The Workout Room: Dips Part Two

This is a side view of the exercise described below

The Workout Room: Dips Part One

At the dip machine, grip the handles close to the end. Rise up off the ground, hips way back, knees way up. Get the arms out, not back, and lower yourself til they are at 90 degree angles. Squeeze way up, as far as you can, like you are a tube of toothpaste. When you do this, squeeze your chest muscles. You'll feel it, I promise.



3 sets



shoot for the moon: 15 - 20 reps; but get what you can

The Picture Down the Hall -- The Jewels In the Crown 5

Kaitlin was always game for a photo shoot. That was always good news for me because she was one of the most beautiful women I ever knew; she was also one of the greatest actresses I ever knew, which made her extremely accessible for the photo shoots. You should see the set of pics we did with pearls! I must scan them in and post them. Check back for those... Anytime I asked Kaitlin to sit for me, she showed up and she brought it. Never afraid to try something, she was one of my all time favourite models.

Having her do these jewelry pics was a real treat for me

Any time I saw Kaitlin in a play, she brought the same focus, intensity and individuality to her performance. She was a truly unique human being.

Kaitlin moved away and I don't get the priviledge and honour of working with her anymore... but, oh, the memories.

And the photos!

I mean, really..

Couldn't you just die?

Food For Thought - Fake Ice Cream

I admit it. I have a sweet tooth. I've loved sweets ever since I was a child...and not just things like candy or donuts. I have always loved fresh fruit; in fact I think it was my first love (food - wise). Then, of course, as young kids, we are introduced to the dangerous sweets like candy (Hallowe'en) and cake (birthday parties) and cookies (Girl Scouts) and ice cream (The Good Humour Man) and these delicious treats lead us into a life of bad habits.

Even today, a health and fitness fanatic of 45 years of age, I wish (every day) that I could have a peanut butter cup. I pass the pastry corner of the Amish Market (every day) and wish I could have a crumb bun or an eclair. I see the Dunkin' Donuts on 9th Avenue (every day) and wish I could go in for a sour cream cake donut. I stand with Hunter in the Starbucks (every day) after we workout (he must have coffee) and wish I could have an apple fritter.

I don't.

Let's be straight. My metabolism is shot. I actually think my metabolism packed an overnight bag and split for Greece, some 15 years ago. Thanks to years of bad eating habits, yo-yo dieting, carrying around a LOT of extra weight, and thanks to years of alcohol abuse, my metabolism is as compromised as my virtue. So I cannot afford to eat sweets, even though there are times when I use the "life is short" excuse; and there are times when I need no excuse at all... A stress eater, I can eat an entire box of Kashi Go Lean Crunch in one sitting. So I don't keep any in the house. Last Christmas I actually baked. I made brownies for the girls at the bank, I made gluten free pumpkin chocolate chip muffins for Thanksgiving at Liz's and I made gluten free Chess Pie for Thanksgiving at Jen's. I'm a good baker. I bake, now, only on special occasions. Christmastime was filled with birthdays and holiday parties that demanded I put on my apron. And it left me with containers filled with unused chocolate chips and baking chocolate. A stress eater, I found myself shoving handfuls of chocolate chips into my mouth last week when one of my loved ones upset me.

I'm an exercise queen. I'm a weight lifter. I'm an exhibitionist. I have created a slightly public persona as these things - to be a stress eater does not match my lifestyle. Gaining weight does not match my lifestyle. Most importantly, gaining weight and stress eating affects my productivity because it makes me, physically, ill.

So I gave all that leftover Christmas chocolate to Jennifer Houston to use in her cookies when she creates her delectables for http://www.thischickbakes.com/ (the only baked goods, other than my own, that I will eat or endorse). Of course, that left me with nothing sweet to eat.

They say necessity is the mother of invention.

