Girl Jungle

The heart bone's connected to the...

All my life, everyone said our family trail was lost. Obscured, geneologically speaking, in the bilingual weeds somewhere in deepest, darkest Clinton County, New York. Nobody could remember the details of the paternal line, much before great-grandpa Joseph, that is. Seems the family thought better of its Franco sounding (and looking) surname, and changed it to something more, well, Anglo. (The guy who changed it also appeared to have converted for a time to ..shudder...protestantism! That didn't last long, they buried him in the Catholic cemetary along with the rest of the tribe.)

Trouble is, name changes can spell disaster when it come to unraveling a family blood line. And for now, going on three generations, nobody has really known where we came from. Or when. Until now.

Thanks to the wonderful online registry/search engine/original source repository called Ancestry.com (based, not surprisingly in Utah...) and the tireless work being done by often unknown kin all over the world, I was able to piece together -- reasonably effortlessly -- a family geneology that goes back to the mid-seventeenth century. Early by anyone's count for North Americans, especially those who emigrated to what was then called New France.

Thrilling facts emerged. We came from Normandy, (Rouen, to be specific) across the Atlantic to a place just outside Quebec city, settling on Ile d'Orleans. Our first North American ancestor, Pierre, took a wife in 1656 from among the ranks of the Filles du Roi, (Daughters of the King,) a band of some 700 mail-order brides dispatched by Louis XIV to shore up the flagging French colony on the banks of the St. Lawrence River.

Some five successive generations of Joseph's made their way south and west, along the path of the river 'till they crossed into the US in the mid 1800's presumably to mine coal in Mooers, NY. My grandparents, both from Mooers, moved farther south still, settling in Vermont in the early years of the twentieth century. And as satisfying as a complete family tree can be, it can't compare to how thrilling it is to see your grandfather's World War One draft card describing a man you never knew as a person "of medium height, slender, with blue eyes and auburn hair." Or to read a census record describing your three-year-old grandmother's people as Canadian immigrants, one French and one English, but both English speakers, able to read and write.

So, having thought all my life I would never be able to connect the dots among my Canadian ancestors the way my proud wasp maternal line had done way back to Castle Donnington, England (don't get excited, we lived outside the walls and it's now a speedway...) I am proud to report I will soon be inducted into the Societe de les filles du Roi, an honor as great, or greater to me than all the Mayflower Society members put together. Vive la (Nouvelle) France! and God Bless the internet.

Fifty must be the new... old?

It's begun. The reign of terror called AARP. Every day, it seems, since my 49th birthday I've been receiving these perky little envelopes advising me of my right, nay, RESPONSIBILITY to join the largest single group of involved (albeit retired) citizens on the planet. For a mere twelve dollars and fifty cents, I too, can become a member of the enfranchised old. (With all the benefits and discounts I deserve...)

But wait. When did 49 mean the beginning of the end? Last time I looked, retirement age was at least 62, if not older. That's... (whizz, grrr..ding...ding... sound of art major doing mental math...) thirteen or more years from now. So, what in the world could possibly qualify me to be a member of the American Association of Retired Persons other than a certain distant proximity to the age when most people hang it up for a new life of golf, slow driving and Fox news?

And furthermore, what in the world could AARP see in me? My demographic profile is decidedly not that of the typical AARP member. (Right???) I mean, I'm gainfully employed, wildly busy, fashion forward and still a young(ish) woman. I haven't started worrying about retirement living, early-bird dining or Depends. And to tell you the truth, retirement doesn't sound that appealing to me. In fact, most people I hang around with, all of us fifty-cuspers, are pretty unlike the stereotypical retired person. We work hard, usually too hard, are in the prime of our earning years. We spend a lot of time and energy multi-tasking: taking care of kids, spouses, parents, friends, all on top of our business lives.

I mean, I listen to rap, read Vanity Fair and Vogue and download podcasts. What do I have in common with those 50+ people radio stations tout (you know, the cotton heads who listen to "The Music of Your Life" and want more information on land yachts and municipal bonds? The Music of MY Life is James Taylor and Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young. For heaven's sake, the Rolling Stones were popular when I was in GRADE school... okay, maybe middle school, but you get the point...)

