WRITE OF PASSAGE

I was doing the usual mom of 3 thing around bedtime a few nights ago; issuing threats to lollygaggers, helping break up fights over toothbrushes, yawning, and flicking through the channels looking for something everyone could agree on.

One of the channels was showing THE OUTSIDERS. It took me just a few seconds to be 13 years old again, a 7th grader who'd just discovered literary angst through S.E. Hinton. "Mom!" (The time trip never lasts long.) "Mom! What are you watching?" They're so used to the sounds of the Food Network or ESPN this time of day, they didn't recognize the smooth voice of Matt Dillon or the sounds of shouting during a "rumble."

"Is that The Outsiders?" hubby asked. All of a sudden, the family was gathered around the television. I started my son on The Outsiders book a few months ago. He's outgrown Magic Tree House and Diary of a Wimpy Kid, and I felt 5th grade was a good time to introduce class struggles, social dynamics, tough (sorry, "tuff") hairstyles and cars, and everything else that comes with the book. Really, I was shuffling through a stack of books one day when he was rejecting every suggestion I had, and The Outsiders was the only book that didn't look like all the others, wasn't part of a repetitive series, and hadn't been transformed into a blockbuster movie that had every kid dressing in similar Halloween costumes. So he agreed to read it. My son and his teacher thereafter began a regular discourse about the book. (I didn't know that until the other night.)

When he shrugged his shoulders and said "Sure" when I offered it up, I felt triumphant, but not because he'd get his 30 minutes of reading done that day and the current battle was over. It was as if I was sneaking in a right of passage under an unrecognized author name and unassuming book cover. I was certain my son would begin talking about social injustice within the next day or so.

But he was quiet about the book until the movie came on. I tuned in during the part of the movie where the church burns down. It's further ahead in the book than he has read, and I had to explain a lot to not just my son but the other kids. When we got to the rumble part on the television screen, my son asked "Are those the soc's?" but pronounced soc's "socks." "It's pronounced so-shes, baby."

"Is that Darry? Is that Dally? Where is Johnny? Are they getting along now?" "Does anybody die in the fire?" "Why are they fighting?" they badgered.

Good questions, all. I think I had the same questions when I saw the book adapted to the silver screen.

When I was in 7th grade, I memorized Nothing Gold Can Stay by Robert Frost. I remembered and never forgot this quote from the book, said by Johnny: "There is still lots of good in the world. Tell Dally, I don't think he knows."

Other things I remember from 7th grade are carrying my beat-up paperback of The Outsiders with me from class to class, not even putting it in my backpack. And C. Thomas Howell. I remember waiting for the next Tiger Beat issues to come out on the news stands with 8x11 glossy shots of The Outsiders movie stars so I could tack them to my bedroom wall.

Watching the movie twenty-six years ago, I took notice of Rob Lowe's chest, Tom Cruise's muscles (he did have them), and Tommy Howell's sweet, shy demeanor. The movie, based on a great book, made us grade school girls boy crazy.

That night watching the movie with my own kids, the (once) young, fresh faces and well-timed bare-chest scenes of Hollywood's up-and-coming in the 1980s were just a backstory to me. A faint memory of teenage celebrity crushes. All I noticed, and all I thought about while mumbling movie quotes under my breath, were the Johnny Cade's and Dallas Winston's of the world.

There are still too many of them. And not enough Ponyboy's.

When Patrick Swayze ("Darry") had a scene with Tommy Howell and Rob Lowe, I became even more melancholy; he is the first "Outsider" to die. "That's the guy that plays Bodhi in Point Break, guys," I told the kids. My kids know that movie pretty well - we're big wave watchers, live and filmed.

Darry in The Outsiders > Sam Wheat in Ghost > Johnny in Dirty Dancing > Bodhi in Point Break, that seems like a lifetime...how many years in between The Outsiders and Point Break? Answer: 9.

