A Moment in Time: At the Plate

I'm introducing a new series to my blog entitled "A Moment in Time." One of my professors at Boston University told me that if you can describe a single moment in more than just a few words and stretch it into a few paragraphs, then you are well on your way to becoming a good writer. This advice stuck with me and helped me write a few great features in a sports journalism class. The new series will focus on describing single moments in time to evoke feelings of happiness or sadness, nostalgia or discovery, acceptance or rejection. My goal is to write these posts in the second person to create an atmosphere in which you can place yourself even if you've never been in that situation before. I hope you enjoy.

Photo courtesy of iStockphoto.com.

The sun reflects off the composite bat in your hands. The air is warm and smells of freshly cut grass and foot odor. The crowd slows from a loud cheer into a soft murmur as it anxiously awaits your fate. You squint your eyes against the glare and pick out your little brother focusing on his Nintendo DS in the crowd.

At least one pair of eyes isn't watching me.

A slap across your helmet knocks your mind into focus. The 25-foot walk across the rock-filled dirt seems to grow a mile in front of you. Sweat beads form on your forehead where the inside of the padded helmet presses onto your skin. You shuffle your feet on the path to seal your legacy as a player.

You arrive at the white pentagon that represents the deciding factor between a win or a loss.

How can such an insignificant piece of rubber loom so ominously at me? How could it have the power to create a memory that will last a lifetime or a repressed thought that will bring embarrassment to my name?

The two holes spaced a foot apart below your feet prove too deep for your liking. You swipe your left foot across the dirt and into the holes. You repeat with your right foot, then your left again. You dig your left cleat into the covered hole. You dig your right cleat into the other hole. You hold the 23-ounce bat in your left hand and tap the far corner of the plate to position yourself in the perfect stance. You circle the bat around like a windmill three times before cocking it into a 45-degree angle behind your head.

The pitcher whips the yellow ball into her glove twice before placing herself on the rubber a mere 43 feet away from you. The crowd is silent. Your team stands behind the fence; everyone links their fingers into the chains in anticipation of the first pitch. The sun's rays seem to beat down on your face hotter than before, causing the sweat to drip down the front bill of your helmet.

Please do something. Anything.

It seems like an eternity before the pitcher contorts her arm into a winding motion and flicks the ball towards you. It whizzes past the letters on your jersey. Strike one.

You look down the third base line to see your coach nodding and clapping at you, willing you to at least make contact with the ball. The pitcher whips her braided ponytail back around her head and once again turns to face you. Her fingers twirl around the ball to find the right grip.

I'm going to swing at this one. High and outside, baby. Right in the sweet spot.

The winding motion starts, and this time you see the ball rotating towards the same location as the last pitch. You take a step forward and force all of your power behind the bat while keeping your body balanced. But the ball still ends up in the catcher's mitt. Strike two.

The crowd groans, and the team on the opposing bench jumps up and down in excitement. No balls, two strikes, two outs. It's the bottom of the seventh inning, and your team is down by one. Two of your teammates are on second and third base; you can see them clap their hands and yell at you to bring them home through the cloud of dust. If you drive them in, your team advances to the semi-finals of the district championships. If you fail, your team goes home title-less, but you claim the title of choke artist.

Every pitcher knows to throw outside the strike zone when it's 0-and-2. Let's hope this girl isn't stupid.

This time the pitcher's motion slows down -- a change-up. The white-stitched sphere curves low and outside. Ball one.

The crowd rises on the bleachers. Your team rattles the fence and produces a clanging noise that echoes between the ear holes of your helmet. Your coach rests his hands on his knees, nodding away to give you confidence. His black aviators hide the fear and disappointment you can already see forming in the creases of his face.

Then all goes quiet. Your team continues to jump up and down; their mouths form words, but nothing comes out. The crowd is still clapping, but no sound emanates from the clash of their hands. There is no noise except for the thoughts running through your head.

I can do this. I can do this for my team, my family, myself. Forget the pitcher; watch the ball. It's all up to me.

The pitcher winds up for the final time, and the ball spins closer and closer right down the middle of the plate. The bat shakes in your hands from the heavy pounding of your heartbeat. You hold your breath and try not to blink.

