A minor post that's not really relevant to this blog

A couple of weekends ago Mike and I drove down from Boston to Staten Island, where my mother's best friend was having a 60th birthday party. Not being familiar with the geography of the borough, we brought along my father-in-law's GPS. Dad had warned us that five minutes into using the thing, we would be yelling at it. I thought he was exaggerating, but he was right--we were barely turning onto the highway when Mike started questioning the disembodied female voice on the GPS (let's call her Sheila.) I was excited about Sheila because, unlike my mother, I'm a lousy navigator. I don't drive very often (I've only lived in places with good public transit, so I never needed to) so I haven't honed the skill of going from point A to point B while avoiding point C because of the traffic. I also have no idea how to fold a road map. I just want to squash it into a ball and throw it in the backseat.

With the confidence that can only come from being smarter than us humans, Sheila started us on a different route to NYC than we usually take. She told us to go up the west side of Manhattan instead of taking the BQE. Mike, who had been questioning Sheila's judgment for most of the ride, suddenly exclaimed, "She's taking us through Bayonne! She's brilliant! We'll bypass the BQE!" For those not familiar with the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway, it's notoriously jammed. It doesn't matter if it's 5PM or 2AM, you're going to be stuck looking out at the grittiest parts of the city--the graffiti-covered exteriors of abandoned warehouses (which have more than likely been converted into million dollar condos), the smokestacks of highly-toxic chemical factories--not to mention about a billion billboards advertising Bud Light using the silhouette of a curvaceous woman superimposed with the phallic shape of a beer bottle. Subtle, ad men, very subtle.

We don't exactly "fly" through the west side, but at least the view is better. That's another reason I don't drive--I like those moments when the ugliest parts of Queens give way to the sparkling skyline of Manhattan. That, and I like to nap in the car. You start off in Brookline and before you know it, you're in Tampa. And with Sheila safely guiding us to our destination, I didn't have to pretend to squint at a map, trying to find the exit.

Sheila also kept track of when Mike was speeding. Every time he went over 35 miles an hour, she would warn, "Caution." I heard "caution" so many times that I thought we would soon be heading off a cliff. It pleased me that there was ANOTHER woman in Mike's life to nag him, that I was the good guy in this situation--my eyes closed and my head resting innocently on the LL Bean travel pillow.

But Sheila was not taking us through Bayonne after all. Instead we ended up on the BQE anyway. More yelling at Sheila. What was she doing to us? We had put our complete faith and trust in her and she was taking us on a wild goose chase through the five boroughs.

Eventually we did find Staten Island. The catering hall was called "Memory Lane" and it was next door to the Staten Island Alzheimer's Foundation, which we thought was some person's idea of a sick joke until the host told us they were connected. I was proud of the fact that we beat our parents to the party--our parents who were coming from Ocean, NJ, a mere stone's throw away. When they did finally arrive we had polished off our salads and had already been to the buffet line.

Turns out they got lost.

We may be acquiring our own Sheila soon. She's a little annoying at times, but no matter how confused we are, she'll get us where we need to go.

Cheese Puffs and Birthday Crowns

so many
many ways--
to have been in love

Boncho Nozawa, from Love Haiku by Patricia Donegan


I was in Trader Joe's the other night, picking up some goat milk on the advice of my podiatrist. He is enamored of the stuff--as he was describing its health benefits to me (good for the bones and joints, aids digestion, guarantees immortality) his usual stone-faced, all business doctor-persona was replaced by a wild enthusiasm, full of gesticulations and sentences that if written down would be lousy with exclamation points. Anyway, since it impressed him so much ("From the first day I drank it, I felt a difference. The first day!") I thought I'd give it a try. Having had a broken foot for six months, I was willing to drink dead gopher's blood through a Krazy Straw if I thought it would help speed along the healing process.

Anyway, it was the first day I was allowed to wear my own shoes (with orthotic inserts) and not that despised orthopediac sandal on my right foot with the beat-up black sneaker on my left (though I wanted to buy new sneakers my husband insisted we wait until my foot was better, so I wouldn't "wear down" the new left shoe.) On my first day back, I chose to wear my sexy black vinyl boots. All September and October I had watched every young woman in every imaginable cute boot, in every height, color, and style. High-heeled boot, cute rain boot, cowboy boot, short boot--they were all represented. Meanwhile if it rained the water would soak through the sandal and my sock, making the bottom of my right foot itch. I was and felt...lame.

