When the World Gets Ugly, Bake Cupcakes

close up cupcake.JPGThe world was very ugly this week. I don’t have a solution, and it was too awful to face, so I turned to baking because it always makes me feel good. I know it’s a cop-out, but it’s better than drinking, smoking or gambling, and everyone loves you for it, so it’s my coping mechanism.

This year has been pretty full of tragedy, so, I’ve been baking a lot. Continue reading

Italian Bonding with Trader Pies and Easter Bread

Italian women bound into a flurry of baking activity before big holidays like Easter and Christmas. Then they rush their baked goods to friends and family, as though the holiday will not happen unless every last baked good is delivered. Continue reading

Mix Trootfully Wedding Cookies

On June 21st, my brother, Bernie and and sister-in-law, Donna will celebrate their 45th Anniversary. I find that impressive because even if I got married right now; the best I could hope for would be maybe 40 years and that’s only if I live to be 98 and marry an infant.

My brother Bob and his wife Patty just celebrated their 40th last year with a great surprise party. My marriage fizzled out before I even got to silver, but I haven’t given up on weddings yet because:

A. I’m still a hopeless romantic who believes marriage can be great if both people really want to work at it.

B. They’re a great excuse to bake cookies and maybe finally learn to do a proper Electric Slide or  Tarantella.

C. I love telling this wedding cookie baking story about my mom, which involves potential bodily injury, table-shaking laughter, and a great recipe.  Continue reading

Mom, Fitting In and Food

mom w:bread:pizza

These were the names on my street in New Brighton, Pennsylvania when I was growing up: Pfeiffer, Schaeffer, Smeltzer, Pfleghar, Anderson, Golbertson, Tunno. It’s like those second grade quizzes where you pick the one that doesn’t fit.

The 50’s and 60’s were not the diversity-loving present. I was born only 10 years after WWII ended, and back then things like internment camps were a reality.  My parents wanted us to fit in, so we weren’t taught to speak Italian, but we learned it in bits and pieces anyway (mostly the swear words).

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