This is the pitch that decides everything. Whether you hit a line drive to score two runs and win the game or strike out swinging and disappoint the whole team is up to you. In that single moment, you can overcome your fears or you can let them consume you. Because a decision made in one single moment can change everything.

Monday Dinners - Beef Stroganoff

Beef stroganoff over egg noodles

Since my work schedule changed and is now back to normal, my new dinner recipes will be from Mondays instead of Tuesdays. I realize I haven't posted a dinner recipe in a while -- don't worry, I haven't had to wash any dishes in the meantime. There were a few that didn't work out and weren't worth posting. I pretend to know what I'm doing in the kitchen, but alas, sometimes it simply doesn't work.

The following beef stroganoff recipe received a thumbs-up from five other hungry bodies that are usually hard to please. The best part about it is it's simplicity; as long as you have access to a grocery store and a slow cooker, you're good to go. Put it in before work -- or before you sit on the couch all day -- and you'll have a satisfying dinner with almost no effort.

Ingredients:

2.5 lbs beef stew meat (for six people)
1 cup chopped sweet onion
2 cans (10 3/4 oz. each) condensed cream of mushroom soup
8 oz. sliced mushrooms
salt and pepper, to taste
8 oz. cream cheese
8 oz. light sour cream
egg noodles

Combine the stew meat, onion, soup, mushrooms, salt, and pepper in the slow cooker. Mix before turning it on low heat. Let mixture sit for 8-10 hours.

After you come home to a kitchen permeated with the mouth-watering scent of slow-cooked beef and sauce, boil salted water to cook the egg noodles. (You can use other types of pasta or rice, but I've found that egg noodles capture the flavor of the stroganoff well.)

Cut the cream cheese into cubes and add to the mixture. Stir until melted. (Be careful because the beef will be so tender that it will fall apart if you stir too violently.) Then stir the sour cream into the mixture until blended.

Serve the stroganoff over the egg noodles, and enjoy! I served it with a side caesar salad; steamed or grilled vegetables would also go well with it.

For the original Betty Crocker recipe, click here.

Theo is Gone!

Photo credit to Elise Amendola, AP

Good riddance. Let's move on.

The Taste of Fall

Apple crisp with ice cream

Football, orange leaves, pumpkins that have faces, apple crisp. My favorite things about fall. While I can't control the outcomes of the first two, and I have limited artistic abilities when it comes to pumpkins, I can tell you how to make a delicious apple crisp that goes well after any dinner -- or for dinner, if you prefer. If fall could taste like anything, it would be a spoonful of this heavenly dessert. It's one of those little things in life that can turn a bad day into something wonderful.

There are so many variations in apple crisp recipes that I took my favorite aspects from every one and combined them to form the perfect taste for my palate. I hope it suits yours as well. And remember...don't forget the vanilla ice cream on the side!

Ingredients:

8 medium apples, sliced and peeled
cinnamon
honey
1 cup packed brown sugar
1/2 cup all-purpose flour
1/2 cup quick oats
1/2 cup (or 1 stick) butter, softened
3/4 tsp cinnamon
3/4 tsp nutmeg

Preheat the oven to 350ºF. Grease the bottom of a 9"x13" pan. (The size of the pan doesn't really matter -- just adjust the recipe accordingly if it's smaller.)

After the apples are sliced and peeled, place them in rows in the pan to create two layers. (If you prefer a thick section of apples or have way too many to fit in your fridge after apple picking, add another layer.) Sprinkle with some cinnamon and drizzle with honey.

Apples sprinkled with cinnamon and honey

In a medium bowl, mix the brown sugar, flour, oats, butter, cinnamon, and nutmeg until blended. (I prefer a non-oatmeal-ly taste to the crisp, so add more oats if you feel there aren't enough. And yes, I'm an English major, so I'm allowed to make up words.) I enjoy a lot of the crisp on top -- just a bunch of mushy apples isn't enough! -- so cut back on the butter and sugar if you only want a thin layer. Sprinkle the mixture evenly over the apples.

Sprinkle mixture on top of apples

Bake for 30 minutes or until apples are tender. Cool for ten minutes before serving; it will still be hot enough to slightly melt the ice cream. Bon appetit!

