The Facebook Papers: Writer's Block

Suggested Topic #4: "Writers Block"

Well, I just couldn't think about anything to say on this topic. So I did what I do best: I googled it. Google is awesome. In 0.37 seconds I had 106,000,000 results.

The first link was for a Wikipedia page, which started off with disclaimers, making me assume that the person who Wiki'd this page did NOT suffer from writer's block:

This article is written like a personal reflection or opinion essay rather than an encyclopedic description of the subject. Please help improve it by rewriting it in an encyclopedic style.

The next link was to the Purdue's Online Writing Lab (OWL). It had a lot of encouraging tips designed to motivate slacker students to go write the papers that they had put off until the last minute. Frankly I was too enamored with their cool logo to read much of it.

The third link was to a page about overcoming writer's block by the Capital Community College Foundation. Remind me to never enroll at CCC, or "U Downer" as I like to call it. I wanted to cry after reading the first paragraph:

For many writers the worst part of the writing experience is the very beginning, when they're sitting at the kitchen table staring at a blank sheet of paper or in front of that unblinking and perfectly empty computer monitor. "I have nothing to say," is the only thing that comes to mind. "I am XX years old and I have done nothing, discovered nothing, been nothing, and there are absolutely no thoughts in my head that anyone would ever want to read about."

The next link was to a blog written by Charlie Jane Anders called The 10 types of writers block and how to overcome them. I clicked on the link, but sadly (because I was googling on the job) our own corporate Big Brother blocked me:

Access denied! The page you requested was blocked automatically because of content that is potentially not supporting the corporate goals.

Ok, busted - I guess I should not be surfing the Web at work. Instead I should be in the break area watching the Tiger's opening game like most of the other employees. So I emailed the link to my personal email account so I could check it out when I got home. It's actually a very thoughtful and cleverly-written blog. And it has super-cool pictures! So since Charlie Jane did all the hard work for me, I'll consider this topic complete.

The Facebook Papers: Coffee

Suggested Topic #3:  "Coffee"


Ever since my teenage days, I've adored a good cup of coffee. Right from the beginning I drank it black, the stronger the better. It was a badge of honor before there was a Starbucks or Caribou on every corner. Out in the boondocks where I lived, you bought coffee at a diner or you drank it at home. Coffee was served black at our house. If you wanted it, you drank it that way. I felt infinitely cool when I downed a cup of thick black mud while all my friends gagged at the thought.

In my 20's and 30's, coffee was a bonding experience. When we went to our family cottage, one of the cherished rituals was to have your 2nd (or 7th) cup of coffee sitting together out on the front porch. My in-laws still made coffee with a percolator on a stove burner, and it was delicious. I shared many, many cups with them on weekend afternoons while cousins gathered and football ruled the TV. And as any pre-schooler's mother desperate for adult companionship can attest, having a friend over for a cup of coffee is like taking shelter from a storm.

By the time I was in my 40's, trendy coffee shops were all the rage. I can clearly remember the first time I had a cup of the burnt dirt known as Starbuck's morning blend. I quickly became a fan. I was still a black coffee purist, and a total coffee snob. No milk, no sugar, no cheap grocery store blend, and no flavored beans. The only exception I would make was to occasionally sprinkle some cinnamon over the freshly-ground beans before brewing to get just a hint of exotic taste without any extra calories (or to order one of those fancy after-dinner coffee drinks with three kinds of liquour that overpower the accompanying splash of Folgers).

And now I'm in my 50's, and somehow over the years I've been sucked into the fray. Those fancy coffee drinks were a little indulgence; a reward after a hard day. It started off innocently enough, just a small vanilla latte or a soothing chai tea here and there. I'd ask for fewer pumps of syrup to keep the sweetness down. I knew I could stop any time. I probably would be off the junk today if it wasn't for that insidious crack known as Coffee-mate. It comes in innocent little packages of decadant goodness like peppermint patty, Belgian chocolate toffee, caramel macchiato and about 20 other flavors. And they're everywhere - at the gas station, in the cafeteria at work, on the shelf in my kitchen cupboard...

If I'm going to make it to my 60's without a spare tire or clogged arteries, I am going to have to go back to my coffee roots. I just have to find a stove-top percolator.

The Facebook Papers: Warmer days

Suggested Topic #2:  "Warmer days"

Many years ago Senior was offered a job outside Cincinnati, so we packed up our kids and made the move from New York to Ohio.  It was tough to move away from family and friends, but we were excited to start a new adventure and put some distance between us and the infamous WNY winters (and taxes).  

