These chocolate-dipped macaroons were an indirect byproduct of the fresh mint ice cream I made last week (this time I used the smaller-leafed mint variety that is closer to peppermint, but it still had a greenness that I am not sure I love in that flavor of ice cream). A custard-based ice cream requires 5 large egg yolks. Usually, I try to get a cheap dozen for this purpose, rather than using five of my prized and pricier local pastured eggs. I didn’t plan well, though, and time was not on my side, so I carefully separated five bright-orange yolks from their whites. I just couldn’t throw them down the drain — that was a dollar’s worth of egg whites (any inkling at this point at just how far my thriftiness-compulsion can go?)!

I remembered from David’s site that he had given folks in my position some helpful suggestions. I didn’t see a single recipe for an egg-white omelet, but I did immediately notice one for these coconut-chocolate macaroons. I’ve never made macaroons, and was delighted to discover that they are not nearly as finicky as meringues (both include egg whites, but the meringues can take on a personality of their own, and just up and decide to never dry out, remaining a disappointing blob of stickiness just to spite you). It’s not quite as quick as whipping up a batch of chocolate chip cookies, since there is a small amount of pre-cooking required; but you can do that days, even months ahead, and then they come together quite quickly.

I’ve found that most people can be weird about coconut. A good percentage of the population will emphatically exclaim that they don’t like it, and refuse to taste a morsel such as the ones pictured above. But my anecdotal experience says that, once you convince someone to try, they often change their tune. Their previous association of the tropical seed involves an overly-sweet, fake-tasting, piña-colada-mix, almond-joy sort of coconut. And these cookies? They would blush and scoff at the insinuation.

The moral of the story? Waste not the white, want not for dessert.

Dare you ponder the reason I had in my possession 14 mangoes? It all started last Saturday morning, at the Athens Farmer’s Market. I ran into a friend who casually mentioned purchasing an entire case of mangoes at Earth Fare for $5. I didn’t think much of it, until later that day I had to run into the grocery and found myself walking past the display with All. Those. Mangoes. An entire case (yes, that would be 14). The display even did the math for you: 36¢ per mango. It wasn’t the food-lover in me that made the move: it was the cheapskate. I would find a way to use them, and lo and behold, I did (though my family might writhe in protest if another mango enters our house within the next month):

Mango lassi
I’ve covered this before, and have now had one a day for 4 days. Not tired of them yet.

Mango sorbet (adapted from David’s book)
If you have an ice cream maker, this is as easy as it gets (well, no — banana sorbet is actually easier, but this is still really, really easy, and your returns outweigh your effort):

Put in a blender:

• 2 large, ripe mangoes, peeled and cut into pieces (try to get as much of the flesh as you can, and squeeze the pits with your hands over the blender to extract every bit of mango juice)
• 2/3 cup sugar
• 2/3 cup water
• pinch salt
• 1 Tbsp rum (dark or light) — this really helps soften the texture, so if you have the rum, use it!
• 1 1/2 Tbsp fresh lime juice (from 1-2 limes)

Blend until smooth, then refrigerate to chill thoroughly. Freeze in your ice cream maker, according to the instructions.

Mango popsicles
Follow the instructions for mango sorbet, omitting the rum, and reducing the sugar to 1/3 cup (popsicles don’t do well when softened by the extra sugar and alcohol). After blending, pour immediately into popsicle molds, and freeze (makes about 6 popsicles, depending on the size of the mold).

Mango salsa
This is from a well-marked page of fresh salsa recipes in my copy of The Moosewood Cookbook. I change her original instructions slightly: I don’t think the onion needs to be wilted, especially if you let the salsa sit for a bit before using; I also add the option to replace cilantro with parsley. This makes plain grilled chicken or fish turn into something spectacular:

Combine the following in a bowl and stir gently. Let sit for about 1/2 hour before serving:

• 2 Tbsp finely minced red onion
• 1 ripe mango, peeled and finely diced
• 1 medium clove garlic, minced
• 2 Tbsp fresh lime juice
• 1/2 tsp salt
• cayenne pepper, to taste
• 2 Tbsp minced cilantro or flat-leaf parsley

Eat the last mango
Even if you do all of the above, you might still end up with a lone straggler. I’m looking at a wrinkled-up specimen, as I type. Tomorrow, I shall bravely peel away the shriveling skin and eat what flesh is edible, straight-up. Call me crazy, if you wish.