Those were 9 years that I should have been reading Robert Frost. I did a lot of growing up from 1983-1991, and not. Nine years in between being a boy crazy 7th grader and a wide-eyed college student, counting down the days until I could legally walk into a bar and order an outrageous, flourescent drink with an umbrella. By the time the cast of The Outsiders had grown up, I was otherwise absorbed, but the undercurrents, themes, and lessons in The Outsiders were still somewhere in my mind during that time, I just didn't know it.

A few months ago my friend Jane who teaches writing at UCB posted an article about S.E. Hinton, and how The Outsiders was now 4 decades old.

It has taken me 26 years to really understand the book (and movie). It was near impossible to get it when I was 13 and loving Tommy Howell. I had to pass the book on and be a mother - I hate to admit that - to feel the misfortunes of, and be so sad and afraid for, the characters. To see how much there is to lose, which I had a surface understanding of then, but hope my kids realize on a deeper level now.

That is the beauty of The Outsiders. It takes gritty subject material and makes it conceivable, non-romanticized, and comprehensible for just about anybody. It was written by a teenager, not an adult trying to remember what it was like to be, or trying disingenuously to get inside the head of, a conflicted kid. With symbols and events you could apply to society today, the book takes on questions of belonging and issues of survival.

S.E. Hinton captured empathy and through dialogue that pulls you, nearly denied that anyone was a lost cause. She drew literary lines in society without using cliches. She gave us a poignant speech by a tragic character on why "fighting is useless, ain't no good" but also snuck in a juxtaposition of bad boy and good girl, that inevitable attraction, appropriately.

The Outsiders was so well written that in my 9 year gap of lucid thoughts, I almost missed some real characters in my search for stereotypes I had found in fiction.

Fiction?

With the combination of S.E. Hinton books and John Hughes movies, I practically had a users' manual for my teenage years.

Too bad I don't have one for parenthood. The next best thing I have is my collection of books and movies that got me through awkward stages, the books and movies that answered questions and replaced discussions I didn't want to have with my parents, the books and movies which reminded me of fictitious characters who felt the same way I did. So I pass the collection on (I do it for Johnny!).

As I stepped out into the bright sunlight from the darkness of the movie house...

EVERYTHING'S GRAVY.

Make your own gravy, please. Just listen to what I have to say. It's so easy, don't buy it already made. I believe homemade gravy to be the holiday food which pays highest dividends for the least amount of attention.

Then again, attention is a relative term.

I've been straining pan juices for more than a month now; pot roast pan juices, roasted chicken pan juices, and turkey breast pan juices. After I strain them I freeze them.

Pan juices are just what they sound like; the liquid/juice/gravy/schmaltz (do NOT call it grease) that is left behind in the pan after you roast or slow cook a large piece of meat or poultry.

Straining is necessary, as you want your gravy - the finished product - to be smooth. You only require the liquid remnants of the roasted meat. However, you can (and I have) removed the roasted bird or pot roast and set it aside, then puree the pan juices with any vegetables you roasted in the pan along with the meat prior to straining. You will get more flavor and depth this way, but it's a little messier and more time consuming.

This morning the kids and I started out with 4 cups of strained pan juices which were frozen. While the pan juices were melting in a pot, we made the roux in a separate pan. We added the pan juices to the roux, along with 1/2 cup of chicken broth. Then the gravy was done.

It tastes perfect. It is smooth. I have six cups worth. It's organic. One less thing to buy. And my kids did it with me.

When the kids told me this morning "I'm bored, Mom, what can we do?"

I'll teach you some tradition and how to cook for yourself from scratch, to waste nothing and preserve what is worthy, that's what we'll do. And then tomorrow you can walk from person to person who has gravy atop their turkey and mashed potatoes, declaring proudly, "I made that."

Everything's just gravy, you will see.

In recipe format...

HOMEMADE GRAVY

4 cups of strained pan juices - from roasted turkey, chicken, beef, or combination of all three

1 stick of unsalted butter

1/2 cup of Wondra gravy flour

1/2 cup of chicken stock or broth

Melt butter add flour together in a pan over medium heat, whisk until you get a roux.

When roux is the color of sand, add pan juices and mix well with wooden spoon or whisk.

When it begins to get thick, add chicken stock.