While we really liked our new home town, one of the hardest things was just not feeling like we were "home". Our neighbors were pleasant, and one even brought us cookies to welcome us on the day we moved in, but we never made quite the same connection we had with our close knit neighborhood in NY. I'd spent my whole life in a 90 mile radius, and now I would drive past roads and have no idea where they led. I couldn't wait to see a familiar face, and can still remember the joy I felt the first time I recognized someone at the grocery store. (The poor woman, the mother of one of The Boy's new classmates, must have thought I was slightly mad when I ran up to her cart with sparkling eyes and said "OH HI!! IT'S GREAT TO SEE YOU!!!" She smiled back and slowly edged her cart away behind a display of canned peas.) But what really made it tough was when Senior's father was diagnosed with leukemia. We made the 16-hour round trip back home as often as we could during the months of his illness until the dreaded phone call came saying he had passed away.

After the funeral we headed back to Cincinnati and tried get back into a normal routine as soon as possible, even though we were struggling with the fact that we had been so far away from home during that difficult time. The next afternoon our doorbell rang, and I opened it to find my neighbor, the cookie lady, standing there with tears in her eyes and a big bouquet of flowers. She had heard via our kids about our loss, and just wanted to offer her support and a hug. I can't tell you how much that meant to me. Cookie lady was this stylish, athletic, all-American blond with three small children and a bevy of family and friends vying for her attention. The fact that she took the time to make this small heartfelt gesture made me feel like I had finally come "home". So never underestimate the power you may have to warm up someone's day like she did for me.

The Facebook Papers: Spicy Hot

Suggested Topic #1: "Spicy Hot Co-workers. Spicy Hot salsa...how to deal with smart a**es"

I work with some great people, but don't find any of them especially spicy. (No offense, smart a**es, but only Senior fans my flame.) However, as my female peers can attest, "hot" has a whole new connotation for those of us of a certain age. In fact, there was a time when I could go from room temperature to spicy hot in about four seconds flat, usually followed by a lot of arm flapping and the removal of outer layers. Add in a relative increase in the ambient air temperature and the power of suggestion, and before you knew it my cubicle coworker was doing the caliente conga right along with me. This was getting to be exhausting until the day we found a treasure. 

A burly sports-obsessed finance nerd who sat near us left the company unexpectedly. We mourned his departure in the usual manner, by pilfering all the stuff left in his caddy. (To clarify, typical companies give you a desk with a few drawers, but I don't work for a typical company. We have tables with little side carts, known as caddies.) Tucked away behind his stapler, some obsolete files and an AFC championship glass was the golden prize - a small tabletop oscillating desk fan!  The most surprising thing was the color; a peachy-pink plastic that certainly didn't match his manly-man persona. We were not sure why he had this fan, as we had never seen him use it, but frankly we didn't care. We plugged it in and spent the entire summer basking in the cool breeze as it bobbed back and forth between our seats.  

We've shuffled cubes a few times since then, and I lost track of that pink fan. The passage of time combined with good meds have pretty much alleviated my spicy hot days. But I like to think that Pinky lives on, helping others in the sweaty sisterhood make it through the day.

These truths I hold to be self-evident

It doesn't matter what locker I choose at the gym. The Swedish Olympic women's volleyball team will choose the locker right next to me. The intensity of their blond gloriousness will be in direct proportion to the amount of difficulty I have getting out of my sweaty sports bra.

It doesn't matter what table I choose at my favorite "seat yourself" restaurant. Before my food comes, and regardless of how many other tables are unoccupied, the table next to me will be chosen by either a family with a disgruntled child or someone shouting into their cellphone.

It doesn't matter which hands-free sink I choose in a public restroom. It's a crap shoot whether the soap or water dispenser will work, and the faucet will only extend an eighth of an inch over the bowl, no matter how big the sink is.

It doesn't matter which lane I choose at the toll booths or how many times the fare is posted. The person in front of me will spend several minutes hunting for change. They will wait to do this until we are far enough into the chute that I can't change lanes.

It doesn't matter what color dress pants I put on in the morning. If I choose a dark-colored pair, the white cat will rub up against my legs. If I choose a light-colored pair, the black dog will do it.

It doesn't matter what the calendar says. In Michigan, it snows in March. And April. And sometimes May.

It doesn't matter if things go wrong from time to time. Life is a wonderful and precious gift.