Invasion of the Pink Hats

2011 Championship Banner

Thousands of flashes reflected off the surface of the ice. The black and gold championship banner hung low from the rafters in the middle of the rink. The bleachers smelled of $8.50-a-cup beer and expensive cologne. Zdeno Chara skated onto the ice while hoisting the sacred Stanley Cup and passed it to Patrice Bergeron, who passed it to (the now retired) Mark Recchi, who passed it to part-time assistant captain Andrew Ference; and so on. Each player kissed the gleaming cup as if it were the first time he received it in his arms -- an emotional moment and a cause for celebration.

But the fans were quiet.

There was the occasional uproar after every mention of "champion" during the pre-game ceremony speeches, but other than that only murmurs sounded from the sell-out crowd at TD Garden. Opening Night 2011: the invasion of the pink hats.

No longer are they congregated in the stands at just Fenway and Gillette; they have swarmed to the golden seats of the Garden. When the crowd is louder during the noise meter measurements on the jumbo-tron than after a power play killing by the Bruins, there is something wrong.

During the initial part of the ceremony, the energy from the fans -- who made it to their seats on time -- seemed to predict a raucous night ahead. Instead, the Garden remained quiet after the banner took it's rightful place in the rafters. (For a not-so-professional video clip of the raising, click below.)

When tickets sell for well over $200, one would think many die-hards would splurge to be in attendance to reap the benefits of glory. This season opener, however, proved that the Boston Bruins have become just another fashion statement, replacing the likes of the (continually frustrating) Red Sox. The games are no longer about hockey; they are about social status. The perception is that everyone who is anyone will be there.

Before the emotional raising of the banner, a glance around section 325 showed evidence of the causes of the low energy -- from men dressed in business suits who left in the second intermission to girls wearing club attire who flirted with each and every male around them instead of watching hockey. They don't even need to wear pink hats; they might as well write "I'm going to ruin your night" on their foreheads.

Not that the Bruins gave the fans anything to cheer about post-ceremony anyway. The Philadelphia Flyers won the opening game 2-1 after a lackluster offensive performance by the defending champions. Through two periods, the black and gold spent the majority of time in their own zone without showing any of the physical game that fans were used to seeing from the Big Bad Bruins last season. The Flyers scored their only goals in the first period, but that proved enough to earn them the win.

Brad Marchand scored the only goal for the Bruins in the first period on an assist by Tyler Seguin. If this game foreshadowed things to come, then expect much more out of the youngsters this season. Their energy may prove enough to carry this team to another playoff berth.

Until then, beware the pink hats. The Bruins will remain fashionable in Boston, so expect the non-stop cell phone users and the I-need-to-update-my-status-on-Facebook-every-five-minutes socialites to annoy you during the game. It may be more enjoyable -- and more affordable -- to watch the game from the comfort of your own couch.

Stanley Cup

The Best Worst Scenario

Photo credit to Patrick Semansky

 What better time to create my first sports-related post for my new site than right after the epic collapse of the Red Sox? I say none. Writing is a healthy method for releasing anger, right? Although, I'm still not sure what to feel a little over 24 hours after the Red Sox failed to make the postseason for the second year in a row.

This was supposed to be the year. There was supposed to be no question. They were supposed to win 100 games. Carl Crawford and Adrian Gonzalez were supposed to change everything. The pitching was supposed to be dominant.

Disbelief.

I was so sure of the success of this team that I even neglected watching some games, unlike in previous seasons when I would postpone my social life to watch every pitch. America's pasttime has been losing fans, and it was losing me, too.

That is why I have come to the following conclusion: It is a positive thing that the 2011 Red Sox failed.

(Wait, what?)

Amidst all of the disappointment and frustration, the team's collapse teaches true baseball fans a valuable lesson -- that baseball at its purest is still a lovable game despite all of its criticism. Baseball is a dying breed because it has been dubbed "slow" and "lazy" by writers and fans alike. The 2011 AL and NL Wild Card races proved that it can still entertain the masses, including so-called "pink hat" fans. (Side note: They make my life miserable. Do everyone a favor and stop pretending that you know what you're talking about.)

