I may turn this into a baking blog for the next four years.
As the holidays are over, I wanted to veer away from decadent cookies, and try some healthier stuff. I’ve always liked “morning glory” muffins and this recipe from Sally is a winner. They are moist and delicious. I never make recipes with 18(!) ingredients, but I happened to have most of them in the house already. The only things I had to go buy was ground flax seed and unsweetened apple sauce. I substituted coconut flakes for the pecans, because I am allergic to tree nuts.
Random thoughts from the past two days:
I didn’t watch the inauguration live, but the photos were unavoidable. Melania’s hat was a lousy choice for an indoor inauguration. Even if the inauguration had been outside, she did not need a brim that wide! She looked so severe and frankly, mean, in that navy blue get-up. Major Cruella de Vil vibes.
The Washington DC Episcopalian Bishop has balls, asking Trump to his face to have mercy on the people he attacks. Good for her!
OK, I know I live in a deep blue Massachusetts bubble, but I have not heard of one single person who plans to watch Donald Trump’s inauguration tomorrow.
Feelings seem to range from benign avoidance to disgust and true nausea that it’s being held on Martin Luther King Jr. Day.
I don’t think I’ve skipped watching an American presidential inauguration in the past 30 years. They are part of American history. Hell, I’d normally watch for the cold-weather women’s fashions alone. The coats! The gloves! The hats!
But I will not be watching this one. And I’m just so relieved Michelle Obama is skipping it too.
My alt-inauguration plan is to go see a midday matinee of The Last Showgirl, starring Pamela Anderson and Jamie Lee Curtis, in a movie theater with my husband. Anderson’s performance is getting good reviews and since she’s the estranged ex-wife of Trump inaugural performer Kid Rock, it seemed like a great choice.
What’s your alt-inauguration plan? Or are you planning to watch?
Michelle Obama’s 2009 inauguration lookMichelle Obama’s 2013 inauguration lookI loved Kamala’s purple coat in 2021And then there was this. Possibly the worst look ever worn to a presidential inauguration.
Sometimes your little life overlaps with historic events.
I’ve already written about the nation’s bicentennial and how I was there to see President Ford speak at the Old North Bridge in Concord in April 1976. I was ten.
I was reminded of another historic event while watching President Carter’s funeral this week—the Iranian hostage crisis (1979-81). American GenXers will remember this because it was such a BIG deal. Everyone knew about it. Yellow ribbons were everywhere.
In a nutshell: In November 1979, Iranian militants stormed the U.S. Embassy in Tehran, taking 52 American diplomats and citizens hostage, including Bill Keough, a former school superintendent in my town. The hostage takers were mad at the U.S. for supporting the deposed “Shah” of Iran.
They kept those poor people captive for 444(!) days—in very harsh conditions—led by the evil “Ayatollah Khomeini.” (Every GenXer knows how to say that guy’s name because it was on the news every single night.) Diplomatic efforts failed, and a U.S. military rescue mission, Operation Eagle Claw, ended in disaster in April 1980, killing eight servicemen. This severely damaged President Jimmy Carter’s administration and contributed to his loss in the 1980 election. The hostages were released on January 20, 1981, just minutes after Ronald Reagan’s inauguration, following the signing of the Algiers Accords (for which the Carter administration did all the legwork).
When the hostages were finally released, everyone watched with bated breath and there was widespread jubilation, especially in my town where we knew one of them! My high school marching band was invited to participate in a massive homecoming parade for Mr. Keough.
As one of the “goose-fleshed majorettes,” I mainly remember how COLD it was. I was 16, with not an ounce of fat on me, wearing a short little dress and holding a cold metal stick — in Massachusetts in FEBRUARY. Having recently compared notes with one of the “rosy-cheeked trumpeters,” I was reminded that our band director Mr. Toland made a last-minute decision to nix “The Empire Strikes Back” (one of our favorite numbers to perform) as we approached the grandstand. I guess he “read the room” and realized Darth Vader’s theme song was not the thing to play when celebrating triumph over the actual Evil Empire (Iran).
