier than they were before. I didn’t think that was noticeable. 

Michael Pollan is involved in some questionable stuff.

I have to be honest. I haven’t exactly been glowing with holiday spirit this year. Last month we ate Chinese food on Thanksgiving. We don’t have a tree, just the same old plants. There is printer paper all over my desk, but no wrapping paper to be seen. I’ve kept my head buried in work while the tinsel and the lights have been strung up around me.

The whole season might have come and gone if it weren’t for gingerbread. The other day, I got to bake some for Mrs. Patmore. Do you know her?

I just counted—between us, Gus and I have 10 pairs of gym shoes. That’s 20 shoes for 4 feet and zero closets. Are we hoarders?

Ok. I checked the bathroom. Six toothbrushes. Two faces. Confirmed hoarders. 

I was just thinking about middle school. The oversized LL Bean backpack that I insisted on wearing on one shoulder despite the threat of scoliosis. Braces that made me look so unattractive (the perm didn’t help) that one popular boy, who barely spoke to me otherwise, was moved enough to tell me how much better I looked the day they were removed. He seemed utterly relieved on my behalf.  Keds. Dirty white Keds.

We live in a studio in a small building. It’s cozy and lovely. The building was built in the late 1800’s and a lot of the original, pretty wrought-iron stairway railing remains alongside the six flights we walk up to our home. There are still mysterious doors in the hallway that hide the space where communal toilets were years ago. I think the super uses them as broom closets now. (I did spy a reeeeaaally old commode when one door happened to be open. Neat and gross!) We have pretty exposed beams across the ceiling, really beat up wood floors, and a kind of ugly but warming brick wall. All in all, I feel extremely lucky to live here.

My friend Cate and I used to have a standing movie date every Sunday night. Ten years ago we lived in the same Brooklyn neighborhood, only a few blocks from each other, and the date was easy to keep. We didn’t call to confirm. We just called if we needed to cancel. Not much further planning was needed.

Do you remember the first time you tasted biscotti? Do you remember what ran through your mind? Perhaps it was something along the lines of, “This stupid cookie stick is stale. Rude.” That was my first reaction. But then again, I was just a kid. I didn’t know that biscotti are supposed to be hard. I didn’t know anything about drinking coffee. And I didn’t know that the singular of biscotti is biscotto. I’ve come a long way.

My friends and I rented a run-down, drafty house during our last two years of college. The kitchen was far from perfect. It had dingy linoleum floors covered with a film of salt and mud from our snowy boots and mysterious sticky patches from the last party. Fat carpenter ant carcasses dotted the faded countertops because B, one of my more courageous roommates, was in the habit of smooshing them with her thumb but not in the habit of disposing of the bodies. Thinking about whatever might have lurked in the dank darkness of the cupboards gives me the shivers even now. But, despite all of that, the four of us roommates were into good food and we were always excited to take up a cooking project together.

Mmm. Cookies.  Buttery, fruity, nutty cookies. Bejeweled cookes. Perfect for curling up with a book cookies. (Truth be told, I like all my food with a side of book.)

If you’d like to know a little bit more about these shortbread delights (including how to make them) pop over to Big Girls, Small Kitchen where I’m guest posting today. The lovely Cara Eisenpress asked me to share a sweet treat with her readers and I couldn’t resist. Cross blog pollination. It’s a wonderful thing and I’m touched to have been invited to partake. 

Remember when people got fancy for travel? Not early-1900’s-voyages-on-grand-ocean-liners fancy. I'm thinking early-80's fancy. When we were kids, my family would get plenty gussied for a plane ride. I can remember pretty new dresses, shiny patent leather Mary Janes, and nicely brushed hair. Traveling was a pleasure and a privilege and my family dressed the part. Let me tell you, wearing tights on the 14-hour flight (plus layovers!) to Sri Lanka was a serious endeavor. They don't call them tights for nothing. My adult self can recognize the lunacy in the act, but the desire to dress nicely took over any consideration for comfort. I’m surprised that I could actually eat while flying (all that constriction!) but you know that I never missed a meal.

“What are those things called? Crutters?” Oh. I wish. I’m pretty sure the woman in the elevator at work was asking her friend about Cronuts but I kept to myself. No one likes a know-it-all who wasn’t a part of the conversation in the first place. Do you think Cronuts, the croissant doughnut hybrid by Dominique Ansel, would be as popular if they were called Crutters? The thought made me giggle all the way down the hallway to my office and a little laugh is always a good way to start the day.

Oh man. It’s almost the end of the summer. Are you feeling it? I’m a little down about it. It’s not like as a working person sans children there is a big delineation between the summer and the rest of the year. But summer is just so darn magical. The light. The sky. The beach. And even if you don’t have a ton of vacation time you can have tons of ice cream. And ice cream feels like a vacation, right?

They say that you shouldn’t go to the grocery store hungry. I understand the logic behind that old adage but isn’t that when buying provisions is the least tedious and the most fun? Every aisle holds so much potential for deliciousness. Plain old broccoli sounds utterly mouth-watering. Bananas feel magical. Bread could make me faint. (Well, that’s always the case.) Hungry supermarket cruising is exactly what credit cards are made for.