The tidal wave of outrage over a disappointing end to this season may wash away those fair-weathered fans and leave only long-time Sox lovers etched in the sand. After all, Red Sox baseball has always been about pain, suffering, and loyalty -- three things that post-2004 and -2007 fans could never understand. It's as if the Red Sox have become a fashion statement in Boston, much like the Yankees in New York, and now it's back out of style.

Now not only will the team lose fans, but it will lose players as well. After the final inning of game 162, the NESN cameras panned over the dugout; every player sported wide eyes and sinking heads. They were lost and had already given up. An abysmal 7-20 record in September proved too deep a hole of which to climb out.

I have always believed that team chemistry represents a greater factor in success than individual statistics, even in baseball. One of the reasons I don't know how to feel now that the season is over is because I never grew attached to the players like I have in previous seasons. This team showed no character especially down the stretch even with the amiable Dustin Pedroia as its leader.

David Ortiz, Jonathan Papelbon, and Jacoby Ellsbury are the three big names that threaten to leave before the beginning of next season. Epstein has acknowledged his interest in keeping Ortiz and Papelbon, who are both coming off productive years and have been "character" guys in the past. If Theo can remove some excess baggage (that's you, J.D. Drew) and acquire scrappy players who will help uplift the morale in the clubhouse, the team will succeed. It's hard to loathe a group of players who lose but have remained positive all season. Epstein proved he could attract the big-name free agents before the season, so now it's time to acquire the glue that will hold the image of this team together.

That starts with keeping Terry Francona. He and Epstein met Friday to discuss the future of the manager and have yet to make an announcement. His contract is up on October 8 and includes an option for 2012. Many reports on Twitter have already written the manager off, saying there is no future with the team. There are conflicting reports, however, so nothing is definite yet.

Tito has always been a players' manager, so to think he lost respect in the clubhouse is hard to swallow. The players are at fault for not striving to end the win-less drought; Francona is just an easy target on which to place the blame. Epstein's intricate data analysis software could not predict the human element in baseball for once. His big plans did not pan out, and he needs to share the blame. Unfortunately, it is highly unlikely that the egotistical General Manager of the Red Sox will admit defeat.

But does it really matter who had a bad year and where to point the finger? The bottom line is that the 2011 season did not play out like it was expected to, and fans are losing interest in their once-beloved team. But it's a good thing. This team needs a wake-up call. Money will get them nowhere without character and endurance.

I dream that the 2012 Red Sox team is made up of a bunch of Kevin Millar's who would do anything for the love of the game. The question is: Wouldn't you?



Disclaimer: I apologize for the (un)timeliness of this article; almost two full days later, and it seems like many fans have already moved past the bitter feeling left in their mouths. But I am a working girl, and unfortunately, sports writing is not (yet) my full-time job. If Francona is indeed out, do you think Theo would hire someone with absolutely no experience, and a woman nonetheless?

Vince Wilfork

...No, not the 325-pound popular nose tackle for the New England Patriots. This Vince Wilfork was named after him before I knew she was a girl. This Vince Wilfork is my hamster.

Sure, you might be asking yourself what a mature 23-year-old woman is doing owning a hamster usually reserved for 12-year-old girls, but she has provided me with so many laughs during hard times. Since she makes me smile, I thought that posting some of her mischievous behavior here would make others laugh as well. (Or maybe it won't, depending on your sense of humor.)

The following video I took two nights ago after I dared to take her out of her cage and let her meander on my bed. Much to her chagrin, her escape tactics are no match for me.

Part of what makes this video so humorous to me is knowing that she will repeat this action until returned to her cage, which is what you as the reader don't see. Imagine a tiny fur ball sliding down the side of a steep bed with its claws digging into the threads to slow down its descent until it reaches your hand at the bottom. Now imagine that happening over and over again. I'm sure that if I let her hit the floor then she might learn her lesson. But then again, hamsters aren't the smartest creatures.

I apologize for the poor lighting in the video, but, you know, I'm not blogging to become a professional videographer. I will post more of Vince's epic adventures as they occur. Until then, she will take this time off to devise another evil plan.