But maybe that's it. My mental vision of what a "mature" person is ain't quite accurate anymore. Far from little gray-haired ladies who knit and drink sherry...( I am NOT, as we know, little) we are healthier, more active, more mobile and we're also working longer. We're more ethnically diverse, vital and engaged. Plus, there are a lot of us. And while we're not ready to "retire" in the traditional sense, we do represent a powerful group of individuals who will continue to be the biggest bubble in the demographic spectrum. And for sure, our interests will be different from those of our children or our parents.

So AARP, smart devils they are, realize this and, in their ceasless efforts to aggregate, have started early to rein us in since we're likely to represent the largest and most interesting and influential group of "retirees" ever. Maybe getting old ain't what it used to be. It's me... and, as we know, I ain't that.

A little attitude adjusting in order? Hmmm. Perhaps an acronym adjustment would help: Let's change it to the American Association of Real People.

The Devil made me do it.

I've always hated those women who trot into the local beauty barn armed with a picture of their favorite starlet ripped from the pages of "People" hoping against hope that miracles can come true.

You know the deal, "Like, I really LOVE Jennifer Anniston's hair. I want to BE her." (As if a hair cut could transform any of us. As if we'd want it to.)

But, alas, pride goeth, as they say, and I, your faithful correspondent has now lost what ever moral highground she might have posesssed since yesterday she saw a movie and changed her hair.

Okay, so it's not quite that simple. Like many women of a certain age, I have been enjoying better living through chemistry in the form of monthly trips to the salon to cover my gray since, oh, 1985 or so. My red-headed self -- tho original -- wasn't real and hadn't been for some time. The grayer I became, the more time and energy (not to mention cash) I was investing in helping time stand still.

Enter Meryl Streep in The Devil Wears Prada. If you haven't seen the movie, (or read the book) let me provide a short synopsis. Mature Powerbitch runs influential fashion magazine trading all shreds of humanity for careerism. Young ingenue nearly falls for seduction of PB's world but, at the last minute, chooses right over white. (White being the color of Powerbitch - aka - Streep's hair.)

Now choosing to model one's mature self after a horrible caricature of a powerful woman doesn't exactly seem noble (or even smart, for heaven's sake...) but... the hair. Oh, the hair.

Gorgeous. Natural, grayish white. Mature but vibrant. Beautifully cut, elegant. Stylish, modern. Fabulous.

So on the eve of my 49th birthday, I decided. Enough of this charade. Time to own it. Own my age, own my real self. So off to the salon I go...Streep photos in hand.

The miracle Brenda, (we call each other "The Other Brenda") owner and creative director of Amore Styles in Portland, Maine and I set up camp for the duration. Four hours and a bottle of Pinot later, having endured the seven shades of red removal (from Safety Orange to Pink Shrimp to Frightening Rock Star Yellow to Unbaked Bread) and trial and error with violet toner, I am now, happily, naturally grey.

I must confess my risk mitigation (otherwise known as, OHMIGODWHATHAVEIDONE insurance) took the form of returning to the original red. But once it was done, I, The Other Brenda, wonderman, all my friends and colleagues and even perfect strangers looked and me and said. Wow. What took you so long.

Wow indeed. Thanks for the inspiration, Meryl. I'll try not to be devilish.

Bowling for Moslems

So some ignoramus decides it would be a jolly joke to roll the frozen cranial remains of his recent pig roast down the center aisle of Lewiston, Maine's storefront Mosque. (This, the same Lewiston that gained national attention after a crazed neo-Nazi group decided to hold a rally there in support of a well-meaning (I guess) but clueless letter from a former Mayor asking the local Somali population to tell their friends to stay home.)

For generations, cities like Lewiston have welcomed (sort of) wave after wave of immigrants from Irish to French, Polish and Greek to Jew and most recently, Somali. A mill town melting pot on the banks of the Androscoggin River. And like everywhere a community stew is brewing with ingredients separated by their looks, language and faith, the most recently added morsels nearly cause a boil over. Every time.

It wasn't so long ago that Lewiston seemed more like an outpost of Quebec's Beauce region than a northern New England college town. In fact, when I arrived in Lewiston as a student in 1975 it was still common to hear French spoken almost everywhere. (Despite the fact that many a young knuckle came home from public school bruised when teacher applied the ruler rap to drive French out and English in.)

