I wanna say I am above this whole Royal wedding hoopla created in anticipation of the grand event tomorrow, April 29th.  I mean, the world has more consuming issues to attend to and in the microcosm of my day-to-day, I’ve certainly got bigger fish to fry.  I wanna join Ad Age and The New York Times in their scoffing at Papa John’s Pizza for actually making a pizza portrait of William and Kate.  I wanna.  I really wanna.  Heck, there are tornadoes destroying entire communities all over this country.

But I can’t help but be swept away in the Royal frill.  I gawk at the television snippets.  And speculate with the paparazzi when I break down and buy one of those cheesy magazines at the supermarket checkout.  And soak in the circus feel born with so much of this event  under ...Read on]]>  

I wanna say I am above this whole Royal wedding hoopla created in anticipation of the grand event tomorrow, April 29th.  I mean, the world has more consuming issues to attend to and in the microcosm of my day-to-day, I’ve certainly got bigger fish to fry.  I wanna join Ad Age and The New York Times in their scoffing at Papa John’s Pizza for actually making a pizza portrait of William and Kate.  I wanna.  I really wanna.  Heck, there are tornadoes destroying entire communities all over this country.

But I can’t help but be swept away in the Royal frill.  I gawk at the television snippets.  And speculate with the paparazzi when I break down and buy one of those cheesy magazines at the supermarket checkout.  And soak in the circus feel born with so much of this event  under wraps.

There really are so many opportunities for the mind to become distracted in all this.  Did the pizza artist use a careful combo of anchovies, olives, and peppers to create subtle shading in Kate’s hair? (Is pizza art a profession?) What on earth does a tea biscuit cake, made properly, taste like?  Will Kate’s dress be a poofy Cinderella ensemble or a chic, elegant svelte number? (I’m rooting for number two.)

This obsession with royal nuptials began in my childhood. I  proudly retell whomever cares to listen that on that fateful day young  Diana was wed to the dashing (okay, not the best adjective for the guy but it works well with the story) Prince Charles, I stood on the sidelines, squished amongst many a sweaty bystander, waiting for a glimpse of the princess and her prince.

Okay, so I was ten and probably all I saw was the person’s butt in front of me, but still, there was that wonder, that deliciously flawed fairy-tale that all ten-year old girls breathe in, of the beautiful princess marrying her prince.  It sounded good back then, and, even though I am much older and hopefully a bit wiser now, a chip of that magic seems to have stuck with my nostalgia and ferried its way up to a healthy intrigue with this present day Royal lovefest.

I didn’t invent the wheel on this, I realize. We are a country obsessed with glitz and celebrities.  Add royalty and it’s even better.  Entertainment Tonight is a thriving show for some good reason (I gather) and even CBS Evening news anchor Katie Couric has climbed aboard the fawning bandwagon as an excuse to hang out in London all this week.

And I’m really not that bad.  I won’t wake up at 4 a.m. to watch the wedding.  Nor will I partake in TLC’s mega marathon 8-hour coverage of the event.  But I will shamelessly use the occasion as an excuse to bake, preparing delicious mini-strawberry cupcakes as a tribute to the British scone, but American style.  The recipe comes from Nigella Lawson (another nod to the Brits!) but I got it from the back of People magazine (purchased during one of those trashy moments of weakness.)

I made this batch with my son.  He is eight and still enjoys hearing me blabber on about my youth.  No eye rolling, yet.  He has no clue who the hell William and Kate are and his life appears to be quite enriched and happy nonetheless.  But man, the kid can dice up strawberries like there’s no tomorrow and measure and mix like a pro.  That and the eyelashes official crown him as prince of this household.

“Did you…(pause, as a sense of betrayal/loss/shock glazes over me)…was it you who?” (Pause again, more betrayal/loss/shock.)

“It’s not what it looks like!” he shouted, a bit too automatically.

“I just went to the garage fridge to get some Parmesan cheese and I saw…”

“Look, it’s just once in a while.  It doesn’t mean much, um, anything.  Doesn’t mean anything at all, really.” His eyes look at me sharply, brow furrowed, muscles tense:  this is the look of a scared man.