Cape Cod - A Serenity Unmatched

Sunset on Crosby Beach

Last week I escaped from the tediousness of my life and traveled to Cape Cod for the first time in many years. (I'll just get it out of the way now and let you know that yes, it was before Hurricane Irene hit, and yes, I am fine. Thanks for your concern.) My boyfriend, his mom, his sister, and I stayed at a Tidewater Inn in South Yarmouth for only three nights, but they were the most pleasant three nights I have experienced in a while. I underestimated the effect of immersing my toes in the water and ass in the sand with not a worry in the world and a cold beer in my hand. (Credit to Zac Brown Band for those perfect words used in this song.)

On the first day -- after we convinced ourselves that the sheets in the room were clean despite the smudges on them and learned that the scent of deodorizer was so potent that we couldn't help but gag -- we coasted to a small beach on the bay side along the bicep of Massachusetts. The calm water felt like it was 80-90 degrees, and the cool breeze provided the perfect respite from the constant sun. The serenity I felt at that moment is indescribable. It was a peace achieved within myself that could never be attained around my loud -- but lovable -- family. Only the sounds of the waves washing on shore and a distant radio playing country music filled my head. Before I could fall asleep, I picked up my book of choice for the trip: George R. R. Martin's A Game of Thrones, the first book in his series A Song of Ice and Fire.

[Quick side note: If you haven't watched the first season of the HBO series "Game of Thrones," do yourself a favor and watch it right now. It has something for everyone -- love, war, sex, violence, foreign accents, and Peter Dinklage are included. I started the book after I watched the series, and the show follows almost exactly. I should rephrase my words; finish reading this blog post, and THEN go watch.]

Back to the Cape...
There's nothing I would rather be doing than reading an enthralling novel on the beach. There is something about that particular atmosphere that lends itself to living in the novel rather than just reading the words. That is, of course, unless you become distracted by the pesty seagull drawn to your sandwich. At one point, my boyfriend turned to me and asked if I was enjoying myself even though we were doing nothing. I laughed and told him I wouldn't rather be anywhere else.

The next day, we went "critter digging" -- as my boyfriend's family calls it -- which is nothing more than walking out with the tide and finding keepsakes living or dead in the pools of salt water. After a long walk, however, we realized we must have read a tide chart wrong because the water crept up almost to our waists on our journey back. We did manage to find some large hermit crabs, snails, and seashells, but nothing too exciting. That night, we visited the nearest Cape Cod Creamery. Talk about heaven in your mouth. The menu didn't boast the biggest selection of ice cream flavors I've ever seen, but this homemade ice cream knocks store-bought crap out of the park. I chose the black raspberry with gummy bears (always necessary). For more information and locations of this utopian creamery, click here.

After a somewhat un-restful night's sleep, we sat on the beach for a short time on Tuesday to soak up just enough sun but not enough to fry. We stopped for lunch at a local place that served delectable fried clams, which satisfied my overwhelming craving for them. Later in the day, I ended up on the trampolines with my boyfriend's sister. You know those blocks of around 15 trampolines situated in a closed off, rectangular area that are always filled with jumping children under ten years old? Well, I was there, too; and I'm mature enough to admit that I enjoyed every second of it. Oh, and after that, I rocked at mini golf...at least for the first nine holes.

After I had my childish fun, I treated us to dinner at the best Italian food place I have ever been -- excluding the restaurants I visited in Italy. The restaurant was called DiParma Italian Table, and anyone visiting this area of the Cape should seek it out. I highly recommend the garlic bread and the linguine with white clam sauce. The bread melted in your mouth in a bite of buttery, garlicky goodness, and the linguine was loaded with fresh clams. It wasn't the cheapest meal, but I would gladly indulge my taste buds here again. For an online menu and information, click here. Even though the beds at our inn were hard and uncomfortable, I slept through the night without disturbance from my ensuing food coma.

Pat and me on the beach

Alas, all good things must come to an end, and I can only wish that there will be more vacations like this one. Although it only lasted three nights, I could not have asked for a more relaxing and enjoyable experience with the people I care about. Sometimes doing nothing means everything. All I can do now is relish in the memories and hope for next year.

Listen to This: Chiddy Bang

My taste in music is all over the place: one day I'm digging Keith Urban, the next I'm chilling with Guster, and the next I'm jamming to Dropkick Murphys. As long as a song allows me to move with the music, then I'm happy. Maybe it's my inner dancer, but I'm constantly choreographing steps in my head to upbeat rhythms. I'm always on the lookout for songs that will make my hour-long commute to Boston more enjoyable.

