baking soda

"It's not the thing you fling, it's the fling itself." ~ Chris Stevens ("Northern Exposure")

Call me a fuddy-duddy but I actually crave this mysterious and marbled, everlasting, unyielding, imperishable, rock-hard Christmas delicacy before and after the holidays. (Minus the marbled and rock hard part -- I think I may have just described myself. Hmmm?) I really do eat them and have found that the cheaper the fruitcake, the better the taste. (But so much for my low-end gastronomy.)

My burning question is "Does anybody really have a clue what's actually hiding in a packaged holiday fruitcake?" It usually weighs more than a doorstop (I'm just guessing here) and if wrapped in contact paper, it might perhaps last indefinitely.

Nelly men like myself aside (yes, I take pride in being a Fruitcake!) -- fruitcakes of the baked variety have a longstanding tradition. Consider its origins, found in references from Roman times. Recipes that included barley mash, honey, pine nuts, pomegranate seeds, raisins and spices slapped and stuck together for traveling crusaders and hunters on the go -- the Clif Bar, if you will, of antiquity. Historically, they were made with the intent to be eaten an entire year later. In fact, in an attempt to display ladylike restraint, moderation and fine taste, the Queen Mum (while showing no such restraint when it came to her gin) waited an entire year to eat hers.

Most modern fruitcakes are mass-manufactured to accommodate Yule-time mass-consumption, and are actually comprised "mostly" of good stuff, and are scrumptious to some, yet vile to others. Store-bought varieties are ready-to-serve but -- unfortunately -- because they've not had time to fully congeal, leave behind telltale moist-n-murky stains.

While dried fruits and nuts, mounds of sugar, flour and booze painfully glued together resulting in a cake more impenetrable than kryptonite may be yummy to someone like myself, others might prefer consuming potting soil. Created just for folks who'd rather eat dirt, I proudly present "Fruitcake Toss Day."

To celebrate the festivities of Fruitcake Toss Day (supposedly any day you pick early in January), your first challenge is to not open the package. To most, this is a given, not a challenge! (And don't leave it unwrapped just for re-gifting purposes either. "Oh...a fruitcake! You shouldn't have. Really! Harrumph.) While not much can damage the bugger, hurling its unprotected, sticky and slimy carcass might offer some unforeseen oily offenses worse than the consumption of the fruitcake itself.

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While watching the last moments of '08 slip by -
Tossing back cocktails, forlorn and cockeyed.
At the stroke of twelve, hugging all with delight -
Men in tuxedos, and leggy ladies in dresses skintight.

We find our way home, somewhat assembled -- quasi,
After self-medicating from our host's ample supply.
We crawl under the sheets, to avoid the daylight,
Recollecting the night's actions with bleary hindsight.

But by making resolutions while a barfly,
We're bound to set standards so high we can't try.
So in future, make decisions in sober daylight.
Instead of dim-witted -- they'll be dynamite.
~Michael DeJong

Expectations get lowered, trousers get lowered, interest rates have been lowered, with meds our blood pressure and anxiety levels get lowered, the drinking age in some states has been lowered, and our pensions and 401Ks have also been lowered.

But on New Year's Eve -- like clockwork -- millions of people still insist on freezing in lowered temperatures huddled in massive crowds in New York City's Times Square as they watch in amazement as the gigantic crystal ball -- too -- is lowered.

But it's not just in the hustle and bustle of big cities that things get lowered in celebration of the New Year. Take for instance Bethlehem, Pennsylvania's 25-pound fiberglass illuminated Peep; or Easton, Maryland's grotesquely enormous imitation of a steamed red crab; or Lebanon, Pennsylvania's seven-and-a-half-foot "fit-to-be-eaten" bologna; or Mount Olive, North Carolina's three-foot tall shimmering pickle; or New Orleans' paper mache gumbo pot; or Plymouth, Wisconsin's super huge, yet thankfully artificial, hunk-o-cheese; or Port Clinton, Ohio's 20-foot 600-pound fiberglass walleye; or Raleigh, North Carolina's 1,250-pound copper acorn; and let's not forget Key West, Florida's local Drag Queen in her glittering six-foot tall, red, high-heeled shoe. Everywhere, it seems, things get lowered to ring in the New Year.

Descending "stuff" aside, many people look to the New Year as an uplifting fresh start. But for most of us, what it really becomes is a fresh start to old habits. (You know how it goes -- in one year and out the other?) This year, instead of New Years Eve being a fresh start to last year's bad habits how about it becoming a fresh start to freshness?