I was not political in high school. My parents didn’t talk much about politics (possibly because they were on opposite sides of the fence) and I cared way more about my hair than inflation or gas prices. But watching President Carter’s moving funeral, I was struck by how little credit he got for the hostage release. In The Boston Globe article above, Mr. Keough gave President Carter and his team full credit and gratitude for getting him home:
“Keough took the occasion, as he would again at a ceremony after the parade, to praise the handling of the hostage crisis by former President Jimmy Carter and his negotiating team “even in the face of personal disasters in their own careers.” “We are thankful that our President made the right decisions all along the way.” he said, adding his “eternal gratitude to the eight young men who died trying to rescue us and who will live in my memory and I hope in yours.”
GenX, if you didn’t get a chance to watch President Carter’s funeral and have time for only one clip, I suggest you watch President Ford’s eulogy, delivered by his son Steve. It’s hard to imagine that this level of grace and humility in politics existed in our lifetime.
Here I am in my skinny majorette days practicing with the marching band.
This New Year’s is getting me down. I had so hoped that 2025, the year I turn 60, would be the year we’d finally stop seeing his ridiculous orange face and hearing his racist, lying voice forever. I had thought if we could just get through the November election, he’d fade from our consciousness. I worked hard to try to make that happen.
Instead, the shitshow continues. All the anger, fear and bitterness of the past nine years is back. I’m suspicious of old friends who seem to blame all their problems on immigrants. I’m worried that racism or god forbid—gun violence—is going to affect my family. I’m so sad for the planet. I’m scared that our new leaders are truly just self-dealers.
I used to want to try to make the world a better place for all our children and grandchildren. Now I just want to try to protect my own children and grandchild in whatever way I can.
All the expansive positivity, American pride, and hopefulness for all women I felt watching Kamala Harris accept her nomination for president is gone.
I am taking solace in the unparalleled personal, private, internal joy of becoming a grandmother. Maybe my love for this one child will save me.
The first time I got to hold my granddaughter was magical. I loved her immediately. (Photo taken by my daughter 9.24.24)
At Christmas dinner yesterday, my father told me he had run into my old friend Debbie at the fish market. They recognized each other and exchanged some quick pleasantries.
Debbie and I were neighborhood friends who ended up becoming close friends for many years. She knew my parents well and I knew her family too. Her dad was a great guy. We took several trips to California and Florida in our late teens and twenties. We did a fair number of edgy things together including lots of underage drinking, shoplifting, dine-n-dashing, and at least one crazy 80s Spring Break trip to Fort Lauderdale. (Wet t-shirt contest anyone?) Debbie was 18 months older than me (a year ahead of me in high school) and liked to party and dance. I’m sure my first nightclub experience was with her. Even though she was a true redhead, she loved the sun like I did and we went to the beach as often as possible. We went skiing a few times too and once spun out in my mother’s car driving in a snowstorm. We did a 180 and hit the guardrail. (Debbie was driving at the time and we were fine.) In fact, we wanted to carry on with our ski trip with one headlight dangling, but when we called my parents from a gas station, they made us come home.
Debbie and I stayed friends for many years through a variety of life experiences including her being severely burned in a freak accident. (I remember visiting her in Shriner’s Burn Center where I saw the most horrifically scarred young children.) We knew each other’s deepest, darkest secrets. We attended each other’s weddings and then drifted apart as we became mothers and got busy raising kids. Still, we sent Christmas cards and occasionally saw each other in person.
Then, at some point during the second Obama administration her right-leaning political posts on Facebook caused a tiff between us. We unfriended each other and that was that. Some years later, I felt badly about it, but figured she had probably morphed into a Trump supporter, so what would be the purpose of reaching out. We were too different by then.