I was looking at the six tubs of cottage cheese in my fridge (it's almost nothing but protein, which I need to build more muscle). Friendship makes a cottage cheese that is lowfat (1% milkfat) with no salt added and it has a pronouncement on it: LOWEST CARBS! I read the label. Per half cup, it has 90 calories, 1 gram of fat, 50 mgs of sodium, 4 grams of carb, 3 grams of sugar and 16 grams of protein. I don't mind stress eating this. It won't hurt me.

Then I looked at the four containers of ISOPURE protein powder (I like Banana Cream and Dutch Chocolate best - Pat likes Apple Melon; Cookies N Cream and Mint Chocolate aren't too bad -- a little chalky).

I had a thought.

I keep my cottage cheese on the top shelf of the fridge. It is right next to the cooling unit. It is very cold. I put some into a cereal bowl and stirred in about a scoop and a half of the Dutch Chocolate ISOPURE protein powder and mixed it up and tasted it.

Ice cream!

Ok, it's not as smooth or as sweet as ice cream; but it also has an interesting texture to it that makes it kind of like the ricotta used in Italian desserts. It was sweet, it was cold, it was creamy, it was rich... whattay know? I made Ice Cream!

I tried it with a richer, creamier cottage cheese and it was AWFUL - I read the label and found that each serving had over 300 mgs of sodium. You couldn't even taste the sweet of the chocolate. BAD idea! Stick with the low salt version.

So this has become my treat to fool myself into thinking I am eating ice cream. It's tasty and it's full of protein and I can relax a little about the result of any stress eating...

Mind you, I do want to say that I am less concerned with the caloric intake of my stress eating (because I know how to work it off) than I am with the compulsion itself. Somewhere in my head is the reason that I am a stress eater and it is that compulsion that worries me. I want to know what the root of the compulsion is, rather than the habit. Once I have discovered the problem, I can deal with it. But there are rooms and drawers inside my head that are unopened and they must be entered and explored before I can find the answer to this and many other questions. So I have hired a hypnotist to take me into those rooms.

And that is a story for another day...

The Puppy Diaries

This is the puppy we were going to get. It was a pure-bred, ten week old show dog. The dog needed a home immediately and we had made an appointment to go see the dog and, possibly, take him/her home on the spot. Free. The dog was a give away. I was so excited!

I have not considered getting a dog, ever, in my adult life. Not once. I have spent my years living in Tw0-A, the puppy sitter for my friends. An at home worker, I have always had the luxury of a free'd up schedule; so it was incredibly convenient for me to dogsit. I have cared for Buddy the Corgi, Molly the Pomeranian, Spencer the Jack Russell Terrier and Sophie the Schnoodle. Sophie is the most extraordinary of these animals (and slated to be the ring bearer at our wedding next year). Molly was a princess. Spencer was a terror (and Rachel refers to him as "the mangy cur who wants to eat me!"). Buddy was my sweetheart. I loved him very much and cared for his 16 year old broken body as often as I could; anything to get him away from his horrible owner, a man who refused to walk him because the dog had gotten so heavy that his pelvic girdle broke, requiring an operation that left the dog slightly crippled, but able to walk. Unable to travel up and down stairs with ease, Buddy required being carries. The horrible and lazy owner wouldn't carry him and, so left Buddy with a life of confinement in a small New York apartment, where he was forced to make on wee-wee pads. Whenever his owner asked me, I took Buddy for weeks at a time, happy to curl up on the bed with him and watch tv and cuddle. I was happy to carry Buddy to the street and take him for long walks, even getting him to run a little from time to time. When Buddy got too old, the owner put him down without even calling me so I could say goodbye.

Sometimes I find myself hoping that when his time is up, there is nobody to say goodbye to him. It is unkind and uncalled for; but I am only human and when I witness the kind of uncaring animal cruelty I saw heaped on Buddy, I want to hurt the pet owner. Don't have a pet if you aren't going to care for it and love it. Just don't. They can't speak for themselves; it is up to us to care for our animal family members. If you can't have compassion for your pet, please don't expect me to have compassion for you.

Now that my soapbox is put away, I should say that the dog in these photos is Rhoda. She is a Brussels Griffon and one of the loves of my life.

