We hope this letter finds you well. We want to THANK YOU! for volunteering for Happy Cakes™.

WE APPRECIATE YOU!!! 🐻💛🍰

From our records, you were assigned to bake a cake for Brendan on his 10th birthday!

His request was for a six-layer Triple Chocolate Dream Cake with chocolate mousse filling, dark chocolate ganache, and chocolate sprinkles. We love that little guy. And boy, does he love chocolate!

This is not meant to be harsh, but we noticed the cake you delivered (THANK YOU!!!) was a single-layer chocolate cake with white sprinkles. Yikes.

But it’s okay! We’re reaching out to let you know the cake was not delivered to Brendan.

We threw it in the trash.

You now have a first ding on your record.

Please note, this is not intended to be a punishment. We take our foster children’s cake requests very seriously.

Volunteers who repeatedly turn in unsatisfactory desserts will have their baking privileges revoked for one year. Continued noncompliance may result in expulsion from our program. A fourth offense may result in a cease and desist letter, restraining order, and any further legal action until we bring you to your knees.

We are grateful to have you in our Happy Cakes™ family!!!!!

Please respond within 24 hours or you will automatically be demoted to General Holiday Baking Requests.

We know life gets busy. We respect your time as we know you respect ours.

Have a great weekend!

With the deepest love,

Happy Cakes™ 🐻💛🍰

Dear Laurel,

Thank you for re-making Brendan’s cake. Wow. What an effort that must have taken!

Volunteers like you are the heartbeat of Happy Cakes™.

We did, however, immediately throw your cake into the trash. In fact, we took this one out to the back alley dumpster lest Brendan come in from playtime and see what a disgrace his birthday was shaping up to be.

Does he not deserve more?

Laurel.

We beg you. Brendan needs this. He needs you.

We understand, after your slightly passive-aggressive call yesterday, that you’re not a professional baker. We do not expect you to be!

You’re a newly single mom with a full-time job. Your husband left you high and dry. Your son needs braces. And you’re caring for your sick mother.

We see you. We hear you.

But who signed up for this?

Given that Brendan’s birthday is tomorrow, we’d love to extend one final opportunity to right this wrong.

We also told Brendan a nice lady from uptown is making his cake. He calls you “The Cake Lady.” You’re the first thing he asks about when he wakes up and the last thing he talks about before bed.

Perhaps reach out to a neighbor, consult Pinterest, or visit our community board for support. Do whatever it takes. But don’t let Brendan down. His life has been hard enough.

Have a terrific evening! We can’t wait to see you tomorrow at cake drop-off!!

With the deepest love,

Happy Cakes™ 🐻💛🍰

Dear Cake Lady,

Great news!!!

Following your absence from cake drop-off last week and our repeated inability to reach you, we were forced to reevaluate your future with Happy Cakes™.

But after discussing it with our board, we’ve decided not to pursue legal action.

🎉🥳🍰

Your privileges, however, have been reduced to returning inquiries from prospective volunteers.

Can you handle that?

We know you’re a good person. We hope this task is better suited to where you are in life right now. 💛

You did ask how we know so much about your personal life. Here at Happy Cakes™, extensive background checks are part of the onboarding process. Once you’re on our team, you’re family!

We never leave your side.

Forever yours,

Happy Cakes™ 🐻💛🍰

Brendan’s Double Chocolate Dream Cake

Because six layers is psychotic.

Serves 10-12

Equipment:

• Digital kitchen scale

• Large and medium mixing bowl

• Whisk

• Rubber spatula

• Small saucepan or heatproof bowl, for the chocolate and coffee

• 8in round cake pan

• Parchment paper

• Cooling rack

• Toothpicks

Ingredients:

For the cakes

• 220g (1 3/4 cups) - All-purpose flour

• 70g (3/4 cup) - Dutch-process cocoa powder

• 300g (1 1/2 cups) - Granulated sugar

• 1 tsp - Baking soda

• 1 tsp - Baking powder

• 3/4 tsp - Fine salt

• 115g (4oz) - Semisweet chocolate, finely chopped

• 180g (3/4 cup) - Brewed coffee

• 2 Large eggs, room temp

• 180g (3/4 cup) - Whole-milk plain yogurt

• 120g (about 1/2 cup+ 1 tbsp) - Mild olive oil

• 2 tsp - Vanilla extract

For the frosting

• 340 g (12 oz) bittersweet chocolate, finely chopped

• 225 g (1 cup) full-fat sour cream, room temperature

• 85 g (6 Tbsp) unsalted butter

• 1 tsp vanilla extract

• ¼ tsp fine salt

Instructions:

Chocolate Cakes

1. Preheat oven to 350°F. Grease an 8-inch round cake pan and line the bottom with parchment paper. Lightly grease the parchment.

2. In a large bowl, whisk together the flour, cocoa powder, sugar, baking soda, baking powder and salt.

   

3. Finely chop the semisweet chocolate. Place in a medium heatproof bowl. Pour the hot coffee over the chocolate and let sit for a few minutes. Then stir until the chocolate has completely melted and the mixture is smooth.

4. In a medium bowl, whisk together the eggs, yogurt, olive oil and vanilla until smooth.

5. Whisk the chocolate/coffee mixture into the wet ingredients.

6. Pour the wet mixture into the dry ingredients and gently whisk until just combined. Switch to a spatula to scrape the sides and bottom of the bowl. Don’t overmix!

7. Divide and weigh the batter evenly into two portions. Pour one portion into the prepared pan, smoothing the top.

   

8. Bake for approximately 30–32 minutes, or until a toothpick inserted into the middle comes out with a few crumbs rather than wet batter.

9. Let the cake cool in the pan for 10–15 minutes. Run a thin knife around the edge if necessary, then carefully turn the cake onto a cooling rack and remove the parchment.

10. Allow the pan to cool, then clean, grease and line it with a fresh piece of parchment. Give the remaining batter a stir, pour it into the prepared pan and bake the second layer in the same manner.

11. Let both layers cool completely before assembling and frosting.

Chocolate Sour Cream Frosting

1. Place the bittersweet chocolate and butter in a small sauce pan on low. Stir well and quickly, until completely melted and smooth.

2. Let the mixture cool for 10 minutes, until lukewarm but still fluid.

3. Whisk in the room-temperature sour cream, vanilla and salt until the frosting is smooth and glossy.

4. Let the frosting sit at room temperature for 10–20 minutes, or until thickened enough to spread and hold its shape.

Assemble the Cake

1. Place the first cake layer on a serving plate with the flat bottom side down and the slightly rounded side facing up.

2. Spoon about one-third of the frosting onto the center of the cake. Using an offset spatula or butter knife, spread the frosting evenly toward the edges.

3. Place the second cake layer on top with its rounded side facing down, so the two rounded sides meet in the middle. The flat bottom of the second layer should now be facing up, giving you a level surface to frost.

4. Spoon most of the remaining frosting onto the center of the cake. Spread it across the top, working from the center toward the edges.

5. Push some of the frosting just over the edge, then use your spatula to pull it downward around the sides of the cake. Add the remaining frosting as needed and work your way around the cake until the sides are covered.

6. To smooth the sides, hold your spatula vertically against the cake and gently sweep it around the outside, removing or redistributing excess frosting as you go. It doesn’t need to be perfectly smooth—a few visible swoops and spatula marks give it a nice homemade finish.

7. Use the back of a spoon or spatula to make soft swirls across the top.

8. Finish with a few flakes of Maldon sea salt, edible flowers or berries.

You don’t hear a last name like that often. I was so delighted I shook his hand. Probably with more enthusiasm than the situation called for. It was a firm grip. Which, if you know me, is saying something. I generally avoid physical contact with strangers.

Wow, do I love a good last name.

• Jeff Kitchens
• Dale Cardigan
• Sue Garcia Garcia

I usually excuse myself upon meeting such a unicorn as Jerome D. Eulenthrope or Kenneth Beavers to jot the name in my Notes app. I then return with a hundred questions, desperately trying not to sound too intrusive or offensive.

Kernoodle.

But last Sunday, upon meeting Bill, I was at the farmer’s market, a kabocha squash under my arm. So all I could do was wish him a happy Sunday and go on my way. My imagination left to run amok.

Bill Kernoodle.

Is he familiar with every other Kernoodle out there? He must be.

Do they have family reunions? And where?

How many Kernoodles does it take to rent a pavilion?

Do all Kernoodles assume they’re related? Or does Bill frequent Reddit forums seeking others who share the same last name but have different family trees?

Is there a Mrs. Kernoodle? And did she deeply grieve the loss of her maiden name, which had suited her just fine?

Is she a high-powered attorney that the opposing counsel whispers, ‘Watch out. That’s Diane Kernoodle’ every time she enters the courtroom?

Did she fall in love with Bill before she found out his last name? And when she eventually did learn it, was she so in love that she thought, ‘I’ll just cross that bridge when the time comes.’

And did that time come way too quickly? Hitting her like a ton of bricks when she saw her wedding invitations on thick card stock in beautiful calligraphy:

Bill and Diane Kernoodle

I’ll never know.

Instead, Bill Kernoodle joined the other 50+ names in my phone, only his came without a backstory. No family history. No hobbies logged. Who knows if Diane exists.

It bothers me more than it should.

I recently heard someone say “everyone’s business is my business.” We all laughed. Me a little louder than the rest.

And sure, you could go your whole life without giving a last name a second thought. But have you ever stopped to take in the beauty of a…

Dan Capers.

Rhonda Leathers

Linda Wawa

Don’t let life pass you by.

Should you have missed Week 1, Week 2 or Week 3… please, enjoy.

As I’ve chipped away at these essays, I’ve had a candle burning next to me. Lighting one has been a writing ritual of mine for years now. My favorite comes in a big, heavy glass jar. Dark amber. It’s an Arizona, hand poured brand. The scent…. ‘Nights in the Desert’.

They sell this candle at a local pizzeria/grocery store next to my parents’ house. I worked there when I was sixteen. I still compare every pizza, anywhere in the world, to their sourdough crust. And don’t even get me started on Tammie Coe, the once in-house baker, and her salted chocolate chip cookies. Sure, she and the owner had a mysterious falling out years ago. But the cookies remained the same. Tammie, you’re a hell of a baker. Pair one of those bad boys with an unsweetened iced tea and you’ve got yourself a lights out afternoon.

This candle brings it all back into focus.