As many of you already know -- New Years Eve or not -- baking soda sparkles like a freshly fallen first snow. (Somewhat appropriate considering that here in the eastern portion of the United States, it's winter.) White, powdery and soft to the touch, odorless and inert upon inspection, baking soda most commonly loiters in the fridge behind leftovers, lunchmeat and lettuce. Not just great as a refrigerator deodorizer, it's remarkably useful when sprinkled, scattered, spread, strewn, or kept in your closet, kitty litter, crisper or carport. (And you're probably wondering to yourself "Hmmm? What's this got to do with New Years Eve?")

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"Come out, come out wherever you are..." (From "The Wizard of Oz") ~ Harold Arlen & E.Y. Harburg

I have "special" needs -- some might call them obsessions -- but I prefer to call them standards. I like a clean home and orderly storage. But more than that, I want my junk where I can find it and I want it all to look like something -- a place for everything and everything in its place!

In an average afternoon, as part of a cleaning ritual, I'll iron sheets for the bedrooms, wipe down the kitchen, rearrange our living room, organize the bathrooms, tidy our basement and yes... even organize our closets.

By today's standards -- depending on your lifestyle, needs, and desired outcome -- uniquely crafted closets offer a meaningful use of space in any home or apartment. Considering all of the options, the perfect closet can be a swell place to hoard your handbags, stash sport-coats, stockpile shoes and allow lingerie to linger. It's also a place to relegate last season's dresses, abandon busted umbrellas, forget those fake-fun-furs, put presents meant for re-gifting, and bury baggage otherwise used to travel to far away, sandy and sunny ports.

Although we think of closets as places to squirrel away stuff and hang our clothes, historically for the very rich, they were actually small secret, private, concealed rooms usually attached to a bedroom.

But nowadays, to be kept hidden or "closeted" is most often used as a way of describing something or someone whose behavior might be embarrassing, controversial...or even gay.

National Coming Out Day was founded 1988 by Dr. Robert Eichberg and Jean O'Leary, in celebration of the second Gay March on Washington, D.C. the previous year. The purposes of both were to promote awareness of gay, bisexual, lesbian and transgender rights and to rejoice in it all. For 20 years, October 11 has been a day to publicly celebrate being who you are, and is often used as an opportunity to tell others as well.

Coming out, while different for every individual, is a critical part of accepting that you're gay, bisexual, lesbian or transgender. (Imagine if heterosexual folks had to have a tear- and angst-filled moment when they made the brave decision to declare their sexual orientation or gender identity and risk being rejected, fired, beaten, thrown out of their home, etc.?) For some LGBT people, the experience is joyful; for some it's uncomfortable; for some it instills anger in those they come out to; for some it's a tragic time of rejection and depression. But for many, once proclaimed, it's a time of freedom, relief, and often a moment of "Gee, we were waiting for you to tell us!" when coming out to supportive family, co-workers and friends.

When I came out to my dear friend, Robert, we celebrated over steaks and Martini's at a tony steak house in Manhatttan. When I came out to even more friends when visiting from my hometown of Chicago -- in celebration at my East Village apartment -- we all ate cake, drank Champagne and jumped on the beds. When I came out to my sister Mags, she said "Honey, you've done a lousy job of hiding it. I've known that for years!"

But when I was only fourteen my mom came out for me. While folding cloths together she said that she thought I might just be kinda' different from her other two kids (Maybe it was my ability to crochet that tipped her off?) and that if I had special questions she said she'd always be there to answer them for me.

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"We will open the book. Its pages are blank... The book is called Opportunity and its first chapter is New Year's Day." ~Edith Lovejoy Pierce

On Rosh Hashanah -- the time of year when God decides whose names get added to the "Book of Life" (hopefully yours!) -- Jews across the world get a clarion call when the shofar (ram's horn) is blown, to awaken them from their self-righteousness, and to begin the process of atoning for the sins of the past year.

During the afternoon of the first day of Rosh Hashanah, the practice of tashlikh is observed, in which prayers are recited near natural flowing water. It's the moment when one's sins are cast upon the water, and literally, pieces of bread or small stones are tossed into the river or stream so that symbolically you can watch your bad deeds start to float away.