We (meaning: Tim and I) are under a bit of stress. Our house isn’t selling, and in fact, no one is even looking. I know — this story is a common one at this point in our great democracy with its wonders of capitalism. But it’s not only close to home right now, it is our home, the very home we are packing up and leaving in about 5 weeks.

So what do you do? Well, if you are me, you slip into a comfortable place of not necessarily denial, but perhaps willing suspension of belief. And, you make things to eat.

I’m looking for little bits of happy anywhere I can get them. And in Monday’s produce box, those bits came in the form of organic bing cherries. I had passed on buying a few pounds at Kroger earlier that day, my sacrifice for staying in-budget. And that night, there they were — little orbs of deep-red decadence. We ate a few right then and there, but the whole reason I’d been eyeing them at the grocery was so I could make candied cherries. To put in ice cream. So that we could eat Toasted Almond-Candied Cherry-Fudge Swirl ice cream. Make your head spin? Mine, too. In a good, delirious, forget-potential-financial-disasters sort of way.

Like most things I cook for the first time, I didn’t realize how easy it’d be. No candy thermometer necessary, no watching for ball stages, no corn syrup (although I did use that in the fudge swirl). Just sugar, water, cherries, lemon juice, and a drop (literally) of almond extract. The hardest part was pitting the cherries which — minus the appropriate gadget — I did with a pairing knife, and it took about 10 minutes for a pound. Nice, therapeutic work, while my kids were all napping.

Today I put it all together into the ice cream. Have I used the word decadent already, in this post? We had friends over for dinner, and all had a bowl for dessert. But there’s more in the freezer, and my guess is that I’ll be drowning my worries in a second helping, here in about five.

If your current financial status doesn’t have you mapping out an emergency plan, you might not need to go as far as making the ice cream, which is on the labor-intensive side, with all its many homemade mix-ins.  But if you like cherries, consider buying a pound and trying this. You could stir it into store-bought vanilla or chocolate. And the leftover syrup makes a great topping for both ice cream and plain yogurt.

Next post: a successful first-attempt at homemade mozzarella! (Can you tell that there is apparently a proportional relationship between my stress level and my consumption of dairy?)

Candied Cherries (from The Perfect Scoop, by David Lebovitz)

• 1 pound fresh cherries
• 1 1/2 cups water
• 1 cup sugar
• 1 Tbsp freshly-squeezed lemon juice
• 1 drop almond extract (careful with this — too much can ruin it)

Stem and pit the cherries. Heat the cherries, water, sugar, and lemon juice in a large saucepan until the liquid starts to boil. Turn down the heat to a low boil and cook the cherries for 25-35 minutes, stirring frequently toward the end to prevent sticking. Once the liquid is the consistency of maple syrup, remove the pan from the heat, and stir in the almond extract. Let the cherries cool in the syrup.

If you’re mixing them in to ice cream, let the cherries drain in a strainer for about an hour (reserve the syrup for another use). Coarsely chop the drained cherries and fold them into 1 quart of softened (or just-churned) ice cream. If not using them right away, they keep in the refrigerator for 2 weeks.

When he clearly states in a recipe that you should “use a top-quality cocoa powder; it will make a huge difference,” then you should stop what you’re doing, drive the half-mile to Earth Fare, and drop eight bucks on a box of Droste cocoa. Otherwise, the chocolate sorbet won’t have the magic. This is one time when Hershey’s just doesn’t cut it.

This was the result of a perfect storm of happenings/realizations:

1. Avocados are in season. Which means that, when faced with a huge bin of organic avocados at Earth Fare selling for $1 each, I am forced to buy at least four. Maybe a half-dozen.
2. My children don’t eat avocados. Leaving me and Tim to consume 6 ripe avocados. That’s a lot of guac.
3. It’s warming up. Time to dust off the ice cream maker, and bring out David Lebowitz’s book again.
4. After watching an episode of last season’s Top Chef, and hearing all the judges bark horrified, eye-rolling comments about a certain contestant’s avocado sorbet, saying it tasted like “cold guacamole,” I couldn’t help but wonder if they were right.

Who wouldn’t want to try avocado ice cream? Ok — well, you really should try it. It is surprising and subtle — not at all like cold guacamole. It’s admittedly an odd thing, sweet avocado. But while the avocado flavor doesn’t disappear completely, it primarily lends a freshness to the ice cream, and an incomparable texture.

As a bonus, it’s an absolute breeze to make: avocados, sour cream, heavy cream, sugar, lime juice. Whirl it all in a blender or food processor, and put it right away in your ice cream maker. It took less than 10 minutes of prep, and 20 minutes in the maker.