Stir until smooth and gravy is not too tight but not to loose. You can always add more chicken broth if needed.

HAPPY THANKSGIVING!!!

CURE ME...WITH HOMEMADE CHICKEN BROTH

It was just the two of us again. My little guy and me. He was home sick last week and it was just the two of us, like when he was a baby, a toddler...before "the girls", also known as his sisters, came along. While they were at school, it felt like 1999-2000 all over again.

I hated him being sick. But I loved the chance to coddle him, listen to the things he said undistracted from his sisters, to enjoy his company, which went from sleepy and sniffly to slightly irritating when the medicine was working and he was kicking a soccer ball off my wall out of boredom.

I couldn't help but remember what it was like with just one child to take care of, not four (we're four when my stepson is in town, and he eats more than all of the other kids combined, which I totally dig about him). With four kids ages 4 to 18, it's hard not to be reflective or nostalgic when you are alone with just one of them.

And even more difficult not to notice all the things that are so different than the last time it was just the two of you. For me and the little guy, it was 8 years ago since just the two of us were home during the day.

All of these changes seemed like nothing at the time, if I noticed them at all. And the things that are the same, I am certain I take for granted.

THINGS THAT ARE THE SAME:

1) He still watches Scooby-Doo, and we can both still fall asleep peacefully and happily watching it.

2) He still randomly says "I love you, Mom", especially when I least expect it - or can't hear him from the other room I am in.

3) He still wants his big, protective dog and a ball of some sort within reach.

4) He can still scarf down two bowls full of spaghetti and meat sauce, even appetite-compromised.

5) He still loves large, fuzzy, warm blankets - pulled up to his chin, feet showing.

THINGS THAT ARE DIFFERENT:

1) He now watches more than Scooby-Doo, including shows on The Disney Channel and Nickelodeon that are so annoying that they should be used to get criminals to crack during interrogation.

2) Reading isn't a fun sick day activity any longer. He doesn't want me to read to him anymore, won't pick up a book and read himself, or let me read a book, for that matter.

By the way, the above two things are the reason for much of my discontent.

3) He now enjoys going to his room, to be alone, and doesn't consider it a punishment.

4) He finally understands why we need to double-team acetaminophen and ibuprofen.

5) Avoiding homework is now the coolest perk of being sick, when it used to be having a bed made up for him on the couch.

I guess we all change. I am the same. I am different. I still keep up on vaccinations. I now also keep up with the CDC. I still make chicken soup when they're sick, I now make my own chicken broth. I still compare myself to Scooby and Shaggy in terms of hunger, I now also compare myself to the AT&T mom for frugality-driven mania.

Among so many other things.

He was there, under his blanket, petting the dog, and he might as well have been 10 months old, in a onesie, fighting a cold, and the things I do are different, but the way I feel is the same.

HOMEMADE CHICKEN BROTH

2 lbs. of bone-in chicken

pot full of water, enough to cover chicken

3 carrots

2 stalks of celery

1 yellow onion, quartered (leave the skin on, it gives a great color to the stock)

bay leaf

1 tsp. or so of peppercorns

Put chicken in a heavy pot. Cover with water. Add the rest of the ingredients, and bring to a boil. Reduce to a strong simmer, for about 90 minutes.

Strain into a bowl that can fit into the fridge.

Discard everything but the chicken, pull chicken off the bone and remove the skin, if any - shred this chicken and use for quesadillas, enchiladas, pasta, chicken salad, ravioli stuffing...

Let stick cool slightly before you refrigerate or freeze.

If it needs fortifying before you use it in a soup, poach about 1 additional pound of chicken in this stock again, simmering for about another hour. (Alternatively, add a cube of chicken bouillon, but the whole point was to make your own). But if you use enough chicken and simmer long enough the flavor should be just right.

A POT LUCK KIND OF LIFE

I could be in the worst mood, I could be so fatigued that I yawn every 90 seconds, I could resemble the Bride of Frankenstein, but if there is a pot luck and news of it has reached my ears, you can bet you will see me there, ready to be made instantly happier and renewed.

Pot lucks are an all-you-can-eat meets new recipes to be discovered. Heaven, to me.