Truth is, everyone's people have endured hazing of one kind or another. (Save the Native Americans, I guess, but you know what happened there...) And you should pardon me for not getting totally enraged at young yahoo's bogus ethnic bowling stunt. Should he be punished and ostracized for such horrid, disrespectful behavior? Of course. Should we be societally mortified, on the other hand, that such acts of intolerance and ignorance occur? Please. We are human. We have a history here. This behavior, though horrible, is not new. It's regrettable but predictable. It's what happens as disparate groups learn to assimilate. (It's also why we have laws and social mores that discourage this sort of acting out.)

But let's cut the political correctness and public piling on that seems to accompany every unfortunate act of bad judgement and call it what it is. We are an immigrant society. Whether our family tree has roots that go back to Plymouth Rock or Ellis Island, we were all once newcomers to a new land. Sociologists have observed the behavior of in-group/out-group politics for years. What happened in Lewiston is what always happens.

Newcomers upset the status quo. Not only are they different in many observable ways, they are also threats. Theats to jobs, a drain on scarce social resources, and our "way of life." But oddly, our way of life wouldn't exist were it not for the constant shaking up we get when outsiders move in.

What we fail to realize is the value newcomers provide to our society. They contribute to the economy by doing work many of us are unwilling to do anymore. They bring intellectual and cultural capital that strengthens and improves our world. They pay taxes, build communities and, in short, become grateful citizens. And exactly what's wrong with that? It's what brought us all here, for heaven's sake.

And of course we're scared. Nobody likes change, our natural instinct is to protect what we know from that we don't. It's when we begin institutionalizing this notion of "us vs. them" in our immigration policy that the real trouble starts.

Our recent national policy seems to be "ignore, underfund, and push under the rug the immigration problem unless it's politically expedient to persecute." Such attitudes do nothing but exacerbate predictable community tension. If we actually planned for and welcomed new Americans, (and provided for their needs adequately while helping them to assimilate) we might reduce a lot of the hazings and community tension.

Immigration policy that relies on guns and barbed wire and zenophobic rationales rather than sensible, growth-managing legislation to control the influx of new Americans seems like slamming the gates on our past, if you ask me. (And far more hurtful, in the long run than Mr. Sensitivity's pig headed stunt.)

Truth is, assimilation is messy. And expensive. But without it, where would we be?

Humility, thy name is Kathy

Ah, the mind's eye. The little reality gyroscope that tells us whether life's glass is half empty or half full. For some of us, (the rose colored glasses set, that is) daily observations reveal what our optimistic natures perceive: people as good, other drivers as patient, fruit as ripe. You get the idea. It never occurs to us that there might be something rotten in Denmark. Just couldn't be. Not on our watch.

We expect things to turn out, we see the bright side, (sometimes with such obvious naivete as to provoke guffaws from our more taciturn companions.) In the name of positive thinking, we occasionally fool ourselves into a state of affairs that belies both truth and belief. We look in the mirror and see what we want (or maybe need) to see: youth, health, beauty. (Not to mention saintly goodness, generosity and a gentleness of spirit that perhaps, has never really existed.)

But when does a sense of relentless optimism and a slightly fuzzy mind's eye cloud important truth? When does positive thinking pervert honest appraisal?

I learned recently that a friend had described me to someone as lots of nice things AND a dead ringer for Kathy Bates. BLAM. Full Stop. Kathy Bates? Really? Oh dear. That's not what I see in the mirror. How could this be?

I compulsively googled Kathy Bates trying desperately to find an image of her that matched my own self perception. Surely, there was at least one picture of her that resembled Rene Russo in the Thomas Crown Affair. No luck. Kathy Bates is a great actress, an interesting woman and fine American but Rene Russo she ain't.

Now to be fair, Ms. Bates is a little older than me, but still, there ain't no denying it. There is a resemblance. We're both, er, not waif-like, rather full of face and with a certain determination in our expression that, well, is what it is.

It took me a while to wrestle with the though of resembling a character actress who plays crazy Stephen King spinsters, hot tub deperados and lesbian political operatives. And while I've never played any of these roles in my actual life, it doesn't give one great confidence to be compared to an actress who so convincingly conjurs such creatures.

But after a while I came to the conclusion that looking like Kathy Bates is no shame. While neither of us is model beautiful, we are reflective of a whole lot of real women whose beauty (and more importantly, whose value) comes not just from what we look like but also from what we do, who we are and how we serve our world.