So I'm at Trader Joe's, noticeably taller and definitely more put-together in proper, matching footware. I'm waiting in a very long line with people clutching their pre-Thanksgiving booty of butternut squash cubes, fried onions, and cranberry chevre logs. Suddenly, I'm awakened from my long-line-induced stupor by a small boy running past me, clutching a bag of Trader Joe's brand cheese puffs. "I love cheese puffs!" he exclaims, like he's just inherited a million dollars from his Uncle, "I love my dead Uncle!"

The older lady in front of me giggled, and we exchanged smiles, and I said, "I wish I still got that excited about cheese puffs." The woman nodded. We both seemed to reflect on this. Then another baby in an adjacent shopping cart started bawling, and the moment was gone.

What small things did I love as a child that I take for granted now or don't even think about? Here's a short list: Burger King french fries, ladies' hats from the thrift store, cherry italian ice, being picked up and spun around by my father when he got home, watching scary movies with my friend Heather during Friday night sleepovers, the two hots dogs they gave you after you marched with your Girl Scout troop in the Veteran's Day parade, gold-colored cardboard birthday crowns, dancing in my first pair of high-heeled tap shoes, and, speaking of dancing school...anything, ANYTHING decorated with sequins.

What small things do I love now, but which I don't yell out my deep affection for in public: Pomme Frites dipped in mayonnaise, full skirts, Tiramisu-flavored gelato, getting a big hug from my dad when I come to visit them, and otherwise, a kiss from my husband, foreign movies watched while drinking red wine, a Friday night restaurant meal, a pretty piece of vintage jewelry, dancing at weddings, and almost ANYTHING decorated with sequins. And let's not forget boots.

What small things did you once love? What about now? Yes, I know it's very "My Favorite Things" but so what? Fraulein Maria was definitely on to something.

One Year of Giving Notice Now

"Impermanence is a principle of harmony. When we don't struggle against it, we are in harmony with reality."--Pema Chodron

It's been over a year since I started writing on this blog. I don't know that I accomplished what I set out to do (live in the moment) but I've tried, with mixed results. We're wired to daydream, tune out, fantasize, reminisce, hold out hope for better things to come. It's OK to do these things, but it's also useful to catch yourself sometimes and say, I am right here now.

This weekend I visited friends in New York City. I hadn't been in the city for six months--way too long to stay away. Yet sometimes I resist visiting New York. My old city makes me melancholy. I no longer feel the personal, intense longing to fit in as a New Yorker, to feel that New York City loves me as much as I love New York City. But I also miss the thrill of the chase.

I remember the negatives of living there: the crowds of people being swallowed by the entrance to Penn Station, the incessant noise and rude drivers of midtown, the impossibly chic women in their Vogue-inspired fashions who make me feel like the bridge-and-tunnel Jersey girl who shops for her designer clothes at TJ Maxx. Not that I should be ashamed of my roots--we all have to come from somewhere, and I came from Central New Jersey. But New York City was always my golden ring--just out of reach, a bit out of my league.

I worked in Manhattan for ten years and like so many transplants from around the country, I tried to pass. I accumulated a lot of credit card debt in the process, but to this day I believe it was worth it. Now I don't have to wonder what it would have been like to be twentysomething and living in one of the greatest cities on earth--I had my taste, and it was delicious, but not something I can make my regular diet.

Coming back to New York this weekend and anticipating the unstoppable force of nostalgia, I decided to make a list of ten things I wanted to do that I can't do in Boston--maybe that would be a nice way to enjoy the present moments while I was there. I tried hard not to look back over my shoulder, at that 26 year-old me drinking champagne at Flute, eating tapas and drinking sangria on a Tuesday night with my friends in that little Spanish place with the one-letter name in Soho, wandering in the West Village on a warm summer evening, stopping for pizza at Two Boots. I look away from that slimmer, cuter, braver, livelier ghost of me, that girl who was safe in the knowledge that she had something new to discover everyday in a city that changed like the shapes in a viewfinder. I try to focus on who I am now--a woman with more wisdom and spirituality, a smarter woman, a woman of substance with love in her life.