Sweet Boi

Last night I was foraging in my refrigerator when I came across a shrink-wrapped package of lunch meat marked B. Sweet Boi. I had no idea who Sweet Boi was, or why his lunch was in my refrigerator. Then Senior told me that one of his coworkers had given him some bear meat. I was impressed. I've never met Sweet Boi, but he must be kind of bad ass to have killed a bear.  

Turns out that Sweet Boi went on an organized bear hunt up in northern Ontario. They flew up with a guide who took them to a baited site. The 'hunters' relaxed in an old motor home in the woods and waited for the bears to come to the party. It was pretty much a guarantee that they would get a shot since there was a barrel full of tasty bear snacks - mostly expired Hostess cupcakes and Twinkies - standing outside within firing range. This strikes me as unsportsmanly, but then again I don't have a lot of sympathy for bears after hearing how destructive they can be. Friends of ours have had their cottage decimated by bears on more than one occasion, even though they take great pains to make it bear-proof. 

Since it was Sweet Boi's first hunt, the guide gave him some pointers. He told him that most newbies got excited and shot the first bear they saw. Bears are big, right? Even the little ones. So the hunters should use the treat barrel as a guide. When the bears walked by on all fours, if it was as tall as the top of the barrel then it was full grown, and that would be the one to shoot. Sweet Boi hunkered down in the motor home an' purty soon he heerd somepin' go "Wooh!" A bear ambled out of the woods, went over to the treat barrel and immediately knocked it over on its side.  Score one for the bears for figuring out the guide's system.  

So with no ruler to gauge the relative size of the critter, Sweet Boi did what any good newbie would do and shot the bear dead. Turns out it actually was a pretty good size, somewhere over 300 pounds. I'm not sure what he did with the bulk of the meat or the hide. Maybe Sweet Boi now struts his stuff in a fur coat or spends his evenings lolling around on a bearskin rug in front of the fireplace. But he had some of the meat made into sausage, and was nice enough to share it with Senior.

Now that I knew what was in the package, I had to try it. The meat was sliced thin and had the consistency of salami. It had a really nice smoky smell and looked like a well-balanced meat-to-fat ratio. I rolled up a slice and tasted it, but was surprised to find it was sweet. Really sweet, with not much other flavor. I rolled it around on my tongue trying to pick up some gaminess, but all I could taste was a Twinkie-esque flavor.  I wondered how big an impact the bear's junk food diet had on the flavor of the meat. I really did not like it. I turned to Senior and commented on how I was surprised at the strange flavor.  He, however, wasn't surprised.  "The package is labeled," he told me. "B. Sweet Bol...Bear Sweet Bologna." Ohhhhhh.

The Appetizer Book

Senior and I spent a recent chilly Saturday exploring a wonderful little shop called The Great Midwestern Antique Emporium. Tucked away in a back corner, beyond the life size plaster owl mold, the Luftwaffe dagger and the glass replica of a human head, we discovered a bookshelf full of vintage cookbooks. I thumbed through a few of them before coming across this little paperback gem:

Isn't this awesome? Look at that spread! Why haven’t I ever thought of disguising an ugly pillar candle with snacks on a stick? I'm going to have to channel my inner Sandra Lee (the sober one) and replicate that tablescape. But not entirely - that steaming hot pot of goodness with the handle sticking out would definitely be a mistake over here at my house on Clumsy Street. 

For more ideas, the photo on the back cover is even better:

The directions for this went something like this: "Fill a basket with nuts, then boobytrap it with sharp pokey things. Let everyone dig in with their hands. Don't worry about germs, because all your guests are going to get food poisoning anyway from the unrefrigerated shrimp. Wash it all down with a really big glass of cocktail sauce."

Good Housekeeping's Appetizer Book was first published in 1958, the same year Elvis was inducted into the army, the first US satellite was launched into space and cocktail parties were all the rage. And after looking at the recipes in this book, I believe that if you served enough alcohol, you could get away with serving all kinds of crap to your guests. Case in point, the recipes on the first page:

Speedy Tuna Dunk

1/2 cup soft butter or margarine

1/4 cup chopped stuffed olives

1 cup chunk-style tuna

Cream butter with olives and tuna until well blended. To serve, arrange in bowl along with dippers (salty-rye fingers, raw turnips, pickle sticks). Let guests dunk their own. 