‘Nights in the Desert’ smells like Arcadia. Like grapefruit blossoms and hot pavement. The valley turning sherbet pink every evening. Moms driving their oversized SUV’s, trunks full of “just a quick Costco run”, in sleeveless tops with ripped arms. Dad’s squeezing in nine holes before hosing off their patios. Little quail families, skedaddling across the roads, always late to something. And the faint smell of chlorine running through it all.

Maybe that’s why I don’t mind when Barb pushes her backyard grapefruit on me. Sure, at the time, I sigh and roll my eyes. I’ll never understand why it also comes with bags of toilet paper, paper towels or really anything within arm’s reach as she’ll walk me out the door.

But I always make room in my car.

For weeks, the grapefruit sits on my counter. I zest it into cakes and boil it into jams. Its scent drifts through my apartment, carrying a little piece of Arcadia with it.

But, now, as July comes to an end, my kitchen is officially cleared of it. All I have left is this candle. 190 hours of burn time. Enough to get me through to next season.

So it felt right to end this series with a recipe that puts the fruit on ice and lets it shine.

I bring you… my favorite of the bunch…

Grapefruit Granita 🍊❄️

Serves 6

Ingredients:

• 6 medium ruby red grapefruits

• ½ cup granulated sugar, or less to taste

Instructions:

1. Halve the grapefruits crosswise, and squeeze juice into a large wide bowl, allowing any pulp to fall in. Use a teaspoon to pluck out any seed or pith in the bowl.

2. Whisk in sugar until completely dissolved. Pour mixture into a low baking dish to a depth of ½-inch. (A 9-by-13-inch baking dish will work.) Place the dish in the freezer for at least 4 hours or overnight, until frozen solid. The frozen mixture will look like packed snow.

   

3. Use a fork to smash the frozen mixture into rough chunks and transfer to 6 serving glasses. Place glasses in the freezer until serving time. If desired, add ½ teaspoon orange flower water per glass.

Happy eating!

Sugar, as it turns out, is highly flammable. And culinary torches should be way harder to buy.

The idea came to me after a Pinterest search: a crème brûlée topping on a chilled grapefruit posset.

If that sentence sounds unhinged to you, you’re making better decisions than I am.

I don’t know. After recommending two grapefruit recipes this month, I felt the need to come in with something more impressive than an olive oil cake or a jar of marmalade.

Though, to be honest, both of those brought me to my knees in their own right.

Funny enough, I stopped by Erewhon on Monday. A guilty pleasure of mine. And while perusing the aisles, I came across cold, cut grapefruit with chopped mint. That’s it. It felt way too straightforward for a $20 price tag, but I bought it anyway.

Wouldn’t you know it, it was delicious. Easily one of the most satisfying buys I’ve had there. The simplicity was beautiful.

I could’ve stopped there. I should’ve stopped there. Brought you an easy recipe, let you get on with our Sunday. But, as Michael Scott famously said,

“I’m gonna make this way harder than it needs to be.”

So instead, I finished my refreshing cup, drove home, watched just enough of a “How to Make Crème Brûlée” video to become dangerously confident and then took a mini torch to my posset.

When the top caught fire, it thankfully burned itself out quickly. As did my ambitions for a crackly, caramelized top.

Having abandoned the brûlée idea, I committed to just making a posset. I tried batch after batch. Every single one of them came out looking lovely, but somehow tasted like bitter macaroni and cheese. I still can’t explain it, but it’s haunted my taste buds for days.

How many times must I learn complicated does not equal better?

I have a habit of distrusting things that come easily. If it isn’t difficult, I’m not convinced it has any merit.

So, in an effort to override that chokehold of a mindset, I’m bringing you the hands-down best thing I ate this week.

I call it…

Grapefruit, Mint, and Acceptance 🍊🌱🧘

Serves 2

Ingredients:

• 1 large ruby red grapefruit

• 8–10 fresh mint leaves

• Pinch of flaky sea salt (optional)

• Also optional; 1 teaspoon honey

Instructions:

1. Slice the grapefruit in half and cut between each segment to loosen the fruit.

2. Scoop the grapefruit and all of its juices into a bowl.

3. Cover and refrigerate for 30 minutes to 2 hours, until thoroughly chilled.

4. Just before serving, stack the mint leaves, roll them into a little cigar, and light the end. Kidding. Slice the roll into thin ribbons.

5. Gently toss the mint with the cold grapefruit.

6. Finish with a tiny pinch of flaky sea salt, and a bit of honey if needed.

Happy eating!

“Wait, what is it?” he asked for a second time.

“It’s a preserve. A grapefruit preserve,” I replied, simply and nonchalantly. Even though I too had no idea what that meant.

“No, I know. You keep saying that. I get it’s a ‘preserve’. But, what is a preserve? What am I looking at here?” he pressed.

Frustrated, I fumbled some sort of explanation about putting it on toast or marinating it on fish, then quickly excused myself to the pantry telling him I needed to burp it in private.

A citrus preserve.

Not quite a jam. Not necessarily a marmalade. Not really pickled either.

It’s a grey area that has me still a bit confused.

But from the likes of or Alice Waters it looked easy. Inspirational. Aspirational. The sort of no brainer thing one keeps on hand like homemade granola or bone broth.

A rotating jar of fermented citrus. Why not? My life’s under control. I pay my taxes.

So, off to the kitchen I went. Determined to chip away at Barb’s bumper crop.

Where I went wrong is still unclear. I followed the directions carefully. I cut, salted, packed, and sealed my jar of grapefruit tightly. I then handed the outcome over to science like I was told to do.

And then, slowly but undeniably, it turned into a horror show that I can only describe as living, incredibly pungent, and possibly explosive….

Were the piths too thick? Was the water-to-salt ratio off? Did I miss the part about having a séance before I packed her shut? I’ll never know.

But the final product cleared my entire family out of the kitchen with groans of, “Why did I do this?”

It was humbling. And I had to quickly shift gears.

I needed something ferment-adjacent. Something safer, quicker, and far less likely to grow legs and walk out of the kitchen.

That’s when I stumbled on grapefruit marmalade.

The entry-level preserve. The preserve for those who like to sleep soundly at night. A beginner’s brew that needs little explanation besides, ‘Hand me a piece of toast’.

I bring you…

The 48 Hour Grapefruit Marmalade 🍊🍯

Definition: the flesh and peel of a whole citrus fruit, cooked down with sugar until thick and spreadable. A bittersweet flavor that makes you understand why the Brits take breakfast so seriously.

Beyond toast ideas:

• Glaze it over chicken drumsticks or a Christmas ham. (We’ll circle back to this in December.)

• Use it as a marinade for chicken

• Sauce it over pork tenderloin

• Spread it on toasted crostini with goat cheese and prosciutto

• Brush it over baked lemon cake

• Spoon it over baked Brie

• Gift it to your neighbor after accidentally slamming your car door into theirs

Ingredients:

• 500g (1lb) grapefruit

• 1 large lemon

• 6 cups (1.5 litre) water

• 8 cups (1.8kg) sugar

Instructions:

1. Place a few small saucers or plates in the freezer. You’ll use them later in the recipe.

2. Sterilize a few 64oz mason jars. Check that the metal lids don’t have rubber inserts. Preheat oven to 270F and place jars in oven for 15-20 minutes before cooking your grapefruit.

3. Thoroughly wash your grapefruit and lemon. Remove each end of both fruits. Cut both into quarters lengthwise. Holding two quarters together, slice them as thinly as possible. Remove any seeds as you go.

4. Place the slices in a non-reactive bowl (glass, ceramic, stainless steel). Avoiding bare cast iron, aluminum and copper. Add 6 cups of water. I personally don’t have a bowl that fits 6 cups, so I did 3 cups and added the remaining 3 cups the following day.

5. Place a dinner plate, plastic wrap or loose lid over the top and let it sit overnight, but no longer than 24 hours.

6. The following day, place the fruit and water into a very large, non-reactive saucepan. I used my Le Cruset Dutch oven, which has an enameled interior.

   

7. Over medium heat, bring the fruit and water to a boil. Rapidly boil for 15 minutes, or until peel is tender, stirring occasionally with a long-handled wooden spoon.

8. Add the sugar and stir well until it completely dissolves. Return the fruit to a boil, stirring occasionally. Continue to stir until the marmalade reaches the setting point - about 10 minutes. When the aggressive bubbles die down to a gentler boil, it’s an indication that your marmalade has reached its setting point.

9. Remove the marmalade from the heat to conduct the wrinkle test. If not set, continue to boil for another minute and then test again.

   

10. Test the setting point by using the “wrinkle” test. Take out the plate from the freezer and pour a small amount of marmalade onto it. Let it cool for a minute, then push against the marmalade with the tip of your finger. If the surface wrinkles slightly, the marmalade has reached its setting point.

11. Let the marmalade stand for about 10 minutes, allowing the grapefruit to settle.

12. Remove the jars from your oven and carefully ladle the marmalade into the heated, sterilized jars. Try to fill the jars as full as possible to minimize the amount of air between the marmalade and the lid. The marmalade should not touch the lid. Seal the jars tightly once filled.

Full transparency: my first, second and third batch of marmalade were rough.

See Barb’s review:

But hang in there. After a few tries, I got it down and actually found it to be super easy and, dare I say… fun.

Happy Baking!

My mother.

A collector of high-anxiety animals. A woman on a first-name basis with every employee at her local Trader Joe’s. A lady who drinks black tea at an alarming rate despite having remarkably low blood pressure. Who rearranges her garage seasonally following an intricate system only visible to her. And who grows enough grapefruit to make you wonder what’s actually in her compost.

Barb loves to garden.

Her Arizona backyard is vast and colorful. From herbs, tomatoes, lettuce varieties, and orange jubilees to fruit trees of every kind; apple, fig, lemon, pomegranate, apricot, and most importantly, grapefruit.

So, so many grapefruits.

In fact, this time of year, guests, be wary. Because should you stop by Barb’s, you’re leaving with at least a few bags full of them. Doesn’t matter who you are, or the reason for your visit. You will take them.

You will.

“And let me know if you want more!” she’ll yell enthusiastically from her front door, smiling and waving in a way that makes you wonder what kind of citrus distribution ring you’ve wandered into.

But it’ll be in God’s hands as you drive home, your back seat so heavy that you barely make it over speed bumps.

Well, I got pulled into that operation a few weeks ago. Naively blindsided, even though I know the game like the back of my hand. I still left feeling guilty that I couldn’t possibly let her bumper crop go to waste.