This "woman" forgets to go one level higher in Loehmann's, automatically combing the racks in juniors as she did ten years ago. It's Ladies' Sportswear for me now, or whatever they call clothes for thirty- and forty-somethings (I never understood that term--sportswear. What does that mean exactly? I don't see any tennis skirts or baseball cleats on offer.) I wander aimlessly into the "Womans" section, the Ellen Tracy and Jones New York racks, and I start to sweat. Enjoy this time, I warn myself, enjoy being 36, because it will be gone before you know it and soon you'll be wearing satin tunics and chunky ethnic jewelry.

Later, at the Strand, getting 50% off on new hardcovers downstairs where they keep the discarded review copies--that's still the same--though they don't check your bag anymore, and they sell a lot more Strand-inspired merchandise than they used to, as if The Strand is now The Hard Rock Cafe, another place to acquire a bag or a t-shirt to show people where you've been.

I also notice--when I'm not busy reminiscing--that parts of New York are actually very quiet. Walking down 9th St on a Sunday to meet a friend for lunch at a vegetarian place called Gobo, I notice the stillness, the practically empty sidewalk, the lovely brownstones with pots of flowers on their front steps and ancient vines creeping up their facades. I discover the poet Marianne Moore's house--the plaque says she made that apartment her home for most of her life. I never noticed this historical treasure before. I imagine Marianne emerging from this brownstone, in a smart hat and gloves, going to some literary party. It makes me happy that now, by virtue of being a tourist, I notice more and more that I might have missed before, when I was always racing by on my way to work or dinner or to the subway. Kind of like what I do in Boston now.

I had a lovely time in New York visiting with my friends. They were by far the best part of my weekend. But heading home on the train, I didn't feel that same sting of leaving my beloved city. Not that Boston feels like home yet, but my longing for Manhattan is not as acute as when I left it three years ago. Back then I wrote a love letter to Manhattan, comparing it to the lover who I courted but never won. One day maybe if I live somewhere else, I'll long for the youthful, vibrant, colorful, and intelligent feel of Boston. Or maybe I'll never love a place quite like I did New York City. After all, maybe contentment in the present is better than always reaching for that far-off shangra-la that is the past.

Wherever I am is the right place, and right now that place is here.

Smile and the World Smiles with You...Frown and You're on Your Own

"From my observations of successful and happy people, the roots of their power source go deep into a soil rich in optimism and inspiration. But why does one person's root system choose a soil rich with these nutrients, while an other's withers in pessimism, inertia, and negativism? Optimists realistically know that problems can be solved, and they have the faith in human nature to persevere, even when most are saying swear words like "can't" and "impossible," or are running to find friends that support their pessimism. If you are feeling low or worried about the future, you may want to do what I do. No matter what happens I smile at the learning, irony, or humor of the calamity of the moment."--Paul H. Sutherland, from his article "The Fuel of All Things Good" in the November/December issue of Spirituality & Health

"If the generic 'positive thought' is correct and things are really getting better, if the arc of the universe tends toward happiness and abundance, then why bother with the mental effort of positive thinking? Obviously, because we do not fully believe that things will get better on their own. The practice of positive thinking is an effort to pump up this belief in the face of much contradictory evidence. The truly self-confident, or those who have in some way made their peace with the world and their destiny within it, do not need to expend effort censoring or otherwise controlling their thoughts."--Barbara Ehrenreich, from Bright-Sided: How the Relentless Promotion of Positive Thinking Has Undermined America

My husband Mike was humming this tune from Monty Python's Life of Brian the other night. Maybe you've heard of it. Of course you have. It's called "Always Look on the Bright Side of Life." Knowing that I intensely dislike the British cult hit, Mike continued past the chorus and even did the whistling part. He told me (since I have never seen the movie) that the song figures in the final scene, when Brian has been sentenced to death by crucifixion and a character on a nearby cross starts singing this tune. Here's what Wikipedia had to say about the song:

"Always Look on the Bright Side of Life" was conceived as a parody of the style of song often featured in Disney films. It may be considered an answer song to the entire genre, but particularly to songs such as Give a Little Whistle from Pinocchio. Its appearance at the end of the film, when the central character seems certain to die, is deliberately ironic.

