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You could say I get jealous of all you folks who are prolific at putting out numerous blogs with what seems like an effort-free manner while I publish my Message in a Minute after intense editing, re-writing and heavy sweat.  I do the same with my images, intense care and editing.  I intend to still do that obsessive thing when I get that creative bug bite, but  I now intend to send spontaneous pieces that I will call Memory in a Minute, to highlight some wonderful little happening to share. How I cherish your feedback and responses to my Message in a Minute and I repeat, these are sent with the understanding that all of you are busy and that you will read them only if you are truly interested.

Memory #1;  Paul and I had set up in a US Army Core of Engineer RV Park on Rend Lake, Illinois.  What a treat this place is, in the woods, large sites, miles of hiking and biking trails, large dam projects and plenty to see.

The weather was beautiful–sunny and hot.  The day’s drive had been long, we were hot and ready to slow down for a minute or two, something we don’t do easily.  In fact, we had something to celebrate. The entry door of our rig sports a map of the USA and Canada, with plastic patches for each state or province.  Unbelievably, we had not fulfilled our self-inflicted directive to only fill in a state if we have camped overnight in this rig, something we had not done in Illinois.  it seems we have driven through this state several times without stopping to camp. 

Here we are, finally camping in Illinois.  We dug out the map set, selected the green patch for Illinois and ceremoniously rubbed it into place on the door map.  Our neighbor’s adorable little boy, 13 month old Brody started wandering in our direction.  Being typical grandparent types, we started talking to Brody and to his parents as they came out to intercept his wanderings.  With Brody happily in his dad’s arms, we talked as dusk descended.  I saw Paul’s gaze lift from Brody’s dad to the trees in the nearby forest, and then I saw what had caught his eye; a large wise Owl, perhaps of the screech variety.  It had taken flight from a low tree branch to the ground and then up to another tree branch, finally disappearing into the forest.  What a treat that was, what a memory. 

The winds had been wicked for four or five days in a row, gusts to 50 or 60 MPH.  Our heading via motor home is easterly towards Rochester by early May.  We have been driving long distances each day, the high winds tiring us out with the effort of staying centered in the lane.  Our location, Interstate 40 through Flagstaff, Arizona heading east scheduled to reach the Flying J gas station in Winslow, AZ with an assumed 1/4 tank of gas upon arrival. 

The winds continued with  such vengeance, whipping at our awnings, rocking us almost boat fashion, blowing sand in swirls and sweeps,  tumbling tumbleweed brushing across the highway in our path.  We were 21 minutes from Winslow, mid afternoon and Paul had just taken the wheel.  In the distance the sky was filled with sand, reducing the sunshine to a misty light.  The traffic ahead was congealing, red brake lights flashing.  We came to a full stop.  We could see flashing emergency lights ahead of us and the signs for the coming rest area, now closed in Arizona’s desperate response to the economic downturn.   

Time passed, we tried to shelter ourselves along side large trucks in the right lane, but our awnings continued their threat to come undone in the high winds and we rocked and swayed, as one trucker on the CB declared, he was “going to be seasick.”  An official in a truck drove down the left side of the highway updating everyone that there was indeed a multi car/truck accident and that the road was closed due to the accumulation of sand.  It could mean many hours of waiting.

NPR  reported the forecast  that the winds were due to cease in a couple of  hours, that officials had been escorting travelers through the sandstorm, but they ceased that operation and completely closed the  sand-filled road.  17 miles of Interstate 40 were closed from Winslow westward and traffic was being diverted from the highway.  Some 4 wheelers drove over the median heading westerly, but we are indeed in the “boondocks” near Meteor Crater and Two Guns, locations without services available.  Rumors passed up and down that we’d be here until 8:00PM, 10:00PM, Midnight. 

Ironically, in the sky ahead were two contrails “marking” an X over the rest area, the trouble spot ahead.  

Stuck on the road in a motor home offers many advantages, a rest room, kitchen and room to get up and stretch the legs.  Many 4 wheeler drivers risked the winds to stretch or walk or walk into the desert to “pee.”  3 hours after stopping, I made a simple dinner—the end of Pesach, matzah and omelets, not the planned finishing meal.  More waiting, more rumors.  At 8:15, red tail lights were lighting.  We were being escorted down the road, picking up speed, the winds still blowing, but at a lesser speed. 

