1. Any recipe for sorbet, ice cream, granita, sherbet, popsicles, or anything found in the frozen treats section. Easier to buy it. And probably better.

2. Anything that requires pounding something with a mallet.

3. Crock pot recipes for anything that is not intended to be served mushy. Because it always ends up mushy.

4. Anything that contains both chocolate and noodles.

5. Anything that has more than 10 ingredients. (Unless a) it’s for a special occasion and b) I’ve already made it so I know that it’s worth it.)

6. Anything that contains both fruit and meat. (I make an exception for apples and pork. Yum.)

7. Anything that has a jello-like consistency and isn’t jello. Like aspic.

8. Cold soup. (I know that some people like them. I don’t.)

9. 10 recipes for variations on “chicken in peanut sauce”. Because I have one that we all love and who needs more than one way to cook chicken in peanut sauce? Ditto for chicken enchiladas.

10. Candy. There are lots of professional candy makers who can make it better than I can. And that whole candy thermometer thing is a pain.

I got rid of about half of my recipes. In all honesty, I probably could have gotten rid of 3/4. But it’s a start.

Joe Paterno made a really bad decision. Or more likely, a series of really bad decisions. And he deserved to be fired over it, and I’m glad the Board did what it did.

But I feel very sorry for him. And I think it’s okay to feel both those things at once.

Think about a time in your life when you made a bad decision. (You’ve made them. We all have. It’s part of the human condition.) Did you say to yourself, “Wow. This seems like a really bad decision. I’m going to do it anyway”? Probably not. If you’re like me, you made that decision thinking that, based on everything you knew at the time, it was the best decision to make. My bad decisions are always clearly bad in the rearview mirror. And so are yours. But in the moment, they seemed like the right thing to do.

Fortunately, most of us are not in situations where our bad decisions will harm a lot of people. Usually it’s just ourselves and those we love who are lucky enough to deal with the fallout of our bad decisions.

I don’t know the circumstances around Joe Paterno’s decision not to go to the police. Maybe he was afraid. Maybe his good friend Jerry Sandusky tearfully begged him not to go to the police…and swore that he would never do it again. Maybe he was afraid that the whole Penn State football empire would crumble. (Which it now has.) I don’t know, and you don’t know, and we’ll probably never understand it. But I believe that he made the decision believing that it was the best decision to make at the time.

He’s 84 years old. He has spent 46 years building something that has now been ruined overnight. He will never recover – he simply doesn’t have enough time left.

So maybe just a little compassion is in order?

We landed early in the morning, took the train and then the tube to our hotel in Leicester Square, and took a nap for a few hours. When we woke up, we went to a coffee shop to get some caffeine. The radio was on in the coffee shop, and I could hear W. talking about a bombing in the World Trade Center. At first I assumed it had something to do with the 1993 bombing – maybe someone was coming up for trial or something – but as I listened, I realized that something was happening in real time.

Tim and I quickly headed back to our hotel, and I stopped at a pay phone along the way to try to call Emma’s dad to make sure they were ok. But I couldn’t get through. When we got to the hotel, I tried again on the hotel phone, while Tim turned on CNN. Again, the lines were busy. I contacted the hotel operator to tell her I was having trouble getting through to the U.S., and she said something like, “You and everyone else, honey.” (I’m sure that it was a more polite British way of saying it, but that was the meaning.) As I sat down on the bed to watch TV, Tim handed me a glass of Jack Daniels from the mini-bar, with a look on his face that said, “You’re probably going to need this.”

At this point, it was probably 11:30 a.m. New York time. Both towers had fallen, but Flight 93 was still missing. I remember that it was impossible to understand what was going on – what had happened, the sequence of events – because there was so much going on, and so much confusion, that CNN wasn’t really reporting as much as showing images. Images of people holding up pictures of their loved ones, images (over and over and over) of the towers falling, images of people covered in white dust. Eventually I got through to Emma’s dad and my mom, so I knew that everyone was safe.

That evening, we gathered in a bar with all of the American ex-pats who were working for Unilever in London, and those of us who had traveled there for meetings that week. We just wanted to be together and laugh and cry.

For the next several days, I was in a state of constant anxiety. I didn’t know when we would get home…at times I wondered if we would get home at all. I wondered if World War III was about to break out. It was unclear if or when international flights were going to start again.

I kept praying over and over, “Please, God, send me a sign that everything is going to be ok.”

On Thursday, we went to the American Airlines office, because…actually, in retrospect, I have no idea why we went. It just seemed like the right thing to do. And while I was there, I saw the mom of one of Emma’s grade school classmates. Someone from home. Someone I recognized. And I had my sign.

(I didn’t know this woman well, and I can’t even remember her name. But after the fact, when I told the story to people, I referred to her as my angel. I ran into her years later, and started to cry when she told me, unprompted, that I was her angel that day. She had been praying for the same thing I had.)

After days of uncertainty, we were able to fly back to Chicago on Sunday, with our original tickets, as American had started flying to the U.S. again on Saturday.