This past Saturday afternoon - another typical sports-absorbed Saturday afternoon - we made it to a team party/pot luck where everyone from total strangers to friends of mine for 20+ years brought their best, homey, tried-and-true, most popular or requested, got-history-behind-it dishes.

This (see below) is how I prefer to get to know people, better.

Sure, I'm curious about how you met your spouse, and yes, I do believe we both had Ms. Nichols for English, didn't we...but more importantly, is that a homemade lime vinaigrette orCatalina dressing on your taco salad?

Because I LOVE it, and all of a sudden, I feel more comfortable with you than, like, ever.

And maybe I'm just a little bit awkward integrating certain circles where the conversations have gotten very involved without me, but by the way, who made that corn, black bean and tomato salad? Can I just interject for a sec and tell you how wonderful it is with fluffy jasmine rice, jumbo prawns poached with with sliced lemons and a bit of sugar and excessive cilantro?

I don't blame you for looking at me like I'm a little loca for getting so excited over a side dish, or that I am rude for interrupting , but honestly, I just can't help my food-obsessed behavior. If it's standard, unobtrusive conversation you require, gentle segues that keep you in your comfort zone - the weather, the record of our local football team, or plans for the holiday break - my husband fulfills this normal part of our union very well, and he's right over there, waiting for me to finish eating before he even approaches the buffet.

Because at pot lucks, I'm on a mission to try everything in a Pyrex, a Tupperware bowl, or on a portable melamine platter. A spoonful of these pickled vegetables, a reasonable portion of that pico de gallo, and maybe one smallish brownie, and I'm not stuffed, but filled with a blessed amount of different, but local, flavors.

Wow, I've known you for years and had no idea you had this treasure of a family recipe in your archives. Good to know.

What a delicious opportunity to learn history and common ground, a pot luck. Kind of like the team our children play on together, we all bring something different to this table, don't we?

I brought the blondies, they're my girlfriend Karrie's recipe. I was going to make regular brownies, but either I ran out of cocoa powder or I wanted to be a non-conformist, I can't remember.

Used to be, when the pot luck was over, I had scribbled down how to make this or that, dictated by so-and-so, or asked someone to e-mail me a recipe, pretty please, I appreciate it.

Many pot lucks later, I am able to analyze certain dishes visually, or maybe inquire about one specific ingredient before I attempt to re-create the pot luck dish someone brought with which I fell immediately in love.

I'm an experienced, skilled home cook.

If only I were so savvy in social circles.

KARRIE'S KILLER CHOCOLATE CHIP BLONDIES

1 1/2 cups brown sugar

1/2 cup melted butter

2 eggs, beaten

1 tsp vanilla

1 1/2 cups flour

1/2 tsp baking powder

1/2 tsp salt

1 cup chocolate chips

Preheat the oven to 350. Melt butter in a big bowl in the microwave. Once melted, add to the bowl the brown sugar, eggs, and vanilla and mix until blended. (I use a hand mixer for this quickie job.) Add baking powder and salt. Mix again. Add flour. Mix yet again. Stir in chocolate chips. Spread into a greased 9x13 pan and bake for 18-20 minutes.

...that's Karrie's recipe, verbatim.

Things My Dad Told Me

On Veteran's Day, I can say that I am aware of how unaware I am.

I am unaware of the fear and adrenaline that pulse through the veins of people who are being shot at. I am unaware what it is like to be in a mental and physical place which requires me to do something unspeakable like shooting at - trying to kill - someone else. I am unaware what it feels like to have an MRE next to someone in the morning, then find out they've been killed two hours later. I am unaware of what the world was like sixty-five years ago in the grips of evil.

My father and grandfathers now these things, though. Even my grandmother, who was a nurse in Panama in WWII.

On Veteran's Day, the very least I can do is write about the soldiers in my bloodline - and being unaware of something begs the question; what the world be like without our soldiers, the veterans, the active, retired, reserves?

That thought scares me.

My elders comfort me.

The people who choose to serve humble me.