“So the île flottante from last Wednesday…” I begin to ask in a loud voice, the shock quickly ...Read on]]> Dishonesty is an ugly beast.  Even more so when it rears its unsightly head between a man and his wife.   Like last night.  When I opened the garage fridge.  Sparks flew.  And not the kind that leave behind broken bedposts or sleepless neighbors (or both.)

“Did you…(pause, as a sense of betrayal/loss/shock glazes over me)…was it you who?” (Pause again, more betrayal/loss/shock.)

“It’s not what it looks like!” he shouted, a bit too automatically.

“I just went to the garage fridge to get some Parmesan cheese and I saw…”

“Look, it’s just once in a while.  It doesn’t mean much, um, anything.  Doesn’t mean anything at all, really.” His eyes look at me sharply, brow furrowed, muscles tense:  this is the look of a scared man.

“So the île flottante from last Wednesday…” I begin to ask in a loud voice, the shock quickly being replaced by anger.  I feel my left eye start to throb.

“Spectacular,” he bounces back, hopeful.  He is hopeful, I see it now. Hopeful this will end with just one compliment to distract me. Hopeful I will not dive into the gravity of the situation.  Hopeful it isn’t me, the gourmand, he is talking to right now.

“And the tangerine clafoutis from Monday was…” I trailed off, waiting.

“Phenomenal. Exquisite.  I loved the tango between the creaminess and citrus.”

He is reaching now. I know it, because he used the word tango to describe my dessert.  Tango, the lover’s dance.  He could have said anything, but he chose the word.  These things do not happen by accident.

“Strawberry tart?” I bark.  “Dulce De Leche Cupcakes?” I continue, my voice shrill.  “My mother’s extraordinary one-of-a-kind bittersweet chocolate brownies?  These mean nothing to you?”

The tiniest bead of sweat escapes from his disheveled sideburn and I wonder where he will take this next.

“Amazing. Memorable.  Delightful.  Scrumptious.”  He recites all these like a child studying for the Spelling Bee. “It’s just that sometimes, I want a bite of Jell-O,” he offers flatly.

“Sugarless Jell-O,” I correct him, the image of such discovery in the garage fridge burning bright in my mind, not knowing which word is worse a crime in this cradle of culinary decadence.

“Sugarless.  Jell-O,” he concedes, defeated.

I throw a steely stare in his direction for added theatrics and realize a look of relief has spread across his face.  A burden lifted?  A secret revealed?  Would this mean that Jell-O would now parade freely amongst us?  The thought of neon green, orange and red plastic cups sharing space with my thoughtfully concocted creations in the main fridge was too much to bare and for a brief second I wished I had never gone looking for that wedge of Parmesan cheese.

“Fine.”  I huff.  “Keep it in the back fridge,” I command, ensuing a false sense of control over the situation.  This is the tango he digs.  Now he waves the white flag, you’ll see.

“Since you mentioned it,” he offers, sauntering up to me and boldly placing his hands on my waist “dulce de leche cupcakes sounds pretty good to me!”

My daughter balances me out. Oh don’t tell her I said so, and on my blog no less, but she does. Many times I forget this myself. I am too busy in mother mode, which, as any parent will contest, requires a tight leash at times. She can be a handful because she is so damn smart (and now you nod and you say, ‘here goes another mother about to bore me to death with her daughter’s attributes, if she could she’d pull out the video, no wait, she’s going to attach a YouTube link of The Daughter performing “You Light Up My Life” on the piano. Just wait. I know it is coming.) I mean, yes, she whips out a mean version of her own music on our dusty keyboard (inventing music is always more intriguing than ...Read on]]>

My daughter balances me out. Oh don’t tell her I said so, and on my blog no less, but she does. Many times I forget this myself. I am too busy in mother mode, which, as any parent will contest, requires a tight leash at times. She can be a handful because she is so damn smart (and now you nod and you say, ‘here goes another mother about to bore me to death with her daughter’s attributes, if she could she’d pull out the video, no wait, she’s going to attach a YouTube link of The Daughter performing “You Light Up My Life” on the piano. Just wait. I know it is coming.) I mean, yes, she whips out a mean version of her own music on our dusty keyboard (inventing music is always more intriguing than following sheet music to her), but I won’t subject you to that. I was an aunt for many more years before I was a mom, so I know about endless VHS performances. (Note: apologies to all my wonderful nieces and nephews, whom I adore and am endlessly proud of.)

