I’ve been inside lately and miss my walks. A well-timed walk offers the healing power of Mother Nature and makes me feel, well, more human. I believe in the benefits of nature and today’s musing is a seasonal tour along one of my favorite paths. Come walk with me.

How do you connect with nature?

In recent years, I’ve read more about how bonding with nature makes us happier, healthier human beings. Scientists study the positive benefits of listening to birdsong, walking in the words, or just being outdoors. “Birds wake up the sleeping trees,” my Dad once told me, convinced that birdsong served as a melodic alarm for the trees to bud in springtime. Although I don’t fully buy that theory, I do believe that being attuned with nature awakens our senses and makes us feel more human.   

Florence Williams explores nature’s restorative power in, “The Nature Fix: Why Nature Makes us Happier, Healthier, and More Creative.” (I just started reading her book.) Anyone who spends time outside, whether walking or gardening, has probably experienced the jolt of joy nature brings.  

In fact, the local arboretum offers an introductory class for forest bathing, a practice of keeping quiet and calm among the trees. I may sign up next year. Until then, I will wander around the neighborhood, tromp through the park, around the woods, or down our path.  

I’ll give you a glimpse of the path that brightens my day during every season. Mother Nature’s stop sign is at the trailhead, rendering me unable to move until I admire the radiant red berries. This formerly bare bush stands before me, a beauty covered with shinny small (pea-sized) berries. I am tempted to pluck a delicate souvenir, yet I pass by.

When I reach the bridge, I look for a dear friend, the great blue heron. I often see him standing still as a stature in the treetops. Despite his distinct shape, he hides himself well. I must match my patience with his and only then will I spot this blue-gray bird with a graceful neck and long skinny legs. My heron gazes down at the small creek, which is a food source in addition to our neighbor’s Koi fishpond and the large lake several miles away. The creek is home to many a trilling toad and croaking frog saying, “Hello!”

Now the trees are winter bare, and I try to identify the species by its size and shape because I am unable to see the bark from afar. The trees flaunt their naked shape, and I envy their unabashed attitude.

Long gone are leaves, which covered the trees and our shortcut to the path. I recall rustling through the leaves like a child eager to hear the crispy, crunchy, and swishy sounds. Now invisible, the leaves are grounded and crumbled taking on a musty smell, which makes me sneeze. I miss the lovely red, amber, and orange foliage, signaling fall is here.

I also delight seeing the deep rusty brown and golden wooly worms that wobble along the path as autumn eases into winter.

In the winter, fewer people use the path. But I rise early, thanks to my husband. He dons the headlamp, and lights our way. His light casts strange scary shadows, which make me duck to avoid the imaginary bat or bird. Yes, I remind myself that it’s too cold for the bats who leave at summer’s end. What I see must be tree limbs.

I relish the dark quiet walk before the morning traffic gets too loud and bright. At 6 a.m., the path is empty except for a few hardy runners who tempt fate without reflective gear or lights. In warmer weather, more walkers, runners, and bikers are out. We also see more wildlife: bold beautiful red foxes, skittish and brave bunnies, and the playful yellow finches.

In spring and summer, the first colorful flash of the male finches makes my heart flutter. These birds play a game of tag between the trees. Oh, I wish I could fly too. For now, I will settle for coasting down the hills on my bike at 16 to 26 mph with the wind in my face wearing what I call my finch jersey. Both my husband and I have high-vis yellow and black jerseys. I wonder if the finch family will adopt us.

Also fashionable dressed in yellow and black are my fuzzy buzzy bee friends who bury themselves in the lavender thistle. Thistles have a bad rap because they are tough, wearing spikes and getting all prickly when humans or herbivores come too close to remove them or eat them, respectively. (I did read thistles are edible, but insects and butterflies need this food source more than I.) Monarch butterflies love the thistle and milkweed found in the fields along the path.

But Mother Nature doesn’t promise us bees and butterflies every day. No, there are vultures, voles, and snakes who live among us. I avert my eyes from the small dead creatures by the path knowing it is likely the half-eaten vole snack dropped from a hawk flying over. I also sidestep the raccoon poo in the middle of the path. And I jerk my bike wheel in time to avoid the snake, which blends into the asphalt.

It’s nature – there’s a balance and I respect that. When a young garter snake was trapped in the netting in our backyard, we freed him with sewing scissors and patience. The little guy was patient with us. Saving a snake may seem odd to some but in my mind, he did nothing wrong, and we had to make it right.

Nature is there for me. I need return the kindness.

It makes me smile when I hear the Carolina wren sing, “You’re pretty, you’re pretty,” just for me. Or at least that’s how I interpret her tweets.

 I am happier walking by fields full of thistle, which are buzzing with bees, butterflies and bunnies. I feel lighter when I hear birds, frogs, and foxes carrying conversations from the trees, creeks, and dens in the woods.