Because it is also a time of gathering and eating with family (my partner Richard is Jewish, and boy do we eat and eat and eat at these holiday dinners), to be sure, there'll be plenty of dusting, vacuuming, washing, polishing, scrubbing and waxing alongside a tremendous amount of cooking, baking, roasting, and preparing gallons and gallons of chicken soup.

But more than being a time of feasting, Rosh Hashanah begins a 10-day period of repenting -- ending in Yom Kippur, the holiest day in the Jewish calendar, and the actual start of the New Year. Biblical scholars believe that when the Prophet John, The Baptist, in the Book of Matthew (3:2) said "...Repent, for the kingdom of heaven is at hand," he was referring to the Jewish New Year and they think that he was speaking on the eve of Yom Kippur. He was announcing the final call for repentance before the Day of the Covering of Sin (Yom Kippur).

The Hebrew term for this period of repentance is Teshuvah, which means returning to the predestined path set for us when we were born. The Jewish view is to use mistakes to grow and move forward, because -- as we all know -- mistakes happen and fixing them so that they aren't repeated can be a test... literally and figuratively.

So in preparing for the Jewish New Year celebration, the act of cleaning internal and external impurities becomes the real challenge and the real goal. (Gee, I can make a cleaning metaphor out of anything, huh!!??)

Imagine, for instance, a bathtub that's not been scrubbed over the course of an entire year. If such a tub existed, there'd be blackened, oily footprints everywhere, shampoo gunked up here and there, splats of toothpaste along the rim, dribbles of conditioner under that caddy thingy, soap scum galore, a gigantic clump of hair stuck in the strainer and a three-inch ring of moldy residue all the way around the tub. (That butcher, baker and candlestick maker must have been complete slobs!) But in all seriousness, it's hard to make yourself clean (or restful, or contemplative, or peaceful) in any dirty place, let alone in a grubby tub.

Metaphorically, each of us is a bathtub wanting to be clean, and Rosh Hashanah becomes the perfect chance to start fresh. It's an opportunity to buff away blunders, rub polish onto our faux pas, and scrub satisfaction back into our souls -- and if need be, "wash that man right outta our hair!"

It can start with recognizing our unfortunate shortcomings, putting a stop to unfortunate actions, regretting our unfortunate behaviors, feeling truly sorry for being so unfortunately nasty, owning and explaining our personal idiocy, asking for and hopefully finding forgiveness, and then never, never, never repeating our unfortunate mistakes (the hardest rub of all!!). And along the way we might ask ourselves "Am I hurting others, am I blind to what's important, am I being insensitive and -- most importantly -- am I getting in my own way?" It's kind of a "scrub-a-dub-dub" that's good for our bathtub, our brain and our soul.

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"The average dog is a nicer person than the average person." ~Andy Rooney

The average Joe annually eats 30 pounds of lettuce...give-or-take a little. (Ancient Egyptians even had a god dedicated to both sex and lettuce...maybe that's why we have Green-Goddess dressing?) Thomas Jefferson, author of the Declaration of Independence, third president of the United States, notable architect, noteworthy gardener, and obvious foliage fetish-ist had tons of lettuce growing in his gardens at Monticello, too.

Why all of this talk about lettuce? (Give me a minute...I'm only at the tip of the iceberg!) While educating people about vegetarian-ism and plating up scrumptious veggie chow, PETA's "Lettuce Ladies" are decked out in only this particular purposefully positioned plant life. People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals is the world's biggest animal-rights organization, and the "Lettuce Ladies" help boost public consciousness about the millions of destitute critters who are in need of compassionate quarters, as well as the significance of spaying and neutering pets.

PETA, of course, is concerned about cruelty to all types of animals (rabbits, chimps, cats, etc), something we remember this August 21 for National Homeless Animal Day. So while they're not the only mistreated species, many canines endure abuses in factories, farms, laboratories, breeding mills and even as household pets. And that's how we came to our pooch -- Jack.

Ten years ago, this sweet-yet-wacko high-maintenance cocker spaniel came into our lives. He'd been confined in a basement in hopes of someone eventually taking this "gaping wound of need" (it's what I sometimes lovingly call him) off his current owners' hands.

Enter stage left, my partner Richard and me. (Actually? Much more him than me...did I just hear the Mighty Mouse theme song "Hear I Come to Save the Day"?). He's a sucker for a dog no matter what it looks like, smells like or acts like, and he'll pet anything that wets on a sidewalk. (Luckily we live in a dog-friendly town.)

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