Traffic moved on its own after a few miles and we arrived in the Flying J.  We filled the gas tank, not desperate for gas but happy to be here and then parked for the night.  We shared stories with other travelers, heard the tale of ripped awnings and other adventures and settled down for the night.  We were packed tight together, but the swaying in the wind had stopped.  The blizzard of sand provided yet another adventure to impact our dreams.

What happened shocked us all, including the guide, Bob, with his many years of experience at the San Diego Wild Animal Park.  The tram hauled us through the African Safari area of the park attracting  the attention of our two grandsons focusing on the white rhinos, oryx, gazelles, giraffes, red deer and other wildebeests.  The day was partly sunny and the animals were active and the tram ride line had been long.

The guide with the gravely voice and hint of joy in his job stopped the tram providing a distant but broad view of a hillside inhabited mostly by giraffes and oryx, a small sleek animal with long, sticklike horns. Our attention was drawn to a baby oryx walking as Bob had noted on still wobbly legs.  The baby must be a newborn or perhaps a day old.  This was the guide’s first sighting. We watched for awhile as the mom oryx watched her baby’s tentative march toward her.

Enter a straight and tall adult giraffe advancing seemingly without purpose toward the teetering baby oryx.  The giraffe’s advance threatened the baby and raised the ire of the mother.  She expectantly stood in a defensive pose near the giraffe.  The unexpected happened, the giraffe kicked the baby who fell to the ground and remained still.  There was a loud gasp among the tram riders and Bob expressed his disbelief at such a happening .

He managed to say that he would report the incident and the tram continued down the way.  Needless to say, the mood on the tram had changed.  We were all saddened and curious about the incident but tried to pay attention to the remainder of the sights in this part of the park.
(NOTE; thanks to our daughter in law, Miriam’s persistence, we learned a few weeks later that the baby oryx was doing well).  

Our two grandsons were aware of the seriousness of the incident and later in the day, quizzed a staff member about the event.  He had not heard any news but assured the boys that the welfare of the baby oryx would have been observed by the surveillance devices in the park.  Decisions are constantly made when to interfere or when it is wise to avoid human intervention and let nature take is course. 

Such strange encounters, probably common in nature, are beyond our comprehension.  It seems so unlikely that such dissimilar creatures, a giraffe and an oryx would be inclined to clash.  Perhaps this is a simile for all life on this planet, spontaneous cruelties and attacks, planned battles and war being as incomprehensible as the incident seen from the tram.  Can we define the boundaries of what is natural?  Human intervention on all accounts remains a fragile course.    The  staff member acknowledged that the outcome of the incident would not be public knowledge.

Ann Carol Goldberg 

Dedicated to Luge crash victim Nodar Kumaritashvili

Sports minded I am not, at least I don’t think of myself in that light.  And then, when the Olympics begin and our rig is hooked up to cable service, we somehow tune it in, mostly looking for the ice skating events.  I watch with one eye on the screen and one eye in my current read.  After all of these years of living, I  know and accept that everything in life changes including expectations.

Olympic events have evolved, beyond what I recognize from past years.  Missing;  the simple slalom and the ski jump, gone and obsolete, fallen into disfavor displaced by the extreme sports of today.  Athletes throw themselves down almost vertical slopes, one at a time or 4 abreast, or dance on their skis and snowboards at what seems to be miles above the spectators heads.  Skaters attempt 4 airborne twirls betting on landing gracefully on their blades set for the next step in their complex routines.  Sledding on Bobsleds and Luges reach frightening speeds.  There is no cap to the thrills spectators seek during the events.  

Bring on the young athletes, legs splayed apart in the dancer’s 2nd position, hooked to a snowboard, long hair blowing, (male and female) clad in plaid shirts and blue jeans or snow pants, not the tight body suits or garb featuring feathered hands.  They appear with helmet-covered heads, complete with what appear to be ear wires tucked behind their frog-eyed goggles.  The track starts with a scary vertical drop over a snowy lip, down and then upward toward the sky.  Both of my eyes now leap up to the screen. 

They fly!  They soar!  20 feet or more above the cameras, floating above a tremendous snow-packed ditch called a half pipe.   Not only can they slide up and down the inclines of this half cylinder thing, but they carry acrobatics to the extreme by twirling 3 or 4 times above the edges of the pipe somehow maintaining perfect form and grace.  I confess, both eyes remain focused on the screen, my book fallen onto my lap. 