I’m all about a creative dip, but butter and tuna? On a raw turnip? Isn't this going to look just like cat food? I’m not even mentioning the scourge of the olives, one of those foods I put in the same category as expired milk.

Peanut Butter-Catchup Dip

1/2 cup peanut butter

1/2 cup catchup

Corn chips

Mix peanut butter with catchup until smooth. Refrigerate until served. To serve, arrange dip in bowl, surrounded with corn chips. Let guests dip their own.

So not only is this dip weird, it's phonetic. Who thinks these things up? Curiosity got the best of me, so I whipped up a partial batch. It turns orange, similar to the color of cheese in a can. It tastes a little like a peanut and butter jelly sandwich. 
If it was left in the sun. 
For six days. 

Speaking of disgusting, how about this one:

Crostini di Fegato di Pollo

3 tablesp. butter or margarine

1/4 cup very finely minced onion

4 chicken livers, finely chopped

6 crushed fresh or dried juniper berries

1/3 cup white wine

Buttered Italian-bread slices. 

An hr. before serving: In skillet, heat butter until golden in color. Add onion, saute until light golden. Add chicken livers; saute over high heat, stirring, until mixture bubbles. Add juniper berries and wine; simmer, uncovered, a few moments, or until wine evaporates. Remove from heat; cool. To serve: cut bread into bite-sized pieces. Let guests do the spreading. 

The chicken livers aren't my problem, it's the juniper. I guess that “di Fegato” is Italian for “cat pee”, because I’m pretty sure that’s what juniper berries smell like. I'm not sure where you would find dried ones. Wouldn't those be juniper raisins? And isn't it hard to crush a raisin? 

I think some of the other recipes were named after the cocktail party guests had been imbibing for a while. Want to whip up a batch of Peppery Nuts? Nosegays? Hash Mounds? Meat Frosties or, during Lent, Fish Quickies? There is even a whole page devoted entirely to balls - Cabbage Balls, Clam Balls, Blue Balls (don't worry, they're made with bleu cheese). And if you are feeling particularly crafty, you can create one of their signature garnishes. My favorite is a lily made out of rolled bologna slices and strips of pickle.

The recurring theme in all these recipes - throw it in a bowl and let the guests take it from there - is a host's dream. But this handy book also includes some clever shortcuts if your prep time is really limited. For example, challenge yourself with this recipe: 

French Fry Appetizers

Prepare frozen French fries as label directs; serve hot as is

The best part is that the previous owner of this cookbook underlined that recipe somewhere along the line. Just in case he or she forgot one of the steps and needed a quick reference point.

And finally, my favorite recipe.  This one is pure genius:

Bacon Crisps

Thin lean bacon slices

Saltines

Cut each bacon slice in half, then wrap each half around 1 saltine cracker, Place on a rack in a shallow pan and bake at 400 degrees for 12-15 minutes or until bacon is crisp. 

Serve piping hot.

I adore the authors of this cookbook. And now I have to go plan my next cocktail party.

Stereo-Tastic

Mammograms are never fun. You start out sitting in a waiting room full of uncomfortable women who are either checking their iPhones or reading an outdated magazine, flipping pages carefully to prevent their untethered parts from slipping out of the ill-fitting hospital gowns. Finally it's your turn to go to a small room where a pleasant stranger helps you hike your breasts, one at a time, into a giant George Foreman grill. If you're lucky, all is well and you're good until next year. But sometimes you get a phone call asking you to come in for "re-imaging" because there was something that didn't look quite right. So you go back and repeat the process, maybe with an ultrasound thrown in for good measure. And every once in a while, those results are still atypical. There's a lump, or calcium deposits, or a big thumbprint on the film. So they recommend you have a stereotactic biopsy, which is a fancy way of saying they want to stick a large needle in your boob. I recently had a stereotactic needle biopsy to sample some micro-calcifications. Long story short, they were benign and no further treatment is needed. Long story long, (and at the risk of "TMI") here is how it went.

Everyone at the breast imaging center is really nice to the patients. In fact, they bend over backwards to put you at ease. My nurse had me sit in a chair and checked my blood pressure. She commented that it was a little elevated (which could be because in a few minutes THEY WERE GOING TO PUT A NEEDLE IN MY BOOB!) Then she sat next to me and explained every single step of the process, even though I had told her that I had already been through it about a year ago, right here in this very room. Next a mammogram tech came into the room, sat next to me, and explained every single step of the process. Finally the radiologist came into the room, stood in front of me, and explained every single step of the process. The radiologist had a dazzling smile and was full of positive energy, like a used car salesman. That's because he knows that no one is ever going to stick a needle in his boob. 