I went to the military base with my grandparents as a kid to do our grocery shopping. The soldiers at the fIrst check point at the bases - MCRD, NAS Miramar - saluted my grandpa and I always thought to myself; once upon a time, my Grandpa was a younger man who didn't fall asleep watching the evening news, or get so busy talking about baseball that he burnt the ribs on the barbeque.

I am aware that I come from great men, like so many others, and today is a very special day.

So here is how I honor my Dad.

I capture and display his impeccable skills at matching tropical prints.

I celebrate his goofiness and good-natured excesses at family get togethers (note the near empty wine glass).

I admire his gentle nature with little creatures; grandkids, finches, or his un-trained granddogs that always jump on him. My Dad is a tall guy (6"3), he was big enough to scare away lots of potential suitors (or maybe I did that on my own), but when I was a little girl, we went bird-watching almost every weekend. He taught me to be free-spirited like a lark and approve of my own plumage whatever the season, but to have eyes, and instincts, like a hawk.

He taught me a lot of other things, too.

1) People are capable of change.

2) There is nothing wrong with a girl having a big appetite.

3) If you don't respect yourself, lots of other people in this world will be happy to oblige.

4) It's better and a lot easier to tell the truth.

5) You should treat people better than the world has treated them.

6) Avoid lemmings (actual and metaphorical).

7) You can have opposite convictions of someone, but still love, and respect them, wholeheartedly.

8) Not to cast my lure into the reeds.

The only thing my Dad ever said about Vietnam was that Oliver Stone was more accurate than anyone else, and that sitting with your back to the door is ill-advised.

Other than those comments, I am unaware of what, for my father, serving in the war was really like.

I suppose that is one thing he didn't want me to know.

THANK YOU VETERANS

Gratitude + Gravy = Me, Obsessed

This is me years ago at one of my favorite places: a holiday buffet (can you tell?)

Now that it's over, I can say it: I dislike Halloween more and more every year. I apologize for declaring that I am in fact an October Grinch, but I just donated blood and my iron supplements and multi-vitamin have not brought me back to normal yet.

As I followed my kids down dark streets - familiar but dimly lit streets - on Halloween, I looked up and made a wish on a star that I could feel the way I felt about Halloween now like I did when I was a kid. When I looked forward to class parties. When almost every costume was homemade and hand-made; one year, my father made me fairy wings out of a cardboard box, painted them white, and glued silver Christmas tree tinsel around the edges, and I thought it was the most imaginative, original and cleverest costume prop ever. Another year, I wore all black, a felt witch's hat, was given the green light with my mom's make-up, and roller skates, which, I suppose, negated the use of a broom. (I still don't need a broom to pull off the witch-thing).

Also, when I was a kid, I remember "haunted houses" as being really scary; teenage boy neighbors who lived for this one night a year when they could terrorize the little neighborhood kids. After those nights, my intuition about which kids to avoid was always gratified. And my Dad would always walk through a haunted house first to see if it was too scary for me.

This year, one of our neighbors did a scary clown haunted house. It even got local television news coverage. Hubby took our kids to that one, you see, I am afraid of clowns. It's not that the house looked like the group home of Insane Clown Posse that kept me away, because even happy clowns scare me. I blame the movie Poltergeist for this irrational fear.

This year, I saw more commercialism on Halloween than the year before, and I didn't think that was possible. I used to feel this way only about December holidays, now, it seems to start in October. No, September, really.

"It's for the kids, honey" says my husband at some point. The cynic in me responds "Oh? It's not for the retailers? The film production companies? Someone is getting rich off this ridiculousness." Told ya. October Grinch, I am.

The irony is, I am all about the origins of October and Halloween rituals.

Samhain, All Hallow's Eve, and Day of the Dead - I love the idea of spirits coming back for one day a year, of making treats for them. In a literature class I took in college (Supernatural Lit), we talked about the origins of Halloween; that the colors represent the harvest, how for centuries (or more), belief in the other-wordly transcends cultures around the world.

And, of course, it sells.

This year was a crazier Halloween than I can remember; multiple obligations, too many parties, cats at every house I visited that made me sneeze (some witch I am), and my kids getting further and further away from me and my trusted flashlight, similar to how my own childhood escaped me before I learned the things of which I was really afraid.

