Have Some Decorum: family

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Really love your peaches, wanna shake your tree...

No barbecue is complete without peach cobbler. Am I right or am I right?

You can say a lot of things about me… That I have a short temper, bit of a snob, control freak, overbearing parent, that I have a dark sense of humor, that I swear like a truck driver, a tad acerbic, that I’m a total prude, that I am a hint vindictive, that I’m an ugly crier… But I can say with certainty that no one will ever be able to say that I forgot where I came from. I may have lived my life in rather hoity-toity circumstances but my family always kept our roots and by roots I’m referring to my white trash roots.… At least in terms of food.

You can take the girl out of Missouri… But you can’t take the Missouri out of the girl.

For example:

My mother still makes her spaghetti and meatballs with garlic bread. The garlic bread is made on hamburger buns.

My mother has never bought anything organic in her life.

At all times, at my parent’s house, there is Coffee Mate Powdered Creamer.

We have never had cane sugar at our house. Lots of brown sugar for baking but never cane sugar.

My mother makes meatloaf and writes “hi” on top of it… in ketchup.

Bacon is nearly a vegetable at our house and bacon grease is a valuable commodity.

Fleur de Sel is only for decoration at our house.

If I asked for strawberries when I was young, my mother would deliver a bowl of sliced strawberries in whole milk with brown sugar or whole strawberries with a side of sugar “to dip.”

My mother’s refrigerator was never without popsicles. Ever.

“Drippings” is a culinary term I learned early on.

My mother has never gone past a California roll at a sushi restaurant and even that is pushing it.

But the true dichotomy is that my mother is a total food/culinary snob:

For example:

Everything is homemade.

There has never been a crockpot at our house.

If you have to ask what quince paste is, you are not an O’Connell.

One time my sister brought a store-bought pumpkin pie to Thanksgiving dinner and my mother has never forgiven her for it.

My mother will think you were raised poorly if you don’t know how to debone a chicken.

My mother taught my brother how to use a double boiler to melt his chocolate when he was basically a toddler.

Included in every one of my mother’s recipes is, “Use a pretty platter.”

So, this brings us to today’s BBQ Fixin’s: Peach Cobbler

Don’t ever try to fancy up peach cobbler. Just let it be… Simple. My mother doesn’t even peel the peaches for her famous peach cobbler. It is so good! Now don’t forget that this is my mother’s recipe so read through it and try to decipher everything because she usually changes her mind halfway through. And I didn’t correct her spelling, grammar or punctuation.

Here is my mother’s recipe:

Anne’s Original Peach Cobbler

This is a recipe that I made up along ago. The crust part is different from most but it is really good.

Ingredients:

1 package of Pillsbury or Betty Crocker pie crust in the box. Not refrigerated. In the box cake section in the market. Can be hard to find. Any brand is OK

9 or 10 really ripe peaches ( ripe peaches will make it juicy)

Brown sugar

White sugar

Butter

cinnamon

nutmeg

Lemon Juice

Slice the peaches with the skin on and put into a bowl. I like to slice them lengthwise. Now add about 1/2 cup of the brown sugar and 1/4 cup of white sugar. I like both because I don't want the cobbler to be to dark in color but still sweet. If the peaches are not really ripe you will need MORE sugar. I really like to have a mix of ripe and not so ripe peaches. Sprinkle about 1/2 teaspoon or more of cinnamon. Then about the same of the nutmeg. Just depends which flavor you like. I like nutmeg. Add the fresh lemon juice. Now taste it. How does it taste? This is where you make it your own. I usually add more brown sugar! Now add the butter. I like slices of butter... about 1/2 a stick or more. Mainly more!

Now put the mixture in a buttered (really butter it good with soft butter) baking dish that will look good on the table.

Now to make the topping.

This is my own concoction...so bear with me. It is good!

I take the box mix of the pie crust and put it in a bowl and I add a little cinnamon and nutmeg to it along with a little brown sugar. Mix all of that up. You want it to be a little brown but still looking like crust. Taste it. I like it sweet. Now add the water from the directions on the box. But not all of it... go slow adding in the water. You want it sticky but able to pick up.

Now take a little of it....like just enough to make a little flat patty about 2 or 3 inches around and start placing these little patties all over the peaches. You don't want it to be like a smooth pie crust but a crust that looks hand made. You want the peaches to be able to bubble up between them just a little but still cover the peaches. Does this make sense? Now you need to make a little egg wash by adding a little water to a egg and mix it up really good and with a pastry brush spread it all over the pie crush. Now add some white sugar all over this....