Getting situated for a needle biopsy is quite a production. The exam table is padded with a hole in the middle. You lay face down and put your breast in the hole, letting gravity do all the work. Your position depends on where the abnormal cells are. I was able to lay fairly comfortably, despite the rim of the hole catching right across my bottom rib. The mammo tech elevates the exam table and adjusts some plates underneath that will hold you in place. You're definitely not going to get away, but it's not as uncomfortable as the George Foreman grills.

Once you are position, it's time for the biopsy. The entire process is computerized, and the computer won't let them proceed until the target area is perfectly aligned with the instruments. Once the computer gave them a green light, they told me not to move, which immediately made me start to itch all over. I resisted the urge to wiggle and the radiologist gave me a local anesthetic. It stung a little but wasn't as bad as the flu shot I got a couple months ago. Everything after that was related to sound. They told me to get ready for a loud pop, which was when the needle actually penetrated the skin, followed by a series of buzzing noises, which was the actual tissue sampling. One more twang and a nice little souvenir marker was inserted, and then we were done. I never felt anything, but as they began to put their instruments away I got a good look at the hollow core needle that they had used on me. It was bigger than I expected, resembling the probe that came with our first microwave oven, circa 1980. 

It's no fun going through the fear and discomfort of an abnormal diagnosis,
but it sure does make you appreciate the little things in life.

I had to stay in postion until the samples were checked under

a microscope to confirm that they got all the suspicious cells. I lay there for ten minutes making awkward small talk with the nurse as she crouched under the table holding an ice pack to my chest. Finally the radiologist came back and said the samples were good and they would call me with the results within 48 hours. My legs were wobbly as I climbed off the table, but I still felt very little discomfort and, after one last mammogram for good luck, I drove myself home. I used the ice pack on and off for the rest of the day and took ibuprofen when I needed it.  Recovery was fast and bruising was minimal, and best of all I got a happy ending.

Evolution

It's like looking in the mirror..

I haven't blogged in a while because I've been busy trying to literally put my head back where it belongs. I've always had a freakishly large head, but over the past few years I've developed something called "forward head posture", a common condition also known by the more colorful and totally unflattering term "Neanderthal head".

In my case, my melon sits about 2 inches forward of upright, most likely due to spending half my life hunched over a desk. Keep in mind, the average human head weighs 12 pounds (not including big hair) and is balanced on our spines like a bowling ball on a stick. If you keep tilting that stick forward the ball will eventually fall off. Thanks to my sloppy posture and the business world's general disregard for office ergonomics, this was starting to happen to me. I've had chronic pain in my neck and shoulder blade for several years, but ibuprofen and Senior's awesome back rubs have helped me cope. More recently I noticed that either gravity was pulling my clothes off my left shoulder, or it was now lower than my right one and eventually I'd be swinging from the bell tower of Notre Dame cathedral. I still didn't take any action until I went to the doctor to treat what I thought was tendonitis in my left arm. It turns out that the misaligned vertebrae in my neck were squeezing nerves that run down that side. It was time to do something about my affliction. I despise chiropractors, so I asked my doctor for a script and headed to physical therapy.

Physical therapy isn't a new thing for me. I was a patient four years ago when I blew out a disc in my lower back, and I loved it (the therapy, not the blown disc). It's like having a spa treatment without having to tip anyone. Now, don't confuse this with occupational therapy, which I've also endured after smashing my wrist and having it screwed back together. (I told you I was clumsy.) OT is like putting your hand in a blender. But PT... now that's good stuff. If you have any chronic pain and you have decent insurance, get yourself some PT.

Each visit starts by lying in a darkened room for about 20 minutes while being swathed with warm, moist, cushiony gel packs. I can feel all my knots unraveling and usually want to drift off to sleep. Next a tech wheels in a cart and performs a short painless ultrasound right on the trouble spot. They warm the gel first, which always makes me think back to my pregnancies and go into curmudgeon mode: "We didn't have any pre-warmed ultrasound gel in my day! These women today have it so easy!" When that is done it's time for the best part - the massage! {{sigh}} I hear angels sing during the massage. The therapist knows exactly what muscles to knead to give you total relief. He usually chit-chats during the massage, and I try to answer him without drooling. All too soon that ends and it's time to be super stretched. In my case, I lay face up on a padded table while the therapist stands behind me and cradles my head in his hands. He gently pulls backwards like he is trying to make me taller, pausing every once in a while to push down on my shoulders. If I had enough visits I would finally have that swan-like neck that I always wanted. Finally, after you are totally relaxed and in a puddle, they expect you to exercise. That part kind of sucks. But the exercises are simple and the goal is to gently stretch and strengthen, not to feel the burn. The easiest and most effective one is a chin tuck, which is basically me pulling my chin into my neck wattle. Not my best look, I might add. But I find myself doing this one a lot, especially when I'm in the car. If you are ever at a red light and notice the woman in the car next to you appears to be doing turtle impressions, that's probably me.