So, here I am. Writing to you under pounds of grapefruit, with nothing left to do but share a recipe a week to chip away at the madness. The good news is, as it turns out, there are plenty of creative, delicious ways to eat grapefruit beyond cutting one in half for breakfast like a crash diet from the late ‘80s.

Today, we’ll start with an easy crowd pleaser 🍊🍰

Grapefruit Olive Oil Cake

Dry Ingredients:

• 190g all-purpose flour (1.5 cups)

• 4g baking powder (1 tsp)

• 3g kosher salt (1/2 tsp)

Wet Ingredients:

• 200g granulated sugar

• Zest of 2 big grapefruits

• 3 large, room temp. eggs

• 170g olive oil (3/4 cup) choose the mildest option you can find

• 120g grapefruit juice (1/2)

Grapefruit Syrup:

• 60g grapefruit juice (1/4 cup)

• 25g sugar (2 tbsp)

Glaze:

• 120g powdered sugar

• 30-45g grapefruit juice (2-3 tbsp)

Instructions:

1. Preheat oven to 350°F (175°C). Grease and line a loaf pan with parchment paper.

2. Rub the zest into the sugar with your fingers until fragrant. This wakes up the citrus oils and makes a big difference in the final flavor.

3. In a large bowl, whisk together the flour, baking powder, and salt.

4. In another bowl, whisk together the grapefruit sugar, eggs, olive oil, and grapefruit juice until smooth.

5. Pour the wet ingredients into the dry ingredients and stir just until combined. Don’t overmix.

6. Pour the batter into your prepared loaf pan and bake for 45–55 minutes, or until a toothpick inserted into the center comes out with a few moist crumbs.

7. While the cake bakes, make the syrup by gently simmering the grapefruit juice and sugar until the sugar dissolves.

8. Let the cake cool in the pan for about 5 minutes, then poke holes all over the top with a skewer or toothpick. Slowly spoon the syrup over the warm cake and allow it to soak in.

9. Let the cake cool completely.

10. Whisk together the powdered sugar and grapefruit juice until smooth. Pour over the cooled cake and let the glaze set before slicing.

Happy Baking!

And if you run into Barb… you’ve been warned.

P.S. If anyone’s in the market for a shepherd, let met know.

I’m Mike Hava and this is Dan Java. We’re the owners of Hava Java!

Your one stop shop for a cup of seriously good coffee and a lights out crumb cake.

Have a Hava Java on us.

We love cruises!

Dan and I met in college, majoring in business. We bumped into each other over, you guessed it, java.

At the time Dan was nursing a macchiato, while I had my plain black. Dan’s first words to me were, “how was your time in jail?”

I was confused. I’d never so much as gotten a speeding ticket. In fact, I was a straight A+ student who just wanted to have a respectable time on a cruise.

But apparently the only person in Dan’s life who drank it straight was Lionel, his stepdad. Lionel would ‘refinance’ at the kitchen table with a plain black. Dan grew up helping him write hot checks back and forth to different bank accounts.

Lionel’s still in jail today!

In fact, Dan loved coffee so much he changed his last name to Java. Also cuz’ Lionel comes up every time you Google Dan’s name.

And I changed my last name to Hava. I’m not sure why. Mostly because it rhymed with Java.

We’ve both been divorced twice.

And I still haven’t been on a cruise!

Both of us hit our 40s and desperately needed a communal place to gather and unwind. Turns out a lotta other divorced dads with two seater convertibles felt this way too.

Dan recently got his ear pierced.

So grab a newspaper, a cup of Joe, some crumb cake and pretend your ex wife doesn’t hate you.

But make sure to pay your child support.

You might have seen us in the local paper after a high profile customer “allegedly” didn’t pay his child support. He was cuffed at the coffee bar after ordering a double foam frappuccino. But no press is bad press so we’ll take it.

We’re open 24 hours a day, 7 days a week. That’s right! Dan and I live in the back for reasons that aren’t up to code, but don’t matter in this context. Point is, we’re always here for you.

And Dan not only does a great job with the books, but he’s mastered the crumb cake.

Our recipe is courtesy of Lionel, who always said a plain black and a piece of crumb cake could get you through even the darkest of times.

And please make sure to tip us, because I WILL save up for that cruise one day.

Good luck. And God bless.

Lionel’s Lights Out Crumb Cake

Equipment:

• Mixer

• 8x8 inch baking dish

Ingredients

For the crumb topping

• 1 1/4 cups all-purpose flour (150g)

• 1/2 cup firmly packed light brown sugar (110g)

• 1/4 cup granulated sugar (50g)

• 2 teaspoons ground cinnamon

• 1/2 teaspoon salt

• 1/2 cup unsalted butter (melted 113g)

For the Cake:

• 1 1/2 cups all-purpose flour (180g)

• 1/2 teaspoon baking powder

• 1/2 teaspoon baking soda

• 1/2 cup unsalted butter softened (113g)

• 1/2 cup granulated sugar (100g)

• 1 large egg

• 1/3 cup sour cream

• 1/4 cup milk (60mL)

• 2 teaspoons vanilla extract

• confectioners’ sugar

Instructions:

1. Preheat the oven to 325F. Butter an 8x8-inch square baking pan or spray with baking spray. Line with parchment paper.

For the Crumb Topping:

1. In a large bowl, whisk together 3/4 cup flours, sugars, cinnamon, and salt. Using a fork, stir in the melted butter until mostly combined, but still crumbly. Stir in the remaining 1/2 cup flour until mixture is very crumbly and still has large pieces.

For the Cake:

1. In a bowl, whisk together flour, baking powder and soda, and salt.

2. In a large mixing bowl, combine the butter and sugar and beat on medium speed until light and fluffy - about 3 minutes. Use the paddle mixer attachment if using a stand mixer. Add the egg and beat until combined. Scrape down the bowl. Add sour cream, milk, and vanilla, and beat on medium-low speed until combined. (The mixture will look runny and curdled).

3. With the mixer on low speed, slowly add the flour mixture to the butter mixture. Beat just until all the flour is incorporated, stopping to scrape down the bowl as needed. Transfer the batter to the prepared pan and spread it evenly. (Batter will be very thick). Spring the crumb topping all over the batter.

4. Bake for about 40 minutes or until a toothpick inserted comes out with a few moist crumbs. Let the cake cool completely in a pan. Sprinkle with confectioners’ sugar before slicing. Best served with a plain black.

Please note that historical materials are products of their time, and some of these materials may contain offensive language or negative stereotypes. The State Historical Society of Ohio does not endorse any views expressed in these collections.

Today’s archive comes from a 2005 radio transcript from Cleveland WCLV Smooth Jazz station.

MANUSCRIPT COLLECTIONS - VOLUME 4

Bob Jones: Good evening, Cleveland! Bob Jones here at WCLV 99.9, bringing you our Sunday Smooth Jazz Hour. We've got Ronan on the switchboard tonight. And to shake things up, we're opening the hour to your jazz history questions; a subject dear to my heart. I've been looking forward to connecting with you over what I can only assume is a mutually shared passion.

(Ronan from the switchboard gives Bob Jones a thumbs up)

Bob Jones: And it looks like we have our first caller. Caller, you're live on the air! Do you have a jazz history question?

Young Woman: Yeah, I do. Where does Ronan get off?

Bob Jones: I’m sorry?

Young Woman: Ronan, I know you're listening. You haven’t answered my calls all week. We had a nice date Saturday and then... nothing. Not a peep. I gave you the benefit of the doubt- thought maybe you were dead, but apparently -

(Ronan cuts the line and brings in the next caller)

Bob Jones: Hello, caller. You're live on the air. Do you have a jazz history question?

Raspy Middle-Aged Man: Hello?

Bob Jones: Yes, caller! Go ahead.

Raspy Middle-Aged Man: You know anything about strep throat… but, uh, in the anus?

(Bob Jones looks to Ronan)

Raspy Middle-Aged Man: Did we get disconnected? This is Keith Baker-

Bob Jones: Caller! We try to avoid using full names on the air-

Raspy Middle-Aged Man: I got nothing to lose.

Bob Jones: Do you have a jazz history-related question for us?

Raspy Middle-Aged Man: Yeah, strep throat. My kid got it, probably at school. I’ll usually get his pink eye, skin infections… open sores and the like. But this one seemed to skip me. Surprised me too.

Bob Jones: I’m sorry sir, but…

Raspy Middle Age Man: And well, I was taking a bath this morning when I noticed my anus hurts. But on the inside, you know? I install jacuzzi’s for a living, so I mentioned it to my boss. He says there’s a thing- anal strep. Gets it all the time. There’s some fancy ointment, but… that sound right to you? I don’t have insurance-

(Bob motions for Ronan to drop the call)

Bob Jones: Folks, WCLV is a 501(c)(3) nonprofit public radio station. Please keep your calls family-friendly and, ideally, about jazz.

An Old Woman: Hello?

Bob Jones: Caller, thanks for joining us. Go ahead with your jazz-focused question-

An Old Woman: I love your show. I’ve been listening for years. A history of jazz sounds so interesting. I wrote down a few questions…

Bob Jones: Now we’re cooking. Let’s hear it.

An Old Woman: Mose Mason and the Fuck Four Trio.

Bob Jones: What?

An Old Woman: Oh, we had some fun nights together.

Bob Jones: … You must mean Mose Mason and his quartet, Fourplay- circa 1981. Yes. Fantastic. They've been on an indefinite hiatus since ‘98. Him, Sam James, Lee Ritenour, Nathan East… what a lineup. I actually saw them live in New York right before the break. Of course, by then Chuck Leeb had replaced Sam, but -

(Snoring can be heard on the other end of the line.)

Bob Jones: Caller, are you still there?

(A loud thud, then silence)

Bob Jones: Alright, sleep well. Next caller.

A Deep Southern Male: You ever Google something and nothing comes up?

Bob Jones: Next caller.

Sultry Woman: Hi Bobby. Long-time listener, first-time caller. I have a question for that jacuzzi guy, Keith. I think he installed mine last month. His voice sounds familiar. My husband and I just separated, and, well, Keith, if you're around, feel free to stop by and check my chlorine levels, if you know what I mean. Anal strep doesn't bother me.