Bake in a 350° oven for about 1 hour. Keep watch over it. You want it to be light brown and have the liquid bubbling between the crust. That is when it is done. It has to bubble!

Hope you try this recipe. It is really good. Not as hard as it might look. Just make it your own...add or take away what you don't like and just make it good. This is not a recipe to cut calories. Go do that with another recipe! Enjoy... Anne

And just because variety is the spice of life, here are a few other versions of peach cobbler that will knock your socks off.…

Southern Style Peach Cobbler with Maple Sugar, Bourbon and Brown Butter

Recipe HERE.

Butterscotch Caramel Peach Cobbler

Recipe HERE.

Chef Rick Bayless's Grandma Potter's Peach Cobbler

Recipe HERE.

I have a few more BBQ Fixin’s recipes over the next few weeks. I asked my mother for her recipe for coleslaw and I swear to God her exact answer was, “I just use Kentucky Fried Chicken Coleslaw, I just never told you.” So there’s that recipe.

Even though my mother can whip up Beef Wellington, Salmon en Croûte and a gorgeous Croquembouche with the best of them, these humble barbecue recipes are our family favorites. Stay tuned for Pineapple Upside down Cake.

A toute!

*Something you don’t know about me? Speaking of peaches… My sister’s nickname since she was 17 years old has been Peaches. She got the nickname from her ex-husband, Dennis Dragon, who was in a Malibu surfer cult band called The Surf Punks. They were the epitome of Malibu cool. Dennis was from a truly talented musical family… His father was Carmen Dragon, a famous symphony conductor. His mother, Eloise Dragon, was an opera singer and his brother is Daryl Dragon of Captain & Tennille. I have known Dennis since I was 15 years old when my sister met him and I have only seen him wear long pants twice… Once at his wedding to my sister and the second time was when my sister forced him to go to Aspen. All other times have been a bathing suit. Anyway, Dennis is the one that nicknamed my sister, Peaches.

The Fixin's: BBQ Corn Casserole

Today’s recipe comes from my teeny tiny great-grandmother, Hannie. I didn’t really realize it until lately but Hannie was the true definition of a modern woman. Independent, self-sufficient, bold, brave, feminine, reserved, wise and boy, could she cook.

Hannie was my mother’s grandmother, my grandmother’s mother, my great grandmother. She lived to be nearly 100. I saw her almost every day of my life until I was about 13 years old when we moved from Missouri to California. Hannie lived directly across the street from my grandmother. My grandmother had the great big old stone house and Hannie lived at the end of the driveway in her own little cottage. She walked to my grandmother’s fancy house every day in her perfect dress with her perfect shoes, hair perfectly coiffed with her perfect manners… With a beer. I swear to God. Hold on, it gets worse, the beer was always in a beer coozy. Hannie didn’t care, she was her own woman.

My grandparents house circa 1980s. That is Hannie in the front.

Hannie had a story… A story we never spoke of. That’s how my family rolls… We never speak of anything uncolorful or painful. I do though… as evident in this blog. I don’t see the point of keeping secrets, bottling emotions up, hiding skeletons in the closet, pushing stories under the rug. I think the more you hide something, the more obvious it is. Everyone makes mistakes, everyone has disappointments, failures, scars and regrets. It’s called life and that’s how you grow and learn and… evolve. #NoteToFamily.

I think that everyone should praise Hannie for her bravado instead of shaming her. Her big secret? She got a divorce. That’s it! But back then, it was fucking unheard-of. Granted, she did get a divorce from a super bad guy… A bank robber, but who are we to judge. I’ve dated my fair share of psychos. Don’t pretend like you haven’t either. Trust me, my sweet little great-grandmother had no idea she married a bank robber. However, she knew enough to divorce him. This was a huge ordeal and never spoken of. We were all supposed to just pretend that Hannie had always been single and her children were born by immaculate conception.

Never wanting feel sorry for herself, Hannie just went about her business raising her daughters and… Getting a job! Yep, she worked her entire life. She was Beyoncé’s Independent Woman circa 1940s. She never remarried, lived on her own and supported herself. What I love about her also is that she always looked like a million bucks. Every day her hair was done, her manicure done, she always wore a dress and shoes with a little heel. The adorable part and the oxymoron for her bold character was that she was teeny tiny… Under 5 feet tall. I think that makes her legally an elf. The funny part is that this little elf drove a giant town car.

As reliable as a postman, Hannie walked over to my grandmother’s house rain sleet or snow every single day. She sunk herself into the big couch, legs crossed… with her beer. She loved her family and was always there for us. I think the moral to her story is to never feel sorry for yourself, be brave and that independence is a very womanly trait. Hannie lived her life on her terms, put her past behind her and evolved.