If a dose of unvarnished reality is good for the soul, (and maybe an incentive to pep up the old exercise program) so is self-acceptance. So there.

When blogs (and other ether words) go wrong

Recently, some business colleagues of mine got embroiled in a real nasty business on line. Seems a disgruntled acquaintance decided to take them to task (and then some) in his blog. And what started out as a little snarkiness on the blogger's part has grown through a regrettable snowballing of undisciplined parry and thrust to absurd proportions including law suit threats and sleepless nights for everyone.

It got me to thinking about how our civility toward one another has been compromised in the on-line environment. If you're like me, more than once you've hit the "send" button when you should have cooled down first. Fired off a snide remark when judicious silence would have done better or hidden behind an alias to say mean, unfair or cruel things.

What is it about email and its webular cousin, blogging, that turns the most kind, thoughtful correspondent into Jack the Ripper?

Somehow, I guess, we're emboldened by the computer. We sit alone, tap-tap-tapping our raw thoughts into the cybersphere as if our words have no consequence. Things we would never say in person, (or even on paper) somehow blaze through, hurting feelings, causing damage, making enemies.

It seems when people can hide behind the curtain of their computer they lose their critical judgment. Perhaps it's the speed with which we can craft a snappy response or the psychological distance an email creates between two people, even when they're mere feet from each other. It's an odd sort of detatched bravery. Perhaps communicating on-line relieves us in some perverse way of our moral and ethical compass.

In the blog environment, it's awfully easy to ratchet up an issue by piling on, and sometimes innocent people or their businesses get hurt in this largely unregulated “democratized media.” When we're attacked or maligned or lied about, it's no wonder we -- or our supporters -- rally behind us fanning flames that might have gone out with less attention.

Plenty of business people these days blame email for breakdowns in corporate communications. Not only is email, (and its evil spawn, the insidious cc list) a robber of productivity, it damages relationships amd work product since not only do we say things we probably shouldn't, we also react too quickly, speaking before we think; acting before we consider.

Now don't get me wrong. Blogging and other forms of cyber communications can be wonderful. Liberating, efficient, creative. It's when we forget we're speaking "with" not "to" our fellow humans that we get in trouble. Like everything else, I suppose, the rules for online communications come down to some permutation of the Golden Rule. You know, "Do unto others as you would they do unto you."

Or maybe it's like the old Abe Lincoln parable...write a letter then place it in your desk drawer for a day. If it doesn't stink after aging, let it go. Good advice.

Elvis is still dead (but there's this guy who looks JUST like him in Vegas.)

Returning from Las Vegas comfortably wedged in my steerage-class seat, I got to thinking about America.

We're a vast and diverse country with a proud (if short) history. We live large, sing loud, eat big. If all things can be summed up by dog breed, I'd like to say we're a nation of labrador retrievers: strong, shiny, virgorous, happy-go-lucky. Charming in our tail-wagging enthusiasm. (Even if we sometimes knock vases off the table. Oops. Sorry, about that, Iraq.)

Our meccas are big, loud and enthusiastic, too. So when the going gets good, we get to Walt Disney World or, if we're grown ups, to Vegas. Places with more phun per square inch than most humans can digest in a week. There's food and entertainment, booze and sin. (Well, maybe not too much sin at Disney...it is, after all, a family show) But at either venue, there's a curious assemblage of ersatz, virtual experiences that, I guess, only Americans could consider "good as real."

At Disney, I've heard plenty of EPCOT trekkers (that would be Every Person Comes Out Tired, to you...)remark, "Why go abroad? It's all right here!" Huh. Well... maybe, what with margaritas, French wine, sake, and folkloric-costumed cast members speaking accented English.

Oh, and let's not forget the "regional" cuisine (ask for our kid's menu!) Fettucine Alfredo for EVERYONE! If looking across a lagoon to spy the Temple of Heaven, Eiffel Tower, Big Ben and a Shinto temple could be called a world tour, I guess that's right. Sort of.

It's much the same in Vegas. Except more so. There's PARIS Las Vegas complete with a 3/4 sized Eiffel Tower. The Venetian's Grand Canal with actual gondolas con singing gondoliers! (Try not to notice the little propellers on the stern.) Every fantasy lives: Aladdin, Mandalay Bay, Caesar's Palace, Treasure Island, New York, New York. Every one a scaled-down version of famous times and places.