It’s this kindness in Dani that both balances me out and unsettles me. Yes. You read right. Unsettles me. Most likely because it is so foreign to me. Don’t get me wrong; I am not a total bitch. Just partial. And more so if I haven’t had coffee. Or my morning orange juice. Or my eight hours of sleep. And then of course if I am interrupted. At any time. In the middle of anything. And endless coughing. Don’t get me started on how I respond to that.

But Daniela, she’s a whole other story. It starts in those eyes. They are huge and soft almonds lined with incredibly thick eyelashes. And when you look inside them, you aren’t quite sure what color they are- a mixture of honeycomb and caramel on sunny days, sometimes a temperamental green, other times they are pools of rich dark chocolate. They seem to have a mind of their own.

Which leads me back to the difficult part and the unsettling part because if you saw them in action you’d never forget them. They’d enchant you as they have me, and I am not saying this as her mother but as her prey, because alongside the eyes comes that old soul that is Daniela and when that soul and those eyes get together you are inevitably sucked into a whirlpool of goodness, no matter what. This child, at two, insisted with the librarian at storybook time that she give her two cookies, no not two for her, but one for her and an extra for her aunt who was sitting way in the back and most definitely wanted a cookie. The librarian didn’t understand this feisty little girl and kept repeating to her that every child gets one cookie, but she hadn’t contended with Dani’s strong will until that point and that tiny toddler stood firm on her ground and insisted for two two two until she made it clear that she needed the extra one for someone else. And, yes, she got it.

Three years later these same eyes softened and changed as they absorbed horrible scenes on the evening news of schoolchildren stranded because of a devastating tsunami many many worlds away from her safe, manicured suburb in the United States. The empathy that filled her eyes compelled her to do something and that steadfast stubborn will sprout itself anew and she insisted insisted insisted she needed to raise money for the Tsunami victims and she did, by golly she did, selling cupcakes she had made on the streets of Plantation, a determined five-year old stopping cars and stating her case. That kind, stubborn creature made all vehicles stop and give, much more than she even cared ask for people gave and gave and gave and she turned around and gave it all to the Red Cross without a doubt in the world that things were better now.

When the earthquake struck Haiti I knew my bitchiness was doomed. Images flooded the news and personal stories trickled into our lives: there was Clarice, the girl in her class who couldn’t find her grandmother, Charles our Handyman who’d lost track of his brother and all his family, orphans being flown into Jackson Memorial Hospital, right here in Miami. It was too horrible, too real, and too close and Daniela’s eyes began to grow restless. I knew something was coming and I welcomed it. She insisted on baking, because this is how we heal in our house: a pot roast for a family reunion, chicken soup for a sick friend; so she would bake carrot muffins to raise money for the victims in Haiti. She did it all, stirring, measuring, sifting, her eyes narrowed into a deep focus and that stubborn will propelled forward. Amongst clouds of flour and cinnamon she moved and I was proud and honored to be beside her, a willing audience and participant of this amazing deed and inspiring human being, all of age ten. I wondered what was in store for her. What the world was in store for with her in it. And by being around her, being connected to this, a part of it rubs off me and I am in a better place now too, even without the morning coffee and the extra hours of sleep, I am in a better place, piggybacking my way to heaven on Daniela’s good will because that kindness that is so her calms me, settles me, shows me that in all this tragedy there are good people and the world can be a better place. With Dani, it’s a start.

Come out and support Dani as she sells her carrot muffins, this Saturday, January 23, at Central Park’s Aquatic Center from 9:00-11:00. All proceeds go to The American Red Cross!