All of that, and she could cook! So, in honor of Hannie’s gusto, I present to you her Barbecue Fixin’s Side Dish: Corn Casserole.

The recipe is from my mother so I cannot be held accountable for misspellings, grammatical errors, erroneous punctuation, evidence of dyslexia, and overall confusion. The end result is fabulous, so just accept it.

Here is the recipe brought to you by my mother:

Hannie’s Corn Casserole

This was my Grandmother Hannie's (Ellie’s great-grandmothers) one dish that she always made in the summer for our summer dinners. We didn't go outside to eat like most people did for a BBQ. My dad did not cook out. We always had dinner in the Dining Room. No matter what time of year or what occasion. Hannie always made this at her house which was across the street from my Mom's (Ellie’s grandmother.) So I would go over and watch her make it....

Hannie's Corn Recipe

6 or 7 ears of yellow corn

butter

1/2 and 1/2 cream

1 onion cut up in small pieces

1 green bell pepper cut up in small pieces

bacon cooked crisp about 7 or 8 slices crumbed

salt and pepper

First take the corn off of the cob.

Put the corn in a iron skillet or one that is heavy along with about 1/2 stick of butter and a little vegetable oil. Add the onions, green bell pepper and cook for about 20 minutes. You want the corn to be soft but not too soft. Just a little bit to it. Now add about 1/2 cup of the cream. Cook for about 10 to 15 minutes or until the cream is rich and getting thick. Creates a little sauce. Add salt and pepper to taste. At this point it can wait and keep warn until everything else is ready. When time to serve put the bacon on top.

This recipe has not ever been written down. So you can make it yours by adding or taking away. Maybe a little more cream...more butter! It is all up to you and what you like.

Hope you try it . Enjoy.... Anne

Voilà! The second installment of our Barbecue Fixin’s Series. Stay tuned for more…

A toute!

The Week I Lost My Mojo.

Ugh. Sometimes ALS just gets the better of me. I usually have to remind myself that I am not Wonder Woman. I have to remind myself that every day is not going to be peaches and that some days are quite honestly going to be a living hell which last week was.

It’s weird, it’s like I’m really strong and really weak at the same time. Mentally, most of the time I am a rock. Physically, I am a wimp. This past week, those two worlds collided and I just fucking crumbled. My feeding tube started to give me a little trouble and all I could think of was that I probably would have to have it replaced…again. The thought of this sent me into a tailspin and it started to affect everything around me. I started to doubt my perseverance, I started to doubt my strength and I started to doubt why I even continue. So, I started to let myself go to the dark side. Usually I try to mask all of the pain, the mental and physical pain that is associated with ALS, but this week it just came pouring out.

On Wednesdays, I have a two hour massage…I close all of the curtains, put on my favorite Patrick Watson music, light my Le Labo Santal 26 candle, completely lose myself without any distractions and this is when I solve all the world’s problems including my own. You have to be pretty brave to be alone with your own thoughts. I have now decided that maybe I should not be alone with my own thoughts. It’s too dangerous.

I thought to myself that may be my little journey is over or at least that it should be over. What am I trying to prove? Shouldn’t I let Gracie and David and all of my friends just go on with their lives and stop worrying about me? Yes, that’s what I think I should do, I decided. I need to put a stop to all of this. It’s time to call Dignitas in Switzerland. But first, I called my best friend, Jenny, and told her the situation. Because she knows me better than I know myself, she said she understood. And then we quickly moved on to a conversation about rough sex with Floyd Mayweather and that is why she is my best friend. I couldn’t tell my best friend Yolanda because she is in Germany with 400 IVs shoved up her arms treating her Lyme disease. When I first got sick, Yolanda made a vow to never complain to me about anything because she knew that any of her complaints would be trivial compared to what I was going through. Now, four years later my Yogi is as sick as I am so I thought I would extend the courtesy and not complain to her so she has no idea about what I have been going through this week.

The next person I called was my sister. I told her that I thought it was time to end all of this and like a typical bossy big sister, she said I wasn’t allowed to.