Bob Jones: Next caller. Folks, I’ll be honest- our ratings are terrible. Corporate's circling. This call-in idea was mine. So please, I’m begging you. My livelihood depends on this-

(Ronan gives Bob Jones a thumbs up on a new caller)

Bob Jones: Caller, you’re live on the air. We’ve got this. What is your jazz-history related question?

Low, Timber Male: This is Mose Mason.

(Bob Jones sits up)

Mose Mason: Hello? Am I on air?

Bob Jones: Yes, sir! I'm just... I'm speechless. I am such a fan. I can't believe this is happening. You’re based here in Cleveland?

Mose Mason: Eh, washed up in Cleveland a few years ago. They got loop holes in their legal system. Anyway… The Fuck Four Trio, man. I haven't thought about that in years.

Bob Jones: Oh, sir, that previous caller didn't have it right. I deeply apologize. Truly. Your band, Fourplay, was incredible.

Mose Mason: (chuckles) Oh no, she had it right.

Bob Jones: Well, it’s an honor to hear your voice, sir-

Mose Mason: You got any Michelle Branch you can play?

Bob Jones: What?

Mose Mason: So open up your morning light
And say a little prayer for I…

Bob Jones: Sir, that’s Paula Cole-

Mose Mason: (yells) MICHELLE BRANCH!

Bob Jones: Um.. okay- Ronan, pull up some Michelle Branch-

Mose Mason: I don’t wanna wait! For our lives to be over!
I want to know right now what will it be! Will it be yes or will it be sorry?

Bob Jones: You know what- we’re gonna take a quick break-

Mose Mason: I’d like to report a missing body-

Bob Jones: When we come back, we’ll play some Michelle Branch and -

Mose Mason: Call in now to donate to all those dogs and cats in the shelter!

Bob Jones: That’s Sarah McLachlan, and please don’t.

Mose Mason: Give us your credit card numbers! We’ll take it over the phone. For the cats and dogs! They need our help-

Bob Jones: Folks, do not do that.

Mose Mason: She had two babies, one was six months, one was three,
In the war of ‘44.
I DON’T WANNA WAIT-

Bob Jones: Happy Sunday… folks.

I’m talking Alfredos, yogurts, sour cream, cottage cheese, mayo - you name it. I don’t want to see it. And deep down, I don’t think you do either.

This should be known etiquette. Like peeling a hard-boiled egg on an airplane. Double dipping a shared appetizer. Slurping soup in a quiet restaurant. Clipping your toenails on the train. No one talks about these things. We’ve all just collectively agreed not to do them.

So, why is dairy exempt?

Let us begin with white sauce.

A white sauce dish suggests refinement: lobster Newberg, lasagna bianca, truffle Alfredo. They’re sophisticated. Indulgent. Dare I say, elevated. And yet, I have never - and I mean never - seen someone keep their dignity while navigating plates like these.

It simply cannot be done.

I know, because I’ve been there. Mid-bite, face inches away from your plate, trying to bite off a noodle so long it’s trailing back to the kitchen. The congealed sauce smeared on your chin, your dress, maybe even the person next to you. It’s a disaster.

But it’s not your fault. This is just the way of white sauce.

And don’t get me wrong - it can happen with a red. Happens all the time. But we’re talking marinara. That’s a completely different ball game. A marinara is bright. It’s fresh. It’s tomato-forward. You splash it on a date and the next thing you know you’re laughing, and kissing, and waving the waiter over for another glass of merlot.

But, not with white. Not a chance.

Then when the sauce finally does make it into your mouth, best of luck digesting it. You’re dealing with phlegm and mucus that can last hours, sometimes days. The aftermath, humbling. The inflammation real.

We are the only species who consumes dairy after infancy. What are we doing!?

I’ll leave the room if someone even tries to open a yogurt.

Like my mother. Who did nothing wrong, except enjoy a fresh, cold cup after dinner. Sometimes paired with a banana. The combination used to send me into a blind rage. No one should have to watch her mother eat that.

No one.

And I’ll be honest, a thick dressing isn’t innocent either.

There you are, out to lunch with Chuck from accounting. He’s working through his Cobb salad, telling you about his weekend with the kids. You’ve always felt bad for the guy. His wife ran off with a younger man. But as you watch his saliva glands work overtime, breaking down the absolute mess in his mouth… you’re starting to get where his wife was coming from.

Do it in private Chuck, you scream internally. Hating yourself for hating him so much. Why are you so angry inside?

And just like that, your appetite is gone.

Most people laugh when I go on this tangent. They think I’m doing a bit. Or being dramatic. But when I ask if they know what I’m talking about, they pause and reflect. I wait as they summon what I can only assume is a deeply unpleasant memory involving another person and dairy.

The truth is, I probably have thought about this more than I should. Not just because it’s gross, but because of what it says about how close we’re willing to let people get.

Which, to be fair, has never really been my strong suit.

In fact, I once broke up with a man after he ordered a glass of milk at dinner. I believe the words he used were “emotionally unavailable.” It’s not that I disagreed, but the milk gave me something to hang my hat on.

So maybe it goes deeper than dairy. Maybe the real issue I have is forced intimacy.

Intimacy without permission.

I prefer my closeness paced out. I like small talk. Chats about the weather. Trading mild complaints about traffic or the recent price of gas. Eventually, we can get iced teas. Perhaps the next time we cross paths, a one-armed hug.

It’s a slow and steady burn. Intentional. Measured. No one in a hurry to do anything.

And then maybe one day, years or possibly decades later, on a particularly stable afternoon, you can pull out a side of scalloped potatoes. A cautious pour of eggnog. A hearty scoop of creamed corn. And we’ll laugh about how ridiculous it all is.

But until then, and quite possibly never, keep your cultured goods to yourself.

How is it already the end of the year?

I wish I could come in strong with … ‘I’ve been freezing my baguettes off!’ … or… “It’s colder than a Finnish winter.”

“My nipples could cut glass!”

But I’m in Southern California. It’s been sunny and 65 degrees since December 1st. Still, I pretend.

Like when I stroll into the coffee shop and mutter “brrrr” under my breath while ordering a festive holiday beverage. “Really coming down out there, huh?!” I say to the barista, who stares at me blankly.

This week, I experimented with my own tasty beverages. Like a mint vanilla iced coffee inspired by .

I tinkered with her recipe a bit and thought I’d share. Yes, the mint simple syrup came out so strong it made my teeth itch, but other than that it was great.

And now, for our main event: the last farmer’s market scroll of the year. A crisp December spread, complete with open-toed shoes, colorful gourds, and nautical stripes. 🥕🌽

I do wanna pause here and bring up National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation/the bone I have to pick with it.

It’d been years since I’d seen it, and was bursting with excitement watch. Now, I may loose some of you here … but… it’s really not that good. Where’s the storyline? It’s a bunch of funny(ish) skits loosely strung together. Am I wrong? What am I missing?

Holiday movies I do stand by:

1. The Holiday

2. Four Christmases

3. Carol

4. Planes, Trains and Automobiles (Thanksgiving, but still)

5. A Bad Mom’s Christmas (Christine Baranski is my hero)

6. The Grinch ⬇️

And if you’re gunning to show up Christmas morning a hero, and missed last week’s post, I got a knockout biscotti recipe for you….

And that’s it from me this year. Wish everyone the warmest holiday. Thank you for being here, and I’ll see you in the New Year! ✨

Last Thursday morning, desperate and jonesing for decent coffee, Mary dropped into Café Rhonda. It was, apparently, the only artisanal coffee joint within a 30-mile radius.

This was Mary’s reality now: retirement in the sticks. She and her husband, Steve, had relocated from Seattle to Geneva-on-the-Lake, Ohio. His idea. He’d been a school teacher; she, a corporate heavyweight. So, after two decades of marriage with him always following her lead, it felt only fair.

Admittedly, the adjustment had been… jarring. But it was fine! Who wouldn’t love open skies and folks genuinely wanting to know how your day was? If anything, Mary was just relieved to find coffee culture had made it to Middle America. Good for them.

She also had to hand it to Café Rhonda, the place smelled incredible. Something like warm anise, citrus zest, or… roasted almonds?

So Mary placed her order and hovered by the bar when she heard her name. Without thinking, she reached for her cup. Then… froze.

She looked up to the barista. The name tag read Todd. He wore orthopedic shoes, smelled faintly of mothballs, and he could’ve been anyone’s grandpa.

“Mary? Cortado?”

“Yea…”

“Welcome to the area!”

It was unsettling that Todd knew who she was before she’d introduced herself, but what bothered her even more was the fact that, well, she was pretty certain there was… phallic foam art on top of her cortado.

Todd must’ve picked up on her unease, because he started rifling through his stack of receipts. “Heck, did I mess your order up?” he called out to Stacey at the register.

“No, no. That’s mine. Sorry. Yes, it’s mine,” Mary replied quickly, grabbing her cup.

“Whew. You had me cocking my head for a minute there!” Todd chuckled.

Mary scanned Todd’s face for a smirk. This had to be a joke of some sort, a hazing. But Todd just smiled warmly. His bushy eyebrows moving around like caterpillars.

Deeply disturbed, Mary bolted to her car, where, upon closer inspection, she became absolutely certain Todd had drawn a dick on her coffee.

What on God’s green earth…?

So Mary hightailed it home for a second opinion, but by the time she shoved the cup into Steve’s hands, the foam had dissolved.

“I’m telling you! The guy drew genitals,” Mary insisted, breathless.

“I know the move’s been hard on you,” Steve replied, not looking up from his gardening. “You want some tea instead?”

Mary guffawed. No, she didn’t want tea. She wanted a decent conversation. This was the craziest thing she’d ever seen. There was a potential predator on the loose. And these poor folks didn’t know any better!

But Steve kept pruning in his khakis, never breaking his stride. His Zen-like attitude and low blood pressure always drove her nuts.

Then, per usual, Steve asked what their couples therapist always did, “Mary, do you want to be right or do you want to be happy?”

To which Mary replied, “I want to be right, Steve.”

So, the next morning, on a solo mission, Mary returned for some reconnaissance and a hit of caffeine. She hovered by the bar, eyes peeled, watching Todd work. And sure enough, plain as day; another penis cortado.

“I gotta ask about the foam,” Mary said, loud enough to hopefully turn heads. She couldn’t be the only one receiving these anatomical renderings.

“Isn’t it neat?!” Stacey piped in. “Todd took a microfoam illustration class in Toledo!”

Todd beamed. “William-Sonoma offers some great night classes. Very comprehensive. It flared up my arthritis something awful, but I got through. A real hand job, you know?!”