The above-pictured variation was suggested in the ice cream book: basically, an avocado milkshake, a common south-of-the-border treat. A couple scoops of the ice cream, with milk, a little extra sugar, a little extra lime juice, and ice. The optional addition is a shot of espresso (which I forewent, being without an espresso maker). It was a true afternoon pick-me-up, in a serving small enough so that I didn’t feel sick the rest of the day.

We’re off to another American city tomorrow: this time, Indianapolis. Not sure how much time we’ll have for adventure in restaurant-hopping, but we’ll try our darnedest, and have a full report next week.

Does anyone else get a mental visual of Robin Williams dressed in red polyester when viewing this empty wrapper? If I’ve said it once, I’ve said it a million times: those crazy Swedes, with their umlaut-ed vowels.

So I was back at Ikea this week. And while I didn’t get a chance to down a dozen meatballs, I did stop for a bottle of water at the cafeteria and was met with a display full of chocolate bars. Some milk, some dark. Being the person that I am, surprise, surprise: I picked up the dark (it was the perfect thing to pair with my water, and nourish me for the attack of a shopping list replete with lightbulbs, rug underlays, and kid-art frames).

And it was good. Especially considering the fact that it cost me one dollar. That’s twice as much as the hotdog that I ate a few hours later, on my way out of the Euro-Wonderland, but a third of the cost of most dark chocolate bars I purchase.

Several years ago, when my husband started his PhD, and we were “poor graduate students,” (even though I was finished with my studies and, in fact, somewhat gainfully employed), we used to buy a five-dollar double-bottle of wine from a warehouse club. And we thought, you know, this is pretty good. And so that’s the wine we drank, for almost a year. And then one day we happened to drink some decent wine — and realized almost instantly that what we had been drinking for a year was closer in relation to a beverage that came in a large box with a pour spout. Therefore, I’m the first to admit that, in times of economic desperation (or just pressure), I can put on my own pair of culinary rose-colored glasses. So, this chocolate. This bar of one-dollar dark chocolate. Maybe, somewhere down the line, after eating through a case of them (bearing in mind that I didn’t even buy a single extra bar to bring home with me), and then splurging on some organic, fair-trade, 70% dark something-or-other, I’ll realize how I’ve been fooled.

But, until then.

Anyone going to Ikea?

I believe I’ve mentioned before how much I love a certain chocolate cake from a certain eatery (the name starts with “Gr” and ends with “it” — although I’ve not eaten there a single time since the Unfortunate Portion Incident). The most unbelievable characteristic of this most wonderful cake is the fact that it contains no dairy and no eggs. It is full-blown vegan. I don’t remember the first time I ate a piece, but I must have run my mouth about its charms; my friend Kathryn surprised me with an entire cake, all to myself, when I had to go dairy-free for a few months before weaning my little allergy-prone baby (now an adorable 3-year old, pictured above).

While I have nothing against folks who decide to avoid all animal products, I often feel sorry for them. I’ve read enough vegan food blogs to know that these conscientious folks feel like they’re not missing much — and I’m so glad they are thrilled with their fully-plant-produced fare. I also believe that they probably eat better-tasting food than most Americans, simply by the thought, planning, and requisite lack of processing that informs their diets. But… half-n-half. And… shortbread. Not to mention ice cream, good cheese, smoked meats, and fish. I just couldn’t do it. I know my limits.

Most times, eating a vegan dish, I can appreciate its charms, but am aware of what it’s missing. With the exception of the Chocolate Vegan Death layer cake from The Grit. It is one of my all-time-favorite chocolate cake recipes. I like it so much, I make it even when dairy-and-egg-free is not required. It’s icing on the cake (can you forgive me for that one?) that I can make it for my son’s birthday, to be enjoyed by all, including him. It stays moist for days after it’s made, and boasts a deep chocolate flavor that is boosted by the strong coffee used as most of the batter’s liquid. The icing (secret ingredient revealed later, to prevent your premature scoffing) has a wonderful texture and flavor not unlike a ganache, my favorite cake icing. It also freezes well (un-iced), making it ideal for a make-ahead birthday layer cake, or for thawing one cupcake at a time for a little late-night grownup treat (my personal favorite over the past week or so).

I’m giving you the cupcake recipe today; it is adapted from a layer cake recipe in The Grit cookbook. Don’t knock it ’till you try it, my butter-loving friends.