I knew that I had to call a family meeting between David and Gracie next. I was putting it off because I knew this would be the hardest moment of my life. I let my caregiver go home early because I knew that our little family needed privacy and because I knew this was going to get ugly. Kim Kardashian and I share a similar trait in that we are both ugly criers. I started to talk to David and Gracie about my decision to end all of this. Gracie and David in unison did not think that it was time. After about 45 minutes of my trying to politely convince them that it was indeed my time to go and 45 minutes of David and Gracie not understanding, I finally had to break it all down. For the past five years, I have been strong, I haven’t really complained, I have keep 90% of my feelings to myself, I have put on a happy face and tried to not let my ALS affect their lives. I burst out into an ugly shameless tearful exclamation and quite simply explained that I AM SICK OF THIS SHIT. I am sick of putting on a brave face, I’m sick of all the medication, sick of all the tubes and wires and machines. I’m sick of worrying. I am starting to get jealous… Jealous that other people can walk, jealous that other people can just breathe normally, jealous that other people can make plans, jealous that other people can hug their family, jealous that other people can wear high heels, jealous that other people don’t have to use a straw to drink every beverage, jealous of people who can be just plain irresponsible. I am sick of people staring at me wondering, “What’s wrong with that gorgeous girl in the wheelchair.” :-)

I don’t want all the attention to be on me. I want to be overlooked, invisible, ignored. I want to be able to be quiet for a week and not have people wonder if I’m dead. I want to go to work and have real people problems. I don’t like this little cocoon that I’ve made for myself. It’s too controlled and too safe. All of this and more is wearing on me and I am weary.

After I explained all of this to David and Gracie, we had a breakthrough. They finally understood what I am really going through. It’s not their fault for not understanding before because I’ve never really explained it to them. And then the worst happened… Sitting in my armchair across from my bed was my little baby Gracie curled up into a fetal position, tears pouring out of her eyes unable to speak. For the next 30 minutes I kept begging Gracie to talk to me but she refused. I tried to exhibit my best “inspirational mother” behavior and told her that everything was going to be okay and tried to remind her that “that which does not kill her, makes her stronger.” I told her that all of the perils that she’s been going through with her mother slowly dying will make her a stronger person. She looked at me and said, “No, it won’t.” In all honesty, she is right. There is no good to come out of this. She’s going to be a motherless child and it is going to hurt and she will never recover. Another half hour goes by with Gracie not saying a word until finally through buckets of tears she looks at me and says, “I understand if you need to go but I’m scared. I’m scared to live life without you.”

Well, that did it for me. To see my child utterly terrified gave me the reality check that I needed. I can’t go. I can’t be selfish and take the easy way out no matter how hard this is getting. I decided that I will do everything in my power to continue to stay here for my daughter because she needs me. ALS can do whatever it wants to me… I will fight it, for Grace. I always have but now I need to remind myself that this is not the time to back down. “When the going gets tough, the tough get going.” I need to shut the fuck up, pull up my knee socks, man up and prove to my daughter what a real mother is. A real mother will go to the depths of hell for her daughter that is what I am prepared to do. Suddenly, seeing how utterly vulnerable my daughter was, I felt like I got my super powers back… Wonder Woman is back and ready to take on anything that is thrown my way. Nothing is going to take me away from my Gracie… Not my fear, my worries, not my pain, not my weakness and not my weariness.

So, here I am again. In case you were wondering where I was this past week… This is where I was. I lost my mojo but thanks to my Gracie, I got it back.

*Something you don’t know about me? Well, it’s really about David. My relationship with David is very much Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf. Like I have said in the past, we are both very passionate people and neither one of us will ever back out of a fight. However, David has the biggest heart of anyone I’ve ever met. No matter how upset David is with me, when he sees that I am weak, he responds appropriately… By kissing my ass. After our big family cry fest, David did his best to cheer me up. David hates getting our big car out of the garage and driving it around the tiny streets of Paris but Saturday he did it for me. We drove all over Paris, stopped at all of our favorite bakeries, even drove out to the infamous Bois de Boulogne Park to check out where David used to play professional tennis at the Roland Garros tennis club (think French Open) but we ended up checking out the “ladies of the night” who work the park except they weren’t exactly ladies and it wasn’t exactly night. I don’t know why but it always intrigues me how the city of Paris allows this behavior to happen in broad daylight in one of the most beautiful gardens of Paris. As I was observing (from the safety of our car) a transvestite wearing a blonde wig, a fabulous leopard coat, black lacy tights, heels and a purse getting into a strange van with the “secret code” of a red scarf tied around the side mirror at 11:30 AM, I couldn’t help but wonder what this man’s/woman’s life has been up to this point. What brought him to this? He was a baby once. Was he ever loved? Where does he live? Does he take the Metro dressed like that? All of these questions led me to the thought that maybe I should have been a social anthropologist. No time for that now.