Mary blinked. Surely, someone else had to have heard that. But, Todd pressed on.

“And cortados ain’t easy. I really get to work my craft. Tiny glass. No room for error, but that’s the thrill!” he mused as if he was Geneva’s own Picasso.

“Todd started here after his wife passed away,” Stacey said delicately. “High school sweethearts.”

The staff bowed respectfully, as Todd became solemn.

“She was decapitated in my convertible. On our way to church. Low branch took her head clean off.”

Mary choked on her cortado. Stacey handed her a napkin. A nearby patron made the Sign of the Cross.

“Loretta loved my coffee. I made a hard, strong brew. Stiff. Just the way she liked it. My foam art … is how I keep her legacy alive,” his voice caught.

“May she rest in peace,” Stacey whispered.

And without another word, Todd turned on his heels and took his fifteen.

Mary sat slack-jawed in her car. Great, she thought. I'm accusing a widowed senior citizen of perversion.

Or… was that the perfect cover?

Son of a bitch. This guy’s good. Mary peeled out of the parking lot and sped home.

By 2 A.M., Steve found Mary, hunched over her laptop, Post-it notes scattered across their dining room wall.

“There are no records, Steve!” Mary jabbed at her screen. “The last beheading was three towns over in 1832. A barn animal dispute with a shovel. Explain that!”

Steve rubbed his temples. “Mary, if you hate it here this much, we can move back to Seattle.”

“Hate it?!” Mary’s voice jumped an octave. “I love it here! I feel ALIVE. For the first time in years I have a purpose. Neh! A calling. You want coffee!?”

Steve had never heard Mary use the word neh. Nor did he want coffee. So he went to bed.

The following week unfolded like a fever dream as Mary built out a murder board.

POSSIBLE MOTIVES | WHO IS RHODA? | TODD = WIDOWER??

She popped into the café daily. Drank cortados. Took notes. Followed Todd home once or twice.

The damndest thing was… everything checked out. There wasn’t a loose end to be had.

Mary had Todd’s daily routine mapped out to a T. The café was named after Rhonda Flemming, a 1940’s actress the owner adored. Loretta had been decapitated, in a convertible, near a church in Milwaukee where her family lived. And Mary hated to admit it, but the foam illustration class in Toledo was a blast.

It just didn’t make sense.

Meanwhile, Steve began packing their belongings, making an executive decision the move had been a terrible mistake.

“We can’t leave!” Mary begged. “I’m meeting the Tribune on Monday! I think I can nail him on public indecency, distribution of obscene material, moral turpitude…”

The two went back and forth. Steve was convinced Mary was spiraling from caffeine and menopause. Mary insistent he always tried to pull her plug right before she sparked.

“Our flight’s in the morning,” Steve said, walking up the stairs. “I hope you’ll join.”

“This has nothing to do with you, Steve!” Mary yelled, “Or us! Or our sex life!”

But Steve didn’t respond. Instead he quietly closed the bedroom door. The conversation over.

Mary stood there, shoulders hunched. Even she didn’t fully believe what she was saying, but it was easier than admitting the truth.

This wasn’t about Todd or his erotic showpieces. This was her, and the gnawing restlessness that never seemed to go away. Nothing ever made her happy. Not really. It was always fleeting.

Her marriage had somehow, somewhere, lost its pulse. Maybe it never had one. Her hopes and dreams had never panned out. She was angry about it all. Resentful. Yet she was still grasping, desperately, for something to fill this hole she could never name.

She envied how content Steve was. He chose happy, no matter how difficult she, or life, was. She loved him for that, she really did.

Guilt began to creep in.

Moving here had been Steve’s one request in 20 years. The guy just wanted to slow down, and be nature. How was she making this about her again?

So, for the first time, Mary decided to do things differently.

She’d apologize to Steve in the morning and convince him to stay. She’d sink into this new life like a warm jacuzzi. Turn the other way when she got cortados.

Relieved, Mary took down the cork boards, and tossed her leads. She got into bed proud of herself for finally seeing things so clearly.

But as she lay there, listening to the steady hum of Steve’s CPAP machine, she wondered…. what if?

As soon as day broke, Mary was out the door with a note for Steve to hang tight.

Fortunately, the annual Turkey Trot had been that morning and the café was packed. The entire town seemingly inside.

“Hey, Mary!” Stacey called through the crowd as Mary squeezed through, “Cortado?”

“Two dozen!” Mary shouted back.

Stacey paused, confused. “Twenty four?”

“Foam art on each one. And don’t hold back, Todd. I wanna see these bad boys sing.” Mary laughed maniacally, surprising even herself.

Stacey and Todd glanced at one another.

“Mary, Todd can’t do twenty four. It’s been a busy morning…”

“He can do it!” Mary slapped the counter. “Who wants to see Todd work? He loves exposing his art. Right, Todd?!”

Todd fumbled as people turned their heads.

“Cat got your tongue,” Mary taunted, swiping her credit card. “Come on!”

She looked around, working up the room. “Todd! Todd! Todd! Todd!” she yelled, as others joined.

“You got this!” a patron cheered.

“TODD! TODD! TODD!” the roar progressed, as Todd took a deep breath. He closed his eyes.

And then Todd went to work.

Cortado after cortado. He worked fast. Flipping, turning, spinning, twisting each one until a perfectly erect penis was formed.

5, 10, 18, 20, 23… and finally, 24.

Mary had never seen anything like it. The crowd went wild as Todd ripped his apron off, slapping it to the floor.

“I LOVE YOU LORETTA!” he screamed as he held his fist up to the sky.

“NO! NO!” Mary screamed. “Pervert! THIS MAN IS A PERVERT. Jesus, what are they putting in the water down here?!”

The room gasped, taken aback.

“I’m sorry to be vulgar, but there’s a penis on every one of these!” Mary exclaimed, holding up a cup for all to see.

The room fell into a deafening silence.

“A penis?” Stacey finally said.

“A penis,” Mary repeated, riding a high of righteousness she’d been chasing her whole life.

She finally locked eyes with Todd, who looked genuinely bewildered.

“That’s a biscotti, Mary…”

“A what?”

“A biscotti,” Todd replied gently. “We bake them from scratch every day. Loretta loved a good dunker.”

Mary looked past the counter to the kitchen, where a friendly baker waved from the window.

Mary waved back.

To say it was humiliating would be generous.

Mary’s face went hot as she babbled an apology. She then took her twenty-four cortados to go, mothers shielding their children’s eyes as she walked past.

By the time Mary drove home, Steve was long gone. The place was empty. Her note, crumbled in the trash.

Mary consumed over 1,500mg of caffeine that morning and blacked out in her front lawn. She woke up hours later with a sunburn and a restraining order.

And with her tail between her legs, Mary made her way back to Seattle, apologizing to Steve and swearing it would never happen again.

It would.

Happy holidays, friends!

If you’ve made it this far, I’ve got a bang-up biscotti recipe to share. If you’ve unsubscribed, and plan to avoid eye contact next time we cross paths, I get it.

This isn’t for everyone, and neither are biscottis.

I, myself, have recently become a convert after getting a tickle for them over Thanksgiving. Turns out, they’re surprisingly easy to bake.

In fact, my first batch didn’t last the morning…

The base seems to be universal: flour, sugar, salt. But from there, you can run wild- anise, almond, lemon, coconut, vanilla extracts, roasted almonds, pistachios, chocolate, citrus zests, lemon juice…. the options are endless.

What isn’t endless is the patience of your family. Mine awkwardly cleared the room around batch five. Do with that what you will.

My next recipe was from my mom’s friend Paula, an Italian woman who hand wrote the recipe back in the late 80’s. It was fantastic, should you want to give this one a go:

Otherwise, here’s my final (and most foolproof) recipe. Easy, quick and very tasty. Enjoy!

Easy Vanilla-Almond Biscotti

Ingredients:

• 2 cups all-purpose flour

• ¾ cup sugar

• 1 tsp baking powder

• ¼ tsp salt

• 2 large eggs

• 1 tsp vanilla extract

• ½ tsp almond extract (optional but great)

• ¾ cup sliced almonds (whole or chopped)

• Optional to mix and match: ½ cup chocolate chips or chopped chocolate, 1tsp of orange zest or 2tsp of anise oil.

Heat oven

• 350°F

• Line a baking sheet with parchment.

Toast almond

• Heat a dry cast iron skillet over low to medium heat.

• Add almonds in a single layer—no oil needed.

• Toast, stirring or shaking the pan frequently, for about 5–8 minutes, until they’re golden and fragrant. These go from crispy to burnt fast. So keep watch.

• Remove immediately from the pan to cool (they’ll keep cooking if left in the hot pan).

Mix dry

• Whisk flour, sugar, baking powder, and salt.

Add wet

• Stir in eggs, vanilla, and almond extract.

• Fold in almonds (and chocolate if using).

• Dough will be thick and slightly sticky.

Shape

• Divide dough in half.

• Shape into two logs, about 10 inches long and 2½ inches wide.

• Slightly flatten the tops.

Slice

• Lower oven to 325°F (or at 250°F if you want a harder, baked biscotti)

• Set logs on cooling rack for about 10 minutes.

• Slice logs diagonally into ¾-inch pieces.

Second bake

• Lay slices cut-side down.

• Bake 10 minutes, flip, bake 10 more minutes. (For extra crips, add 5 more minutes per side). If you’re doing 250°F it’ll be around 20-30 minutes per side.

Cool completely

• They crisp up as they cool.

Cheers!

The 80s, for me are a chicken-or-the egg sorta deal: what came first? The party drugs or the urge to write musicals on roller skates? The bennies or the lamé, geometric shapes, and shoulder pads? It’s impossible to tell.

In no way am I accusing Andrew Lloyd Webber of drug use. After a quick Google search, it seems the man was simply a workaholic genius. So my theory doesn’t hold up. Still, it feels like a time when inspiration and intoxication blurred together in one bold, chaotic fever dream.

WATERBEDS.

The point is, it’s a period I don’t dabble in much. One I tend to walk past in vintage stores. So you can imagine, I was stopped dead in my tracks when I caught wind of …

drum roll…

What in the hootin’ nanny?!

Maybe you remember this and I’m just way behind, but wow. These are Halloween costumes. I’ve been over the Amazon garbage for years. Plastic, cheaply made, tossed out after. Risqué nurses, take a hike.

This is something I can get behind.