Vegan Chocolate Cupcakes (makes about 18 cupcakes)

Cake:

• 2 1/4 cups all-purpose flour
• 1 1/2 cups sugar
• 1/2 cup cocoa powder
• 1 1/2 tsp baking soda
• 1 tsp salt
• 3/4 cup vegetable oil
• 1 Tbsp vanilla extract
• 1 1/2 cups strong coffee, at room temperature
• 2 Tbsp apple cider vinegar

Icing:

• 6 oz (1/2 package) firm silken tofu
• 1 1/2 cups vegan chocolate chips (check the label for dairy, or just use your favorite brand if the vegan part isn’t important; I used Ghirardelli semisweet chips)

Preheat the oven to 350º. Line 18 muffin cups with cupcake liners.

For the cupcakes:
Sift together the dry ingredients in the bowl of a standing mixer (or a large bowl if using a handheld mixer). Add the oil and vanilla extract, and blend on medium speed until well-mixed. With mixer still running, very slowly blend in the coffee (adding it too fast will cause a major mess). Once the batter is smooth, add the vinegar and mix on low speed just until combined.

Fill muffin cups about 5/6 full. Bake for about 20 to 25 minutes, until a toothpick inserted into the center of several cupcakes comes out clean. Remove from the oven and cool about 20 minutes on a wire rack, then remove the cupcakes from the tins and cool completely.

For the icing:
Drain any excess fluid from the tofu, and scoop into a medium saucepan. Mash the tofu with a fork or spoon, and add the chocolate chips. Stir over medium heat until the chocolate is melted. Transfer to a food processor and puree until smooth. Let cool until it thickens up a bit, and spread on the cupcakes in generous portions. (The icing can be made ahead and refrigerated; let it warm to room temperature before spreading.)

In case you don’t live in Athens, I’ll share our news:

IT SNOWED !!!

And not just a little. It snowed a good eight inches.

!!!!!!!

Please excuse my senseless and excessive use of exclamation points. I’ve been abusing them for about 48 hours now. I just still can’t believe the relative blizzard, and — this is the best part, for me — yesterday was my birthday.

Ok, just one more time:  !!!!!!!!!!!!

Never, in my thirty-seven (it only hurts a bit) years, has it snowed on my birthday. Here, in the deep south, or anywhere more northerly that I’ve lived. It’s been like a dream come true, seriously. Yesterday was probably the best birthday I’ve ever had — it was a perfect day. It was a pure reflection of things heavenly. And I didn’t even do anything crazy, like spend a day at a spa, or anything of the like. The day included some pretty normal activities, like bread-baking, laundry, changing diapers, and such. But there was more than half a foot of snow on the ground, blindingly reflecting the sunlight of a crystal-clear winter day. Tim was home (the University was closed), so I had extra helping hands, and was able to indulge in the rare weekday luxury of an afternoon solo run (with sopping wet feet, which still didn’t dampen my mood). We ended the day with Tim’s surprise for me: dinner and a movie at The National. Sigh. What more could a girl-approaching-middle-age ask for?

Enough of your perfect birthday already, you might be thinking. Alright — on to foodie things. As the title suggests, this post is about some kickin’ hot chocolate, south-of-the-border-style. I made a piping-hot pot, the eve of the above-described day-o-celebration, as we anxiously awaited the imminent loss of power with every boom and bright-blue flash of light that signified a transformer blowing at the rate of one every 10 minutes or so (most of Athens lost power, we were fortunate enough to be on a block that mysteriously and miraculously kept it). A neighbor had locked herself out of her house, and was keeping shelter until help arrived. What better excuse to make hot chocolate? We had some a few weeks ago, at our new favorite coffee shop, Two Story, just down the street (they sell local coffee — 1000 faces — and only offer it as a french press pot, or a pour-over method; and very reasonably priced). It had just a touch of cinnamon, with a spicy kick at the end, from cayenne. Seemed simple enough, and I’ve already mentioned liking my chocolate with heat. A dash of this and that added to the cocoa directions on the side of my Hershey’s can, and we were enjoying some really good hot chocolate; just in time to light the candles as the power went off around 9pm (only to be thankfully — we’re about out of firewood — restored about 10 minutes later). If you find yourself with a few more weeks to go until Spring, and need a little help getting through a cold night, give it a try:

Aztec Hot Chocolate (yes, I stole the name from David. But it’s not ice cream — I guess it should be “Hot” Hot Chocolate?)
makes 2 10-oz servings

• 1/4 cup sugar
• 4 Tbsp Hershey’s cocoa powder (or another brand — I prefer the flavor of dutched over natural cocoa)
• pinch salt
• pinch cayenne pepper
• 1/8 or 1/4 tsp cinnamon
• 3 Tbsp hot water
• 2 cups milk (whole, or a mixture of lowfat and half-n-half — c’mon people, it’s hot cocoa)
• 1/2 tsp vanilla extract

Mix sugar, cocoa, salt, cayenne, and cinnamon in a small saucepan, and stir in the water. Bring to a boil over medium heat, stirring frequently. Boil for about a minute, until everything dissolves. Slowly stir in the milk, and continue stirring until hot (don’t let the mixture boil). Remove from heat, and stir in the vanilla. Serve in warm mugs.