David and I continued our tour throughout Paris driving down to the banks of the Seine to check out a péniche. What’s that you ask? Those are the boats that are docked along the river that people actually live on. David and I saw one that was for rent in a real estate ad so we figured we better check it out. I have been craving sunshine and David believes that the cause of my recent meltdown was a lack of vitamin D. Should we live on a boat on the Seine? Are we crazy? It actually looked rather charming with a beautiful view of the Eiffel tower but then I remembered that I suffer from seasickness on top of ALS so maybe the boat thing is not such a good idea.

Our next stop on the “Cheer Ellie Up Tour” we headed to the 13^th arrondissement to the Chinatown of Paris because yes, I am still looking for that blue and white Chinese vase. I made David stop in every random shop that remotely looked like it would have Chinese blue and white porcelain. I told David to ask every shopkeeper where I could find Chinese antiques in this neighborhood. Apparently, the Parisian Chinese are not very forthcoming with information because David was met with the standard answer of, “Why you asking about Chinese antiques? I not a spy.” We continued our tour of Paris empty-handed.

Our next stop was in the 6^th arrondissement to Rue du Bac where I like to look at rich people stuff. Mind you, I have never left the car even once. David popped in one of my favorite bakeries, Des Gâteaux et du Pain, and brought back to the car a quiche Lorraine, salted and herbed focaccia and some sort of delicious tart. I ate it all in the car and then we continued on to the 9^th arrondissement, David’s favorite neighborhood because he likes to pretend that he is urban. We stopped at the farmers market and bought strawberries, haricots verts, brie cheese, a roasted chicken and roasted garlicky potatoes. David definitely knows how to cheer a girl up. On top of all of this he bought me a beautiful bouquet of hot pink and light pink ranunculus. I always have to remind myself that for all of David’s faults he makes up for them tenfold by all of his generosity and doing chick stuff with me all day. For the good and the bad, he’s mine, all mine.

Stay tuned for tomorrow’s blog which will be a big thank you to all of you. After that, we will get back to the antique sale and then I will have a little debut of my “smalls” shop.

That's the Night That the Lights Went out in Paris.

Do you ever think that sometimes this earth is just not made for some people? Like, sometimes it is just too fucking much for some people. Some people are just not capable of coping with it all. This person was my brother, Matt. Today is his birthday. I think he would’ve been 41. I’m not going to sugarcoat it, my brother killed himself two years ago. I always knew he would.

My brother was without question the cutest baby on earth. I don’t care how cute you think your babies are, my brother was cuter. Big fat roly-poly baby with huge blonde curls, rosy cheeks, sparkly ice blue eyes… Always with a giggly smile on his face. My sister and I were so happy when he was born because it was as if my mother brought home a new baby doll for us. My sister and I ruled that little boy’s life. We dressed him up, we put makeup on him, we bossed him around and hardly ever let him speak because we did all the talking for him.

My little brother and I. He didn't need glasses... I just liked the way he looked in my sister's Mrs. Beasley doll glasses.

From the get-go, my brother was different. He was sweet and kind and loving. He loved the ocean, he loved animals, and he loved to cook. However, he was also a brat. We called him Matt The Brat. He was always getting into trouble, but not purposely. He just never learned the term, “consequences.” My brother did just exactly as he pleased. One would consider him reckless… But in a sweet way.

My brother wanted to please everyone. When he was about 10 years old he built a condominium complex out of boxes in our front yard and insisted that all of us basically live in it. He was devastated when the whole family refused to spend the night in it.

My brother tried to rescue every animal that he found, including squirrels. My brother would go to the neighbor’s houses when he was a little boy and pick flowers out of their yard and bring them home to my mother in his little fist with all of the dirt still intact at the roots. My brother went to Catalina Sea Camp for what we thought was a two-week session. He called home and told my parents that he was staying for the entire summer because he was so happy there… In the ocean.

My brother in Aspen with my dogs. My brother loved the dogs so much he just took them.

When my brother got older, his disregard for consequences continued. Bad decision after bad decision after bad decision continually destroyed my brother’s life. My brother always had good intentions and a good heart but just never went through the proper routes. My brother had four beautiful children with a woman that my sister and I, and parents had always hated. She was lazy, manipulative and quite frankly, white trash. Surprisingly, she raised four of the sweetest most angelic children on the face of the earth. My brother loved his children with every inch of his soul. After my brother wised up and finally got a divorce, his lovely wife decided that the best revenge on my brother would be to take his children away. This was the beginning of my brother’s ultimate demise and yes, I partially blame her for his death.

My brother's son, Gabriel.

