I am a foodie. I love to eat, read about and look at fine food. The only reality television I watch revolves around food and cooking. When I'm anxious about something, I bake. When I'm euphoric, I bake. Alas, my cooking skills—once well-honed—deteriorated when the boys went off to college. I still appreciate fine food; I just don't want to make it anymore. The adventurous chef who once delighted in a new recipe has been replaced by someone content to eat cereal for dinner, or if necessary, a Slim Jim. When Taylor was asked to work a cruise over the Thanksgiving holiday, he turned it down, …

Right after 9/11, the crisp blue skies were void of airplanes. I remember walking the dogs on Memorial Field, accompanied not by the muffled roar of flights banking in and out of Philadelphia International, but by a silence so unaccustomed that I stood still and looked up. The planes overhead are such a part of our daily lives we seldom acknowledge them in any way until they are no longer soaring above us, as was the case that horrific September day, and again, recently, when Sandy wreaked such havoc, silencing the skies. In a few days, Thanksgiving will be upon us. If you’re hosting this …

The Halloween of 2012 was not memorable from a lighthearted, candy-gathering standpoint. Sure, we had our usual sprinkling of neighborhood princesses and ninjas combing the cul-de-sacs, but after multiple stops and starts courtesy of Sandy and the Gov, most of us were pretty weary by the time ersatz Halloween came around. I am generalizing here because most children were blissfully unaware anything was amiss. It was the adults who were frazzled from lack of power, lack of gadgetry and a very sore lack of anything resembling humor. Bliss is something we could all use more of right about now, …

I've been counting down the days until "The Kidney Stone That Refused To Leave My Body" is forcibly extracted. I should be encouraged because that stubborn ball o’ pain has already travelled, unassisted, from my kidneys and is now lodged in, well, y'know. Too much information? I agree. But I’ve been in a holding pattern and my mind has been playing tricks on me. For example, I actually broke my vow never to read the nasty comments that trickle into my column. People say some stupid things, and the fact that they're cowards to boot makes a sensible gal like me refrain from responding. But as I…

Some people in Moorestown are just downright nasty. Some people in Moorestown are kind and caring. Evidence for both of these statements could be found swirling through Mo’town last week as superstorms of every kind continued to buffet us and knock us off our games. Hopefully, you experienced more of the latter than the former. Hopefully, your power is back on and all your personal devices are juiced up and ready to serve. Our neighborhood, sometimes known as Roberts Park, was fortunate in that we had power and cable throughout most of Sandy’s visit. It wasn’t until Monday night that the …

I just want to start out by thanking all six of you reading this column on the morning that Frankenstorm/Sandy gets ready to do his/her worst while we: 1) Bought batteries, but not the right kind. 2) Brought home 12 cases of water. Sparkling water, artificially flavored with watermelon.  3) Have decided to “ride it out,” scolding the media for trying to scare us yet again. 4) Are fervently hoping this storm really isn’t THE ONE, but have bought lots of guilty junk food and will eat all the Halloween candy judiciously—say, one bag per day. We’ve been sort of following Sandy out of the corner …

Last Sunday, I was already stewing about Monday, which is never the best way to start the week. I had overextended, overbooked and overthought practically every item on my to-do list. Then I opened the newspaper. I don’t know what I’m going to do with my mornings when newspapers become extinct, but when everything I read upsets me, I wonder what’s the point? Do I really need to know Philadelphia is the sweatpants capital of the country? That data, courtesy of Experian Simmons (who?) informed me that Philadelphians bought the most sweatpants for the second year in a row. Five minutes prior to …

Lately, people have been slinging seasonal sentiments my way then waiting for me to make the appropriate response. I sometimes try to say what I think they want to hear, like, “Can’t wait to get the sweaters out of the attic,” or, “Oh yes! Autumn is a lovely time of year.” Those of you who truly know me know I haven’t worn wool or anything resembling a sweater since 1998. I have piles of warm wool sweaters stacked up in the attic, just waiting for the day when my internal thermometer resets itself, yet again, and I go from being hot all the time to being cold all the time. Even in Florida. In…

Almost 40 years later and the elusive Jimmy Hoffa is still hiding out under someone’s woodpile, toolshed or deck. This apparently is a national preoccupation, since the quest for Hoffa has meandered from Giants Stadium in New Jersey, through a Florida swamp, under a swimming pool in Detroit, to, most recently, a driveway in Roseville, MI, where once again the teamster was MIA. The latest “Jimmy Hunt” took up three columns in the newspaper this week, which is outrageous when you consider how many “feel-good” stories there are to tell—many of them happening right here in our town. The one I …

Every once in a while, a trip miles out of one's comfort zone is necessary to appreciate what one has left behind. Like trees. Or humidity. Okay—nobody ever misses humidity when they leave Jersey, the external moisture capital of the East Coast. But staying in one's comfort zone for too long leads to complacency and possible personal hygiene issues, neither of which were responsible for my recent trek to New Mexico.   Family is what moved me West, facilitated by a first-class ticket, courtesy of Mr. Mason, who flies at least three times a week. My uncle, Jim, is a frail 89-year-old who has …

