Look, I know it probably means I’m unevolved as a 2022 woman, but I still weigh myself. And never more so in January when I’ve decided I’m a new me and am finally going to get myself in check. So, lately, my late morning routine involves taking a few deep breaths and facing the music.
It’s 1:07 a.m. on a Tuesday and I’m waiting for a delivery. The Roadie map shows it’s nearly to Berea now and there is absolutely no way I’ll be able to sleep until it gets here.
Because I’ve been waiting for eight days.
A few weeks ago, I wrote about my complicated relationship with Aldi and my very uncomplicated relationship with stroopwafels. The gist of that column was: stroopwafels rock and Aldi is growing on me.
A few days after publication, I received this very interesting email from a lady named Cindy Miller:
“I saw your recent story where you unveiled your search for stroopwafels! As luck would have it – I have Google alert set up for ‘stroopwafel,’ which is how your story came to my attention! I work with Daelman’s Stroopwafel (the original bakery from the Netherlands) and I shared with them your story and they’d like to send you some stroopwafels! Would you provide a good mailing address and perhaps the Stroopwafel Santas could send you a holiday gift!”
Because it’s now officially the Christmas season, I’m going to kick off work early today and go on the hunt for some stroopwafels. I’m feeling pretty good about my field trip, knowing that, soon, my sweet tooth will be sated for the low, low price of 140 calories.
I’m hosting a small Christmas get-together soon, which means I have spent way too long scanning holiday party recipes on just about every site on the internet. It’s made me realize what an interesting food category this is, with trends so embedded that neither time nor source seem interested in bucking them.
Hugo Baker trotted into the kitchen last night happy as a clam, carrying a Christmas ornament in his mouth he’d nicked off the tree.
“You are never going to believe this,” he said to Tilly. “There are wooden toys hanging all over the place in there.”
Ever since the tree (thanks, Heffelfinger Tree Farm!) went up on Sunday, Hugo has been there inspecting every new development. He’s sipped on the water. He’s chewed up bows on the gift boxes. He’s nosed the branches. And now, apparently, he had sampled an ornament, a beleaguered-looking lamb that William managed to rescue at the last minute.
It’s a new day in the Kaprowy/Baker kitchen, thanks to a renovation that has gifted us with a shiny new range.
I use the word “range” as if I’m fully in possession of it, though of course I’m not. I actually only learned that it refers to an oven/stove combo in the nine months we awaited its arrival. It was, alas, the final piece in our renovation project and I’ve been kind of sparring with this beautiful beast, whose name is Julia, ever since.
Isn’t it fun how, if you live in a small town, just about anything constitutes an “errand” when you’re in the city? Like, “going to the mall” is part of your errand list even though you are headed to fun Sephora to get some new foundation (and eyeshadow and festive nail polish). “Going to The Summit” means you are either shopping or eating and maybe stopping at Whole Foods, which, I’ll grant you, is errand-like, except of course you have to treat yourself to a cookie because the cookies are so good there and maybe you’ll have a slice of pizza there too because aren’t you allowed to eat when you’re so busy running errands?
Debbie was the name of my Barbie growing up. I thought it the most gorgeous name in the world, unless I had just watched an episode of “The Love Boat,” in which case I invariably considered switching Debbie’s name to Vicki.
I’ve been thinking about Debbie this week as I prepare my Christmas list for my friends’ kids. Every year, I research the hottest toys. And every year, I miss the ones I had when I was a kid.
Debbie was a Western-style Barbie, which meant she came with a cowboy hat, cowboy boots and a white satin outfit nearly buzzing with fringe. On her back, she had a button that, if pressed, made Debbie wink. And what accentuated her wink? Her violently blue eyeshadow, of course.
I knew I had a problem last March when I was looking for something to watch on Netflix and settled into a movie with a Rotten Tomatoes rating of 25 percent simply because it was about Christmas. Around June, I’d started to feel constantly fidgety, looking for a reason — any reason — to make shortbread. On Sept. 1, I hummed loudly when I turned the page on our Boston terrier calendar and hurried to T.J. Maxx to see whether they had any red and green decorations out yet.
So, that’s it. I’ve become a year-round Christmas person. I don’t know if the pandemic did it to me or what, but I basically only want it to be December all the time.
The Toasted Tomato 