My mind races, following these flyers as they soar up into the air wanting to know how they dare take on this extreme sport.  Where do they find the chutzpah to spring into space, twirl and land upright.  Stray and intruding thoughts would spoil their concentration.  Do they feel themselves in peril, are they listening to tunes playing through their ear buds, or do they hear the roar of the crowds?

Perhaps they believe they will launch into space, obtain orbit and soar to the outer limits of infinity, forever flying, spinning and feeling an unfettered freedom mounting high on mysterious space breezes and illusive star winds, forgetting the roaring crowds, the judges, videographers, obtaining perfect form and colored medals.  Just busy focusing on a place no single being has ever flown before until some mysterious apex is been reached and the board flings the athlete back to the revered spot on earth, gliding with ease to the finish line.

The camera captures a close up of the face in a broad smile and a shine in the eyes conveying the privilege of  having gained exclusive  knowledge of where infinity may lie or is the smile simply there upon hearing again the earthly sound through the ever present ear wires strung under the strap of the goggles. 

The crowd roars with approval, the gold is won, the secret of flight into space is attained setting new goals, new orbits, new horizons, but no matter what the challenges,  favorite tunes in the ears at all times seem to be a mark of the Vancouver Winter Olympics of 2010.  Brava and bravo to all of the participants.

Ann Carol Goldberg

 

Small talk is all about getting to know someone.  For my lifestyle on the road, it becomes a big part of my day, constantly engaging in “stranger talk,” meeting people in a campground or at a rally, gathering for drinks at ours or a neighbor’s motor home, or generally waiting in a restaurant line, attending a performance, a folk fest, a meeting, a fund-raiser or greeting a seatmate on a tour bus or an airplane.  Small talk usually starts with questions such as “where are you from?”.  “Where are you headed?”  And then  comes the default — the weather which, in conversation is always deemed off balance, never quite right and best of all, complaining about the weather is expected.

Small talk occurs with good friends too as a bridge to deeper conversation.  There is still wisdom in the old adage to converse about anything but politics and religion.  Some folks work hard to avoid small talk calling abhorrent and a waste of time.  So be it, it is hard to avoid.

This year the weather has taken first place in conversation, becoming  more than just a default topic. It is on everyone’s mind and lips.  This year, everyone is astounded at the severe cold, the heavy snowfall where tepid temperatures usually reign and heavy rain where drought has been the rule.  Still, all we can do about it is complain and look for blame.

Small talk can feel clumsy and uncomfortable.  It can feel forced or insignificant but helps us gloss over difficult moments.  I wonder how far-reaching this conversational tool can go.  I wonder about first meetings between world leaders behind those “closed doors?” Do they begin with did you get caught in the latest blizzard? or do they jump the hurdle right to the latest political debacle.  I bet the weather comes up first bridging safer ground and breaking the ice so to speak before addressing the more complex conversations on the agenda.

I remember my acting days when our director instructed us on utilizing “stage-small talk” during rehearsal for Our Town by Thornton Wilder.  As the small-town chorus, we had down time when the protagonists were in the spotlight and we had to stay in the background.  He suggested reciting the alphabet to each other A–Z or  Z–A, counting up and down, reciting a grocery list, or discussing the weather forecast, but warned us “don’t loose concentration and miss your cue” bringing you great embarrassment as you spoil the play.  The weather becomes a small talk default once more.

Kids use small talk as a learning tool.  They mimic the adults in their lives.  They experiment with ideas by bouncing conversations off their friends, their toys and in imaginary play.  Perhaps their “default” is less the weather than the fantasies they conjure up in their minds.  My kids drew endless images of bright sun-house-trees, dragons, whirling dervishes, volcanoes, hurricanes and floods.  This year, weather is a big issue.  Blame has been launched at El Nino, pollution, climate change and Mother Nature.  I believe mom nature is god’s implementer, god’s right hand.  The earth belongs to nature, nature rules.  We can’t do a thing about it accept to take better care of what we have.  But we surely would like to be in control.  Maybe that is the reason that this tired topic is deemed safe to smooth over the awkward moments we encounter in our busy lives. 

Do you remember your grandmother’s cherished pieces of Havilland China, Wallace silverware, Waterford crystal, silver candelabras, carnival glass, teacup and saucer collection, or being lured to her favorite crystal candy dish harboring mouth-watering sweets when it was OK to give sugar to children?   Do you wish to see, hold or own them again?

