I felt the blood drain from my face when I learned there was an active shooter at Brown University on Saturday night. I lived in Providence for two years while Marc was doing his fellowship and an MPH at Brown. All mass shootings are tragic, but when you know the place where it happened, it breaks your heart in a new way.
I awoke on Sunday morning to many breaking news alerts telling me about the mass shooting at Bondi Beach in Australia. Then I learned that it was at a Chanukah celebration on the beach. My heart seized as I thought of the people who were dead, injured, and traumatized when they just wanted to usher in this beautiful holiday of resilience in a gorgeous place. All mass shootings are tragic, but when yet another Jewish holiday is marred by antisemitic violence, it is a pain shared by Jews everywhere.
I doomscrolled between making desserts for our first night of Chanukah celebration with some family friends. I saw a man, Ahmed al Ahmed, charged at and disarmed one of the shooters. Ahmed ran towards the trouble rather than away from it, and for that, he is a hero. He has multiple bullet wounds, is in pain, and might lose his arm. All mass shootings are tragic, but when a person’s instinct is to protect others rather than preserve themselves, it leaves you humbled.
In times like these, when there’s so much pain in the world, I’m reminded of a quote from Rabbi Lord Jonathan Sacks, who served as Chief Rabbi of the United Hebrew Congregations of the Commonwealth for over two decades.
There always were two ways to live in a world that is often dark and full of tears. We can curse the darkness or we can light a light, and as the Chassidim say, a little light drives out much darkness. May we all help light up the world.
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I didn’t grow up in a home that decorated for Chanukah. In fact, until two years ago, we never decorated our house for Chanukah. But then, October 7th happened, and we wanted to bring more light into our home, so we bought Chanukah decorations.
We bought plush versions of sufganiyot (jelly doughnuts) and latkes (potato pancakes) with sour cream and apple sauce.
We bought paper decorations to hang in doorways.
We also bought lights with menorahs and dreidels on them.
Ari asked to decorate when he got home from school. I agreed to do it since Chanukah begins this Sunday night. His best friend’s family is coming over to celebrate with us on the first night, so I guess he wanted to ensure everything was ready.
Unfortunately, the lights were badly tangled! It was too big a job for him to handle alone, so I helped.
Tangled Lights
We put on the Maccabeats Chanukah album and wondered if I’d get it untangled before it was over. Luckily, I got it untangled by the third song!
Then, we spent a lot of time setting up the lights between the spindles on our staircase. It took longer to get it right than to untangle the lights.
Once everything was set up, I turned the switch to the ON position. NOTHING happened!
“I thought I saw you put on the lights before we started,” I said to Ari.
“No, I didn’t put them on,” he replied.
“Are you sure? I thought I saw light,” I insisted.
“No, I never tested it,” Ari said.
We changed batteries THREE times. Sadly, the lights didn’t miraculously turn on. In fact, there wasn’t even a flicker.
It’s kind of ridiculous to leave this up since it doesn’t light up, right?
So now I’m in a quandary. Do I buy blue-and-white lights, or just let it go? I feel like it isn’t worth it, but Ari will be joining me after he brushes his teeth to see if we can get new lights.
Stay tuned…
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Today was bonkers: both kids were home sick, and one needed a trip to the ER. But this isn’t about that—because when I got out of the shower, I found something interesting on my night table.
Ari clearly took my advice: “If you want a Chanukah present, write it down on a list.” Here’s what I found on my night table.
Practical? Sure!
But look closely at the second item. He wants an air fryer! He’s eyed them with me at Williams Sonoma, Crate & Barrel, and Sur la Table. I’ve always said, “I don’t have room for another kitchen appliance,” and he seemed satisfied—until he put it in writing.
My third grader wants an air fryer for Chanukah!
Bwahahahahaha!
So… is this a gift for both of us?
Please share the brand and model if you love your air fryer. Bonus points if you leave me recipes because I think I’m really going to buy my third grader an air fryer for Chanukah!