My latest musical infatuation is with Chiddy Bang, the hip-hop duo best known for their single "Opposite of Adults," which is featured in the preview for the new movie "30 Seconds or Less." (I can't vouch for the quality of the movie, but the song is catchy.)

Chiddy Bang's latest mixtape, "Peanut Butter and Swelly," samples various artists' works, including Martha and the Vandellas, Matt & Kim, and The Knocks. The duo takes the songs and creates new verses while providing an upbeat rhythm that lacks from the original tune. The final product is a great summer mixtape that you can blast through the streets while singing at the top of your lungs. If you're talented enough to memorize the entire song AND pull it off without spitting like a fool, more power to you.

Despite my praise for their mixtapes, their newest single, "Mind Your Manners," foreshadows even greater things to come. It combines a catchy melody, a rhythm to dance to, and hey, lyrics that you can understand. If you haven't heard it, do yourself a favor:

Their debut album "Breakfast" is set to be released later this summer or early fall 2011. This first single off of their first official album promises a quality of hip-hop that stands out from the mainstream radio I-wanna-get-a-girl-in-bed-after-I-watch-her-shake-her-ass kind of music. (I'm not judging; I sometimes listen to that bad music, too.)

Even if you're not a huge hip-hop fan, Chiddy Bang samples such a variety of music that it can appeal to anyone. For free downloads and more in-depth info on the duo, click here.

Tuesday Dinners - Cashew Chicken and Rice

Cashew Chicken with Rice and Baguette

A few weeks ago, my mother finally forced my family to create a structured schedule of washing dishes after dinner. There have been a few lapses, but for the most part everyone sticks to their assigned day. Except me.

I abhor washing dishes. There is nothing worse than sticking your hands in soapy, scummy water and brushing up against unknown chunks of mush. It makes you wonder how clean the dishes really become.

I coaxed my mother into letting me make dinner once a week instead of doing the dishes. Much to my delight, she agreed. Not only do I escape the perils of dish washing, but I have an opportunity to cook dinner, which is one of the things I miss most about living on my own.

Now every Tuesday I attempt to construct a dinner that will satiate my parents and three picky siblings. It is not an easy task. Last week, my pulled pork sandwiches and coleslaw excited my 14-year-old Mexican-food-loving brother, but my mother and sister were less than enthused. This week, I chose a cashew chicken and rice recipe with a side of toasted bread and bruschetta. Hopefully it can please everyone.

2 lbs. chicken breast, cut into 1-inch chunks
2 cloves of garlic
2 tsps. grated ginger root
2 heads of broccoli
2 cups chicken broth (use reduced sodium for healthy version of recipe)
1 tsp red pepper flakes (I like it on the spicy side, so add less according to your tastes.)
2 16-oz. bags of frozen sugar snap peas (fresh work as well)
salt and pepper
6 tbsp soy sauce (reduced sodium for healthy version)
4 tsps. rice vinegar
2 tbsps corn starch (add more if the sauce is not thick enough for your taste)
2 tsps. sugar
1/2 a bunch of scallions
brown rice (check the container for correct portions)
1/2-3/4 cup of whole cashew and cashew pieces

Boil water and prepare brown rice as indicated on package. (You can use any kind of rice you would like, but I chose brown as a healthier option.)

Heat oil in skillet on medium-high heat. Add chicken, ginger, and garlic once you feel the pan is hot. Occasionally stir the chicken until it is cooked through.

Add the chopped broccoli, half of the chicken broth, and the red pepper flakes. Cover and steam for three minutes, stirring occasionally. Uncover; add the snap peas and sprinkle with salt and pepper. Cook until the vegetables are slightly tender.

Mix the remaining broth, soy sauce, corn starch, sugar, and vinegar together. Add to the chicken and vegetables and stir. Add the chopped scallions and half the cashews. Turn the heat to medium-low and stir until the sauce thickens. Serve over rice and sprinkle the rest of the cashews on top.

Who knows, maybe this recipe will get you out of washing the dishes too!


For the original recipe from BettyCrocker.com, click here.

