God bless kids and their willingness to tell it how they see it--straight up, without any guilt, guile, or reservation whatsoever.

My personal favorite? The first time I got to spend any time with Triston and Taylor (Steven's kids), Triston was about three years old. He mentioned wishing his mother (Steven's ex-wife) could spend the day with us too. In my innocence, I suggested that maybe next time she could come with us. His reply?

"Oh, no. She hates you."

Steven scolded him gently, but I just laughed out loud. I still do, whenever I think of it. Thing is, it was a real kindness--he let me in on what to expect, and he was right, too. To this day, three years later, I have yet to meet the woman.

Just FYI, I checked the fudge after leaving it alone for a few hours, and it set beautifully. When I finally decide to invest in the crazy retro candy thermometer, I'll try some of the more ambitious fudge recipes. But for now, this one certainly works well enough.

And in case you're wondering just how much fudge the CoCoNuFf recipe will make, the simple answer is WAY too much. The chocolate and milk alone weigh 26 ounces, after all. You'll have plenty to share unless you're planning on feeding an army. Then you might want two batches, just to be safe.

So it turns out that most fudge recipes require a candy thermometer. (See the comments below the post "Beginner's Crepes.") I don't have one of those, which made a great excuse for a trip down the road to Williams-Sonoma.

The trip produced an imitation of an antique candy thermometer for $35, which seemed exorbitant for something that would function perfectly well without the retro styling. So I decided to put off the thermometer purchase, and instead I browsed through the cookbooks for free until I found a thermometer-free fudge recipe that was simple enough to memorize. (It was in the book entitled "Sweet Treats," designed for kids.)

Now, I'm not a big fan of plagiarism, and posting their recipe on my blog would have been WRONG. So I decided to play around with the recipe to make up something of my own.

Leaving Williams-Sonoma, I was almost killed by a Barbie look-alike in a white minivan. Fortunately I managed to dodge her frazzled suburban blitz for the parking lot exit. Surging with adrenaline, I tossed her a gesture of frustrated outrage that I picked up as a Jersey kid. Despite the Georgia/Jersey cultural divide, I think I made myself clear.

So here's the fudge recipe that almost cost me my life: EM Sky's super secret recipe for
CoCoNuFf (Chewy Coconut Nuclear Fudge).

Step One: read through all the rest of the steps ahead of time so you know you have everything you need. That's ALWAYS Step One.

Step Two: line a refrigerator-safe container with tin foil (an 8"x 8" baking pan works nicely, but you could use Tupperware just as easily) and GREASE the tin foil with COOKING OIL. That's to help the fudge come out when it's done.

Step Three: put TWO CUPS of mini marshmallows, and ONE CUP of sweetened coconut together in a bowl. That way when the chocolate is perfectly melted you don't have to mess around with measuring stuff, accidentally letting the chocolate cool and messing up all that melting work.

Step Four: put ONE 12-OUNCE BAG of SEMI-SWEET chocolate chips in a MICROWAVE-SAFE bowl along with ONE 14-OUNCE CAN of SWEETENED, CONDENSED milk. Nuke them in the microwave to melt the chocolate. (That's the nuclear part.) I tried to melt the chocolate by itself, but it didn't go very well. The condensed milk really needs to be in there. This step took a few minutes, nuking the mixture once for 90 seconds and then 30-45 seconds at a time, and I mixed it up in between each heating. You want to MELT the chocolate, but not boil it. The point is to melt it without changing the texture.

Step Five: mix the bowl of mini marshmallows and coconut into the melted chocolate. When it's all mixed together, spread it into the tinfoiled container.

Step Six: top it with some more coconut (or skip that part for a more "traditional" fudge look) and put the mixture in the fridge for about 30 minutes (until it sets--it will take longer if you spread it more thickly in a smaller pan). Then take it out, cut it up, and eat it! (Um, I mean serve it.)