When I was a kid, I pretended to read a lot of Beverly Cleary books, but I don’t think I ever finished one. Looking back, I realize that was a real shame. My mother-in-law, who worked as a literacy coach and taught first and third grade, introduced Isabelle to Cleary’s books by giving her Muggie Maggie. Isabelle loved it and soon enjoyed the Henry and Ramona series. After she read The Mouse and the Motorcycle aloud to me, she was able to read the rest on her own, so I missed out on hearing the Henry and Ramona books.
During the summer, Ari wanted to find some books to read on his own, so he let Isabelle help him pick some out. She suggested Henry Huggins, but said it was probably too easy for him because I had told her about Ari’s reading levels. Ari was interested in the book, but he managed to talk me into reading it aloud to him instead.
Ari loves dogs, cities, and anything to do with buses or trains, so he was hooked right away when Henry tried to sneak Ribsy onto the city bus in the first chapter of Henry Huggins. After we finished that book, I suggested Ari read Henry and Beezus aloud to me, but he refused. He said he wanted me to read all the Henry books to him.
That started in October. Now it’s late November, and we’re reading Henry and the Clubhouse, which is the fifth out of six Henry books.
On Friday night, Ari left the book on my nightstand and said, “I’ll call you from Papa’s house so you can read it to me.”
“Are you sure you’ll want me to read to you while you’re at Papa’s?”
“Yeah,” he said. “I’ll call you on the phone.”
I didn’t think he would actually call, but at 9:35 PM last night, my phone rang. As soon as we started talking, Ari asked, “Can you FaceTime with me?”
He probably wanted to see the pictures. I said, “Let me find something to prop up the phone.”
I set up a quick arrangement in bed and let him start the FaceTime call. I told him, “Just don’t play with any of the talking bitmojis, okay?”
As soon as I turned myself into a giraffe, Ari morphed into a chicken.
“Okay,” he promised.
While I was reading, I noticed out of the corner of my eye that a robot was staring back at me. Then it was a shark, then an octopus. I mostly ignored it until, at the end of the chapter, I secretly turned myself into a giraffe.
Ari has visited my father-in-law out of town before, but he’s never asked me to read to him while he’s away. That night, with the book propped up between us and our laughter echoing through the screen, I realized how these stories create a thread between generations—one that distance can’t break. Beverly Cleary’s books aren’t just stories; they’re a way to stay connected, no matter where we are.
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Breast stroke, freestyle laps against the afternoon, I catch the sun slipping down, westward, through glass.
Clouds cradle its descent, painting the sky. Purple, pink, blue, and peach all swirl in gentle collision.
I pause my laps when the sun bursts free at last, a fleeting blaze before dusk.
Only three laps left, and I push, racing sunbeams, turning my head for stolen glances.
Finished, I leave my lane and begin walking sideways, face turned to the westward windows, colors glorious, and me alone.
I scan for others, with eyes hungry for shared wonder:
Kids in lessons, their small splashes oblivious. Teen boys locked in a pull-up rivalry, grunting for strength. Three swimmers submerged in their own rhythm. A man FaceTiming with a friend in the deep end. And newcomers leaving the cold plunge pool, shivering.
But no one sees the sky on fire, no one looks up. The sunset unfurls in secret, known only to me.
Was I expecting an audience? Perhaps sunsets are for the few who notice. A slice of life. Beauty. Missed by many, found by one, slipping quietly into memory.
NOTE: This is not what I planned to write about today. However, I started composing lines in my head while swimming laps. Original plans be gone. I couldn’t bear to keep the vision of that sunset to myself.
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The aroma of cooked quinoa and earthy beans fills the kitchen, drifting toward my skeptical family at the dinner table. I’ve tried to bring everyone on board with the Mediterranean diet, but so far, it’s been a solo mission. Lunch is easy for me: plant-based protein, fiber-rich carbs, no complaints. But dinner? My family doesn’t want quinoa and beans. That changes this week.
Last week, I saw a wellness doctor, who is someone who bridges cancer care and wellness recovery. After discussing the six wellness pillars, I began to contemplate a guiding question: Can one week shift our family’s habits? To test this, I chose to focus on nutrition and sleep in the next month. Since a Mediterranean diet has anti-inflammatory properties, which can help with joint pain, it felt like something to try THIS WEEK. While I’ve got breakfast, lunch, and my snacks under control, I know dinner would be a minefield. I contend with a couple of picky palettes regularly, one of whom does not like fish (unless it’s canned tuna fish with mayonnaise).