Because all I felt that first week was anxiety, it wasn’t until I was back in Chicago that I was able to grieve. Able to feel like the work I was doing was pointless and futile. (When I expressed this to some others at work, they said, “Oh, yeah, we felt that last week. You’re a week behind.”) I remember that for a long time, the sound of sirens caused me tremendous anxiety. My heart would pound and I would start to sweat.

To this day, I feel like I missed something by not being here when it happened. I missed the opportunity to grieve with my family, friends, neighbors, and church community. I missed news stories. I missed being part of this collective outpouring of grief. The people of London were tremendously understanding and supportive. But it wasn’t the same.

1. If you keep watching Batman, you’re going to turn into a moron.

2. Why don’t you play it slowly until you learn it, and then you can play it fast?

3. Take the spoon out of that glass, or you’re going to put your eye out.

4. (In “sympathy” for my falling down the stairs): If you didn’t wear such dumb shoes, that wouldn’t happen.

5. (Also in “sympathy” for my falling down the stairs): If you wouldn’t come down the stairs in your stocking feet, that wouldn’t happen.

6. The sun is over the yard-arm. (Meaning it’s past 5:00, and therefore, cocktail time.)

7. If that guy had a propeller on his head, he could fly. (Said about a certain former pastor of our church, who will remain nameless out of respect.)

8. In response to my mom’s question, “If Ann-Margret came to the front door and asked you to run away with her, would you go?”: I’d have to think about it.

9. Jesus Christ, why can’t you let the clutch out slowly? (After about 5 stalls in a row, as I was learning to drive a stick shift in the Knoebel’s parking lot.)

10. While you’re up, get me a beer, would you?

I miss you, Daddy.

But the fact is that not everything we want to know is knowable, and not everything we want to prevent is preventable.

There is risk that comes with living. Each morning when we walk out the door, we take a risk that we could be in the wrong place at the right time (or is it vice versa? I can never figure that out.)

I’ve heard the following causes this week for the shooting in Tucson: lax gun laws, lax state reporting of gun ownership, political rhetoric (aka vitriolic speech), parents who didn’t do enough, community college faculty and staff who didn’t do enough, state police who didn’t do enough. And it’s likely that all of those things were contributing factors to the events of last Saturday.

But there is no one cause. No one to blame. It’s complicated. And random. People suffer from mental illness and don’t get help, because they can’t afford it, are ashamed of it, or don’t recognize it in themselves. Parents do the best they can. The police do the best they can. Reporting agencies do the best they can. We all do the best we can.

Each of us makes choices every day. Hundreds or thousands of choices. As adults, we have the God-given right to make our own choices. We can drink, smoke, take drugs (or not take drugs), drive under the influence, drive over the speed limit, keep our vehicles in good working order or not. We can walk outside the crosswalk, wait longer than we should to investigate that cough/lump/headache, and put off until tomorrow the difficult conversations we should have today.

And we all have to live with the consequences of the choices that we make. Other people have to live with the consequences of the choices that we make. The part we don’t like is that we have to live with the consequences of the choices that other people make.  But that’s the way it works. You can’t have one without the other.

And the part that we really don’t like is that we can do everything exactly right and bad things will still happen.

It’s just the way it is.

Is there a sadder annual chore than taking down the Christmas tree?

When we trim the tree, there’s such hope. Not only “hope” in the traditional Advent kind of way. But hope for the season. That all the presents will be perfect. That all the children will be happy all the time, even on long car rides. That everyone will get along. That all of the food will be ready at the same time. That you will take advantage of the long university break and work out every day and clean closets and figure out how to use an iPod. That your sister will make apple pie for New Year’s dinner. (Never mind.)

Actually, I usually start the holiday season with fairly realistic expectations. I know that, like most things, there will be good and there will be not-so-good. That nothing is perfect. That much of how it all turns out will be out of my control. (Imagine that, something being out of my control.)  But somewhere along the way, I get sucked into the Christmas vortex. My expectations rise.

And, as usually happens in life, there was good and there was so-so and there was not so good.

Not every gift was a delight. Some will never be played with and will be taken to Goodwill as part of next year’s pre-Christmas toy purge.  (And one or two didn’t even make it through Christmas morning without a tiny-but-important piece being lost.)

Feelings were hurt.

Situations were uncomfortable.

People got tired and cranky.  (Mostly me.)

Kids got bored and crabby and threw french fries at each other in the car.

But there was lots of good as well. Laughter with family and good friends. Long days with no plans and no goals. Cookies and carrots that magically disappeared after Christmas-eve bedtime, much to a 4-year-old’s amazement. Presents that delighted. Reconnections with people I don’t see very often.

And now it is over. The tree comes down and the decorations go back into storage. Until they come out again, bringing with them the hope of next holiday season.

When everything will be perfect.

1. First-grade math is kicking my ass.

2. Spending every spare moment with Lisbeth Salander (the heroine of the “Girl with the Dragon Tattoo” series). (“Daaaaddyyy, I’m heeeere…”).

3. New episodes of “Glee”, “Parenthood”, “30 Rock”, and “Modern Family.”

4. 24-hour coverage of the Chilean Miner rescue.