That’s my stipulated answer to the question: mountains or beach? Because you’ve gotta be one, right?

I love Asheville, North Carolina. Tim and I lived there, for a little over a year, back in 2001-2002. It was there we met some of our nearest and dearest friends, there we fell in love with living right smack dab in the middle of mountains. The town is full of nostalgia for me; but it has changed much in the years since we left, losing some of its edge and becoming frightfully polished (in some ways). But I left part of my heart there when we left, and when I get to go back — usually a couple times a year — my soul still heaves an almost audible sigh of contentment as I drive around the curve on I-240 and get my first glimpse of the small city. It just feels better to be there. I don’t know why. But that’s the only way to describe it.

This weekend, it was even better, because I was there with the explicit purpose of spending time with friends who I wish I could see more often; we all live in different cities now (just one remains in Asheville, though we all met there), and the times we can be together are few and far between. My friend Sonja has a husband who generously offered to take himself and their two children out of town for the weekend so that we could fill the house with all of our estrogen and compulsions (a summary of how he put it). There was only one boy — my friend Megan’s four-month old. He and my Wee One hit it off marvelously, in that way that infants generally do (i.e., completely oblivious to each other). Not only was I in one of my favorite places with some of my favorite people, but it also managed to snow a little. Snow — it’s that fluffy white stuff that falls from the sky in places other than Athens, Georgia. There were only a couple of disappointments this weekend: my little one’s nasty cold (she’s still recovering), and our dinner out.

We had a sitter for one night — Saturday. We discussed our options, and finally landed on trying a new restaurant. There had been murmurings of praise from the locals for a new place (how new? who knows), Limones. We took a look at the website, and it sounded promising; the head chef is from Mexico City, then trained in San Fransisco in French-inspired California cuisine. Sounded good to me; I’ve harped many times on the loss of Lula in Knoxville, and the concept and flavors rang that bell. The reservations were made.

The restaurant was quite cozy in its renovated early-20th-century shotgun storefront downtown. No sombreros hanging from the rafters; just warm wood-tones and mirrored walls. Atmosphere? Check. Our local friend raved about the margaritas, so we decided to try a couple different ones; a classic, and a blood-orange. Before they arrived, our server brought us a plate of thick slices of an airy, salty white dinner bread, with a side dish of herbed olive oil.

Hmmm… okay. I’m cool with fusion. Was a bit looking forward to a homemade salsa, but sure. Knock your French-Californian socks off.

The four of us discussed our plan of attack, munched on our olive oil and bread, and when the margaritas arrived, pounced. The blood-orange margarita was divine. It had the classic citrus that we all love in that drink, but with a sweeter twist. I wasn’t as impressed with the traditional lime margarita; something in it reminded me of a mix. I’ve been much more impressed with my margarita with Kristin, or the ones made by Scott and Cassia, homemade-margarita-makers-extraordinaire.

The plan was to split a few appetizers and a couple entrées. Sonja and I, as the only meat-eaters in the group, would share a BBQ Pork Quesadilla with Hot-Sweet cabbage relish, and Megan and Cass would enjoy the meatless Sweet Potatoe-Truffle Empanadas with tomato-Serrano jam. In addition, Megan and I shared an order of Plantains and Guacamole (how I love, LOVE plantains — maduros, or sweet ones, as opposed to the chip-like tostones. They are really very easy to make; I’ll post on them someday).

So everything arrived; and all was well-received. I didn’t get to taste the empanadas, but our BBQ Pork quesadilla was really quite nice. It could have used a bit more of the cabbage relish, and the pork filling seemed to be heaped in the middle of the tortillas, leaving for skimpy last bites, but overall it was quite delicious. I tucked away in the mental roladex to try something similar at home. The plantains were solid, but nothing dramatic; classic sweet maduros, with homemade(?) tortilla chips and good (albeit straightforward) guacamole. First course? Check. Things were on track.