So I lit some candles this last October Saturday night. I burned some incense, sage, and finally, gave thanks for the bounty before me, spilled out on my kitchen table, in the form of high fructose corn syrup, empty wrappers, and smiles indelibly recorded on cameras that don't require a trip to the Fromat.

Now, I say good-bye to the marketing trap and checking-account drainer that is Halloween and welcome my favorite holiday of all, Thanksgiving.

I am not gifted with hands that can stitch homemade costumes. I can never bring myself to do a haunted house, there are enough scary things in the world. Thanksgiving is rooted in history, survives on virtue, and celebrated with food. It's quite an intoxicating spell for me.

Come November, I am obsessed with proving my worth and gratefulness by scratch cooking every last starter, side dish, and dessert. Mom does the bird. Dad carves it (and saves me the first, juiciest bite of skin, at least he did before I gave birth to a mini-me).

Last night I roasted a turkey breast for hubby's sandwiches this week, and made pan gravy. Last month I made batches of cornbread and what everyone didn't eat, I saved (mostly crumbs, told ya, obsessed). Last week I roasted two chickens and strained the pan juices (schmaltz) to use in the stuffing. And I have bought up all the acini de pepe (little pasta beads) for the pumpkin and butternut squash bisque.

Dessert is a whole other blog.

If I am a Grinch in October, I am a fairy/witch/sliding in fleece socks on kitchen tile instead of on roller skates/harvesting maven in November.

And I only need to dive into their childhoods, and into my cookbooks, to be happy. I save the wishes on stars for other things.

ROASTED TURKEY BREAST & BASIC PAN GRAVY

(for those of us who can't wait until the actual Thanksgiving)

(1) 2 lb. turkey breast, with skin

1 tbsp. extra virgin olive oil

1 tbsp. unsalted butter, sliced into quarters

smoked paprika

poultry seasoning

coarse grain salt and pepper to taste

For gravy:

2 tsp. flour

1/4 cup chicken stock or broth

Preheat oven to 400 degrees.

In a roasting pan that can go from oven to stovetop range, put in turkey breast.

Place butter quarters under the turkey skin.

Drizzle olive oil over the turkey breast, then sprinkle salt, pepper, paprika and poultry seasoning.

Roast at 400 degrees: 15 minutes per pound, plus 10 minutes.

Chicken is done at 165 degrees. Set turkey aside and let stand for 15 minutes before serving.

For gravy:

Add chicken broth to pan juices left behind in roasting pan, over medium-high heat on range. With a wooden spoon, scrape up all the browned bits from the bottom of the pan, as you add the chicken stock/broth. Bring to a simmer, and whisk in flour.

When mixture thickens and resembles a gravy, strain or leave as is.

Serve immediately, refrigerate, or freeze.

Chorizo and Sweet Potato Stuffed Mushrooms with Feta

I don't have a fabulous picture of the chorizo and sweet potato stuffed mushrooms I made for Halloween night to show you. I try, really, I do, to remember to take pictures of the food I make in the event I choose to blog the recipe later.

Usually, it's eaten too quickly. On Halloween, I made these mushrooms after returning home from two soccer games, one football game, and pumpkin hunting (never again will I wait until Halloween day to get our carving pumpkin). When the 'rooms were done, I tented them with foil in a pretty white platter I got from my old friend Jen for my wedding, then took on the monumental task of making my tired self look presentable for the evening. A new ruffled-edge dressy t-shirt always helps.

During this time, the camera was charging to take pictures of Halloween 2009.

I was just too focused on performing miracles - impromptu costumes, never before tried recipes, carving a pumpkin just before sundown - to think about culinary photography for my blog.

I pulled the food off, at least. In addition to the stuffed mushrooms, I also wrapped some thin, medium-rare filet mignon slices up in store bought crescent rolls, baked them until golden brown, then topped them with a sour cream-dill-horseradish sauce. That beef and bread creation didn't go as fast as the mushrooms during the partying. The recipe is below.