A cross section of theatre and fashion. An eccentric guide to homemade costumes where umbrellas are used as bat wings and paper plates as ruffles. It’s whimsical and theatrical, and fairly deranged. Very avant-garde.

It’s a damn good reminder of how high we can fly with a glue gun.

And while I won’t be able to pull one of these masterpieces together before Thursday, let this serve as a little hope and inspiration for years to come.

The range!

With that, I bring you an inside look at Jane Asher’s Fancy Dress: Over 100 Costumes for Children and Adults and How to Make Them.

My favorite find in all this was Jane’s collaboration with Terry Jones. Yes, that Terry Jones from Monty Python.

See (p.108 below)…

The two then circled back and created ‘Terry Jones Sex Object Iteration 2’

While we’re here…

Fast forward to this year, which is how this whole thing ended up on my feed. The World of Interiors (great insta follow, by the way)..

Had a costume party to showcase Jane Asher’s her new fabric collection.

And once again, another round of incredible, beautifully made, completely unhinged costumes.

Okay I’ll stop.

But, what a ride, right?

Jane Asher is a British actress and creative powerhouse. She also has a book on fancy cakes, by the way. I highly recommend a deep dive if you need a good distraction this week.

Regardless, happy Halloween! Have a great one, you crazy little disco biscuits.

And may everyone’s creativity run wild 🕸️🎃🦇

We made it. Sliding into the final stretch of the year like we always seem to do. Whither doth the time flee? I ask you.

I’m thrilled you’re still here. My posts have been more seasonal than schedule lately, but maybe that’s part of the charm. Hoping…

And while it may technically be fall, I live in LA. So if it weren’t for Sprouts and Trader Joe’s punching me in the face with fall swag like cinnamon broomsticks and pumpkins with googly eyes, I’d take a gander and say we’re still in summer.

So alas, today’s brain sneeze is about folks still wearing summer whites and flip flops with a few thoughts sprinkled between.

Enjoy! 🫑🌶️

I’d like to pause here and take a small detour into greens. This revelation came to me last week after discovering The Department of Salad: Official Bulletin by Emily Nunn.

She writes that salads have “lived a lifetime as an afterthought (in restaurants), been given appalling short shrift by many of you (“Oh, I’ll just have a salad”), and been avoided at home for reasons we cannot begin to fathom.”

So… it’s not that I ever looked down on salads. I do love them. But they’ve only taken center stage for me in the spring and summer months.

I now realize the folly of my ways. Emily makes a compelling case for say, a warm salad, with great stories mixed in. It’s well worth exploring, should you be looking to expand your palate.

And with that, I’ll leave you with Sydney Smith. He was a philosophy writer, founder of the Edinburgh Review, lecturer at the Royal Institution and a man who loved salads so much he put them in verse.

Thanks for the lead, . A true hero of the greens.

And lastly, this week I got incredible ice cream. Well… sorbet. No. Wait. Gelato. It was gelato. Craft gelato. How dare I.

I can’t keep it straight.

It was from a place called An’s Dry Cleaning, which, obviously is not a dry cleaner. I don’t knows who An is. Neither did the employee, who took us on what he called a “flavor tour”. But An, if you’re out there: your craft gelato knocked my goddamn socks off.

Also? It’s been years since I got something in a cone. Why?

Anyway, what I wanted to touch on here was this: have you ever noticed how serious people get about ordering their ice cream?

It really is something else. No one’s on their phones. No one’s side talking. No earbuds are in half-listening to a podcast. Everyone’s fully locked in. Game face on.

The man in front of us studied the case like he was trying to disarm a bomb. His pupils were dilated. He was sweating. Visibly in conflict. This was, without question, the most important decision he’d made in a long time.

You just don’t see that kind of concentration anymore, and I appreciate it.

That’s all I’ve got this week, see you again soon!

But Claude was now a mature man in his late 20s. He had a steady job in software sales, a condo in downtown San Diego, a 401(k), and a bit of therapy under his belt. Things had been going well for Claude. He was happy. Probably.

Then, about a month ago, he met an incredible woman named Sarah.

They shared a meet-cute in the elevator at work, and things were moving fast. Sarah was beautiful, smart, and laughed at all of Claude’s dumb jokes. He was punching above his weight, and he knew it. Claude couldn't stop gushing about her and tried to see her every chance he got; it was intoxicating.

In fact, last weekend, after karaoke, Claude ducked into the bathroom and called Sarah to profess his love. Fresh off nailing a power ballad and swept up in the grandiosity of romance, Claude declared he must meet her father… to ask for her hand in marriage. Sarah was ecstatic.

So, there they were, days later, on a flight to Connecticut. His friends had tried to talk him out of it, but to no avail. Claude felt confident. It was noble, but foolhardy.

Because as soon as the plane landed, reality began to creep in. By the time they reached Hertz, Claude was in a full-blown, silent meltdown. He’d only known Sarah for a month. Marriage? Had he lost his mind? His parents divorced when he was two. What did he know about love? Did he even want to get married? He watched Sarah open her phone and, for the first time, noticed her inbox.

“4,893 unread emails?” Claude asked nervously.

“Yeah, I skim past the junk,” Sarah smiled sweetly. My God, he thought. What else don’t I know about this woman?

Sarah then dropped bits of info that Claude wished he’d known back in San Diego. Her father, Dale, was a retired prison warden who still woke the house with night terrors, while her mother, Eileen, was getting a master’s in past life regression.

“She will ask you about your childhood trauma,” Sarah said. “Just tell her no.”

Claude was still processing this as they pulled up in front of what could only be described as a Town & Country mansion. Dale and Eileen came out waving. She in a flowing kaftan, he with the posture of a man still giving orders. Claude suddenly felt undressed, both in wardrobe and life decisions.

But to their credit, they welcomed Claude with open arms, getting to know him over chilled Sancerre and some easy laughs. Dale put steaks on the BBQ, and Eileen invited him to chop vegetables. They shared another glass. And another. Things were going great. Her family was lovely. Maybe it’d work out for ol' Claude.

But, at a certain point - four and a half wines to be exact - it dawned on Claude that he was drunk. This made sense, given he hadn’t eaten all day. Unsure of how to handle this, he leaned over to Sarah…

“Babe, you guys have any nuts or hummus? Something to bridge the gap before dinner?” Claude whispered, casual enough for Sarah to miss the cry for help. She giggled and told him to check in with Dale.

But as Claude stood up, he found himself swaying. He was relieved when Sarah and Eileen left the room to set the table. With the coast clear, Claude sprang into action. He ran to the pantry and found a near-empty box of Cheez-Its. He shoved a handful into his mouth. They were delicious. He tipped the rest back, shaking the silver bag for crumbs.

As Claude swallowed, he realized he’d finished the box. It wasn’t a huge deal, but it was definitely something he started to feel uncomfortable about.

He looked around for the trash, but then - in a fit of bad judgement - darted to the sink. Claude proceeded to fill up the empty cracker bag with water, as if this somehow made sense. Why? He had no idea, but his limbs kept moving. Maybe he thought it would erase the evidence. Maybe, more likely, it was just panic. Either way, he was baptizing a Cheez-Its bag, and it was too late to stop now. He shoved the sodden box back into the cupboard just as Dale walked in.

As the group sat down to eat, Claude was visibly unwell. Dale asked if he was okay, to which Claude replied that eating meat made him sweat. Claude smiled through Sarah’s confusion. He didn’t know when her family would reach for the Cheez-Its bag, but he hoped it would be years from now.

Regrettably, it wasn’t.

As the group got up from dinner, they headed to the kitchen to find water seeping from the pantry. The bottom of the box had disintegrated, causing the bag to fall out when Dale picked it up.

Claude’s first reaction was to blame it on Sarah. When that didn’t land, Claude ran out the front door. Dale chased him down, which given he was a retired prison warden was quick.

Her family was puzzled as to why finishing a box of crackers was worth fussing over, and how filling the bag with water followed any logic. Claude continued to self-implode, coming clean to Dale that he hadn’t filed taxes in five years and overall wasn’t ready to start a familyClaude left Connecticut alone. His brief romance with Sarah was indeed a pipe dream, one his friends never let him live down.

He remained single for the next decade, until he crossed paths with Gale, a gentle woman with a severe stutter. Remarkably, their quirks balanced each other out, and together they managed what Claude once thought impossible: happily ever after.

Happy Labor Day, friends! 🎉🇺🇸

Where the sun is high, the produce unstable, and the linen is permanently stuck to your back.

These past few months, for me, have been filled with writing. Well- editing my writing. Which occasionally is a breeze, but more often feels like strapping myself to a ceiling fan and hitting “high”.

Hehe.

But really - to every author who’s eaten their manuscript just to make it stop: I see you.

Luckily, I haven’t. Yet. But, I’ll let you know if/when I do! Could be fun content. Performance art?

For now, I’m soft-launching back into posting with a little “who’s wearing what” at the Melrose farmer’s market. A classic. A sleuth. A low stakes reentry.

I hope you enjoy.

And more soon! Probably.

☀️🍉

For starters - I can’t do direct sunlight. Sweating through linen is a drag. Everything smells like coconut. Sand is … chaos in granular form. And I turn into an all-you-can-eat-buffet for mosquitos.

I swear I’m fun at parties.

Point is, these hot months have always been filler - a stretch of time I just have to power through to get to the good stuff (autumn- winter).

But folks… that’s ancient history.

Past tense.

Because- color me shocked. Slap me silly. Dial me sideways. Tape a frog to my back and roll me downhill. This year- for reasons still unexplained - I’m excited. Dare I say.. I’m looking forward to it.

This newly piqued interest led me straight into a Pinterest rabbit hole, where I landed on ‘90s summer runway.

And my god, is it a gold mine.

We’re talking Prada and Calvin Klein at their cleanest. Carolyn Bessette. DKNY. Ralph Lauren. Kate Moss. Jil Sander. Retro meets minimalism. Patterns that pass as neutrals. No fluff. No fast fashion - just really, really good.

It awoke something feral. And now? I’m all in.

So - should you be in a hot gal summer kinda mood, this post is for you.

Otherwise, I’ll be back in a few weeks with another short. I know - edge of your seat.

P.S. Substack’s formatting has been unhinged lately. So if anything comes out wonky… pretend it doesn’t.

Alright.

Let’s roll it out with Ralph. The East Coast cowboy himself. The button-down baron. The gingham gangster.

Yeeeeeee!