She has also, recently, been my saviour.

You see, in December I said to my best friend, Hunter, I said "Let's do something fun this week" and he said "Do you want to go to the humane society and pet puppies? " I didn't know that was something you could do and it excited me, a LOT. So on a snowy day, Hunter and I walked to the East Side and met Pat at a place Hunter found online. Unfortunatley, we were not allowed to play with the puppies there -- but they sent us to a place where we could. Once there, we looked at a lot of dogs and, after much consideration, we asked to play with one of the dalmation-beagle pups they had. The worker said we should take out all three, which he did; and we took them to a room on the fourth floor and spent an hour playing with these three beautiful dogs from the same litter (there had been six but three had already been adopted). We all three thought they all three were wonderful but when I saw Hunter and one of the dogs (her name escapes me at this moment) playing in the window, I knew the honeymoon was on. And Pat was definately attached to Marco Polo. And I was having a love affair of my own with Fiesta. After half an hour, I just had to have that dog.

Well, it just wasn't to be. The beagle dalmations were going to grow to be fifty pound dogs. Our apartment would never accomodate a fifty pound dog. When we got home I was quietly doing my housework and, after a bit of time, Pat came to me, wondering what was wrong. Nothing. Are you thinking about Fiesta? Yes. Do you want that dog? Yes. But conversation would follow and, within twenty minutes, it was clear we could not get that dog. The thing is, before that conversation, I was cool. I had it in my head that we couldnt' get a dog and I would learn to deal with it. Then came the conversation that opened the door to the idea that a dog might actually be possible. Then came the end of the conversation, in which I sacrificed the chance of having Fiesta come live with us. I was so sick about it that I went to bed at eight o'clock at night. I was sad for about a week.

But Rhoda is the dog of one of my best friends and, so, we see her a lot. After all, they live around the corner. Her owner and I speak almost every day and we all see each other at least four times a week. It really saved me, seeing Rhoda so much.

It came to my attention that my next door neighbour had a friend with two pure bred ShihTzu puppies, desperate for homes. They were being given away. I expressed an interest and was emailed photos of the puppies and, promptly, fell in love. I talked to Pat about it and we were justthisclose to getting one of those dogs.

We had some friends over for lunch. Excitedly, I announced that we were going to get our dog the next day. What happened next was like some slow motion surreality from a movie. Four people in the room began talking about their pets. They said they loved them.. and then some of them launched into speeches about how much work, how much time, how much money it meant, having a pet. In six minutes flat, my dog was gone. I was foolish and brought up this subject of conversation in a room filled with my family and they took my dog away from me. I don't think I will ever forget that day. I am, in fact, not sure I have recovered from it - or if I ever will. I sat there and watched my husband's face turn from a comedy mask to a tragedy mask; and I knew -- I would not be getting that dog.

I have the unique ability of being able to see inside of people. I can see what they are thinking, what they are feeling, what they are hiding; this is, especially, true of my close friends - to say nothing of my husband. I knew he didn't want to incur that work and that expense. He is, always has been, always will be my first priority. My job in this life is to make his life easier. So when the topic of the dog, next, came up, I said we probably shouldn't get the puppy. His reply: "we are THIS close to being completely out of debt -- and we have the wedding in 14 months; we really shouldn't get the dog." I replied. Ok. And that was that.

A friend, told this story, said "maybe later... after the debt is cleared out and the wedding is over...." But I said no. I won't do this again. In the time span of four weeks I had two dogs in my metaphorical hands and I had them taken away from me. It cannot come close to what a woman experiences when she miscarries or what a couple feels when their proposed adoption doesn't go through; but to me, that is what this felt like. I won't do that again, ever.