And what about Barbra and Frank, the Rat Pack, and Elvis, performing LIVE! It's all right there! Every one of America's best restaurants, recreated for your dining pleasure! Le Cirque, Commander's Palace, Aureole, MESA Grill, NOBU, just a cab ride away. (Who cares if the chef who made these places famous actually lives two thousand miles away?)

And what's wrong with this picture? Nothing, I guess, if you keep it all in perspective. It is what it is. A uniquely American take on "the other." Places and people near and far. Sanitized, translated and simplified for your viewing pleasure.

Over the Christmas holidays I heard a little girl at EPCOT ask, "Mommy, why aren't there Christmas lights on Morocco ?"

Why, indeed. To be in a world where we can experience our Americanized visions of far-off people and places dead or alive is broadening, in a way. But it's also dangerous in its simplicity and maybe even a little arrogant.

Now don't get me wrong, I love Disney. I adore Las Vegas, but not because of what it isn't... but really for what it is. I love these places. They're clever, masterful, seductive. And yes, fun.

But let's not, in our pleasure seeking think for one minute that the real world is as we find it at our American destinations. In the real world, people speak other languages, think different thoughts and seek their own meccas. Things real can be dangerous, confusing and yes, disagreeable. But, that, me thinks is the nature of life. And the beauty of it, too. In seeking the other, we ought not look for our own reflection but rather for that of a different, sometimes more beautiful face.

Roasting to remember

A snowy Sunday... clouds of swirling white as far as the eye can see. Quiet, homebound, peaceful New England. The sort of atmospheric pressure that invariably compels me to roast something.

Now in my almost fifties, it has come to my attention that I'm a practical dead ringer for my paternal grandmother. In her teens, she helped make ends meet as a meat cook for the Vermont Central Railroad cooking up cheap cuts of beef and pork, chicken and ham into rich, carnivorous bliss.

Sunday dinners at her little house on Bridge Street in Windsor, Vermont, especially those in the dead of winter were legendary...especially the pot roast, whose aroma would greet you at the door with the promise of melt in the mouth savor.

How she did it, I'm not exactly sure. But some combination of root vegetables, skillful braising, slow cooking and love had a lot to do with it.

Grandma was a tough woman whose hard life raising five kids through the depression while "working out" (when there was work to be had) made for a stought disposition and a somewhat disagreeable temperament. But in the competence she evidenced in the pursuit of life's labors: cooking, sewing, crocheting, and knitting shone a deep love and compassion for those her efforts served.

She'd bitch you out unmercifully for sitting on a bed after it had been made or for failing to wipe your feet, but at the table, her affection was inescapable.

Her pot roast, I think, was beef chuck braised with parsnips, carrots, onions and potato. Mine is brisket, onion and red wine. When I cook it, I always think of her and wonder, especially when the roast is particularly good if more than eye color and stature are passed down through the DNA.

A good cook is more than the sum of culinary skill and good ingredients: there's a desire to nourish: stoking heart and soul with fuel sometimes more powerful than words.

Even if her words were harsh, my grandma's food always seemed to say, "Eat up. It's cold out there."
And at her table I knew she loved me as I surely loved her.

Twelve Steps to perfect pie crust, hic.

Ah, the holiday season. That magical time of year when we're called upon to access ancient skills in the pursuit of the perfect Christmas. We hunt high and low for things we use once a year...the candy thermometer, the Christmas tree stand, the friggin' scotch tape.

We pursue anew the joys of rolling pie crust, raising yeast dough, making lumpless gravy. We sing, we swear, we throw our flour-covered hands in the air begging for help from the pastry gods.

It's at this happy time I am often asked by my subjects (as I am the self-anointed queen of all things) for help in accomplishing seasonal chores. So, as a public service, I offer the following tips and tricks to aid you when the merry bells start ringing next year.

I confess, much of what I know about these things comes from growing up in a farm community. (That and reading Martha Stewart, but let's not go there...) It may come as a surprise to some of you that I, your urban goddess, am an actual, card-carrying member of the National Grange and a blue ribbon 4-H'er. Back in Plainfield, Alice Jordan taught me to sew on a god-awful electrified treadle machine and I learned to make good food from a range of grandmas, neighbors, aunts and of course, my world-famous, apple pie making mother. But, enough about me. Let's get to the meat of the matter. Pie Crust.