My brother's son, Aidan.

My brother's son, Noah.

My brother with his daughter, Olivia.

He was a broken man without his children. My brother was not strong enough to battle his ex-wife properly and just took a hit after hit in court. My brother did not see his children for years and years and years. Finally, as my brother’s oldest son turned 18 years old a few years ago, his son reached out and reunited with my brother. I have never seen my brother happier. He was on cloud nine. And then I think I ruined everything. I regret what I said and yet I don’t regret it. My brother was at my house with his son and I took my brother aside and I said something to him that I think did more damage than good. I said to my brother, “Matt, I am so happy that you have your son back but whatever you do, don’t fuck this up.” I saw the light go out in my brother’s eyes. He knew he was under a spotlight and that everyone was watching him. We all wanted my brother to be happy with his children but we knew he was walking on shaky ground. My brother still never learned that his actions had reactions. My sister and I would always lecture my brother on what was acceptable and not acceptable. Letting your seven-year-old son drive a car was not acceptable. Letting your eight-year-old nephew shoot a gun at a rifle range was not acceptable. Selling marijuana as a career was not acceptable.

My brother was always frustrated with a side of depression. My brother had every opportunity to have a wonderful life, which he did and didn’t. He was given the best education yet his ADD got in the way. He was an extremely talented builder but his impatience got in the way. My brother wanted to rescue everyone and everything but he could not rescue himself.

My brother had tried to kill himself numerous times before. I remember dropping him off at my mother’s house in 2005 and saying to him, “Try not to kill yourself today.” He laughed and tried to kill himself a few hours later. I knew my brother needed help but I didn’t know how to help him. Looking back, I wish I would’ve tried harder to help my brother. My brother needed a 24 hour babysitter. No one in my family had the tools to handle my brother. My parents tried to hide all of my brother’s problems from my sister and me. They pretended like nothing was wrong. It would take professional psychiatrists with prescribing privileges to take care of my brother which my parents were not. My sister and I always offered my brother advice but like they say, “You can lead a camel to water, but you cannot make him drink.”

My brother was reunited with his oldest son and I have never seen him happier. However, he did not last very long. You know that phrase, “Too much of a good thing?” I think that’s how my brother felt and he just self-sabotaged the whole thing. My brother was gone within weeks. Somehow my big, strong handsome brother just couldn’t take it anymore and hung himself in his bedroom facing the ocean.

My brother reunited with his son, Noah, exactly one month before he died.

Apparently, I heard through the grapevine that my brother left a letter. I have never read it because my parents have never mentioned it to me. Hell yes, I want to read it. Wouldn’t you?

Oh, how did I find out about my brother’s death, you ask? My mother texted the information to me. Yes, she texted it. The text read, “Matt killed himself.” That was it. Instinctually, I burst out crying… For about 15 seconds. And then, suddenly, I stopped crying and I smiled and thought to myself, “Oh my God, my brother is finally safe. God has him and will take care of him. Matt is free from all of his troubles.” I honestly feel like God came to get him and wrapped him in his arms and will allow my brother to do exactly what he wants to do which is fly, save animals and watch over his children.

I knew that this world was not for my brother. This world is too harsh and too mean and too complicated for someone as sweet and pure and innocent as my brother. This may sound strange but I do not miss my brother. I do not miss seeing him in so much pain. This may sound even stranger but I know I will see my brother again… In different circumstances.

I used to sit outside in my little yard in Santa Barbara after my brother passed away and every single day a little hummingbird would fly into the yard and buzz around my wisteria… For a very long time. I knew right away it was my brother and it brought me the greatest peace.

What advice do I have? None, really, except that I think it’s important to realize that there are soft souls on this earth ill-equipped to wrestle with the big bad monster called everyday life. My brother liked to eat Cherry Mash candy bars, make his famous fudge, surf, pet animals, hug his children, fly airplanes, laugh, and if your car plunged into an icy lake, my brother would be the first one, without hesitation, to dive in and save you even if he lost his own life doing so.

My brother was always fond of grand gestures. Last night, after midnight, I realized that it was officially February 27^th, my brother’s birthday. I looked out my window towards the dark Parisian sky and said out loud, “Matt, just show me a sign. Show me a sign that you are okay.” I waited and waited but nothing happened. This morning I woke up and told my houseguests that my brother did not “come through.” My friends looked at me and said, “Don’t you remember that the power went off in the whole apartment last night?” Oh my God, yes it did. My brother did come through. When the power went off, I was so self-absorbed about my breathing machine and the battery that I didn’t realize what was happening. In a panic last night, I called my husband who is in Los Angeles to tell him that we had no power in the whole building. Today, we looked at the time log on my telephone and it turns out the power went off at exactly 11:59 PM and came back on five minutes later at 12:04 AM… Officially my brother’s birthday. Hold on, it gets weirder, apparently all of Paris had a blackout last night. All over Paris! How about that for a grand gesture!