I told my doctor, “I refuse to make two dinners.”
She acknowledged that that wasn’t feasible and suggested some alternatives. She said, “Involve both of your kids in meal planning.”
“My son likes to cook, but my daughter won’t do more than make her lunch for school,” I replied.
“She doesn’t have to cook with you; she just needs to prepare the week’s menu with you.”
Meal planning with Isabelle never stuck, but this time I got serious. I gathered the family for a casual Saturday dinner and spread out my cooking binders in our booth.
“My doctor wants me to try the Mediterranean diet this week, but I need your help. We’ll do two nights of fish, two plant-based, and three with turkey or chicken. Pick the recipes,” I said.
“Cod cakes!” Ari shouted.
“Too much mayo, Ari, but we can have cod.”
Isabelle, seeing pasta was off the table, sulked. She found nothing in the vegetarian binder. When I handed her the fish binder, she groaned, “I hate fish!”
“Just for a week,” I said. “You can do anything for a week, right?”
She smirked but agreed.
By the end of dinner, we had a plan through Friday.
Tonight’s dinner was the Nourish Bowl! While I prepped 95% of it myself, Ari was an enthusiastic participant and determined to transform our standard dinner setup. “It shouldn’t look like a salad bar,” he insisted, watching me line up the ingredients. “It should be a buffet.” He took charge, rearranging the bowls and platters until each ingredient was artfully displayed, making sure there was enough space for everyone to circle around and help themselves. I wrote out the categories for the nourish bowls as steps, and Ari set them up, adding his own touches as a proud host. The vibrant colors of sweet potato, spinach, and citrus fruits in the bowls made his presentation feel like a celebration. Just a moment after shooting this video, he beamed and declared, “Dinner! Come to the buffet!”
Rather than making themed nourish bowls for everyone, there were abundant choices. Here’s what each of us made.
My bowl from my one & only trip to the “buffet.”Marc’s first trip to the “buffet.” Second trip isn’t pictured.Ari was very brown-rice forward on his first trip.I think I see some avocado, cucumbers, and beans in there. (This is from Ari’s second trip to “the buffet.”)Isabelle’s first trip included what I think of as rabbit food.When pushed, Isabelle’s second buffet trip included some hummus and black beans.
Marc and Ari were both full thanks to multiple trips to the buffet. Marc was stunned, since he isn’t a big plant-based dinner kind of guy. Isabelle managed to find her favorites, though we had to push her to eat more protein. In the end, Ari asked to do this again, and Marc said, “Maybe again in two or three weeks.”
This journey taught me that taking small steps in the kitchen can ignite larger changes in our lives. Perhaps a single week of openness and flexibility might lead to moments of understanding and a willingness to step out of the comfort zone.
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On a busy Thursday afternoon, Ari and I made a quick pit stop at the Masonic Village Farm Market, a detour that promised fresh finds but delivered a small surprise. I eagerly grabbed a half-bushel of Cosmic Crisp apples, a favorite of Marc’s and mine, while Ari requested a peck of his beloved Golden Delicious. In our rush, I scooped them up without a glance; a decision I’d soon regret. That evening, when Marc went to core an apple for Ari, he spotted bruises on more than a few of them. “I guess I’ll just turn these into applesauce,” I said, embracing a minor setback that would open the door to something delicious.
Over the weekend, I bought plums because I wanted to make roasted plum applesauce, which was a recipe from Tyler Florence’s Start Fresh cookbook, which was like my bible when Isabelle was a baby. Ever since, that recipe has been a hit with our entire family (even grandparents).
Yesterday and today were busy, so I forgot about the applesauce. But then, when I poked my head into the fridge to grab something this afternoon, I saw the plums.
“Ari, do you want to make the roasted plum applesauce with me?”
True to form, he immediately said yes. Fortunately, he was willing to tackle the thankless task of using a melon baller to scoop out the plum pits and apple seeds after I sliced each fruit in half. He did an excellent job, which freed me up to remove every trace of the apple cores carefully.