Pie crust is simple if you understand it. Like most baking, making crust is a simple chemistry experiment where certain ingredients: fat, flour, flavoring and moisture combine through skill and alchemy to form flaky, fabulous forms for fattening fodder. (Oh, dear.)

What's key here, especially for occasional crust chefs are the right tools. While you might feel particularly authentic wielding two knives and a flour covered wooden rolling pin, give it up. And while you're at it, throw out that pastry blender thing, too. The right tools make all the difference.

You must assemble the following: one Cuisinart fitted with steel blade; measuring spoons; a big Pyrex measuring cup; a gallon-sized Zip Loc bag, metal rolling pin, chilled; a Silpat, Tupperware or Pampered Chef rolling mat; a thin, long-bladed spatula; and a stiff drink (to calm your nerves.)

Now, gather your ingredients.

First fat. Now, here's a short commercial for the best fat to use in pie making. And I know, I know... the American Heart Association is coming after me with their disciplinary defribulator for saying so, but the only fat to use in most pie (fruit especially) is lard. Yep, good old white, gross, comes-in-a-butter-sized box manteca. If you make and eat pie once or twice a year, throw caution to the wind. Use lard. It's easier, way more delicious and so decadent. Once you buy it, (it's next to the butter in the grocery store) put it in the freezer. The night before you make your crust, move it to the refrigerator since you want it cold for mixing. Some folks use a combination of butter and lard or butter and Crisco or even butter alone, (see Pate Brisse, a rich butter/lard pastry good for liquid fillings like quiche) but for today, let's concentrate on lard.

Now. To make a double crust, you'll need 3/4 cup of lard, 2 cups of flour, a little salt, a little sugar (for a sweet pie) and some ice water -- about a quarter cup. (You may be wondering how in the world to measure 3/4 cup of lard when you have a big old block of white fat in front of you that's supposed to stay ice cold (i.e. no melting) and no helpful little wrapper lines to help you cut off enough for the recipe? For this, I have one simple word: DISPLACEMENT!

Yes, chemistry fans, or in this case, perhaps, physics fans, it's easy. You can tell how much lard (or any other buoyant substance) you've got by floating it in a large Pyrex measuring cup of water. Here's how. First, pretend the block of lard is a pound of butter. Now, as we know, a pound of butter yields two cups or four, half cup sticks. If the recipe calls for 3/4 cup, that's roughly a stick and a half. So, eyeball it and cut the block into four quarters then use one and 1/2 of them. To see how close you are, fill a large, glass measuring cup with 2 cups of VERY COLD water. Now float the lard on top. The water level should reach 2 and 3/4 cups. Adjust the amount of fat in the water till it does. Presto.)

Once you've scooped the fat from the water, add a handful of ice cubes to chill the water for later. Set the measured fat aside, but work quickly from now on, you don't want it to warm up, at all.

Measure the flour, salt and sugar into the bowl of the food processor. Whiz around a bit to blend. Now, using a sharp knife and nimble fingers, cut the fat into small, inch-ish blocks and drop in on top of the flour mix. Once you've got them all in, PULSE the food processor until the mixture inside lookes like coarse corn meal. (Don't worry, unless you really work up some heat, this part is pretty fool proof.)

Now comes the alchemy part. Tablespoon by tablespoon add ice water to the mix, pulsing briefly between additions. Continue in this manner, incorporating the water, JUST until the mixture forms a ball. NOT A MINUTE MORE! Most days it will take about 5 tablespoons of water. But atmospheric humidity can make a big difference here, so watch the ball, not the recipe on this.

Dump the contents of the bowl onto a floured surface. Quickly pat and roll the whole mess into a flour covered ball and slip into a zip loc bag. Let sit for at least a half an hour. (Overnight is better.)

Fast forward...

The time has come to roll the pie crust out. First, take a good swig of the stiff drink you've got at the ready to steel your nerves.

Now. Assemble the staging area. Make sure you've got plenty of room on your work surface. Move the toaster, the blender, the bread box, the 500 bottles of flavored oils and vinegars and place your rolling mat. (If you wet the surface below with a sponge just a smidge before the mat goes down, it'll stay put while you're rolling.) Dust the mat with a little flour. (Use a small sieve full of flour and shake gently, it lays down a nice, even dusting.) Remove the rested crust from the fridge and carefully slice it in half. (You can use a scale to get it exact, but usually, if you're still fairly sober, an eyeball guess will do fine.)