For my brother’s birthday, my mother would make him his special cake. He loved it and we only ate it on his birthday, February 27^th. It was an angel food cake filled with jamoca almond fudge ice cream, with chocolate whipping cream icing with toasted almonds. I don’t know the name of it but let’s just call it Matt’s Cake. Make it with love.

My mother emailed me the recipe today… Here it is… I hope it’s not too confusing… My mother has dyslexia. :-)

It is an angel food cake where you take out some out of the middle so you can have more ice cream. I used Jamoca Almond Fudge from Baskin Robbins.

Frosting...
1 carton of whipping cream
Nestlé mocha chocolate powder

Toasted almonds

Put the ice cream in the center of the angel food cake. Pack it down hard. Put in Freezer for a couple of hours or overnight.
Toast the almonds on a cookie sheet in the oven. Try not to burn them!
Whip the cream until stiff. Add a couple of tablespoons of the Nestlé chocolate mocha powder. Add as much as you like. I like for it to be a light chocolate color. Taste it as you add it to get the right taste.
Now take out the cake from the freezer and place on the cake plate that you are going to serve it on. Ice the cake with the mocha whipping cream. I like to really use a lot of it to make it really fluffy. Cover the cake now with the toasted almonds. You need to serve it now or you can put it back in the freezer but it is best to serve as soon as the whipping cream icing is put on the cake and ice cream. You can put the leftover cake back in the freezer...if any left!

Happy birthday "Matthew Robert Daniel Joseph O'Connell"...

Suicide statistics…

Many who attempt suicide never seek professional care.

Over half of all suicides occur in adult men, ages 25-65.

80% of people that seek treatment for depression are treated successfully.

There are an estimated 8 to 25 attempted suicides to 1 completion.

The strongest risk factor for suicide is depression.

Research has shown medications and therapy to be effective suicide prevention.

http://www.save.org

Life's Lesson N°9: Hu Hu Hummus and Sisterly Love

I decided today that anyone who doesn’t like to eat hummus is a racist. Yeah, there, I said it. Even though I am from a family that is rather food savvy, eating hummus was considered “just going too far.” Whenever I tell my husband that I would like hummus for a snack, he looks at me like I’ve agreed to become an Al Qaeda bride. What is it about hummus that scares everyone? It’s just a vegetable! How is it possible that someone can consider escargot a delicacy which is basically snot in a shell and then look at hummus (which is a darling little chickpea) like it is the gateway vegetable to terrorism.

While doing a little research on hummus because I’m such a scholar, I learned that there is such a thing called The Hummus Wars. As in life there are wars over religion, property and yes, wars over chickpeas. If you are interested, there is an interesting article on The Hummus Wars. Click HERE.

According to Bodrum.com, the origins of hummus are ancient… “You need only look at how old the ingredients are to see that Hummus bi tahini has an unwritten history that we may never fully understand. The ingredients have been in the Eastern Mediterranean and Middle East for thousands of years. The last major ingredient to arrive in the Middle East was lemons in 700 CE, but the primary two, chickpeas and tahini, extend back to the beginnings of civilization. From archaeological digs, we know people have eaten chickpeas in the Middle East longer than there has been pottery, or approximately 10,000 years. That predates writing too. The tahini part of hummus, made from sesame seeds, has also been in the Middle East since ancient times. Sesame seeds were used to make sesame oil in food in Mesopotamia since 2500 BCE, so tahini is likely to be about that old. Nor was garlic preventing the creation of a food similar to modern Hummus, as it is as old as the ancient Egyptian pyramids of Giza.”

Okay, now can we all just relax about hummus? It’s been around since before pottery for God’s sake. Are you afraid of pottery, as well? And when I say “you“, I am mostly referring to my own family.

While there are four simple ingredients to hummus (chickpeas, tahini, lemon and garlic) there are still some tricks to the trade that we need to investigate…

• When making the hummus, mind the process. There is a certain order of ingredients that works best. Check the recipe. Don’t just throw everything into a blender all at once like an animal.

• Remove the skins of the chickpeas.

• Add a scoop of yogurt for creaminess. The best for this is a Lebanese labne. Look it up. :-)

• Cook your own chickpeas from scratch.