Jason, though, lets me take Rhoda several days a week, while he is working. Instead of daycare, he leaves her with me. We walk, I pop her popcorn (Rhoda loves popcorn!), she sits on my feet when I am at the computer, working... Rhoda sits with me on the sofa and even naps with me (THAT is like CRACK to me). Even the other day, Jason brought his massage table over to work on me (my back and shoulders need massages a LOT - thank heaven my friend is also one of the greatest massage therapists of all time) and while he was in the bathroom washing his hands, Rhoda leaped from the floor to the table. When Jason came into the room, there was naked me and clothed Rhoda, both snoozing on the massage table. Natch, he grabbed my camera and popped a pic. Rhoda spent most of that massage, sprawled across my ankles, while Jason worked on me. It was, truly, one of the perfect moments of my life. It felt like home. I have said to many people that Rhoda isn't really a dog - she is a tiny, furry person on four legs. She and her daddy are my family; and like good family members, they save me. Every day.

If You Can't Say Something Nice...

This entry is a cheat.

It's something I wrote in my NOTES section of my Facebook profile.

You caught me. Cheating.

I rarely get into a snit these days. I have (in recent years) tried to look at things from a peaceful place and say (I often do, too) "nothing good can come from..." fill in the blanks. To that end, I have tended to let things wash off my back(side) when and if they are going to bother me or upset the smooth sailing of my daily routine (or, frankly, that of the person or persons I am encountering). This, mind you, is not an absolute. We cannot go our entire lives without getting our feelings hurt, being cross with someone or hurting someone. I can try, though...

Today, though, I got into a tiny snit. Not a big one where I read someone - just a little moment when I decided to say something about what has been bothering me... and has been for awhile now. And it isn't a big deal.. just a little something. You know? Just a little something.

I got an email from someone on a website for gay men -- a hook up site. I get this email a lot.

"Wow! You look amazing for your age!"

Now, that is a nice compliment. I get it a lot. In real life, I get it. On Facebook, I get it. On the sex sites, I get it. And I appreciate it. I like the compliment, I like the validation...

BUT

I often find myself thinking it's a pile of horseshit.

So today, I said what was in my mind. And this is how it went:

Twenty something year old boy: Hott

Old man Mosher: What a nice compliment. Thank you.

Twenty something year old boy: What's your age

Old man Mosher: i'm forty five. i'll be forty six on july 8th. my pics were shot in October

Twenty something year old boy: your look expectacular very nice skin and body

Old man Mosher: Again, thank you for the compli

Twenty something year old boy: It's truth. Your my new idol

(I HATE PEOPLE WHO USE YOUR INSTEAD OF YOU'RE. IT'S LIKE A SPIKE IN MY HEAD.)

Old man Mosher: That's sweet but I'm not to be idolized. I'm just a guy.

Twenty something year old boy: i said because for your age you look great, i expect see in a feature similar you

Old man Mosher: not to put too fine a point on it; but age has nothing to do with looking good. i know 20 year olds who don't look like it do. it's all about effort

Twenty something year old boy: it's genetics

Old man Mosher: are you trying to insult me?

Twenty something year old boy: no. not never.

Old man Mosher: well then let me tell you it is not genetic. i work my ass off to look the way i do.

Thus ended our chat.

It left me thinking, though, about the number of times i have had exchanges like:

"You look great for 45!"

"this is what 45 looks like"

or

"I hope I look as good as you do when I'm in my forties"

"You don't look as good as I do in your twenties."

or my favourite:"

I don't usually like asians but you're HOT"

"Thank you for making me the exception to your racism."

So what I want to know is what is wrong with people? Can't people think before they speak? Can't people govern their tongues, even a little? Is it so hard to pay someone a compliment? Must they always be qualified?

I know, I sound like an old bitch who can't appreciate being given a compliment in a world where so few people actually pay compliments... and that's not true. I am happy to have them. I just want to know why it can't be simpler. I can do it.

I know other people who can do it.

"You look real nice today."

"Don't you put the sunshine to shame!"

"You look so fit!"

"Golly, you're smart."

"Boy, you have some haberdasher."

"I am overwhelmed by your talent."