I've been doing a lot of reading about positive thinking, and how to be more optimistic, so when I read a review of Barbara Ehrenreich's new book Bright-Sided I was definitely interested. As much as I want to believe in the power of positive thinking, sometimes I feel a little pang that tells me, Don't be delusional. You need to be realistic. Don't mistake sinking into quicksand for a day at the beach. In other words, being optimistic is great, but not in every situation you encounter.

There has been a lot of debate over this book, with critics and readers taking sides and arguing or becoming defensive of their particular views. Few people want to question the validity of the mind-body connection, even though some studies have recently shown that being positive in the face of a Cancer diagnosis might help you cope, but it's probably not going to heal the Cancer.

Sometimes I feel like the edict to "Don't worry, be happy" is another way of saying, "Shut up and take it." Nobody wants an Eeyore around to remind them that sometimes life is unfair and terrible things can happen to undeserving people. To me, just smiling and wishing these things away seems like a form of denial.

I'm reminded of an old boss I had when I was working as an editorial assistant for a New York technical book publisher. I had recently transferred to the trade books department, which I figured would be far more interesting than working with Chemistry journals. He was the Executive Editor of the Mind, Body, Spirit books, which seemed intriguing. I didn't know that I would soon be ordered to organize manuscripts in his claustrophically-cluttered office, or constantly have to lie to authors and agents about his whereabouts (which I suspected, when I accidentally caught a glimpse of his computer screen, was shutting himself in his office to look at pictures of young Thai boys.)

I intensely disliked him, but thought I was doing an OK job of hiding it. But one morning he asked me to come into his office and close the door. He was sitting with his chair tilted back, hands behind his head, exposing his armpit stains. "You need to smile more," he said. I was taken aback by this; what was I, a stewardess? Next he'd be asking me to fetch his coffee and the paper so he could pat me on the head and send me on my way. But he was serious. He looked at me as if my job was threatened if I didn't make with the false cheer. I was furious.

When I have a good or even decent boss, I'm a friendly person to work with. I understand that being pleasant and flexible are usually expected from people in the workplace. And most of the time I am genuinely pleased to talk to my superiors and co-workers because I like them and enjoy my job. But smiling in the face of an egotistical, slimy worm of a boss goes beyond my capabilities to be genial.

Same thing goes for getting sick. What's fun or inspiring about Cancer? A vague discomfort settles over me every October when I see all the pink ribbons and pink merchandise on offer everywhere you look. This year seems particularly pink. The cap on my prescription bottle is pink. My weekly local paper is printed on pink stock. Come October, every woman's magazine turns into a big catalog of pink paraphernalia; you start to feel like having breast cancer is like joining a women's club where everyone is smiling and happy and self-assured. Sure, it's great to raise money and support women experiencing this horrible disease, but do we really need a pink ribbon silicone spatula?

When my doctor found a suspicious lump in my breast and I had to go in for further testing, I didn't want to even see the word "Cancer," much less own tchtokes that would remind me of it. Luckily my lump was benign, but Barbara Ehrenreich wasn't so lucky. But rather than just remaining silent and saying her daily affirmations, she tried to find out what might have been the cause of her cancer. Turned out it was the hormone replacement drugs her doctor prescribed, drugs that many, many other women were taking at the time. But never mind, just have a positive outlook and you'll get well. Shut up and take it, indeed.

I'm only halfway through the book, so I haven't decided if I agree with everything in Bright-Sided. I want a joyful life, and because I worry a lot (often needlessly) I have spent years learning the techniques of cognitive behavioral therapy. But there are times when I think that being realistic is far more important than being recklessly optimistic. And reaching out to help others is more valuable than constantly monitoring of my own negative/positive thoughts for signs of "those curses like 'can't' and 'impossible.'"