The treatments seem to be working. My neck is aching as my atrophied muscles are built back up, but the constant burning pain in my shoulder blade is gone and the nerve pain in my arm is getting better. It even looks like my shoulders are back at the same parallel. I have a couple more visits left before my script expires, and during the last one they will take measurements to see how far I've evolved back from caveman status. Hopefully I'm developing some good habits to continue to gain and hold ground. Otherwise I'll just start wearing a bone in my hair.

The Cookie Exchange, Part II: Redemption

So, remember when I said I was going to rock the annual cookie exchange? Last year I struggled with my cookies, but this year I planned ahead. I found a recipe for a drop cookie decorated to look like Frosty just defrosted - cute and just a little twisted. Perfect. I did a trial run and decided that while the original recipe, from the Better Homes and Gardens website, was good, I wanted to make a few changes. It was based on a peanut butter cookie, which is always the last kind left on the complimentary cookie trays at those chain hotels that cater to business travelers. The dough was easy to work with, but the cookie was really dry and hard. So I substituted a fudgy, soft, delicious dark chocolate cookie that my family has been making for years. And since my snowman top hat looked more like something a pilgrim would wear, I used a chocolate melting wafer to better define the brim of the hat. I also decided to enlarge the carrot nose by using some orange-tinted chocolate. Now, I'm by no means a baker, but the end result was pretty cute and they were a big hit at the cookie exchange, which was well run and a lot of fun. But in typical fashion, my cookies did not come together exactly as I planned.   

The cookie part went off without a hitch - I melted baking chocolate, butter and sugar together, mixed in eggs and vanilla until it was smooth and glossy, then stirred in the dry ingredients. It's a really sticky dough, so it has to be thoroughly chilled before scooping spoonfuls onto the baking sheets. The cookies came out perfectly and after a brief rest to cool, they were ready to decorate. While they were baking, Best Friend stopped by to lend a hand. I intended to put her to work making tiny snowman hats out of mini Reece's cups and chocolate melting discs. That's when we discovered that apparently The Boy had found the bag of candy I had stashed in the cupboard and polished it off. Senior came to our rescue and ran to the store to buy replacements. While he was gone, I started melting white chocolate and spooning it on the cookies. With impeccable timing, I ran out of chocolate right after Senior returned from the store. The Girl's boyfriend happened to call at this moment, and was the next one to come to our rescue, showing up not only with the candy but also with a great big pizza! It didn't take long to finish the snowman puddles and top off with the little hats and chocolate chip eyes. The last decorating step was the carrot noses. I didn't have any orange food coloring, so I mixed red and yellow drops into some melted white chocolate. It came out kind of an insipid peach color so I messed with the tints for a while until Best Friend got sick of waiting and just squeezed in a big blob of red. I was pretty mad until I realized that I now had the perfect shade of carrot orange. Unfortunately the liquid food color had now caused the chocolate to kind of seize up, and couldn't be piped out of the bag. By now it was getting late and we had already plowed through a bottle of wine, so the logical choice was to mold 60 tiny little carrots by hand. The Girl stepped in to help us with our masterpieces. We had a great time rolling them out and didn't even try to make them consistently. Some were tiny, some huge, and we dropped them on the cookies in random melted abandon. I must admit, a few landed on the cookies... let's say... inappropriately. By the time we were done we were laughing hysterically, but the cookies looked amazing. We put the cookies into cute little snowflake cellophane bags tied with curly ribbons. Our masterpieces:

I haven't really had much holiday spirit this season. But as I settled on the sofa after the kitchen was clean and the empty wine bottles were nestled in the recycling bin, I realized that I wouldn't trade a whole box of perfect, easy cookies for one lopsided snowman cookie that only came together thanks to the group effort of my family and friends. That was an amazing gift.