Just say the nice part of the thought in your head and stop speaking before the qualifier gets out! Or choose your words properly! My friend once said to me "you're so skinny", to which I replied "that's not a compliment". THINK. Just think before you speak. A body builder doesn't want to be told they are skinny. A writer doesn't want to be told that their new book is better than their last book. A singer doesn't want to be told they should have sung Michael Buble's arrangement of Call Me Irresponsible. Someone who tells you their (not 20's) age would love to hear "you wear it well!". A dieter doesn't need to hear "keep on going!" or "you'll get there!" -- a simple "you're glowing" or "you're looking fine!" will do. A baker doesn't want to be asked "Have you ever had Out of the Kitchen cupcakes?! They are amazing!"

It astounds me... the things people will say right to your face without thinking about it. That's really all it takes.. a little thought. A little common sense.

Well..

These days, that can tend to be a rare thing.

The Picture Down the Hall -- The Jewels in the Crown 4

The last set of photos taken in our two day shoot for this line of jewelry was with my friend, Rob, whose schedule did not permit him to attend the group shoot and be in photos with any of the other models. That didn't bother the designer of these pieces of jewelry because he took one look at Rob and went into a kind of ethnicity induced coma.

I am sure you can see that Rob is of Asian descent.

As a man who is also fo Asian descent, I have had many people react to me the same way the designer reacted to Rob. His cup overfloweth with remarks about how beautiful and exotic Rob is. It was (I am sure) very validating for Rob to be told he was beautiful. I always like being told I am beautiful

It is difficult to know, though, what is in peoples' minds when they go off on the exotic tangent. Many times I find that people expect me to behave like some submissive gAsian -- which I am not. People don't think about their racism; it just exists within them. I always hoped that Rob wasn't offended by the comments made in his name on this day - or the images he was asked to portray.

Like I said, I never mind being told I am beautiful; I also don't mind being called exotic. It's just that it is also nice to have people see you for who you are, to see all the parts of you. I'm not a Prince out of the Arabian Nights. I'm not Lady Boy. I wouldn't mind being a warrior out of Crouching Tiger or Enter the Dragon... These are the thoughts that go through my head.

I'm a man, not a Geisha.



So when the designer got all up in arms about Rob looking like the King of Siam, I had to try to shoot the images the way he (the designer) wanted them and, still, try to spare Rob some embarrassment. I wanted Rob to have his dignity.

The photo of Rob holding the designer by the back of the head was masculine and strong. The photo of the designer reaching into frame to touch Rob's shoulder was submissive (to me). I am sure you can guess which picture I pushed, when the proofs came in.

I was, though, very happy with the photos of Rob wearing jewelry on his head because he IS strong and commanding and the pieces DO look like crowns and head dressings. He could, very well, be a king - but not because of his ethnicity; because of his dignity, because of his strength.

Also, when the pieces of artwork were placed on his head, it was much easier to get the focus on his eyes, his most stunning feature.


I was so grateful for Rob for doing this shoot because I always found him to be handsome and wanted to get him in front of his camera; but Rob doesn't do show business. It's not his line, it's not in his interests ... but he was my friend and I asked him and he said yes and that's cool.

The artwork we created together is some of my favourites I have done.

I actually think I like these two best.

The Workout Room: Preacher Curls

Add weight that is comfortable to you.

Sit on the bench, hips way back, elbows forward, shoulders back and curl with short, concentrated, intense movement, squeezing the muscle the entire time.

I superset these with the bent over bicep curls.

15 - 25 reps 3 sets

The 19th Street Gym Debacle

It was the year that I would turn 38. My agent had sold The Sweater Book after something like six years of working on it and over 30 rejection letters. I had stopped drinking. Things were looking up. It was time to make the biggest change of all.

There had been a promotion on the Manhunt website; come down for a free week at the 19th Street Gym. I went in and was introduced to the owner. I told him I was 37, I weighed 205 pounds and I wanted to weigh what I did when I was 18 (145 pounds), by my birthday in July. He walked me around, introduced me to a trainer named Ray and asked him if it was possible to meet my goal; Ray said yes and then he remarked on my calves (I was wearing cargo shorts). The owner offered me the services of a trainer named Adam, for one week, and I said yes. At the end of one week, the owner passed me in the weight room and said "How was your first week, Stephen? Are we going to have you ready for your 38th birthday in July?" He remembered my name and those details. This was the place for me. I gave them thousands of dollars for a membership and the trainer.