Buddhism doesn't require you to label your thoughts good or bad--just regard them as "thinking" and then let the thoughts go. Maybe that's the compromise I'll need to come to--nothing good remains, nothing bad remains. Face the bad (and good) stuff without trying to change it, and then let it go.

On a mission

Bionic Finger
Photo credit: Tom Weiss

"Our life's work is to use what we have been given to wake up. If there were two people who were exactly the same--same body, same speech, same mind, same mother, same father, same house, same food, everything the same--one of them could use what he has to wake up and the other could use it to become more resentful, bitter, and sour. It doesn't matter what you're given, whether it's physical deformity or enormous wealth or poverty, life in the middle of a madhouse or life in the middle of a peaceful, silent desert. Whatever you're given can wake you up or put you to sleep. That's the challenge of now: what are you going to do with what you have already--your body, your speech, your mind?"--Pema Chodron, from Awakening Loving-Kindness

A friend and I were talking about life choices, and whether or not we believed that everyone had something they were good at, that they could make their life's work. I agreed, my friend wasn't so sure. The first thought that came to mind was, I knew from a young age that I wanted to work with books. But then I thought, yes, and you also wanted to be a writer. And everyday that goes by that I don't write, that I spend cleaning or playing with the kitten, or most often, reading another new book, is another day that I haven't used doing something that brings me the most joy.

Why do we constantly put off what we can do today for what we think we'll do tomorrow? Why do we so often choose to avoid what could make us more fulfilled? For me its easy--fear of failure. If I'm working with an author, supporting their book and sharing it with others, I'm OK, I'm safe. It's not my "baby" out there being passed around and judged, but someone else's. When one book is marginally successful while another book is an instant hit, it reminds me that there are lots of good writers out there, writers who are good enough to get PUBLISHED, but only a precious few that people have even heard of, much less read. How can I compete in such a vast arena of talent? What if I put all my heart and soul into something, and then no one wants it?

Working in publishing for 13 years, and seeing the realities of what it takes to be successful (talent, but also timing, luck, and/or a great editor) has discouraged me, but I've also discouraged myself, time after time, from at least TRYING. If I try pole vaulting, I'm fairly certain I will be bad at it; if I take up tennis, I'm pretty sure I'll miss more balls than I hit; if I were to go for an MBA, I know I would fail out and that's perfectly OK with me because that's not where my interest and passion lies. But if I were to write a book or even a short piece and never get it published (or even read, except by family members) then I worry I'll be crushed.

Fear. It keeps coming back to that word. For Halloween this year, my cousin is throwing a big party where everyone has been told to dress as their worst fear. I don't know what other guests are thinking, but my first reaction is not conjuring up Dracula, the Headless Horseman, Damien, zombies, or the Blob (though that movie terrified me as a kid--it looked so much like my favorite Cherry Jello turned menace.) I think of getting old and wrinkly and soft, or pushing a shopping cart around while people pass me by without more than a glance, or being hunched over a walker like an old woman who didn't drink enough milk as a kid. I think of loneliness, of rejection, of being laughed at, of not being good enough. I think of rejection letters, lots and lots of rejection letters. Maybe I should go as a rejection letter, just some short form an editorial assistant printed out by the reamful and stuffed in an envelope.

But then I think of my friend who is so smart and so clever and so unique, but who doesn't really believe it. So many people are like that. It makes me happy that after a long hiatus raising me and working, my mother is painting again. She tells me, Oh but I have to take a class to get motivated. So what, I think, at least you're doing it. A friend who years ago failed to get into business school was recently downsized from her job at a big name firm and took the opportunity to apply again. This time she got in to a great school and is really enjoying her classes. Another friend works a regular day job to pay the bills, but uses his free time to write and teach witchcraft. He's had two books published and is now earning $100 per student for his email class (and that's in a down economy!) One of my oldest friends was in a band for 10+ years. They were pretty successful around the local New York music scene (which to me is really admirable considering how competitive it is in NYC clubs.) She dived right into her passion. I always thought (and still do) that that made her one of the bravest people I know.