For the main course, the vegetarians were going to split a Wild Mushroom and eggplant Chile relleno with ricotta, jicama salad, carrot-habanera sauce, cumin-lime crema and pineapple-ginger salsa. My side of the table ordered a Cornmeal N.C. Trout with papaya crab salsa, haricot verts and carrot habanero sauce. And here, my friends, is where the meal went downhill faster than a 401K. Just a look at our trout was foreshadowing for disappointment; a very large fillet of fish, coated in cornmeal, sitting on a bed of white rice, with a tiny mound of something on top, and a very skimpy swirl of something on the edges of the plate. I’ve plated prettier dishes for my five-year-old on a Tuesday night. The visual proportions were totally wrong; would flavor proportions fare any better? Indeed they did not. It pretty much tasted like shake-and-bake trout sitting on a bed of white rice. No complexity, no spice, nothing remotely interesting. I didn’t speak at first, wanting to avoid ruining my friend’s potential enjoyment by a verbal subjective slam. But she ate, looked at me, and spoke the verdict I was thinking. There’s just not much to this (or something to that effect). Indeed, there was not. There was a conspicuous lack of visual appeal, flavor, and creativity. What a disappointment.

I watched for a reaction from the other side of the table, where the wild mushroom relleno was being tested. Its consumers had a similar reaction as mine; their tastebuds were being handed sheer boredom. I had a hard time understanding how a dish could achieve such mediocrity with a name so long; but then went back to my dish, and quickly decided the question wasn’t worth my effort. Especially since it would take most of my energy to finish dinner.

The killer was that a few minutes later, I heard our server at a nearby table, recommending the trout. I fought off the urge to stand up, walk over, and ask her to tell me what exactly she liked about it. Was it the fact that it was indisputably a fish? Because that’s about all it had going for it. We thankfully were able to spare the table next to ours; one patron saw that we had the trout, and asked us how we liked it, as she was considering it. We urged her to revisit the menu, and not to bother with the rellenos, either.

I have to say: not many things in this world are more frustrating to me than expensive food that is done poorly.

As you can imagine, we skipped desert. The night before, I had stayed home with a sleeping baby while the rest of the girls had gone to hear some music at the Grove Arcade. On the way home, they stopped at French Broad Chocolate Lounge, and picked up some delights: a cup of hot chocolate with cayenne pepper, and a quartet of truffles — lavender, strawberry and balsamic, orange, and raspberry. All of the above were delicious; we were in agreement that the favorite truffle was lavender (I hear from Rebecca that they serve lavender hot chocolate as well — that’ll be my choice next time). We briefly considered a second swing-by, but after such a disappointing dinner, my appetite was somewhat deflated, and the only thing that beckoned me was the half-full bottle of red wine that awaited us at the house.

So, about the title. The Piedmont is the geographic area where Athens is located. It is part of a same-title region that encompasses more of the South than northeast Georgia, an area bordered on the north by the Appalachian mountains, and on the east by the coastal plains. In general, I’m not fond of the Piedmont; it’s just not the mountains, and remember in the first paragraph when I said that I left part of my heart there? The relatively flat Piedmont just can’t compete. Except for the food, the food in this town that I love. What will I do when I have to leave this place, and leave these eateries, these glorious options, behind?

Why can’t Athens have mountains? Or four seasons? Or on the flip-side, why not convince Hugh or Peter to take their business to Asheville, and while they’re at it, find my husband a job there? Maybe, because then, there would exist too perfect a place. And then, I might have to find something new to complain about.

Because it’s all about me, you know.

I’ve mentioned before that we, meaning Tim and I, don’t really pay much attention to the holiday typically celebrated on February 14. But when you have children, pink and red construction paper hearts are inevitable, and are in fact welcome. We assembled Disney Princess cards (it’s somewhat futile, fighting the princess thing, but dammit if we don’t try) for the school party, and opened cards from grandparents. Our favorite activity, though was decorating cookies at a party for that purpose, masterminded by our friend Caroline (and thanks to Kelly for documenting the event). No, they aren’t quite material for next year’s Martha Stewart Living February cover, but don’t they look delicious all the same? And they are; made from scratch from a Charleston family recipe used yearly for the same event. I’ve eaten one already, and it’s not even 9:30 am.

We all brought home plates to give away, to neighbors or other worthy souls (and who’s not?). At least, that was the intention. We’ll see if they make it that long.

It’s hard to be cynical when cute little hands did a lot of the work (although grownup hands did more). What? Do I hear drips of water melting from my ice-cold heart? That’s what homemade sugar cookies will do.