He disappeared upstairs to take a shower while the apples roasted. He didn’t return until after I put everything into the food processor. I didn’t mind flying solo. Even though I was doubling the recipe, I could almost make it in my sleep, as I had done it so often when my children were babies.
After dinner, the whole family gathered around for a sweet ending—a bowl of the roasted plum applesauce. Although my kids are no longer babies, their enthusiasm for this simple treat remains unchanged; a delicious reminder that some childhood favorites stay with us through every stage of life.
Ari did a great job preparing the apples and the plums.I added 4 T of maple syrup, 1/2 t of cinnamon, and a dash of nutmeg after the apples came out of the oven.Post-roast!Ready to be pureed.The finished productHead over to Two Writing Teachers for more slice of life stories.
Five college students materialized out of the quiet morning, ensconced in banana suits. I blinked. Apparently, Halloween starts early in State College.
After a late breakfast, we began noticing more of them: clusters of bananas strolling down College Avenue, laughing, using their phones to text and to take selfies. Dozens. More like hundreds.
There was no way they were all celebrating Halloween a week early. I scanned for race bibs. Nothing. No numbers, no finish line.
A few blocks later, the mystery solved itself. A crowd of bananas was queuing outside a bar. Marc said what I was thinking: “It must be a pub crawl.”
“Before noon?!” I blurted. (Nowadays, I’m in bed by 8 PM, so my fun barometer’s off.)
Naturally, I suggested we take a family selfie with some of the costumed crawlers in the background.
Ari, ever curious, asked, “What’s a pub crawl?”
Before I could answer, Isabelle cut in with the fundamental question: “Why are they all dressed like bananas?”
I could’ve spent a while speculating on that while I decided how to explain bar crawls to a kid. Eventually, we did both—why they do it and how they work. (I did an online search to get the full scoop.)
All day, wherever we went, bananas appeared. On sidewalks, in stores, crossing intersections in small herds. Even that night at the Penn State men’s hockey game, six bananas stood cheering at the top of the student section.
My first thought: they’d sobered up and come for the game.
My second: they were die-hard fans.
My final thought: maybe both. Commitment takes many forms.
Head over to Two Writing Teachers for more slice of life stories.
I had planned for my first blog post to be a real slice of life story. But after getting a few emails from you this morning about me hosting SOL Tuesday, I decided to share an update on my treatment and recovery instead. (Come back next Tuesday for my usual fare about raising two literate humans.)
The Ongoing Recovery
It’s been eight months since I had breast cancer surgery and reconstruction. It’s been four months since I finished adjuvant chemo. Despite the progress I’ve made, I don’t feel like myself yet.
I’m also preparing for a phase two surgery scheduled for mid-March, which will be another important step in my ongoing recovery.
A Conversation with My Surgical Oncologist
I remember crying, “I just want my life back,” to my breast surgeon about a month after my surgery.
She told me, “You will find the new you.”
I felt like I’d combust when she said that. I replied, “I liked the old me. I don’t want to reinvent myself.”
She assured me I’d like the new me, the cancer-free me, better.
Setbacks and Small Victories
It’s been several months since she told me that. Chemo took a real toll on my body, especially since I had to start it before I’d even recovered from surgery because of my high Oncotype DX score. I dealt with a lot of side effects, and the worst was Hand-Foot Syndrome. Things started to get better, and Marc and I even took a short vacation to celebrate the end of chemo. We enjoyed two great days, but then I twisted my ankle and broke my heel. Breaking my foot while recovering from chemo was definitely not something I’d recommend. That injury set back my recovery, and I’ve spent the last two months in physical therapy. I’ve only been out of my ankle brace for three weeks.
Returning to Swimming
In early September, I started swimming laps, which is something I’ve loved to do since I was a kid. Returning to the water, in a body that doesn’t look or feel like my old one, has been incredible. I’ve gotten strong enough that I can swim a half-mile three times a week.
Daily Life and Responsibilities
However, most nights, I’m in bed by 8:15 p.m. and asleep before 10. Sometimes I fall asleep watching “The Great British Baking Show,” while other nights I am able to stay up later reading novels.