It was March.

On my birthday in July I went dancing at the Roxy with my family of friends.

I wore poom-poom shorts and a tiny little sleeveless shirt.

I weighed 165 pounds.

I stayed at the 19th Street Gym for seven years.

During my time at the gym, I got to know the owner, the trainers, other members, the desk and janitorial staff... I knew which machines needed a little maintenance and which stationary bikes never worked. I did photos for the gym (free of charge, of course, because I loved that place and wanted to promote it) and I did photos of some of my friends from the gym. I bought my friends memberships at the gym so that I could train them and help them get in shape. That place was my home. For seven years.

In November, 2009, Pat and I suited up and headed down to Chelsea. As we approached the gym, we saw that the lights were off, the gate was down and locked and the janitor sat on the bench in front of the gym, telling us and anyone else that the gym would be re-opened the next day. That was the only information he was willing to tell.

The gym did not re-open the next day. It did not re-open the day after that or the day after that. It did not re-open the following week or the following month. Finally, in December, we bought Pat a membership at NYSC, which is the other gym I attend (having been given a membership by my best friend, Hunter, so that we could train together). We had a new home, now. During the months of December and January, the three of us trained together, getting to know the staff in this new place, the members in this new place, the machines and the routines... in this new place. We had a new home, now.

We heard through the grapevine that what happened at the 19th Street Gym was simple. The owner hadn't paid the rent in so many months that the owner of the building arrived one afternoon, had some cross words with the manager, then came down into the workout area and announced that everyone had five minutes to remove their belongings from their lockers and get out. Once the building was empty, the lights were extinguished, the door locked, the gate pulled and padlocked. It remained dark from that moment forward. Members who had paid by credit card contacted their CC company and told the story and got refunds. Members like Pat and I who had paid by cash or check were SOL. Pat and I both had just under a year left on our memberships -- 1400 dollars cut in half, lit on fire and flushed down the toilet. Heartsickening. Then came the fees to join the new gym -- close to two grand.

That's life.

Last week I got a phone call from Complete Body and Spa, inviting me to visit their location on 19th Street. They saw that I had been a member of the previous gym in that location and wanted to give me an opportunity to join their facility.

With bitterness and anger tempered with nostalgia and sadness, I entered the doors of my former home to find that the floor of the entrance upstairs had been replaced, the walls given a new coat of paint, the juice bar had been spruced up and was open for business. I was introduced to the manageress, a lovely young woman with a delightful accent that sounded French; she was friendly, professional and savvy as she pitched me the idea of joining their gym. She took me on a tour of the facility so that I could see the changes that had been made... among those changes was NOT staff members. Well, not exactly; you see, there were new faces... there were also old faces. Several of the former employees, my friends that I had seen every day, had been rehired, including the manager of the 19th Street gym and the head trainer/manager of trainers. That made me happy - that my friends had jobs, once more. They are great people and deserve the opportunity to work. As the kindly Frenchwoman showed me around, I saw some change... new cardio equipment (it's about time!), new huge televisions, a clean up of the locker room, and a new aerobics section in the process of being built. The rest of the equipment was the same... all my favourite workout machines, machines that I don't have at NYSC, machines that do things to my body that I love... there they were, all my old friends.

I almost started to cry.

I had come home.

I was introduced to the (very friendly) new owner. He was nice, seemed savvy, very professional.

It was good to be home.

Back upstairs in the lobby I was given the pitch. Rejoin for eight hundred dollars a year, no initiation fee, today and (because I was a returning member) I would get three months free. Fifteen months for eight bills. Lots of classes, spa amenities, blah, blah, blah. Yeah, you read right. Blah, blah, blah. I stopped listening shortly after the word rejoin.