When asked if they like what they do for a living, most people's answers tend to be predictable: a shoulder shrug, perhaps an eye roll, before saying something like "It's a living," or "I'm lucky to have a job in this economy." Occasionally, you might get someone who says they HATE their job, then rants on about evil bosses, petty office politics and rancid coffee in the breakroom. Rarely does anyone tell you they LOVE their job. It is so rare, in fact, that should you witness a display of career adoration, you will either be envious, disbelieving or thrilled there are actually people in this…

Our neighborhood has changed dramatically in the last few years, as houses have sold and younger families have moved in. The cul-de-sacs are once again filled with wagons, toys, tricycles and the sounds of children playing. The joyous sounds of unstructured playtime drift my way in the late afternoon, reminding me of when my boys were young, shooting hoops out front or organizing the other kids for a pre-dusk game of "jail break."   Games from my childhood are lost now: Mother May I?, Freeze Tag, Red Light/Green Light, even Jacks and jump rope have been stashed in the past. One game lives on…

The deed is done. The younger of two young’uns has been deposited on Boylston Street in Boston, ready for sophomore year. Last year, his first, we could see waves of uncertainty emanating from his body. He wanted us to help him make up his bed, complete with anti-bedbug mattress encasement that required all three of us to maneuver the twin extra-long into the plastic sheath. He wanted us to take him out to dinner “one last time.” His voice quavered when we said goodbye. This year, he practically shoved us out the door. There were hugs but no tears, which, I guess, is how it should be. Hub and…

Like most women, I have food issues. I guess I should amend that to say "like most people," because we all seem to be struggling with too much of this and not enough of that. Sadly, it's a bigger issue for women because society judges us solely on our looks. We are either Angelina Jolie or the Goodyear blimp. When I was a child, I was a picky eater. Lima beans scared me. I don’t know why. Ditto with orange marmalade. The thought of eating a gelatinous, sickly sweet dollop filled with shards of orange peel was enough to send me hiding under my bed. The only food groups I embraced in those days…

The only positive thing that can be said about the ongoing battle to turf the town is the fact that this has NOT been a partisan fight, Democrats against Republicans, but a tussle between citizens for how they think the Open Space funds should be used. In this insanely polarized world we now live in, how refreshing to know Mo’town is bucking that trend. To be sure, both sides of the argument are angry and absolutely positive they're right and the other side is wrong, but it is not a donkey/elephant thing. Into this fray comes a sweet young lass by the name of Victoria Napolitano, a Republican…

The British have an expression I've heard frequently in movies, one used when the upper-crusters were forced to lower their standard of living due to some unforeseen financial setback: "We must retrench!" We, on this side of the pond, use the term "tighten one's belt," but I do so prefer retrench. And even though it does not apply to our change of vacation venue, I will use it nonetheless to describe the fact that this year we have retrenched, hauling our beach gear from Ship Bottom to Beach Haven, from an aqua shoebox the size and shape of a stick of butter to a worn-out ranch house, circa …

At my age, "to do" lists are essential. Actually, I find it helpful to make "to buy" lists, "to go" lists, and especially, "to find" lists when I can't find the lists I've been working on. So, in preparation for our week at the SHEW-ur, I had several lists going, none of which were kept in the same place. One was in my handbag, one in my car, and another list was hidden amongst the newspapers in the recycle bin. It was a note reminding me to recycle before we went away. I had gathered all the usual suspects on my list of items to take on vacation: sunscreen, beach umbrella, towels, Frisbee, …

One of my all-time favorite writers is the late Mike Royko, a newspaper columnist born and raised in Chicago who was well known for taking on Mayor Richard Daley (the first), Big Boss of The Windy City. He also famously tangled with Frank Sinatra when Ol’ Blues Eyes made a Chi’town appearance, guarded by a huge contingent of Chicago policemen. Sinatra publicly called Royko a “pimp” when Mike had the audacity to question why a celebrity with an already huge entourage needed the extra muscle of a platoon of cops. Mike was frequently criticized for “telling it like it is,” or at least HIS …

It is a wonderful thing when our elected officials live up or down to our expectations, don't you agree? After all, we elected them to be our voice in government, to speak for us and, more importantly, to listen to us. How refreshing then, that the majority of our beloved town council did what they set out to do in 2011: hijack the Open Space funds for their expensive fields project. How totally predictable.  I spent last weekend stewing about attending the council meeting on Monday. It was the day before my eldest son's birthday and the only time he could get away from work was that Monday …

After trying for many years NOT to be a cliché, I’ve come to realize it’s all been for naught. You cannot be middle-aged without also being a cliché. Your sight is worsening, your hearing as well. I cannot help but elicit eye-rolls from my sons because I can never decipher what they're mumbling unless they are facing me and moving their lips slowly like a Clutch Cargo cartoon. Even then, I have to ask for multiple do-overs and deal with the head shaking and "You should get your ears checked, Mom" comments. Someday, you won't be so smug, guys. Okay, so my hearing stinks. I went to too many …