Most of my days are spent attending medical appointments, taking medication, applying creams, and exercising to regain my strength. On top of that, I keep up with everything my kids need and review things like page proofs, the index, and the PR plan for my publisher to make sure my book comes out in early January.
Answering “How Are You?”
People constantly ask me how I’m feeling. My answer depends on who is asking. For most people, I reply, “I’m getting stronger slowly” or “Some days are easier than others.” For those who really want to know, I tell them about the loose fingernails, the eyelashes that keep falling out, the way my abdomen feels, etc. I’ve come to realize most people want an answer I cannot give them. Recovery from breast cancer surgery and treatment takes a long time!
Small Steps Toward the New Version of the Old Me
Even without makeup, looking at myself in the mirror after having my brows done helps me feel a little more like myself.
Today, I made an effort to try to get a bit of the old me back by getting my eyebrows microbladed. It wasn’t something I planned to do, but I couldn’t stand filling in my brows with eyebrow wax and powder daily.
Paying It Forward
The care and support people have given me over the past eight months have been incredible. Therefore, even though I’m still in recovery mode, I decided to start paying it forward today. One of my daughter’s teachers recently had major surgery and lost a parent. As a result, I texted her to ask if I could bring her dinner this week. I don’t think she likes accepting help either. I was thankful she said yes. Even though prepping two dinners in one afternoon was exhausting for me, it feels good to know I’m making someone else’s life a little easier this week.
The Challenge of Writing Again
Getting back to writing has been HARD. I bought The Book of Alchemy to help me journal in the springtime. Due to chemo side effects and breaking my foot, I kept making excuses and putting off the writing. To date, I’ve only finished 19 of the 100 prompts.
But now I’m here, slicing again, and I know THIS will get me back to writing again.
Head over to Two Writing Teachers for more slice of life stories.
I started making and freezing soup the day after I received my official cancer diagnosis. I figured that having something warm and ready to eat would serve me well during my recovery.
This past week, Isabelle and I came down with what was likely norovirus, so I had to tap into my reserve supply of chicken soup since neither of us had the appetite to eat much food once the vomiting stopped. I made a new batch of chicken soup this morning to replenish my supply.
Ari has had cold symptoms for the past three days (I’ve masked when near him and have been running air purifiers in my office and bedroom, where he’s no longer allowed until he’s better since I cannot get sick now.), so I asked him if he wanted some Jewish penicillin once it finished cooking. After briefly explaining the affectionate name for chicken soup, he asked, “Do you have matzoh balls?”
“No, I don’t have any matzoh meal right now. It’s like the soup I make on Passover but without the matzoh balls. Would you like some?”
“Will it help me feel better?”
“I hope so.”
He ate two large bowls of it.
Afterward, he watched me portion the chicken soup into Souper Cubes, so I could replenish and add it to my ever-growing frozen soup supply.
“Can we make a menu on Canva?” he asked.
“For what?” I asked.
“A frozen soup menu,” Ari explained.
“Why?” I asked.
“So when you’re recovering from surgery, you can tell me what kind of soup you want, and then I can get it from the freezer and make it for you for lunch.”
My heart swelled. I said, “Yes,” without adding that I should be reading chapter 10 of my manuscript since it was due to my editor in two days.
Ari smiled.
“Let me take out what I made to know what’s here. Then, after I order soup from you, you can adjust the amount on the menu. Does that work?”
“Yup!”
Click on the image to enlarge.
Together, we found a good Canva template. I taught Ari how to alphabetize since “so many of them begin with c!” We discussed why the bone broth wasn’t in the main section (since I hope I won’t ever need it!) and how to center things.
I thought we could save and print the sheet, but Ari said, “Let’s make the background blue.”
“Blue? Why? It looks nice with the gray background,” I said.
“I like blue. It’ll look better that way,” he told me.
Ari picked the brightest turquoise possible.
“Really?!” I asked him. “That’s kind of bright.”
“It looks good. Let’s change the rest of it to other blues.”
I bit my lip. This menu was Ari’s brainchild; I was the typist and typesetter. It will be his way of caring for me when I recover from surgery.
“Blue it is!” I replied.
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Raising Literate Humans 