My wish is that nature brings all of us the benefits of a happier, healthier, and more creative New Year.

 

 

 

Holiday Baking: Go Home Baker Go!  

Have you ever cracked an egg and been delighted to find a double yolk? If you are superstitious like me, then you know that you’ve received a blessing from the baking gods because twin yolks mean you’ll have good luck. Or you’ll have twins. I prefer the former fortune.

I count my one lucky egg as two for any recipe. What about you?

During the holidays, I am addicted to the holiday baking championships. My craving for such entertainment starts around Halloween and continues through New Year’s Day. ’Tis the season of sweets!

Food Network follows a simple easy-to-follow show recipe. Every segment has a theme. For example, the judges want the cheery contestants to update a fruitcake recipe, design bite-size sugar cookies for Santa’s elves, or conjure up reindeer treats fit for human consumption. Sounds fun, right? The winner receives a monetary prize.   

The participants range from professional pastry chefs to the home baker who showcase their skills along with their giant personality. Each person must bake under deadline pressure. Cue the Mission Impossible music. Judges seek perfection grading the bakers on the presentation, texture, taste, flavor combination, creativity, and whether or not they fulfilled the theme. But before the mission is over, there’s a twist thrown at the bakers. 

The jolly host informs the crew of contestants (in a loud and obnoxious way) that they must incorporate a specific ingredient. Surprise! An odd fruit like quince, a strange herb like sage (in sweets, oh my!) or an exotic extract appears on the countertop like an unwanted lump of coal.

Of course, the twist adds tension.

Winners of the heat get an advantage say a five-minute lead time, or first choice of their favorite flavor to bake with among the common and rare flavors. I pity the poor person who must have “mace” as a spice or coconut as a flavor. But that’s just me.  

But I admire the apron clad badass bakers who have the courage to rise to the challenge as viewers like me watch and judge.  

These judges are expected to have discerning taste buds. As a viewer, I am at a loss because the rum-infused chocolate is not melting in my mouth. And the dry cake isn’t sticking in my throat. I must imagine the creamy mouthfeel and spicy eggnog taste of the three-inch yellow cheesecake. But I don’t have to pretend to hear the panicked voices of the bakers talking as they drop butter into the whirling mixer, grind nuts in the food processor, or dice fruit with precision.  A grand performance, which never happens while I’m baking.

Another thing about the show judges is how they perform. First, they dress to impress and distract the viewer. It’s a contest to see who is wearing the most outlandish outfit. They don the red horns of the devil for spooky themes or sport green and red stripped stockings of a misfit elf for a Christmas segment.

Despite their appearance, the judges have discerning taste buds. As a viewer, I am at a loss because the rum-infused chocolate is not melting in my mouth. The dry cake isn’t sticking in my throat. I must imagine the creamy mouthfeel and spicy eggnog taste of the three-inch yellow cheesecake.    

I find the judges are hyper critical at times. It pains me to hear them make jokes about lopsided creations, crispy (burnt) cookies, or half-decorated cakes. They express their opinions like, “I can’t taste the special ingredient.” Often a kinder judge will say: “I know you are a better baker.”

However, the panel of judges often will overlook the flaws if they hear a heartwarming story behind the red velvet cake plated before them. Recipes that evoke nostalgia are superior to recipes that require pure scientific skill.  

For many people, the kitchen is a magical place awakening our senses and our memories of the people who make us feel cared for and loved.

But I digress. Back to the judges and their decisions

The hardest part for me to watch is the final line up of competitors waiting to learn if they will stay or go home. The souls sent home look as deflated as a sunken souffle. I wish the judges would award consolation prizes for the kindest bakers. I believe anyone who helps their colleague finish decorating cookies in the final throes, gives their neighbor a hug when they need it, or doles out useful advice desires an award. Or at least receive praise from the panel.

Someday I’ll suggest that to Food Network.

To all the home bakers you are already winners. Now, in case you are a betting baker, the odds of cracking open a double yolk are one in 1,000 eggs, and those are better odds than qualifying to compete in the holiday baking competition.   

 

Holiday work parties: Did you mutter bah humbug and call in sick the day of the party? Or did you relish celebrating with your colleagues?    

My fondest memory was of celebrating with my KCPT public television family. We decorated the studio, brought in potluck dishes, and enjoyed the afternoon feast. No spiked punch. No brazen behavior.

In other words, this private party was rated G.    

We gathered around the piano and sang carols. Our talented colleague played the piano in grand fashion for the impromptu choir of co-workers. At that moment, I felt like I was in the our family’s living room with Mom playing the piano and Dad singing slightly off key and a measure ahead.  