By the way, the fudge doesn't seem to have quite the same consistency as "traditional" fudge. I'm going to refrigerate it overnight to see what happens. At the moment it's a bit gooey, but it still tastes wonderful.

And one last note: substituting some Rice Krispies for some of the marshmallows doesn't work well. The Rice Krispies get all soggy in the melted chocolate and lose their crunch. Trust me, I tried it. I thought it would be really cool to add something crispy, but I'm going to have to think of something else. If you come up with something, let me know.

Steven's son Triston--the delightful hero of the batting glove story--has apparently promoted me. He's six years old, and he's trying to work out the nuances of family relationships. He understands the "traditional" varieties: Mom, Dad, Sister, Aunt, Uncle, Cousin, Grandma, Grandpa. But he can't quite figure me out.

For a few weeks now, he's been asking whether I'm his aunt, his stepmother, his backup mother (in case his own mother died--he happens to be working out both death and relationships simultaneously)... anything he can think of. Although Steven and I aren't married, we've been together for five years so I've been in Triston's life for as long as he can remember. To Triston, I'm FAMILY, and he's figured out that family relationships all have names. But he doesn't know what this one is.

We've tried to explain to him that there's no word in English for "unmarried life partner of my father." I am definitely family, but I don't have a category. But in the logic of six year olds everywhere, this response is entirely unacceptable and therefore must be wrong. (Triston is also starting to work out the times when people can be expected to LIE, and it's making him suspicious of our vague responses. Six is a big year.)

Apparently he's finally given up on getting a straight answer from anyone, so he's simply promoted me to my very own category. The kids have always called me by my middle name (long story), so now when Triston talks about his family he describes his mother, his father, his sister, and his michelle, as in: "My dad is a firefighter, and my michelle is a writer."

I'm not just Michelle anymore. I'm a michelle. More specifically, I'm Triston's michelle. I've never been more proud.

Taylor (Steven's daughter) at age eight, on learning about the Cyclorama (the circular diorama in Atlanta's Grant Park that depicts the Civil War):

"The South lost???"

So it's already the 20th and I haven't posted anything here since the 16th. But just for you, my loyal readers, I'm going to backdate a few posts here to fill in the gaps.

So where have I been? Well, cooking for one thing. I'm in the process of picking up cooking as a new skill, and it turns out there's quite a bit to it.

I'm not talking about heating up spaghetti sauce in a pan or boiling eggs, you understand. I'm quite capable with the basics. But lately I've been wanting to learn how to make dishes with more interesting names, like beef stroganoff or creme brule. Things that would impress people at parties. Not that I go to any parties. I can't remember the last time I went to a party. But I'd still like to be more impressed with my own cooking, so I'm branching out.

Today I tried crepes for the first time, and I'm sorry to say that there are good number of "hints" that got left out of the Better Homes and Gardens recipe. Perhaps people with better homes and gardens already know these things, but I'm clearly not in the loop. I think the editors of this rather voluminous tome ought to come out with a "beginner's edition."

Crepes may not seem like a "beginner's" dish, but there's a first time for everything. Just because you can make pancakes does NOT mean you can make crepes. Trust me on that. Here are a few "translations" I think the editors should have included...

1. "Heat a lightly greased 6-inch skillet..." Butter works better than canola oil. I didn't try any other oils, but I suspect the results would have been similar. The butter sticks to the pan and really greases it, but the oil runs all over the place and doesn't coat the pan very well. It would probably work fine if you didn't mind letting the pan cool between crepes or using some heat-resistant tool to do the greasing, but if you're more of a "just tilt the pan around" sort of person, you should really use butter. Also, "heat" on an electric stove labeled from 1 to 9 means somewhere between 3 and 4. I guessed pretty well on that one.

2. "Invert over paper towels; remove crepe." This sounds a lot easier than it is. My first two crepes came out in shreds. I got far better results by running a spatula under the edges of the crepe to loosen it before inverting the pan. Nonetheless, there was one inexplicable spot in the middle that insisted on sticking every single time. Using a non-stick pan would probably help tremendously, but I was using a crepe pan of traditional steel--should we call these "stick pans" now, as opposed to the "non-stick" variety? For more hints regarding the stickiness problem, see number 3.