Put the other half back in the fridge and plop the working ball onto the floured mat. Dust the top of the ball with a little more flour and work it in your hands untl it forms a disk, about 2 inches thick and about 5 inches across. Make sure the edges are nice and solid.

Now. Remove your rolling pin from the fridge, dust it lightly with flour and apply to the center of the disk. Roll up, left, right and down. Now flip the disk over, dust with a wee bit more flour and continue to roll on this side until it is the right size for your pie plate. (Some rolling mats come with helpful size circles imprinted.)

If you've got some renegade edges that have cracked off from the main circle, trim them and loosen the crust all around from the mat with the long-beaked spatula. Carefully, from the edge furthest from you, roll about 3/4 of the crust around the rolling pin. Quickly, slide the pie plate under the crust and unroll.

Press the crust gently into the plate letting the edges fall over the rim. If you have a tear anywhere, (tsk) use a bit of cold water on your finger to moisten the edge, then apply a patch.

Add your filling and moisten the edge of the bottom crust with a whipped egg.

Now roll out the top crust and place over the plate. Crimp the edges and trim the excess with a sharp knife.

With a pastry brush (or your fingers) apply a nice wash of egg over the top crust. Cut slits in the center of the pie to vent and bake away.

Finish drink to celebrate.

Ho, Ho Hooey

All right, holiday fans, it's time for my annual yuletide rant. A festive missive in which I bitch, moan and complain about the stupidity that is the Christmas season these days.

Now I like family times, a piece of brown sugar fudge, sugar cookies, balsams and carols as much as the next Congregationalist, but this headlong plummet into cynically commercialized chaos drives me nuts more and more every year.

Let us begin with the fact that the "holiday season" now officially begins the moment the Jack O' Lantern is extinguished. No more waiting till after the post-prandial turkey nap to start the madness that is Christmas. Nope, cruise any X-mart in late October and expect to hear motivational holiday tunes for your shopping pleasure. Christ. (As if He has anything to do with it...)

So. How about "Black Friday?" The bellwether day (Friday following Thanksgiving) that supposedly makes or breaks the retail year. Some stores open as soon as the blue laws allow (at 1:00 bloody AM in some places, for heaven's sake) with toilet bowl prices to gain what, market share? Bragging rights? Surely not profitability at those prices. Might make retail sense, but it sounds more like the black death to me. I can't imagine anything worse than lining up in the middle of the night with a zillion half-crazed perfect strangers outside a discount store for the opportunity to ring in the holiday.

Next, shall we discusss this year's most absurd holiday products? Second place goes to the all new, counter-space wasting "appliance," the Black and Decker Lids Off, a fifty dollar boat anchor that promises to automatically remove the stubbornest jar cover with the flick of a switch. Good grief. For a tenth the price, the Vermont Country Store will sell you a nifty little clamp device that even the most arthritic of hands can use to pry open the pickels. And it fits in a drawer. Imagine.

Top honors this year are reserved for the new Oral B Triumph toothbrush, however. No mere placque remover, this: the all-new Triumph features an ON BOARD COMPUTER to aid in more efficient teeth cleaning. An on board computer? On a miserable cordless toothbrush? I didn't know one could actually BOARD a toothbrush. Oh my.

It may be open season on unwary consumers, but there are some bright spots. Take Kodak's new holiday advertising, for example. I don't know about you, but there's something about a great American brand fighting hard to stay in the game that warms my heart.

And a clever series of commercials for diamond jewelry featuring a poor bloke marooned at an anonymous airport on Christmas eve is pretty good. While the commercials themselves aren't anything to write home about, the advertiser gets extra points for devising a campaign that uses sequential placements of 30 second spots to tell a story.

Finally there's Castrol, (nothing says "Christmas" like motor oil...) that has perhaps the best positioning line I've heard in a long time. "Liquid Engineering." Not bad. Not bad at all.

Anyway. Thank you for taking time away from your important pre-holiday activities to read this. To escape from Festive Canned Merriment, I can only suggest you do as I do at the holiday season. Give money to causes you care about, sing, kiss your family and pray for peace.