My coworkers were a friendly family who took pride in their work. Quirky characters but genuine and kind. Picture a diverse cast featuring Orson Welles as the staunch news producer demanding perfection. Morgan Freeman could have played the good-natured tall cameraman with the deep voice. And Will Ferrell would have portrayed the goofy guy who was in charge of something “important,” but I wasn’t sure what.

The point was that everyone respected one another no matter their job or tenure. On-air talent or lowly copywriters like me were all treated well at KCPT. Turnover was low, and morale was high. These capable co-workers weren’t there for the money. I based this assumption on my paycheck. Yep, I was close to qualifying for food stamps. But this was the 1980s and I was ecstatic to have landed a broadcast job. My first real job.

Overall, KCPT was a nurturing atmosphere, and I grew my experience by volunteering for the station’s auctions and fundraisers. The fundraisers were frenzied fun. A different kind of party.

I stayed at the station a couple of years before leaving for a commercial station chasing the promise of more opportunity and more money. As I recall, I applied for a position in the promotion department but instead I was offered a role in the traffic department. No, the job didn’t mean wearing a neon vest and directing cars. I served on a team that booked commercials ranging from car dealers to P&G products. Although my co-workers were collegial and respectful, the bond was like that of distant cousins, instead of the close-knit family I knew and loved at the public television station.

Commercial television was different.  

First, the on-air talent, reporters, and salespeople who generated revenue had the most power, respect, and influence. Ranking second in power were the “advertisers.” I was disheartened to hear the rumors of advertisers threatening to pull their ads if the station aired negative stories about their businesses.

What about the annual party? The station held its year-end event in a fancy hotel, renting the rotating top floor, which provided a panoramic view with spectacular scenery. Oh, I felt like I was at a Hollywood party mingling with the station’s stars with winsome smiles. An open bar, delicious food, and a band made for a showy party. Plus, there was a raffle drawing. Yes, I won the prized shiny jacket with the station’s call letters.    

Guess what my bonus was: an 18-pound turkey! The managers handed us the frozen turkeys, rather than dropping them from a plane. (Just for laughs, here’s my favorite sitcom clip:  WKRP historic turkey drop.)  

I appreciated the turkey, party, and cost of living salary increase. Yet, something was missing for me: the comradery among colleagues. The party lacked the laughter, warmth, and fun of sharing a simple potluck lunch under the glow of studio lights.

 Memories: Gasper's Truck Stop 

Did you have a hometown diner or a special spot that felt like your second home? Perhaps you knew a place where you and your friends always met to end your late night? Maybe you solved the world’s problems while sharing a slice of apple pie a la mode? Or was there a café where the owners knew your name, your order, and your table?

My small town didn’t have a diner. We had Gasper’s Truck Stop. Everyone was welcome at Gasper’s any time and every day of the year.

This family-owned restaurant, located off I-70 at US 54 interchange, catered to truckers from coast to coast. Truckers and townsfolk dined in different rooms. That was just the way Gasper’s worked, probably since the day it opened in 1965. It was the same year I-70 opened replacing old Highway 40.

I had my first Gasper’s experience in the 1970s when my family moved to the heartland. The food was fresh, and the service was fast. And the price was right.

Behind the cash register a black and white kitty cat clock with its swinging tale and googly moving eyes greeted the customers before the hostess even said, “Hello.”

We followed the hostess, menus stashed under her arm, past the smoke-filled truckers’ section to the larger dining area. Dishes and silverware clattered as the busboys cleared tables in a tornado-like fashion, removing all evidence of the last diners. It was always a full house with families, friends, and the reunion of old friends standing up to hug one another before being invited to sit down to catch up on old times.  

Gasper’s was known for its breakfast available all day. But I expect it was more famous among locals for its crispy, juicy fried chicken served on Sundays. Customers were willing to wait in long lines for Sunday dinner (noon meal) after church.

Our family of four liked to eat at Gasper’s on Saturday mornings. The menu was simple. You didn’t have to play Sherlock Holmes to decipher, deduce or debate a long list of ingredients in each dish. Choices included: biscuits covered with gooey gravy seasoned with plenty of pepper, eggs prepared every way possible, golden pancakes stacked high, toast (white or wheat), bacon or sausage.

Soon, the savory smells of breakfast sausage mingling with burgers and fries made you aware of how hungry you were ever time servers passed by with trays loaded with food, glorious food!  

Waitresses appeared at the table ready to take your order. No introductions needed. This career waitresses didn’t tell the table, “I’ll be talking care of you today.” These gals didn’t need to tell you they were going to take care of you, they showed you. Coffee cups were magically filled. If Dad asked for extra crisp bacon, he was rarely disappointed. Your waitress delivered your order right the first time.

I was fond of the French toast sprinkled with powdered sugar and served with the little pats of butter in gold foil, accompanied by a pitcher of sweet syrup. The soft yolky yellow toast tasting like butter and cinnamon melted in my mouth.