3. "Repeat with remaining batter, greasing skillet occasionally." Here, the word "occasionally" is being used in the sense of "every single time." I am reminded of The Princess Bride: "You keep using that word. I do not think it means what you think it means." I tried greasing the pan "occasionally," and every crepe after the first one stuck to the pan. So grease the pan every time, no matter what the directions say. (Unless of course you're using a non-stick pan, in which case the word "occasionally" may be appropriate. But the directions specify a lightly greased pan, not a non-stick pan, so I felt somewhat led astray.)

4. "Makes 18 crepes." Yeah, if you've never made crepes before and you're still willing to stand in front of a hot stove and go through this crepe-making process 18 times in a row, then my hat's off to you. Seriously. My recipe made about 7 crepes before I packed up shop and stored the rest away in the fridge. It's also worth mentioning that a beginner will be lucky to get three or four really good crepes out of the first batch, so make your first ones for practice. Don't take on a dinner party until you've gotten some crepe-making experience under your belt. Enough said.

So that's my first contribution to the beginner's edition of the Better Homes & Gardens cookbook. Anyone else? (Or if you have a request, let me know. I'll try the recipe, and then I'll be sure to let you know everything that can possibly go wrong, just to save you the trouble.)

My favorite moment of this summer's baseball season has nothing to do with the pros, either the majors or the minors. Nor does it have to do with college ball, high school ball, or even little league ball. No, my favorite summer baseball moment has to do with T-ball and five-year-old Triston, who was finally old enough to play this season, much to his relief.

[Rawlings Youth Batting Gloves. Product Image from Target]

Life is progressing at a snail's pace for young Master Triston, who was reminiscing forlornly back in March about missing the "good old days," meaning Christmas. Two months for him last at least a year, so by his reckoning he's been waiting for the chance to play organized ball for over three decades. Guess I can't blame him for being a little impatient.

Opening day of T-ball season finally earned him his first pair of T-ball gloves. I intend to swipe them as soon as he grows out of them so I can save them in a keepsake chest like the one my mother stores in her attic. That is, if there's anything left of them to swipe.

Triston and those T-ball gloves are like... No, I have that backwards. Peanut butter and jelly, Batman and Robin, Ginger Rogers and Fred Astaire--the greatest pairs known to human kind can not compare to Triston and these T-ball gloves.

He wears them to his aunt's house. He wears them when he plays video games. (They help him "concentrate." They help him "grip the controller better.") He even wears them to bed. Clearly, these are magic gloves. Forget the chest in the attic. As soon as those gloves are in my possession I'm going to rub them like a lamp and see what happens.

But none of these quirks or comments can live up to my favorite moment.

Day one of this love affair, Triston heads into the bathroom while we're all playing video games. Moments later, he's back. Without even looking up I say, "Triston, I didn't hear the toilet flush."

"Oops!" he says and runs back to flush it. Sploosh. He appears in the living room again.

"Triston," I say, "I didn't hear the water run. Go wash your hands."

This time he beams with pride. "I don't need to! See?" And he holds up his hands.

You guessed it: he was still wearing the gloves.

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Timothy Johnson wrote a great post over on Carpe Factum the other day. Lurking in the Shadows is about the art of "ramping up quickly in a new (and sometimes hostile) environment." The whole post is fascinating, but my very favorite bit is about the assumptions we make that keep us from seeing (or hearing) the truth that's right in front of us.

In Timothy's example, his business students were having a hard time seeing the facts in crime scene photos. Looking at the photos, the students kept wanting to interpret the information immediately. In short, we tend to leap to assumptions about what we see and hear rather than taking the time first to gather all the pertinent information.

And once we make an assumption, we tend to stick to it.

I laughed out loud when I read his post because the timing couldn't have been better. I shared with him my favorite recent assumption story, and he insisted that I post it here. So here goes nothing...