My girlfriend hosting Halloween didn't ask anyone to bring anything, but, I just couldn't go along with that. I, by nature, had to make the evening more difficult for myself. Half to blame is my mother's "Never go to someone's house empty-handed" and the other half of culpability belongs to my "Cook until you reinvent yourself a thousand times" approach to being social. I am well aware of my quirks and worries, but at the root of it all - any holiday, party of festivity - is to enjoy oneself, to remember it with fondness, so I cook. I don't have to. But I have to.

And maybe I want my kids to know they can count on me to make something delicious and well-representing in a pinch. It feels like our entire life is "in a pinch", but I seem to operate this way, and I am still standing. Leaning to one side, maybe, but standing.

The truth is, these mushrooms were not planned out. They were successful, savory, and sublimely sweet and meaty, but spontaneous. In a pinch. A lot of things, in a pinch.

I got to the grocery store at 4:30pm on Halloween day, which was only crazier because it was a Saturday. By this time, I had been to four places to get pumpkins. I looked exactly like someone who had schlepped kids to games in 83 degree weather all day; hair flying out of it's clip in all directions, absent of lip color, shiny face with beads of sweat on my cheeks. But I had a purpose, this was apparent. At least I like to think it was.

"I guess you guys are out of pumpkins, too?" I asked the grocery store employee working produce, trying not to sound like Wendy Whiner from SNL years ago. "I got one left, it has some abrasions, so I'll just give it to you free," he said. He went behind the swingy produce doors, and returned with a pumpkin that didn't look so bad to me. It had N/C written on it next to a soft, pigmented area on the pumpkin. "Thank you," I said to the clerk, making sure I looked him in the eye. I smiled at him - I appreciated the fact that this person was generous, even though he probably wanted to be home spilling KitKats into a big pumpkin-shaped bowl with his own kids, getting them ready for a fun night.

I could so make this pumpkin work. I felt like taking a nap right there in the potato aisle but optimism, optimism will save you, my horoscope had said earlier in the week.

I walked by the mushrooms that were on special. I stopped in front of their display to think, and the inertia of my following daughters knocked me into my shopping cart. "Did your father finish that sweet potato I made him in between games?" I got a quick, definitive "No," so I chose carefully 20 big mushrooms, bought a beef chorizo, and grabbed some crumbled feta before leaving the store.

Once home, I cleared counter space, set out my ingredients, and pre-heated the oven to 425 degrees.

Follow these instructions, but not necessarily how I arrived at them, and I promise you a delicious hors d'oeuvre, that hopefully makes your kin proud.

CHORIZO AND SWEET POTATO STUFFED MUSHROOMS WITH FETA

20 large mushrooms (any mushrooms that looks big enough to hold stuffing after you pop out the stem)

1 tbsp. olive oil

1 pkg. beef chorizo sausage (I buy the kind that looks like Kielbasa)

1 large sweet potato, cooked

1/2 cup dried bread crumbs

8 oz. softened cream cheese

chopped flat-leaf parsley

1/8 tsp. coarse grain salt

pepper to taste

crumbled feta cheese

Preheat the oven to 425 degrees.

Grease a cookie sheet lined with foil, or a 9x13 pan.

Dust off mushrooms with a pastry brush or paper towel. Pop out and discard the stems.

With a pastry brush, brush the mushrooms with olive oil, placing mushrooms onto cookie sheet or into 9x13 pan.

Squeeze chorizo out of it's casing into a skillet, and cook over medium heat until done, about 5-7 minutes ("done" meaning malleable, warmed through, needing to be drained of fat).

Use a slotted spoon to remove the chorizo from pan, or strain the chorizo.

In a large bowl, add chorizo, cooked sweet potato, bread crumbs, softened cream cheese, chopped parsley, salt and pepper.

Mix well, until all ingredients are incorporated.

Scoop into mushrooms. It's okay if the filling gets high!

Top with crumbled feta, as much as you like.

Bake at 425 degrees for 15-20 minutes (check after 15 minutes), until you can smell the mushrooms and the feta is melted, beginning to bubble and brown.