Fristers

Los Angeles, California


A post or two back, I wrote about a least favorite word. Now, presenting . . . a favorite word. It is frister. OK, it's not a real word. Though in the future, it could become one. I didn't coin it. And I cannot give credit where it is due, as I don't remember where or when I first read or heard this word. But it is one that means a lot to me. One of my friends, Lisa, once described herself to me by saying "I am a women's woman." And that struck a chord with me. Don't get me wrong. I like men. Have loved some, and one specifically and in particular...how do I count the ways? But I find myself, at this point in my life, valuing, treasuring, relishing beyond measure, the special friendships I have with the women in my life. And this is where the word frister comes into play.


Fristers are better than friends and often closer than sisters. Or, as I once put it, they are the best parts of both. My fristers are nurturing, supportive, and are almost always a mere phone call or email away. And they are tons of fun. Increasingly, I feel sustained and strengthened by the time I spend with these women. Except, however, for those times when I feel weak from laughter. Times that, lately, are about equal in measure to time when tears are shed. Life can feel precarious. And there is safety in numbers.


When registering for Girl Scout camp, Camp Lakota, there was a place where it was required to name your camp "buddy." My buddy was my close friend and neighbor, Debbie. Our families lived on the same long street, ten houses away from each other. We had walked to school, and played together after school, since second grade. I learned to ride a bike on her brother's bike. We had been in Brownies, and then flew up together to become Girl Scouts. We sometimes got into trouble. A little trouble. Debbie could be a giggler, and I knew what to say or do to make her laugh. I used discretion at school, but less so at our weekly, after-school Girl Scout troop meetings. We drove our leader crazy, and later took our bad behavior on to Job's Daughters. But I learned a lot of important things in Girl Scouts. Not the least of which is the buddy system. I do believe that my fristers have got my back.


I feel overwhelmingly lucky to have a lot of girlfriends and fristers in my life, including Sandra, Frister Extraordinaire. These women have stories that I would love to write about (though they would kill me if I did). In fact, I share a lot of memories with each of them which I could write about -- pages and pages (though then, I'd have to kill you for reading them). Several of them are part of my salsa community. With a few, I share Pilates. One I picked up at a nail salon, a place where neither of us were particularly happy spending time before we got to know one another. Three of them I met in fitness classes. One, with whom I am especially close, I met on a cruise ship in the Caribbean, and we went on to travel together, with our moms, three more times! Three of them share my astrological sign: Scorpio. One of them I have known since college; two of them (the sisters of the traveling scarves) since just after. Three of them are grandmothers, and a few more are old enough to be. My Girl Scout buddy, Debbie, went on to shed her uniform and pose for Playboy -- the centerfold, no less. Then, she promptly moved to Hawaii where she raised a family and still lives today. The group is further comprised of an actor, an artist, a banker, a dentist, a speech pathologist, an educator, a collector of bad debts, a student of Chinese medicine, a Canadian, a writer, a trancendental meditator, a nurse-practitioner, several knitters, a couple of gardeners, and a whole bunch of excellent cooks. And, get this, FIVE left-handers. What is up with that? And I would be remiss to not mention that one of my fristers is, forgiveably, a man. Actually, he's a frother, I guess. Ah well, it is a diverse group in all ways, including this token other-gender member. It's a friendship melting pot.


When I was about thirteen, my mom once admonished me for my fervent connection to my friends. She said that I would learn as I grew older that friends were not important. I think it was Mark Twain who remarked that he was surprised to discover, when he grew older, that his father had grown smarter (or something to that effect, as I'm loosely paraphrasing). I, too, discovered this about my parents. But not in this case. My mother was wrong-headed about this. My friends have been a lifeline to me more times than I can remember. And as some of those much earlier connections have evanesced as time has gone by, I now find myself with a group of friends who are vastly important to me. And for their presence in my life, I feel exceedingly fortunate. So here's a salute to you women, who are, in a word, fristers. Thank you (fristers and all) for reading my blog.

The M Word

Los Angeles, California


Speaking of things that don't change. Remember when Coca Cola came up with New Coke? How bad of an idea was that (even though I don't drink Coke...except at fifteen when, during a family vacation in Jamaica, my drink of choice was, you got it, rum & coke)? Anyway, bad idea was New Coke. But here comes something that seemingly hasn't changed. They are seasonal, so they disappear when the warm-weather months arrive. As a result, it's difficult to take them for granted, though possible to overindulge knowing that they won't be here forever. Even tempting. But, truly, right about the time that you're feeling, say, blase about them, they disapparate. Late spring and summer passes. Then, in autumn, they show up again -- just about when new-crop apples and pumpkins appear. They cause my heart to skip a beat when I first see their shiny yellow box shelved at my grocery store. They are here, and they are...Mallomars.