However, I was not a fan of the claw machine. This coin-operated game drew adults and kids to lower the claw into the glass cage of cute fuzzy stuffed animals and cheap trinkets. The player used a sticky joystick to move the claw, grab a toy and drop it into the chute. Except, the claw always dropped the prize before reaching the exit chute.   

After breakfast, Dad and my younger brother walked through the parking lot to look at the big rigs and talk with the truck drivers. In later years, Dad and I bought lottery tickets at Gasper’s because they had high ticket sales, increasing the odds of winning. Dad didn’t get rich. The small sums we won were enough to pay for the 14-mile roundtrip to try. Worth every cent.

After 39 years, Gasper’s owners sold the business and retired.

Today, there’s a modern truck plaza along with plenty of chains and convenience stores serving truckers, tourists, and townies. But I don’t feel as welcome or taken care of today as I did then.  

 

Combine the smell of fresh pine, the crunchy spicy goodness of a gingerbread cookie, light snow falling, and Bing Crosby singing “White Christmas” and you have the ideal setting to savor the holiday newsletter. Turn on the fireplace for me too.This week’s musing features holiday newsletters. Yep, I’m going there. I’ve also included a Q&A for you. Should you still have questions, I’m available to advise.  

Do you write or send holiday newsletters?

    'Tis the season for news from family and friends from afar. I love receiving real letters from real people I know – it’s a gift I treasure. The best newsletters are written with care. In this case, care is not about perfect grammar, punctuation, or style. Just inform, entertain, and enlighten me!

    I’ve compiled the ABC’s of crafting holiday newsletters followed by a Q&A.

Authentic: Merriam Webster named authentic its word of the year. Best to take this word seriously, as well as my advice. Write in your authentic voice. Do not worry about impressing anyone with funny anecdotes, accolades, or athletic triumphs. Please don’t fret over writing witty, that’s hard work.  I’d rather read your heartfelt stories. Finally, the key to creating an authentic newsletter is simple: Don’t make stuff up.    

Brief: One of my favorite sayings by Mark Twain is: “I didn't have time to write a short letter, so I wrote a long one instead.” Twain has a point. He is saying thinking before writing is key to composing a clear, concise letter. I prefer highlights, not a monthly summary of your life. (Just me.) Also, remember to identify people in your newsletter. Tell me if Sandy is your aunt or your golden retriever.

Strive for a balanced account of the year – share the sad news along with the good news. Caution: Use your judgment about conveying bad news. Is this news something that needs a separate letter or a phone call?  

Cheer: Sprinkle positive uplifting news throughout your letter and end on a happy note.  

FAQs:

How can I be more creative?

Give the job of compiling the news to someone else in your family. Ask a member of your fur family to pen the letter. Spot is a keen observer and I’m sure he’d prepare a ruff draft for you. Perhaps your readers will enjoy hearing a different point of view. Or you could change the format: Try making a video or a singing audio card. But before you go that route, consider your audience. Are they savvy Tic Toc consumers? If yes, you are up against some tough competition. On the other hand, can their technology support your multimedia note?

What if I had a boring unworthy news year?

Is there a G-rated hobby you can highlight?  Make sure you anything you mention doesn’t set expectations that next year they’ll receive handmade crocheted hats, giant garden zucchini or an abstract poem you wrote. Remember, fever dreams and abstract poems are best kept to yourself.

Think about the content for a week and if you aren’t inspired to write, don’t. Take solace in the fact that there’s always next year for better news and dreams to come true.  

Do I have to type the letter?

Do you really want me to decipher your handwriting? Be kind and type it.    

What color type is more festive for my newsletter – red, green, gold or silver?

These colors look tacky and are hard to read. To create an accessible newsletter, consider an easy to read font. Pick one font unless you want this letter to look like a ransom note. I also suggest you stick with basic black ink for your color-blind and color sensitive friends.  

Can I email my newsletter to save time and money?

It is the digital age so of course you can email the newsletter. I’m channeling the Modern Miss Manners here: “Yes, holiday newsletters may be emailed because it’s the thought that counts. However, keep in mind that even though it’s more practical it’s less personal.”

Really, I can email the letter? No, I was kidding. What is better than a letter? Sorry, that’s me being authentic.

Is it necessary to let people know this is your last newsletter?

My advice is not to announce your intentions to forgo this honored holiday tradition. Resist revealing your plan, even if you have a legitimate reason like, “We won $2 billion dollars in the lottery and we’re _________. (Fill in the blank.)  Your friends and family will resent you, follow you, or heap guilt upon you for stopping the newsletter they look forward to every year.

My newsletter is going to be late, late, late. I missed the 12/31 deadline. What should I do?

Deadlines apply only to the Grinch who wants to steal your joy.  You can still send it. Change the date and the salutation to Happy New Year!