casserole dish.
10 sweet potatoes, cooked, peeled, and sliced
1 cup maple syrup
3 tablespoons butter
½ cup apple cider
1 teaspoon salt
4 tablespoons maple sugar (I used brown sugar.)
Preheat oven to 300 degrees. Place sweet potatoes in greased casserole dish. In separate pot mix up syrup,butter, cider, brown or maple sugar, and salt and bring to boil. Pour mixture over potatoes. Bake 45 minutes, basting every
15 minutes.
’Til next time,
V
July 17
I called Omar to let him know about the trip to Medjugorje so he could schedule the custody hearing accordingly. He was out
of the office, so I left a message. I hate waiting so long to finalize my custody arrangement, but I don’t see that I have
a choice now. I only hope that Roger doesn’t try to abduct Pete.
I did something uncharacteristically spontaneous today. I called my new friend Donna Gold and invited her and her family for
take-out dinner. Donna was as buoyant as ever, but her husband wasn’t at all what I’d expected from my elegant Southern friend.
Christopher was quiet, bespectacled, and balding. They made such an unlikely pair that I decided it he must be hung like a
donkey and fabulous in bed. After dinner, Christopher took all the kids to play putt-putt, “To give you ladies a chance to
talk,” he said, winking.
“Don’t believe it for a minute,” Donna said, tossing a crumpled paper napkin at her husband. “Christopher’sjust a big ole kid. He just wants to play putt-putt and he’s using our kids as a cover.”
“Okay, okay, you got me,” he said, throwing up his arms in surrender.
After they left, Donna and I cleaned up the kitchen and talked. I gave her an only slightly sanitized version of my marriage,
and she confessed that she’d had her share of problems with Christopher, but survived with the help of an “amazing” therapist
(Bonita Loeb, as it turned out. I decided not to tell her that Roger and I were Bonita Loeb rejects). She didn’t detail her
marital problems, and I didn’t probe, but I expect I’ll find out eventually.
I told Donna about Roger’s latest antics. “At least I’ll have permanent custody before too long,” I said.
She shook her head. “How can you be so sure?” she asked.
“Come on. What judge is going to give that bastard custody of Pete? After everything Roger has done?”
“Well, maybe not full custody, but the judge might give him joint custody.” Donna saw the incredulity on my face. “Hey, it
happens. Especially these days. Fathers’ rights, you know.” She told me about Tamara Parker, a mother in her play group. “Her
ex-husband was the worst.” She paused. “Okay, maybe not the worst, but he ran a close second to your beaut. He knocked up
their baby-sitter. And he left her practically destitute. Now he’s got joint custody of the kids. Him and his new wife. The
baby-sitter.”
I told her I didn’t want to talk about it. “Let’s talk about something nice instead.”
I told her about Michael Avila. “When I’m with him I just feel so cared for, so safe, so listened to,” I said. “But …”
“What is it?”
I told Donna something I hadn’t yet admitted to myself. “No big fireworks, I guess. You know. There’s something missing. The
chemistry. At least for me.”
“Not nasty enough for ya, huh?”
“What?”
“Let’s see. He’s not a cheater, he’s not a liar, he doesn’t have another wife hidden in a condo somewhere, he doesn’t have
a yen for teenagers … no wonder you’re not attracted to him!” Donna put her hands on her hips and stared at me. “Listen to
me, girl, and listen good. If this detective of yours is as sweet and kind and good-looking as you say he is, you’d be a fool
to let him go just because he doesn’t get you all hot and bothered. In my humble opinion”—she shoved the gravy boat into the
dishwasher—”I think you need to rejig your definition of sexy.”
Maybe I do. But
10 sweet potatoes, cooked, peeled, and sliced
1 cup maple syrup
3 tablespoons butter
½ cup apple cider
1 teaspoon salt
4 tablespoons maple sugar (I used brown sugar.)
Preheat oven to 300 degrees. Place sweet potatoes in greased casserole dish. In separate pot mix up syrup,butter, cider, brown or maple sugar, and salt and bring to boil. Pour mixture over potatoes. Bake 45 minutes, basting every
15 minutes.
’Til next time,
V
July 17
I called Omar to let him know about the trip to Medjugorje so he could schedule the custody hearing accordingly. He was out
of the office, so I left a message. I hate waiting so long to finalize my custody arrangement, but I don’t see that I have
a choice now. I only hope that Roger doesn’t try to abduct Pete.
I did something uncharacteristically spontaneous today. I called my new friend Donna Gold and invited her and her family for
take-out dinner. Donna was as buoyant as ever, but her husband wasn’t at all what I’d expected from my elegant Southern friend.
Christopher was quiet, bespectacled, and balding. They made such an unlikely pair that I decided it he must be hung like a
donkey and fabulous in bed. After dinner, Christopher took all the kids to play putt-putt, “To give you ladies a chance to
talk,” he said, winking.
“Don’t believe it for a minute,” Donna said, tossing a crumpled paper napkin at her husband. “Christopher’sjust a big ole kid. He just wants to play putt-putt and he’s using our kids as a cover.”
“Okay, okay, you got me,” he said, throwing up his arms in surrender.
After they left, Donna and I cleaned up the kitchen and talked. I gave her an only slightly sanitized version of my marriage,
and she confessed that she’d had her share of problems with Christopher, but survived with the help of an “amazing” therapist
(Bonita Loeb, as it turned out. I decided not to tell her that Roger and I were Bonita Loeb rejects). She didn’t detail her
marital problems, and I didn’t probe, but I expect I’ll find out eventually.
I told Donna about Roger’s latest antics. “At least I’ll have permanent custody before too long,” I said.
She shook her head. “How can you be so sure?” she asked.
“Come on. What judge is going to give that bastard custody of Pete? After everything Roger has done?”
“Well, maybe not full custody, but the judge might give him joint custody.” Donna saw the incredulity on my face. “Hey, it
happens. Especially these days. Fathers’ rights, you know.” She told me about Tamara Parker, a mother in her play group. “Her
ex-husband was the worst.” She paused. “Okay, maybe not the worst, but he ran a close second to your beaut. He knocked up
their baby-sitter. And he left her practically destitute. Now he’s got joint custody of the kids. Him and his new wife. The
baby-sitter.”
I told her I didn’t want to talk about it. “Let’s talk about something nice instead.”
I told her about Michael Avila. “When I’m with him I just feel so cared for, so safe, so listened to,” I said. “But …”
“What is it?”
I told Donna something I hadn’t yet admitted to myself. “No big fireworks, I guess. You know. There’s something missing. The
chemistry. At least for me.”
“Not nasty enough for ya, huh?”
“What?”
“Let’s see. He’s not a cheater, he’s not a liar, he doesn’t have another wife hidden in a condo somewhere, he doesn’t have
a yen for teenagers … no wonder you’re not attracted to him!” Donna put her hands on her hips and stared at me. “Listen to
me, girl, and listen good. If this detective of yours is as sweet and kind and good-looking as you say he is, you’d be a fool
to let him go just because he doesn’t get you all hot and bothered. In my humble opinion”—she shoved the gravy boat into the
dishwasher—”I think you need to rejig your definition of sexy.”
Maybe I do. But
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