What are you afraid of that's keeping you from discovering your life's work? What fear is driving you to distract yourself with less important tasks? What are you good at, and if you're not doing it, why not?

Yoga for a Woman Out of Balance

"Fear is nervousness; fear is anxiety; fear is a sense of inadequacy, a feeling that we may not be able to deal with the challenges of everyday life at all. We feel that life is overwhelming. People may use yoga to suppress their fear..."--Chögyam Trungpa, from Smile at Fear: Awakening the True Heart of Bravery

The decision is always a tough one: stay in bed/on the couch, staring at the wall or with my eyes closed but not sleeping--or, get up and do something productive in the morning, something healthy that will make my life like a cereal commercial. I'm the well-dressed career woman who admires her slimmer figure in a full-length mirror, picks up her sporty gym bag, then eats a bowl of Special K (which I would like to add is made with high fructose corn syrup, a contributor to weight GAIN) and sashays out the door, oozing self-satisfaction.

Or I'm the petite and lean young woman with the bouncy blonde ponytail and the "Arlington 5K Race" T-shirt, running at a swift pace without sweating or wheezing. I see this person all over the place--in the park, on the city streets, in my neighborhood. She's everywhere and she's always fitter than you.

The point is, I can loaf around and eat a second bowl of Kashi Autumn Wheat or I can get up and exercise. Since I quit the gym (I never went, it was boring, I felt compelled to take a shower and put on make-up BEFORE going to workout!) and after I stopped my walking routine, I've been feeling muscle aches, lower back pain, and just a general apathy about my body. But I remember what it's like to feel strong and energized, and I want that feeling back.

So here I am again, starting yet ANOTHER workout regimen. This time its Yoga. I figured it would be an appropriate practice, considering where I work. The pictures of the fresh-faced women in Yoga Journal, the kinds who only eat natural products and bathe themselves in kelp and are 55 but look 35--maybe I can aspire to be like them. No more Proctor & Gamble chemically-laced soap and shampoo for me! I will only buy my toiletries from obscure producers in California. No more Cheez-Its breaks! I will munch on unbleached almonds. I will practice Yoga at home everyday until I'm confident enough to take my act on the road, to a Yoga studio.

I bought the Rodney Yee's Yoga for Beginners DVD (featuring Colleen Saidman, yet another pretty, lithe middle-aged woman who looks like a college student.) I had a roommate who used a Rodney Yee DVD to do Yoga. She said she had heard that Yee was a letch in real life, sleeping around with his female students. If this is true, it wouldn't surprise or really phase me. He's rich, he's famous, he can wrap himself into a pretzel. Many women would find that attractive.

I start with the practice poses. If there were someone in my livingroom right now guiding me, they'd probably be constantly repositioning my Mountain pose or pushing my legs out further for Downward Facing Dog. I make up some poses. I struggle to replicate Rodney. It reminds me of when I was a little girl in Miss Maria's class at Bayshore Dance Academy, when she told my mother that I had a hard time following the class. It's probably because I had to stop and think before I could remember which was my right foot and which was my left, or I'd have to pause to do the "L"-shaped thumb reminder. By the time I had pinpointed the correct leg, the other dancers were on to something else.

Yoga is supposed to be relaxing. Unfortunately, our kitten Joey Thumbs keeps digging her claws around my ankles and "playing" with me. I try to shake her off without flinging her across the room, but she's surprisingly strong. I should have known this. After all, I had witnessed her running toward the front of the dishwasher several times and ramming her head into it, without showing any signs of a headache or permanent brain damage.

When I manage to get Joey off me, she goes after her other favorite punching bag, our ten-year-old cat Audrey. I focus on my breath while trying to block out the sounds of growling, hissing, and spitting. When the 40-minutes are up, I feel both relief and a sense of accomplishment. But I won't get ahead of myself here. I'm only on Day #2. They say it takes three weeks to form a habit.

I disagree with Chogyam Trungpa that Yoga is an escape from fear. Yoga has inspired fear in me for years--in addition to the right/left problem, I'm also a high-strung type. The one other time I took a yoga class, in college, I hated lying on the floor contemplating the top of my head. Such stillness and physical awareness scared me. Now it's becoming a welcome respite, a time to slow down and really experience my strong legs, flexible back muscles, and open chest. I feel what it's like to stand up straight instead of slouching, to reach up instead of shrinking back.