Then we got a lotta Prada 🍓⛱️🧃

Calvin comes in clean, cold and … cured? Collected. Crisp. 🧼 🫧

And lastly, Lanvin 👒

Okay!

Gonna go finish my matcha. Happy Sunday.

À bientôt!

I’ve been in and out of LA lately, but when I am here, the weather’s been chaotic at best. So today’s pics are a mix of flip-flops and oversized sweaters. White jeans and rain coats. Think: hot tub on the bottom, cabin on the top. Florida at the ankles, Vermont at the neck. A heat wave meets a hug.

I don’t know. I’m on DayQuil.

Scroll slow, judge gently and let this be a PSA to stay far away from sea moss.

🪸🫙 🌊 🤢

Happy Sunday!

The knock on my door last spring was exhilarating. Still sorta stirs something in me when I think about it.

It was 6pm on a Tuesday, and there I was - about to host my new neighbors from across the lake: Harold and Claudette. Chicest couple I’d ever seen. Heck, maybe the chicest couple Thistlewick had ever seen.

I didn’t know a thing about them, but I was desperate to make a good impression. Folks like that didn’t usually mingle with folks like me. There had to be a reason they landed here. Felt like fate, if you believe in that sorta thing.

“We adore it out here. The hikes, the stars at night and oh, the sounds of nature!” Claudette said, settling into her seat.

I decided this couple must be in their fifties, Claudette’s hair in a sleek bob that seemed immune to humidity. Harold slightly balding, but embracing the comb over.

Claudette expertly smoothed her napkin and complimented me on my tablecloth, calling it “rustic and charming.”

Claudette and Harold were both tenured professors at NYU and members of—are you ready?—the New York Philharmonic. I know. I almost dropped my fork.

I had never been to a symphony before. Heck, I’d never even been to Manhattan.

“Harold is working on a symphony,” Claudette leaned in. “He’s compositing noise from nature and weaving it back into his art.”

Apparently, he’d received a large grant to work on it.

“Art informs life. Life informs art. The unconscious goes conscious, so it can go unconscious again,” Harold swirled his glass.

I had no idea what this guy was talking about, but I nodded like I’d just read the same thing in The New Yorker.

“I’m specifically interested in the sound of geese. That’s what my latest track is on. Stunning animals,” Harold looked off in the distance as if composing in real time.

“Geese?”

“Geese.”

Geese.

Uh oh.

“Geese are a motif in Harold’s emotional lexicon,” Claudette chimed in. “Very archetypal for him. Totemic-”

“My dead mother communicates to me through geese,” Harold bluntly stated.

Oh no.

“My whole life. Or, well… since her tragic accident when I was two. I’ve been seeing and hearing geese in… unique ways ever since.” He nodded solemnly.

“Majestic,” Claudette added.

The thing was… I had a goose going in the oven.

“And that,” Harold continued, “is what brought us to Thistlewick. Canadian geese migrate directly over this lake every spring. But, you know that! You’re one of the lucky few who get to enjoy the richness of their call.”

My face went hot with shame.

In my defense, this a very common entrée in the spring. I picked it intentionally for it’s seasonal flair. Who didn’t have it in their menu?

“We assumed everyone revered the animal like we did. But my god, this morning, Harold was out with his recorder, soaking in the purity of one taking flight, when this heathen… just…”

But, Claudette couldn’t finish.

Harold turned his gaze to the window, misty-eyed.

But neither of them had to finish because I knew what happened. It was me. I was the heathen. I’d shot the goose mid-flight this morning. Right off past my wind chimes.

“Killing a goose is essentially murdering my mother. It’s unfathomable. Are chickens and game hen not enough?”

Before I could respond, Claudette jumped in. “Let’s change subjects, dear!”

Yes! Let’s, I thought. Desperate to think of a backup plan.

“What is that intoxicating, buttery smell from the kitchen? Reminds me of a darling cottage Harold and I once stayed at in Provence.”

Her smile was stretched a little too thin. I couldn’t tell if she was trying to rescue the evening, or herself.

I inhaled sharply, knowing there was no graceful way forward.

“It’s a goose, Claudette. I believe it’s the one ya’ll heard earlier…”

Not my best moment.

The thing is- I’d recently gotten sober. Two weeks ago. Still very fresh. And in hindsight, probably why I was overly excited to host. I needed something to do. So, I wasn’t sure if this brutal honesty was maturity… or just part of my recalibration.

But before I could think much more about it, Harold burst out laughing.

“WOW. Oh, my!” he slapped the table, doubling over.

Claudette nervously giggled. I joined in.

“Your timing! Impeccable! You really had me there,” Harold dabbed his eyes, still chuckling. “Is this a dry nut Riesling?!” he asked, downing the rest of his glass.

It wasn’t. It was boxed wine from Dick’s Liquor and Bait. I paid in quarters.

“Harold, I’m sorry. That wasn’t a joke. It’s how we do things out here,” I said in earnest. “If it helps any, I’ve got a terrific shot. Took it clean.”

I wasn’t sure what I expected. Maybe for Harold to see it from my point of view. But judging by the way his smile faded, that wasn’t the case.

“You have a goose in the oven?”

I nodded as the oven beeped.

Now, I consider myself a prompt chef - timing is everything. I wasn’t about to overcook dinner or let good food go to waste. So I stood up and headed toward the kitchen.

I didn’t get far before I heard Harold clear his throat.

“Bring me the goose.”

I froze in the entryway.

“What?”

Claudette let out a sigh, begging him not to go down this road. But Harold, wild with conviction, insisted.

“There’s no other option, Claudette.”

Personally, I could think of serval option- top of mind: they could leave, and I could enjoy a quiet evening to myself.

Instead, we spiraled into a back-and-forth too exhausting to recount. Bottom line? I brought in the goose.

As I entered, Harold bowed his head. He then stood and smoothed his cardigan.

“Hello, mother,” he announced, eyes fixed on the platter as I set it down.

Without acknowledging the dinner was for everyone, Harold pulled the platter towards himself, insistent on eating the entire bird. A reclamation, he said.

He then proceeded to down a glass of water, roll up his sleeves, and began softly speaking to the roast.

I learned more about Harold that evening than I ever cared to.

It took him hours to work through the whole bird. Completely unnecessary. He sweated profusely and, at one point, had to walk around the block to help his body process the protein.

I offered several times to wrap up the goose and send it home with him - the symbolism would surely be there in the morning - but he refused.

“When Harold gets hooked on something… well…” Claudette trailed off, leaving me to wonder what else she wasn’t saying.

By the time all was said and done, Harold and Claudette left at 3am. I’d fallen asleep on the couch. Claudette woke me up with a gentle tap.

“I am so sorry, dear. Where is your Tupperware?” she whispered.

Harold wanted to bag the bones and organs. Said he needed to bury them in a séance at sunrise.

I ended up helping Claudette guide Harold out to the car like a toddler. His eyes had swollen shut, and he’d lost all feeling in his fingers.

I’d never seen anything like it. And I went to bed starving.

The next morning, I woke to the sound of northern geese making their way across the pond. It really was beautiful.

I wondered if Harold and Claudette heard it too. Or if Harold could even hear anymore, after last night. The man had eaten the soul of a bird and left smiling.

Unsettled with the evenings unfolding, I baked banana muffins- something safe, I hoped. A soft landing after mainlining several pounds of symbolic poultry.

But when I walked over, Claudette and Harold were gone. Packed and gone.

The geese migrated that year, as they always do. I couldn’t bring myself to shoot down another one. Who’s to say Harold was wrong? Maybe his mother did communicate to him through geese.

That fall, I took the train into the city to see the New York Philharmonic play. I was curious what Harold had made of it all.

I used to imagine being part of their world - important, meaningful. Instead, I barely recognized him.

Harold had put on at least a hundred pounds and adopted a new accent- vaguely British, but inconsistent. Claudette wasn’t there; apparently, he’d filed for divorce shortly after returning home.

In the show’s credits he wrote: “To my mother- the whore. A goose.”

I tried to say hello after the show, but he pretended not to recognize me. Though I’m positive, as he walked past, he mumbled something about being back next spring.

All in all, it seems their life completely unraveled after our dinner, which, for a time, made me feel responsible.

But as my sponsor says, “Not everything has to make sense to be true.”

I suppose.

Here’s what I’ve come to learn: People are strange. Grief is stranger. Everyone’s in pain. And you really never know what a goose means to someone.

As I took the train back that night, I felt grateful to live in my small corner of the world. It wasn’t Manhattan, it wasn’t refined, but at least I knew where I stood.

Also… maybe next time I’ll ask for dietary restrictions.

Happy Spring, folks!

While I can’t say I’ve ever roasted a goose, and likely won’t anytime soon, this week’s story called for one. So, for better or worse, here we are!

After a deep Google dive, I do have to agree with Harold: there is something undeniably more violent about a cooked goose, than, say, a chicken or game hen…

That said, I trust (and love) the New York Times Cooking app. So, should you find yourself with a dead goose this coming Easter weekend - make him dance, baby!

Click the link below and see you again soon!

I love shorts. I always have.

This year, as I dig deeper into writing, my goal has been to perfect the telling of a short story.

Lofty and unattainable? Yes.

I fully understand there’s no perfecting anything—including the chocolate chip cookie, which I’ve recently begun to tackle as well.

Did you know the perfect chocolate chip cookie requires two kinds of flour, two kinds of chocolate (we’re going for depth of flavor, folks), and a very specific window of time to mix your butter and sugar? Also, apparently—if you’re not using a stand mixer, you’re not even in the game.

Marry me.

But back to the written word— in true spreadsheet-loving fashion, I’ve been keeping track of my short story finds, and figured I’d share a few today.

And for those who prefer to listen? I included whatever audible versions I could find.

Enjoy!

1. Joyce Carol Oats - The Frenzy or Where Are You Going, Where Have You Been?

Let’s start off with a bang. Joyce Carol Oats, a force of nature.

Her work—especially her shorts—carry that something’s not quite right feeling that I love, but also can’t wait to escape. It’s like holding your breath through a haunted house—or crossing a frozen lake (which, to be clear, I’ve never done—but the visual landed). Nothing explodes, but everything unravels in a dark, quiet—often violent, always uneasy—way.

She really throws down.

2. Edgar Allen Poe - The Tell Tale Heart

So, if Oates opens the door to the unsettling, then Poe drags you down the staircase and locks it behind you.