Ice Cream Cookie Cake

Ice Cream Cookie Cake

Every other week, I attempt to organize a game night with a few friends and use this recipe to convince them if they seem unsure at first. I discovered this recipe on BettyCrocker.com about a year ago, and it has never failed me. It's simple and doesn't take much time to prepare. It combines a chocolate chip cookie bottom with ice cream on top. What's not to love?

I've written out my slightly tweaked recipe below. I provided the link to the original recipe at the bottom of this post.

1 pouch Betty Crocker chocolate chip cookie mix (or you can make your own batter)
Chocolate shell syrup
Chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream (or your preferred flavor that combines well with the cookie)

Mix the pouch of cookie mix with one stick (half a cup) of butter and one egg. (Or prepare your own cookie batter as usual.) Use a portion of the dough to roll into five small balls and place on a cookie sheet. Bake them for 10 minutes at 375º. Cool.

Press the remaining dough into a 13" x 9" baking pan. I usually line the pan with foil first for easier removal of individual pieces. Bake for 8-10 minutes at 375º. While this is cooling, leave out the ice cream to soften for 20-30 minutes.

When the ice cream is slightly melted, spoon it on top of the bottom cookie layer and spread evenly. Use your hands to crush the five cookies and sprinkle on top of the ice cream layer. Then squeeze some chocolate shell syrup on top to finish. Freeze for at least two hours until the ice cream has hardened again.

When cutting into individual pieces, make sure to use a sturdy knife. It can be a little difficult to cut through, so letting it thaw for a few minutes first makes it easier to divide (and eat). Serve and enjoy!

Side effects: Witnessing heaven in your mouth, being pestered every day to make it again, overeating.

For the original recipe, click here.

Introduction

As I sit at the front desk, I think about the potential of my life. Here I am, 23-years-old, a graduate from Boston University, and still unemployed full-time. I work at a bed & breakfast in Boston -- a great gig when I was a student and needed time to finish homework, but not so great now that I need to make a living. Part-time hours and no benefits won't get me to the top.

But to the top of what? All my life I've heard people talk about motivation, success, luxury, competition, and leadership. I don't want to be the CEO of some Fortune 500 company. I don't even want to be an accountant there. I want to live a simple life; a stable job, family, and laughter is all I need. Yet society says that is not enough.

Why is money so important? Why does it dictate the rules of life? The saying "money can't buy happiness" no longer stands as an exact truth in our society. It may be true that money isn't needed to find love and family and therefore happiness, but once those bills for the mortgage and electricity and heat and insurance and gas show up at the bottom of the mail pile on your counter, stress overcomes your ability to notice the good. At least you're worry-free if you're making a decent wage and investing in a certain amount of luxury.

I could argue that my job as a member of the front desk staff at an eight-bedroom bed & breakfast is the best position anyone could ask for. I talk to people and make sure they are satisfied with their stay in Boston; that's it. I could argue that I have the best family in the world despite the occasional conflicts. I could argue that I have the best boyfriend a girl could hope for even though we don't have the money to fly to Fiji and plan romantic dates. (Sorry -- just finished watching The Bachelorette.)

But the effects of sources of happiness end when worry begins. How will I get a job? How will I save up enough to move out of my parents house? When do I get my happily ever after?

When I was 13-years-old, I thought my dream job was to become a choreographer. Dance was my life. When I was 17-years-old, I wanted to own my own bakery. Baking was my life. Around my junior year of college, I thought my dream job was to be a sportswriter. Sports were my life. Now I'm not sure. I'm still answering the question: "What do I want to be when I grow up?" Society says that's wrong. Right out of college you need a job and your own house and to start a family and work, work, work until you collapse. Just to make money to pay the bills.

I want to be happy and comfortable. Having an amazing boyfriend and an equally amazing family should be enough. If not, it's Shark Week, the Red Sox are playing the Yankees, and I'm winning five out of six games of Words with Friends. But I'm sitting here, writing a blog post at the front desk with the television tuned to the game, speaking amicably to the guests passing by, and I'm told that it's not enough.

It's the little things that make you happy, and the little things should be enough. That is why I started up another blog -- maybe writing about the little things in life will remind myself and others about what can make us truly happy.