5. Trying to learn the rules of soccer. (Rule number one seems to be that everyone is not supposed to cluster around the ball.)

6. Navigating the torn-up streets in south Oak Park adding hours to my commute.

7. Sewing homemade Halloween costumes. (Ok, that one’s obviously a lie.)

8. Buried under mountain of art projects sent home from preschool every day and trying to find my way out. (This week’s theme was “leaves”. Oh boy.)

9. Exploring run for mayor of Chicago. (I think I have a better chance of winning than Rahm.)

10. School, work, soccer, gymnastics, cross country, homework, piano lessons, college visits, birthday parties, running, getting ready for Halloween (seriously, did Halloween require this much preparation when I was a kid?)

But I digress. (Maybe it’s been a few Septembers since I organized the kitchen cabinets.)

September makes me want to go through closets and get rid of things that don’t fit anymore. (Don’t fit the kids anymore, I mean. Of course, everything still fits me.) To get rid of the mountain of papers in the office. To organize and fold. To clean that utility closet that still sort of smells like the cat died in it  bad.

I’ve long thought that the Jewish calendar, with the New Year in September, made so much more sense than the random January 1 date in the middle of winter. (Of course, I realize that it’s not winter everywhere in January. Typical American-centeredness, I know.)

September, with its cool (er) nights and low (er) humidity (okay, on some days), gives me energy. The start of school makes me feel like it’s a new beginning. Like the world is full of possibilities. Like anything is possible. Like this is the year that I will get organized and stay organized. Like this is the year I will write songs, and write in my journal every day, and talk to all the people I care about on a regular basis.

Yep, this is going to be that year.

And in the meantime, just let me know if you need any molasses.

Now it’s possible that I’m a tad bit sensitive on this topic, having had two marriages that produced children and then ended in divorce. I do feel the sting of such comments. And I’m so grateful for the exact people that my children are, that I can’t imagine a world without them. And I don’t regret the choices I’ve made.

And when I hear people make comments like, “At least the person didn’t do ____”,  ”Thank goodness she didn’t do ____”, I realize how my philosophy of all of that has changed in the past several years.

I’ve come to believe that things play out the way they’re supposed to. The way they’re meant to. The way they just do. Not good or bad. That young woman called off her wedding because it was supposed to play out that way.  Because millions of years ago, for whatever reason, things were set in motion. And each generation shaped the next generation. And as a result of all of that history, each of us came to be who were meant to be. To behave the way we behave because of the forces – parents, friends, circumstances – that shaped our lives. That our parents acted the way they acted because of the forces that shaped their lives. And so on. Back through the generations.

I stop short of calling it predestination. Short of believing in some grand being who knows in advance how everything will play out and watches it all happen. Because then you get into the whole, “how could a loving God allow all those bad things to happen” discussion, and I don’t have good answers, and then it gets icky.

And it’s not to say that we’re just puppets in some big “Kukla, Fran and Ollie” episode (sorry, I’m showing my age here), unable to make our own choices. We are able to make choices. And we do. It’s just that there are reasons why we make the choices we do.

I don’t second-guess the past (much, anyway.) I try to learn from it and move on. I try to inflict as little damage as possible (sometimes unsuccessfully.) But I don’t wish that things had been different. Because they were what they were.

And they are what they are.

When Emma was a baby, I threw away all the parenting books. Because I decided that many people who were a lot stupider than me had successfully raised children, and if I trusted my gut, I would probably be okay. (I actually did think those exact thoughts. This was obviously before I learned humility and became the compassionate person I am today.)

And usually when I trust my gut, I’m okay. (And when I talk myself out of what my gut is telling me, I get into all kinds of trouble. But that’s a topic for another day.)

But sticking to what my gut tells me to do is still scary, painful and very unpleasant at times.

David has learned to swim. Not that he has a beautiful stroke or anything. But swim as in “if he falls into deep water he can get himself out without drowning.” Which when you get down to it is really the most important thing when it comes to swimming.

In four weeks, he has gone from crying every night on the way to swim lessons to telling me how much he can’t wait to go to swim lessons and wanting to practice his swimming every chance he gets.  In four weeks, he’s gone from saying, “Why does Margaret get to stay in Level 1 and I have to go to Level 2?” to saying, “Don’t worry, Margaret. Someday you’ll get to be in Level 2.” (Not that she looked worried.)

In four weeks, he is like a different kid.

Many of you know that I almost relented. I was thisclose to telling him he didn’t have to do it. Thisclose to not being able to stand the breathless sobbing all the way from camp to the pool. Four nights a week. For four weeks. And when he wasn’t crying, he was complaining.

But something told me that if I stayed calm, and told him overandoverandover that he could do it, told him to think about how good he’d feel after he proved to himself he could do it, that it would be okay.

I will be eternally grateful to Derek – the patient, kind – yet firm – college student who helped David overcome his fear. (Not that Derek was too thrilled about it in the beginning. He told one of Emma’s friends that he specifically signed up for Level 2 so he wouldn’t have any criers, and he was not too happy that he had a crier.)

Now if I could just get Derek to come to my house and convince David to take the training wheels off his bike.