There is a vast collection of cast off memories in a museum/warehouse of great renown called Replacements, Ltd.  Simply take a trip to Greensboro, NC or if that isn’t possible visit www.replacements.com for a trip into nostalgia.  It is all there and for sale; all of your favored household memories and much more in over 400,000 square feet of space. Thousands of items are displayed throughout the showroom in specially designed or re-purposed glass and wooden cases that in themselves are worth eyeballing.  Plan your time, don’t be in a hurry. You will go from case exclaiming delight and discovery on every glance. 

If that isn’t enough, trek through the museum area in the back of the showroom.  These pieces are not for sale. They will serve as  guides through the long history of collectibles and the companies, inventers and designers who produced them. 

You may order replacements  for crystal, flatware and dinnerware to enhance your own patterns or send photos to the company for ID and appraisal or arrange to send items for restoration or for sale.

Now, if we could only garner replacements for the world situation, a "warehouse" full of Noah’s Dove and olive branch, handshakes and peace treaties, peace pipes, good manners, courtesy, law-abiding citizens,  good driving habits, common sense, tools of diplomacy obliterating rifles, guns, suicide bombers and human killing machines. 

Can we restore good work ethics, regard for authority, political acumen, belief in democratic ideals, throwing away our prejudices, make lasting peace agreements and stay diligent in working toward saving our environment, planet and future world for our children?  It is so easy to get carried away.

Ann Carol Goldberg

What put that thought in my mind?  How often I ask myself when a stray memory or an unexpected detail from some obscure event stirs through my mind popping unannounced into my consciousness.   Thoughts flow through our minds as randomly as rocks appear in the river. 

The RIO GRANDE:  the river is impressive in its length, breadth, history and fame; covering more than 1800 miles in length.  It is the second longest river in North America, (the first is the Mississippi).  The river is dynamic, always changing in width, depth, current flow, water color and clarity.  It supports the flora and fauna; trees, shrubs, birds and wildlife, the  fisherman, recreational boaters, swimmers, and industry built along its banks. 

Find in its water a vast variety of human debris and detritus.  It is infamous for wetback smuggling and drug trafficking.  Endless battles have been fought over boundaries, water rights and depth control. The river has long been celebrated in song, prose and poetry.

I have had frequent encounters with the Rio Grande in the years that my husband and I have traveled via motor home. There are times that we have walked across her bridges to visit Mexican border towns, driven over the river in cars or by bus, been guided along her embankments by museum docents delving into history and guided by expert birders rousting out amazing birds living along her shores.  We have picnicked along her banks and studied her history in museums and books. 

On a recent paddle (canoe) under the tutelage of experienced birders, I was admonished to stay on the lookout for rocks and logs lying in waiting to impede our way.  That day the water level was low, controlled by the Falcon Dam adjacent to Falcon State park in Texas.  This admonishment was well advised.  There were many sudden surprises threatening our hull or holding us captive on a jutting rock.

Encounters with massive shoals solidly packed with silt and sea shells scraped along our hull often sending my helmsman out of the canoe to walk on the mounds and manually guide our way clear.  Canoes were held captive on obscure rocks causing angst and meticulous navigational skills to avoid falling into the fast currents in the clear channel nearby.

My mind sprinted between glorious sightings of Ringed Kingfishers, Audubon’s Orioles, Yellow Rumped Warblers, White Pelicans, Green Jays and Neotropic Cormorants, or Cara Cara and Osprey in flight and the urgency in sighting hazardous rocks.  I can’t avoid turning these threats into a simile for obstacles placed in our daily lives; our plans gone astray, changed goals, thwarted expectations, or globally,  the plethora of hatred, brutality, injustice, fraud and fear in this world.  I must put that out of my mind for awhile, the only hindrance being the rocks in the river. 

How lucky I am to be floating down river, focusing on birds or trees (such as the endangered Mexican Cypress) with all of nature surrounding me.  How lucky I am to have needs and wants mostly fulfilled.  How lucky to have loving family and friends and to be able to savor the joys of travel, agile, curious and energetic enough to seek adventure   Excuse me now, we are in a deep channel, no rocks in sight.  I am reaching for my binoculars.  There is a possible sighting of a rare roadside hawk.