I used to know a professor who once said that if his students find out about his passion for chocolate, they have him. He confessed that he loved imported, Belgian dark chocolate, but that even a Ding Dong could bring him to his knees. That's me and Mallomars. And what is not to like? Unlike a lot of questionable-quality, market variety cookies and candy, these are dark chocolate. They are comprised of a little wafery cookie on the bottom, a blob of marshmallow on the top, with that chocolate enrobing it all. They have crunch, a bit of smoothness and a lingering finish of chocolate. Just thinking about them -- weak in the knees.


I'm not a glutton for Mallomars. A box of them will last me awhile. And while I savor them, I ponder the fact that they have been lauded in movies--specifically When Harry Met Sally and Regarding Henry. And I just bet they're name-dropped in other books and films as well. As they should be.


It being Mallomar season, and also time to provide a recipe, I searched my files and my brain for something chocolate. But, other than my Crazy Chocolate Cake, which I've already shared, and my Chocolate Ganache Cupcakes, which are cribbed intact from The Barefoot Contessa, I was surprised to discover that I didn't have a lot of chocolate recipes. This is probably because while I was growing up not a lot of attention was thrown to chocolate in our home. I have a sib who is "allergic" to chocolate. She suffers from migraine headaches, and was once given a list of potential migraine triggers. She only gave up chocolate. Not red wine. Not yellow cheese. Chocolate. As she continues to have migraines, chocolate-lovers might wonder what was the point of this. But you have to understand the secondary gain...that she has had a lot of fun sleuthing out chocolate in places one wouldn't expect to find it.


"I'm giving you back the lip balm that you gave me for Christmas."


"You don't like it?" I asked.


"Look at the ingredients. It's got cocoa butter in it."


Yikes.


But my favorite similar exchange about chocolate took place in the dining rooms of the cruise ships we were on each summer during a span of about fifteen years. Our mom thought it a great idea to take a 'girls' cruise' each summer, and she generously and graciously treated us to trips to the Caribbean, Mediterranean, Mexico, Bermuda, Canada, and Hawaii. No matter where we were cruising, I can guarantee you that this conversation always took place.


"For dessert tonight, we have apple pie, creme brulee, strawberry shortcake, chocolate mousse, ice cream and sorbets," our waiter (any waiter, on any ship), would announce.


"Excuse me," she said, gathering his attention with a fixed, suspicious eye. "The apple pie. Does that have chocolate in it?"


"No, Madame."


"How about the creme brulee?"


"No, Madame. No chocolate in the creme brulee."


"Are you sure?"


"Yes, Madame, I'm quite certain."


"The strawberry shortcake. Is there chocolate in that?"


By this time ALL of us table mates were rolling our eyes. There's no f#%&=$*! chocolate in strawberry shortcake we all wanted to yell, as this had been going on every friggin' night. Although...although...I do know people who line their pie crusts with a thin smear of melted chocolate in order to protect against sogginess. And in pies like pumpkin? White chocolate. It makes you think.


Having grown up with this, and knowing that she will not even eat chili because there may be cocoa in the chili powder (who knew?), I was groomed to be hyper-vigilant about what I serve to her. Except . . . there were those edamame. I always seasoned them with Williams-Sonoma's French Fry Seasoning. And she always, always ate them. Then there was that one time when she complimented me and asked me about the seasoning. So I read the label. And I put the can back, way far back on the shelf of the pantry, behind all the other seasonings.  I said nothing about the cocoa, listed as it was at the bottom of the list of ingredients. Of course I stopped using it when she was visiting (and, by the way, she never had a migraine while she was a house guest at our home). But still, you have to think that a little chocolate got through. And a good thing that. I don't think there are many syndromes worse than chocolate deficiency. Can make a person cranky, and sometimes even downright miserable.


OK, to be fair about this, it's not like this was a real food allergy that could cause death from anaphylactic shock. I mean, she avoided chocolate like the plague, but she still got migraines. And those of us jumping through her anti-chocolate hoop got a few headaches of our own. But I am a dutiful sister, and so this is what I often made for her, beginning way back when I was in elementary school. It may have helped me get my cooking badge in Girl Scouts. I certainly made enough batches of it during that time.

Butterscotch Brownies


1/4   cup (1/2 stick) unsalted butter
1        cup light brown sugar
1        egg
3/4   cup flour, unsifted
1        teaspoon baking powder
1/2   teaspoon kosher salt
1/2   teaspoon vanilla
1/2   cup coarsely chopped pecans (optional)


Pre-heat oven to 350 degrees.


Melt butter over low heat.  Remove from heat, add sugar,and  stir until blended. Cool. Add egg, mixing well. Stir in dry ingredients, then vanilla and nuts (if using).


Spread into a well-oiled eight-inch square or 5x7-inch pan.


Bake  approximately 20 minutes.



You can, of course, frost these. Chocolate frosting would be pretty nifty, as would adding mini-chocolate chips to the batter. But traditionally these are prepared sans chocolate. I'm such a traditionalist, I would suggest that these go well with a glass of cold milk. And certainly a chaser of Mallomars couldn't hurt. 'Tis the season, after all, and thank you (especially you chocoholics -- you know who you are) for reading my blog.