Just the other day, I'm talking to HR about the trade show I was supposed to be attending this week (which is another story altogether) when the HR rep tells me I might have to drive.

"Drive? Really? How far is it?" I ask.

"6 hours," she says.

"6 hours?" I say, my tone rising.

"I know," she says, "I'd be upset too."

"No, no!" I reply. "I'm not upset at all! I was just surprised because I thought it was farther than that. I'd love to drive if it's that close!"

"Well, I'll try to get you a flight," she says. "You shouldn't have to drive that far."

"No, honestly. Thank you, but I'd really much rather drive."

"I'll call the regional director and see what I can do for you," she says.

"No, please," I say, getting desperate. "You misunderstood me. You heard my tone and you thought I was upset, but it was just the opposite. It was surprise at how close it actually is. 6 hours is nothing. I'd much rather drive than fly if it's that close. Please don't get me a ticket."

"Ok," she says, "if you're sure."

"I'm sure. Thanks. It will be nice to have my car there, and I'll really enjoy the trip."

Half an hour later she calls again. "Good news!" she says. "I got you a ticket!"

"What???" I exclaim. "No, I didn't want a ticket! I wanted to drive!"

"Well," she says, "if that's what you wanted, you should have said something."

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If I asked you what leadership looks like, what would you say?

I like to think that we've grown beyond the superficial image of the 1950's--the handsome white male with the strong chin; the tall, athletic build; the thick yet well-manicured mane of dark hair, contrasting so dramatically with the piercing blue eyes. Maybe today the images are a bit fuzzier, allowing for leadership qualities in both sexes, in all races, even in unassuming short people with problem skin.

Maybe.

But even if that's true, even if most of us have moved beyond such limited ideas of leadership, we are still the prisoners of other mythologies--ideas far less visual and far more ancient, and ultimately just as debilitating.

Nine years ago, I learned this truth in a profoundly personal way.

I originally posted the following story last year on the Win-Win Web blog. I ran across it as I was reorganizing the Win-Win Web Archives, and I decided to modify it a bit and post it again here for the benefit of the new Mind Unbound readership. Enjoy!

Human beings are a clannish bunch. Look around you. Our tribes are everywhere. They are the tables of the high school cafeteria, the fraternities of the college campus, the divisions of the corporate organizational chart. Honestly people, can't we all just get along?

Apparently not. Or at least, not without a lot of encouragement.

Many years ago, while I was volunteering for a certain non-profit organization, I was assigned the dull but critical task of summarizing all feedback received from the general public. This feedback was funneled through the marketing department, and every week it was my responsibility to generate a report regarding the nature of these comments.

During my first few weeks on the job, I discovered that sometimes letters from the organization's members came in through the public channel, so of course I offered to run them over to the development office. Instead, the marketing manager told me to throw them away.

U.S. Highway 46

Like my own father, my mother’s father was also a creative soul. At times a farmer, at times a carpenter, he brought forth many fine things into the world. He took pride in his craftsmanship, he took pride in his eleven children, and he took pride in a Native American heritage that he could never prove. But what I remember most vividly about my grandfather is the time he spent on U.S. Highway 46.

A World of Relationship

How, then, have we come to this - this throw-away world of sub-contractors and assembly lines? There isn't much that we cherish anymore. We covet things, but we do not cherish them.

When one person builds something from start to finish, manifesting a dream into reality, that person breathes a certain life into it. It may not be life in the biological sense, but if enough personal attention goes into the making of a thing, that thing becomes more than just some inanimate object, useful but distant. It becomes something that someone cares about. And once it is cared about, it will also be cared for.

My Father's House

My father built the house I grew up in. He designed it himself, and he built it with his bare hands. He had help, of course, but only two men, Herman and Louie, men with names, who worked side by side with my father as they built that house up around us. We lived in it even as they worked. They knew us, we knew them, and we all came to know the house as it grew up, so to speak, along with us.