When I walk to work this morning, I stand a little bit taller.

Ghee, You're Swell

"Muffins are wonderfully quick and easy to prepare, and generally they require only 20 minutes or so to bake. Plus people are fond of muffins--at least I am."--Edward Espe Brown, from The Tassajara Bread Book

Yoga Journal recently had this wonderful recipe for Apple Muffins. It was a gorgeous, sunny Sunday but I was indoors baking muffins. They made the kitchen smell like a scented candle, except the mingling smells of cinnamon and cloves and apple were real, and not created by a chemical factory.

I felt a little guilty not going outside. I half-expected a call from my mother saying, "Get out and enjoy the weather, it's a beautiful day!" She says this often. I expect mothers of pale adult children everywhere say this. And yes, some natural Vitamin A would have been good for my broken foot bones. But I was so excited that it was cool enough to turn the oven on that I chose baking as my sensory pleasure of the moment.

The recipe was fairly straightforward: 2 chopped apples, 2 cups whole wheat flour (I used half King Arthur whole-wheat and half KA all-purpose flour. I find baking with exclusively wheat flour makes the end product too dense), 2 eggs. It called for delightful warming spices, like cinnamon and cardamom and cloves, and 2 TBSP of maple syrup to coat the apples. Dates were also on the list, but as I despise any dried fruit (including raisins) I substituted with chopped walnuts. The only unusual ingredient was Ghee.

I had heard of Ghee before but was scared of it. Before I came to love Indian food, I had heard stories of non-Indians getting sick from Ghee. I always assumed it was spoiled butter.

When I told Mike about needing Ghee, thinking maybe they'd have it in the international aisle in Star Market, he immediately jumped on the computer. He found a cooking blog called Ma Cooks that ticked off the many wonders of Ghee and how to make it at home. Eager for something new to try, Mike got started on the Ghee, frequently stirring the butter in a pan for 15-20 minutes.

Meanwhile I wrestled with the apple corer, shooting tubes of core through the air like I was playing with a rocket launcher. Mike reported that his Ghee didn't look clear enough. Should he skim the foam off the top? There was some talk of using a cheese cloth to strain it, but I wasn't an advanced enough cook to have some just lying around. Ma Cooks had said that the solids would sink to the bottom and get caramelized. She recommended saving this to put on hot cereal. We were both intrigued. Carmelized butter on oatmeal or Cream of Wheat--it sounded heavenly.

But the bottom of the pan eventually scorched, so there was none of that. However, the Ghee that resulted was the same color as the picture on the blog. Frankly, it looked like a urine sample in a jar, but it was too late for me to change my mind.

The muffins came out beautifully, with nice brown tops and a layer of gooey chunks of sweet apples inside. I loved the combination of the softness of the muffin and the crunchiness of the walnuts. They were warm and filling, and since they came from Yoga Journal, they had to be healthy, right?

We each ate two.

The question then was, what do we do with the rest of the Ghee? A few hours after it was made, the consistency thickened and the yellow color went from dark to light. Ma Cooks said she used her Ghee up in a matter of days. But we had never cooked with Ghee before. Could it replace olive oil or butter when we sauteed onions and garlic? Could we drizzle it on popcorn? Or was it strictly an Indian food ingredient? I figured I'd whip up a vegetable curry at some point.

But Michael raved about it. "Smell it," he said, holding the open jar up to my nose. It smelled like the inside of a movie theater, a somewhat stale smell that made you salivate nonetheless.

He smeared a piece of bread with it. "Mmmm" he said. Curiosity got the better of me, even as I worried that I was headed toward intestinal disaster.

It was as delicious as he said. I had a second piece of toast just to savor more Ghee goodness. Again, I had assumed I didn't like something, but never bothered to test my theory. I thought I didn't like Indian food, but proved myself wrong several years ago. I thought I would get sick from Ghee, but so far, so delicious.

I have a feeling we won't be hanging on to our jar of Ghee for very long, either.