Ann Carol Goldberg

It was the strangest birding trail we have yet encountered named for Connie Hagar. It is not off in the woods or deep in a ravine, in a meadow or high on a mountain ridge; it follows a course literally along the main road, route 35, in the area of the Tule Creek restoration project in Fulton, Texas. Follow the 19 interpretive signs placed along the grassy trail to find your way to the ending at the Aransas Bay.

First, you may visit an observation deck along the marsh and then turn around and walk along the road for 1/3^rd mile or so. The trail eventually turns right into a housing development across from the public trail. The signs meander a bit, past a small picnic area and the Rockport Cemetery down to the the final interpretive sign and the edge of the Aransas Bay littered with boats, yachts and restaurants. The Cemetery is old, with mature Live Oak and full of very colorful flowers and highly decorated gravesites in the manner of Hispanic ritual for remembering the dead. Connie Hagar is buried in the cemetery.

On our visit, we did not find many birds—deep into January of the coldest winter in recent records. But the sun was bright and the walk welcoming. I must say, we were alone along the trail.

What is the story behind this rather strange setting? I had to know.

The site is dedicated to Connie Hagar (Martha Conger Neblett) who was born on June 14, 1886 in Corsicana, Texas to Robert Scott and Mattie Yeater Neblett, the eldest of 3 children. Martha Conger Neblett (Connie) was brought up with the graces of becoming a lady, educated in music, art, literature, history and a given a high regard for nature and the state of Texas, very characteristic of the Victorian era in which she was raised.

It is recorded that "Connie was a tomboy" enjoying long walks with her father studying nature and enveloped by the sounds and sights of nature. She became knowledgeable in identifying trees, shrubs, wild flowers and the birds and wildlife they observed, capturing this young girl’s mind.

Soon grown up and married, Connie Hagar lived in a cottage (on the corner of South Church and First streets) in Rockport, with her husband Jack until her death in 1973. Beginning in 1935 she would make daily rounds studying the bird population and keeping meticulous records of her findings. Connie is credited with "changing the books about birds of the Coastal Bend and of Texas."

Their cottage was moved to another location soon after her death and is now privately owned. The cottage site was purchased in 1994 to ensure preservation of the land and Roger Tory Peterson helped dedicate the sanctuary to perpetuate Connie’s work. The trail we visited is in a separate location, on Route 35, in Fulton, Texas. It forms part of the Tule Creek restoration project, protecting land and wildlife so dear to Connie during her life.

There is so much more to know about the Coastal Bend area and Connie’s work, life and the era in which she lived. If you wish to to learn more and see photos of her life, visit the URL below. A visit to the Coastal Bend of Texas is perhaps, a well-kept secret, not as highly touted and advertised as other areas of Texas. It is worth visiting in The Rockport, Aransas, Goose Island areas. Seek out the endangered Whooping Cranes, Sand hill Cranes, and the many shorebirds, songbirds, birds of prey, alligators, snakes, tress, shrubs and flowers and so much more. What a boost it is to all of us, preserving precious natural sites in the name of a pioneer such as Connie Hagar.

References; http://www.birdrockport.com/connie_hagar.htm

Winter/Spring Visitor’s Guide, Rockport/Fulton, Texas

One of the joys of the vagabond life via motor home; you never know what is next on the horizon.  This is the year of the COLD  — featuring record setting winter weather up and down the eastern seaboard reaching to the depths of Florida. 

Luck was with us  when we called our dear friends, the Topfs and were able to camp for two nights in their lovely campground at Deer Creek in central Florida. 

The first night there we attended a concert in their clubhouse featuring the HARMONICATS, retro back to the 40’s when they became famous for playing every size and vocal range of harmonica with alacrity and skill.  They played for well over an hour, and did not seem to tire, even though they are in their late 60’s to late 70’s. 

That not being enough of a treat and surprise, the next day, we visited a National Historic landmark called Bok Tower Gardens.  Frederick Law Olmstead, Jr. designed the gardens. This singing tower features a grand carillon and we arrived just in time for the daily concert.  The sound is bright, crisp and beautiful.  The tower is on a knoll about 342’ above sea level, the highest point in central Florida.  see their website; http://www.boktowergardens.org/ Edward Bok was quite a Humanitarian and edited the LADIES HOME JOURNAL for 30 years. It is worth a visit to the web site to learn more about him and this memorable landmark on the web site.