You know that expression about some friends being for a reason, some for a season, and some for a lifetime? Well, at one point I might’ve thought we’d be friends for a lifetime, but it turns out we were friends for a season. And our season was the 1980s. Big time.
Christmas 1989 (towards the end of our close friendship)
If I had to pick one song that tends to trigger a Debbie memory, it would be Kool & the Gang’s Celebration. I picture us dancing around in front of a mirror, sipping some alcohol, while we made our hair as big & fluffy as possible for whatever came next.
I am baking up a storm over here in the land of incredulous liberals who are (to a person, I believe) avoiding the news. (I did take a quick peek at Facebook earlier and saw that the incredible Randy Rainbow has just dropped a new video, which basically says it ALL.)
Back to baking…the holiday spritz is a tradition for my family. I received a fine Italian-made cookie press from my childhood friend Bethanne at my bridal shower 30+ years ago and have been making these cookies pretty much every year since. (My mother had a cookie press and she made them for years too.) They are strictly a holiday cookie. I’ve never made them at any other time of year.
I also received a cookie cookbook from Bethanne at my bridal shower (we had baked many batches of cookies together as girls), and I still use the recipe from that very same cookbook:
If you’re not familiar with how a cookie press works, you stuff a pump/barrel full of cookie dough and then squeeze it out through little silver discs, which form various decorative shapes. (There are about 12 shapes to choose from.)
Based on input from my son, the fleur-de-lis 🇫🇷 was added to the more seasonal snowflake and tree shaped cookies this year.
Voilá
And just for fun, here’s a photo of Bethanne (top right) and me (bottom right) with my mother and two other friends, circa 1977.
I see lots of wild animals around here, but I don’t feel like writing about them today.
Unfortunately I took a peek at the national news yesterday and I’m feeling scared today. It feels as if the country is definitely going off the rails. Humans behaving like animals is going to be the norm.
For the most part, I have not been watching the news since the election, but my husband told me about the assassination of the UnitedHealthcare CEO Brian Thompson, and then my son showed me the horrific video. It was so chilling. I was thinking, “Is this Russia? Is the President-elect somehow involved in this?” I literally thought that…and I am not a whacko conspiracy theorist.
But the reality is almost worse. The overwhelming reaction to this guy’s murder is completely justifiable rage at the health insurance industry. There is very little sympathy for his widow and children. I did a quick check of social media and it seemed the overwhelming consensus to the police’s request for help in finding the suspect is “snitches get stitches.” (So yeah, maybe “the public option” or even “Medicare for All” weren’t such crazy communist ideas after all.)
Animals. We are like animals now.
Then I read a quick article about the animal that has been nominated to lead our Department of Defense—Peter Hegseth. If you think “animal” is too harsh a characterization, please just google him. This guy could be walking around with the nuclear codes as soon as next month. I wonder if he’ll keep them in a pocket near his pro-Crusades tattoo?
Animals. An animal is nominating other animals to help him debase this country to a level we could have never imagined 10 years ago.
What is one thing you would change about yourself?
One great thing about growing older is that you finally accept yourself. I know a lot of people want to lose weight and that sort of thing after 50, but for the most part, you’ve accepted who you are as a person by age fifty.
If you were a dutiful oldest daughter for too long, you should be fully over it by age 50. Even if your parents are still alive, their guilt trips should no longer hurt you. If you got raised in a repressive church, you should have escaped it by now and realized that you have agency. You are the captain of your own ship. Whatever you feel is correct. You don’t have to be nice all the time. You can say no. If you’ve been feeling anger over what’s been going on in this country since 2016, that’s fully justified. If you are angry and fearful about what’s coming next, that’s also fine. No need to apologize to anyone for anything you say or do, women especially.
So no, I’m 59 and I’m perfect. There’s nothing I would change.
I’m so perfect I could be a Disney Princess. (AI image generated by my daughter, who is also perfect.)