We’re going full Gothic now—macabre, obsessive. We’re talking candlelights, sconces, cobwebs, madness, and murder.

I loved Poe in college. He lived on my moody bookshelf between Sylvia Plath, Ibsen, Anne Sexton and Horace Walpole. I was in it at 20. But! I hadn’t picked him up since.

What I forgot (and still enjoy) is how visual his work is—how he lays it out on the page like a fever dream.

Here, we have the confession of a narrator stalking, killing, and dismembering his victim beneath the floorboards.

Which is nice.

3. David Sedaris reads Invisible Made Visible

Okay! With some levity! Please.

You know that question—if you could meet anyone, dead or alive? No hesitation: David Sedaris.

I found him on my mom’s bookshelf as a teenager and have been hooked ever since. He’s a master of the personal essay, and I love the way he sees the world.

It’s impossible to pick a favorite, but here are a few accessible ones online:

The Man Who Mistook His Hat for a Meal

And snippet from Company Job below…

4. Woody Allen has a Substack?

   

Look, has the guy made questionable life decisions? It skews toward yes.

Is he a hell of a comedic writer? I mean… what are you gonna do? Humans are complicated.

Here’s what I will say—and this might be a hot take, but I’m going there:

I don’t like his movies. I don’t! Especially the old ones.

Neurotic, spiraling men are grating. Honestly, anyone stuck in a constant existential crisis is kind of intolerable.

So, I say: skip the movies, pick up the shorts.

Without Feathers and Side Effects are my favorites. His stories are sharp, absurd, and genuinely hilarious.

Here’s a pdf to Without Feathers. No audible on this one.

5. Molly McConnell - Fitting

And finally, someone new. I don’t know a thing about her—but I liked what I read. I found her story on a site - Rabid Oak, which now seems defunct, but still hosts a list of well-crafted short stories.

Whew! We did it.

Happy Sunday!

“Mandy, I gotta tell you something kinda weird,” Clive whispered excitedly, gripping her hands like a man with nothing to lose.

There was no need for hushed tones—the restaurant was packed and loud—but Clive leaned in anyway, lowering his voice as if the walls themselves might be listening.

Though they’d only been dating six months, Mandy had never seen Clive this… animated. She’d also never seen him in a turtleneck. His face was flushed, beads of sweat collecting at his hairline.

“Are you okay?” Mandy slid a glass of water toward him, which he chugged in one go.

“I’ve never felt better. Mandy, will you be my girlfriend?”

Mandy blinked. “…Is that not what we’ve been doing?”

Clive let out a noise—something between a mumble and a squeak—startling even himself. A few nearby tables glanced over. He cleared his throat.

“Sorry, it’s like I have a gerbil in my britches.”

“What?” Mandy was really trying to find her footing in the conversation.

“Forget it.” Clive waved a hand. “Look, I gotta tell you something, but you can’t judge me.”

Mandy hated when people said that. “Hmm. Depends. I gotta hear it first.”

“Fair. No, yeah. I get it.” Clive ran a hand through his hair. “That’s what I like about you, Mandy—you don’t bullshit me. You’re a straight shooter.”

Clive glanced around, then reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a small velvet pouch. With dramatic flair, he dumped its contents onto the table.

A pile of tiny black U keys.

Mandy frowned. “…I don’t know what I’m looking at.”

At this point, Mandy assumed Clive had a drug problem she’d overlooked. This bummed her out.

She’d fallen for Clive. He was the most normal, easygoing guy she’d ever dated—so normal it had actually given her anxiety at first.

“There has to be something,” she’d told her friends. Her therapist. Everyone has their shit. But time passed. No red flags. No weird habits. Just Clive. The perfect boyfriend. It took awhile, but Mandy finally let herself settle into it.

And now?

Now, hundreds of tiny black U’s lay scattered across the table.

There had to be an explanation. Clive didn’t do weird things.

It was fine.

Except—it wasn’t.

The next twenty minutes was an out of body experience for Mandy as Clive explained himself.

Clive worked in customer service for UHAP America—Ultimate Home & Appliance Protection.

“The job’s a job, but it’s chipped away at my dreams of stand-up comedy, you know?”

Mandy didn’t know. She’d never heard Clive mention anything like this.

“And if I have to say, ‘Your #1 choice in extended warranties for under-counter refrigerators’ one more time, I’m gonna lose my mind.”

A flicker of unease sparked in Mandy’s chest—small but persistent, like a thread tugging loose.

She knew Clive. She knew his childhood dog’s name, the way he liked his coffee, the fact that he used a separate towel just for his face.

She knew the little things. The big, important things. The things you learn when you’re falling for someone.

And yet—

“Wait, what’s an under-counter refrigerator?” Mandy blurted out.

Clive stopped mid-rant, staring at her like she’d asked him to explain gravity.

“It’s a mini fridge, sweetheart. You’ve heard me talk about this.”

His response landed with a dull, lifeless thud. Had she? She forced a nod. “Right. Got it.”

Clive barreled forward.

“So, I’m on a call with this hotel manager. Guy’s pissed—a mini fridge isn’t working, guests are complaining, and then he drops this on me—”

Clive deepened his voice, imitating the hotel manager - “A couple from Uganda unhinged the unit’s under-counter tubing, unleashing an unstoppable uptick in unusual humidity.”

Clive paused, letting the sentence land.

“That’s a lotttta U’s, Mandy! That’s a lot of U’s.” He scoffed. “So there I was, typing this stupid complaint, hammering the U key over and over—watching this asshole’s sentence unravel like some kind of twisted joke.”

He inhaled sharply.

“And I don’t know what came over me. Call it rage, call it deep sadness, call it a gerbil in my britches—but I snapped. I reached down… and ripped the U key right off the keyboard.”

Clive made a soft pop sound with his lips.

“It felt incredible.” He smiled. “The plastic socket where the U once was—soft, vulnerable. Like I’d uncovered a hidden nerve beneath the keyboard.” Clive looked almost nostalgic, as if reminiscing about a long-lost summer.

“And that was all it took. One U. I waited a few days before I took my coworker’s. Then another. And another. Until every keyboard in UHAP America was missing its U.”

Clive went on to explain how, after hours, he moved from desk to desk, plucking U’s like loose change—quick, quiet, methodical.

“HR. Sales. Customer service. IT. We’re talking floors, Mandy.” His eyes gleamed with something unholy.

At first, no one noticed. A few typos. A Slack message that didn’t make sense. But then? Chaos.

“Customer service froze—no one could type ‘uninstall,’ ‘return,’ or ‘support.’ IT flagged it as a phishing attack. Employees were locked out—too many passwords had U’s. Sales proposals stalled. Complaints skyrocketed—no one could type, ‘Your warranty is still valid.’”

Clive spoke with a feverish intensity Mandy had never seen before.

“By Friday, the CEO was involved. Vendors thought we’d been hacked. IT wiped every computer in a panic—took out the entire database.”

Clive let the U’s trickle through his fingers like sand.

“I’ve never stolen anything in my life,” he admitted. “But I couldn’t be there anymore. I couldn’t take it.”

He sighed, scooping the pile back into his pouch.

“In hindsight, I probably should’ve just quit. But… I don’t know.” He shook his head, as if settling something only he could understand. “People do crazy things.”

“Problem is, I’m on every surveillance camera in the building.” He tapped the table. “A minor detail I… didn’t really think through. I was so caught up, you know? And, well—Corporate sent out a company-wide email this morning.”

He exhaled. “They’ve hired the FBI.”

Mandy felt her stomach drop.

“So, to wrap this whole thing up —I gotta get the hell out of Dodge.”

Clive looked at her like she was the only thing keeping him tethered to earth.

“Mandy, I love you.”

“What?”

“I knew from the moment I asked you out—you were it. And I know it sounds wild, but this is the most alive I’ve ever felt. The most clear.” He squeezed her hands. “Run away with me.”

“What?!”

“I booked us two tickets to España. We leave at 6 PM.”

Mandy was speechless.

“That’s Spanish for Spain.” He pressed on. “Look, I booked us two—one-way tickets. We can disappear into the European lifestyle. Ride bikes to the market. Drink wine at 2pm. I’ve saved up enough money to last us years. What do you say?”

Mandy should have said something. Anything. But her mouth wouldn’t move.

Her worst fear—that she’d missed something huge, that a red flag had been waving right in front of her this whole time—was true.

So that night, Mandy did what she’d only ever seen in rom-coms—excused herself to the bathroom, looked in the mirror, panicked, and climbed out the window.

Clive must have understood—because silence followed.

There was nothing on the news about a man fleeing the country for stealing U’s off company keyboards.

UHAP never released a statement.

And when Mandy called a few weeks later, just to see, the receptionist barely paused.

“Clive? Oh. We haven’t heard from him in a while. Kinda weird. He was always cracking jokes in the break room. Said he wanted to be a comedian.”

With time, Mandy regretted leaving the way she did. She hadn’t seen Clive—the real Clive— unraveling right in front of her, desperate for help.

Fired? Probably. Fleeing the country? The man just needed a hug.

Mandy wished she’d stayed a little longer. Let him take a breath. Suggested a walk around the block. Maybe told him she loved him, too.

Weeks passed. Then months. And Clive never really left her mind. She started seeing U’s everywhere.

And if Mandy was honest with herself, her own job felt just as pointless. Just as soul-sucking. She wasn’t ripping keys off keyboards—but most days, she wanted to.

Perhaps, then, Clive’s red flags hadn’t been warnings at all. They’d been a mirror—a reminder that life didn’t have to be so careful, so predictable.

Mandy had spent so much time looking for someone normal. But maybe normal wasn’t what she needed. Maybe what she needed—what she wanted—was Clive.

The realization knocked the wind out of her. And it wasn’t just that she missed him—it was that he was gone. Clive had completely wiped himself from the internet—no trace, no way to contact him.

Mandy grieved. Cried. Convinced herself she’d let the love of her life slip through her fingers.

And then, one night, nearly a year later, Mandy’s phone buzzed. A text from an unknown number with a European area code;

“U, up?”

Mandy stared at the screen and laughed. Because finally, she understood.

The thrill. The chaos. The ridiculous, beautiful, maddening way Clive moved through the world.

And that’s when Mandy finally got it.

The gerbil in his britches.

The unshakable, electric feeling that made you do something completely insane—like steal U’s off every keyboard in the office.

Or maybe, like getting on the next flight to Spain.

Happy weekend, everyone! ☀️