There is more; it was hard to leave this wonderful place but they closed at 5PM.  We drove to dinner through an area that is “old Florida,”   featuring old tree and shrub growth, old buildings with character, lakes, ponds, Spanish Moss and lacking the big boxes, chain restaurants and gated communities.  The GPS led us to CHERRY POCKET FISHING CAMP.  It is just that; a rustic area where fishing boats line the dock, old trailers and motor homes, trucks ,vans and rustic buildings form a haven for “fisherfolk” and a wonderful restaurant in a large, shack-like building that is as welcoming as a pair of old, favorite slippers. 

Vegetarians rejoice, I called ahead and was assured that each dish was made to order and I could indeed find something on the menu that was free of anything none vegetarian and indeed I did.  The menu is large and our friends were all very happy with their large portions of gumbo, fish tacos, fish sandwiches, grouper dishes, and more.,  I had a salad and cheese. mushroom quesadilla. We left very full, happy and in good spirits.  What a great day, spontaneous and full of good friendship, shared memories and great cheer.

Remember the days when life in America seemed simple and and easily defined? People were optimistic and held expectations for the future that were often met. The world felt a bit safer, the sun seemed brighter, the sky a deeper blue, the rain crystal-clear. Children were allowed out to play without parental fear of the streets. The pace of life was low key, electronic toys weren’t vying for our leisure time. Paper publications, TV programs, films and popular songs idealized this world into a Norman “Rockwellian” scene. Was life indeed less complex and innocent?

In my memory, I cherish the simple act of baking together often with my sons. We had a good time, a chance to bond together, to learn to follow directions and gain skills and self confidence. The boys created enjoyed yummy treats and received praise from their dad. Of course mom had to practice ultimate patience, waiting for the child to measure, sift, beat or pour each ingredient into the Kitchen Aide; blending it in more or less properly so the finished cake would turnout somewhat edible. Then, the reward for those little faces—time to lick the beater blades.

 

 

 

LICKING CHOCOLATE FROSTING—so good…so safe?

Now those licking-the blade days are long gone by, killed by the threat of contaminated eggs or other bacteria wending their way into the batter. How many children got sick from this treat? I don’t know of any! But nowadays we wouldn’t allow anyone to lick raw egg batter. Licking egg-free frosting is still in but raw eggs are out–verboten.

Or so I thought. I have been following the recent recall of the Nestle’s cookie dough and the presence of E. coli, discovered in Nestle’s Danville, Va. plant. How surprised I was to read that consumers actually do eat raw commercial cookie dough. I must be naive and out of touch. How many actually eat raw dough? Apparently, thousands have been stricken over several years. What am I missing by not even considering eating raw dough (commercial or homemade)…getting sick on E. coli bacteria, that is what.

The last decade seems to have been swamped by incidents of contaminated foods in or agricultural system, raising flags, causing recalls, heightening research, media coverage, films addressing our food culture aimed at raising awareness among consumers. Think of Mad Cow disease, tainted ground beef and bird flu episodes, , tainted dog food recalls, making me glad to be a vegetarian…

…and then, lo and behold, there came the tomato scares, spinach scares, pistachio nut and peanut butter scares, infant formula hoaxes, incidents of tainted milk, and this summer, (2009) late blight fungus spoiling commercial and home vegetable gardens attacking tomato, eggplant and potato plants.

An astounding number of informational sites were revealed searching through Google using the key words below. The results prove epidemic;

consumer, food, recalls;   Results 1,340,000

tainted, meat, recalls;   Results 45,800

food, recall, eggs;   Results 499,000

prescription, drug, recalls;  Results 1,040,000

late blight, fungus;  Results 59,900

Food safety information is readily available to the consumer. The media and CDC (Center for Disease Control) keep us informed, issuing warnings to the general population, questioning how agricultural controls or checks and balances can be accelerated. A wealth of informative books are being published and films are being produced highlighting the “state of the health” of our food system and the production, delivery, safety and pitfalls of feeding our nation.

Long-trusted food sources must now be scrutinized and questioned, old habits, abandoned. We are now better-informed consumers aware that the system we have so long trusted can suffer breakdowns in quality control. Parents still enjoy engaging their children in the kitchen, but the beaters are placed directly into the dishwasher, no licking allowed. Everyone must wait for the wafting odors of the chocolate cake to fill the kitchen, endure the cooling and frosting and eat the food on their plates before running their “clean” finger through the frosting to savor a good, wet lick.

Ann Carol Goldberg