Rejoin?

RE JOIN?

My husband and I were devoted members of this gym and we had almost a year left on our memberships. We lost nearly 1500 dollars when it closed down because of unethical business practices. We spent nearly 2000 dollars to join a new gym. Now they wanted us to spend more money re joining the gym that had the same (nearly) equipment, the same (nearly) staff... It was like I was being asked to buy back my car after the police reclaimed it from the man who stole it from my driveway.

And what I can't figure out is this...

Opening a new gym in New York is just about as risky as opening a new restaurant. There are gyms on every corner and all of them have specials, deals, money saving offers. Many of those gyms have trouble staying open. Mid-City gym has memberships that cost under 400 dollars a year. NYSC has memberships that make it possible for you to work out anywhere in the city that you happen to be. Club H has a facility so gorgeous it's like being in a combination gay bar - day spa. Equinox has classes so sexy you feel like you are in an episode of Beverly Hills 90210. So here is a gym opening up with one shiny new floor in the lobby, a paint job in the lobby, a wipe down with Pine Sol in the locker and some new cardio equipment, but entirely old weight lifting equipment. It is not a new gym. It is an old gym that has been dusted off; and that old gym is not honouring the old memberships.

It's an important word to me: honour.

They bought the gym, including the database with members' numbers and names: members to whom they refuse to show honour. Why do I want to join an establishment that doesn't honour me? Tch.

And ps, it's bad business.

You're a new gym. You need members. If you honour the old memberships, you at least have members - members who were devoted to the old gym and will probably be devoted to the gym again, and who will sign those renewal papers when the time comes, and who will bring in new members. It seems like a no brainer to me... Honour your family, treat them like family, get them to work for you to make your business bigger and better. Soon you will have lots of members, and happy ones.

But no.

Complete Body and Spa on 19th Street has chosen to ignore me and Pat and treat us like strangers.

My mama taught me not to talk to strangers.

I'll miss my old home - but that's what happens when you move on. You pack your things, you call the movers, you move into your new home and, as you leave your old home for the last time, you look around and say

Goodbye.

Food For Thought - Strawberry Applesauce

My favourite television cook and the biggest celebrity crush I have ever had (James Marsden is close second, by the way) was and is Dave Lieberman, who is no longer cooking for a living. That's the bummer. When his show was on the Food Network, we taped every episode. I've made so many of his recipes that one year my entire Thanksgiving dinner was made up of his food.

In one episode, he made all recipes that he got from his grandmother. I took this FANTASTIC recipe and changed it to suit my own needs. You see, he put refined sugar in it - and that, I cannot have. The rest, though, is very simple and really healthy and so delicious.

Get some McIntosh apples (I buy a bag), a large container of ripe strawberries and a lemon. Peel and core the apples (then dice them into nice size pieces), wash, hull and chop the berries and toss them all into a big saucepan with a little water. Light a medium flame and just cook it down to a sauce. Juice the lemon and put that in, too. Let it cook til it gets the consistency you like. I like a few chunks of apple in mine. Now here's the thing -- if the fruit is ripe and the natural sugars are high, you won't need any additional sweetener (this is where Dave and his Bubbi put in the sugar) however, if you let it cool a little and taste it and find that it needs some additional sweetening, I use a drizzle or two of honey. Sweeten to taste. It is SOOOO good.

I made this several times during December and January and Pat and I enjoyed it (it's good warm, by the way, as well as cold) and I gave some to Hunter and to Jason (Hunter loved it so much I gave him a big jar full whenever I made it). Even Brady liked it, though when I asked him to taste it, he said "I don't like applesauce.."; but he ate it! (in small doses... the rest of us used the big cereal bowls.

Give it a try... even if you don't like applesauce, you might surprise yourself!

(that, by the way, is a photo of Dave Lieberman that I found online ... ain't he dreamy? I met him once. Totes straight, dammit).

(and ps... sorry for the wonky camera work -- I am usually not the person doing the filming and I was unsure of what I was doing...)

Enjoy!