• Emulsify the tahini in a water-based liquid first. Water or lemon juice.

By the way, I learned that hummus is just the Arabic word for chickpea. What we are really eating is called hummus bi tahini. Let’s look at some recipes…

Hummus via Rose Water & Orange Blossom Blog. Recipe HERE.

Hummus via Susan Jane White Health Geek Blog. Recipe HERE.

Avocado Hummus via Cooking Classy with a Sprinkle of Fancy Blog. Recipe HERE.

And just for fun...a pita bread recipe via Under the High Chair Blog. Recipe HERE.

Voilà! Hummus mastered… Next up, let’s get into pesto, shall we?

*Something you don’t know about me? My sister and I are polar opposites. However, she is my favorite person to talk to. There is no better laugh than a laugh with your sister. I should also add that there is no better fight as well. But polar opposites we are… My sister only likes new carpets. I only like old nearly threadbare carpets. My sister loves makeup. Carmax is my version of lipstick. My sister is always very pulled together with her outfits. My outfits consist of jeans and a gray Cashmere sweater. My sister will never utter a swearword. I use the F bomb like it is salt, I sprinkle it on every sentence. My sister actually takes the Bible literally. To me, it is fiction. My sister sucks at sports and cannot do the splits. Sports were my life. My sister makes spinach artichoke dip as an appetizer for a party. I would make a goat cheese tart. My sister has never and would never smoke a cigarette. I would smoke a cigarette at church if I could. My sister’s hair is always perfectly blonde and perfectly brushed. My hair is basically a big dreadlock. My sisters decorating style is “white picket fence.” My decorating style is “bohemian.” My sister would rather die than go to the flea market in Paris. I would rather die than go to Crate & Barrel. My sister is very private about her illness (lupus). I am a blabbering open book about my illness (ALS). My sister is a very forgiving person. I am not. My sister, right on time, mails a birthday card arriving exactly 2 days before one’s birthday. I email a Paperless Post card the day of one’s birthday, at best. My sister has proper tea parties. I have karaoke tequila parties.

We do have our similarities… We are both total prudes. We both always did our homework straightaway. We are both extremely overprotective, overbearing mothers. We hate the same people. We laugh at the same things. We both love to cook. We both love to travel. We both love to read and go to museums. We both approve of homeschooling. We are both sad that my brother is no longer with us but at peace that he is in a safer place. The best part is that we both agree that Gracie is the best thing since sliced bread. If anything ever happens to me, I know my sister will have Gracie’s best interest at heart. She may not let Gracie do everything that I would let her do but I know that she will make the best decisions for Gracie. And I know she will always remind Gracie of how awesome I am. She will always make sure that Gracie is appropriate… Appropriate fingernails, appropriate outfits, appropriate boyfriends, appropriate career, appropriate wedding dress, appropriate hair, no piercings, no tattoos (oops, too late) and definitely no swearing. My sister loves Gracie as her own child and for that I will forgive my sister for her Pottery Barn rugs. :-)

Normandy State of Mind

It’s definitely apple weather here in Paris and all I want to do is go to my château in Normandy, pick apples and make apple butter. The only problem is that I do not have a château in Normandy. The other problem is that I would have to teach my caregivers how to pick apples and how to make apple butter but considering my caregiver told me today that she “did not know how to use an oven” I’m pretty sure that apple butter is not in my future.

I have been addicted to apple butter since I was young. In the 1970s, my mother and grandmother would take my sister, brother and me to Amish country and we would buy our apple butter from the Amish off of the back of their horse-drawn carts because they are the experts. Don’t let my Parisian lifestyle fool you, I am pure hillbilly at heart. I used to eat apple butter out of a Mason jar with a spoon. I didn’t even bother putting it on toast. Then, because my family is the original know it all, do it yourself, crafty homemakers ala Martha Stewart… We started making our own apple butter. Look look look…

That is my fancy, pearl wearing, country club going, snobby grandmother…making apple butter…outside! My family is such a dichotomy. We will cut down our own Christmas trees but we’ve never taken out the trash on our own. We will build and paint our own gazebo but we don’t do our own manicures. We will lay brick around the pool but we’ve never cleaned the pool on our own. We will gut a turkey but we’ve never washed our own cars. We are all about getting down and dirty…but in a certain context. Do you hate me?

In homage to the autumnal weather, apple season, fall leaves and my imaginary Normandy château,
let’s cook up some delicious apple recipes! I have curated a little selection of sweet and savory apple recipes that will get us through the crisp weather and keep us cozy. To see the recipes, click on the title.