MY NOSE WAS buried in my shopping list last week at the market, when a familiar voice interrupted my internal debate (Broccoli? Cabbage? Cauliflower?). The encounter wasn’t a surprise. But the message? An unexpected delight, especially evocative today, the official publication day of Margaret’s beautiful memoir.

It turned out that Ellen, a fellow mom at my kids’ school, a lovely, light-filled woman who I don’t know well, but who always makes me smile, had just discovered TSP. She wanted me to know that she’d found us while searching for info on her favorite astrologer (yep, our one and only Sheilaa Hite). And she wanted me to know that she was loving what she found here. She’s the kind of woman who talks to her own sister every single day, so she knows what means sisterhood. I’ve defined it for myself, in many ways through my life, but with special care since Margaret invited me into this unruly gang we call TSP.

I was an early commenter on Margaret’s magnificent garden blog, A Way To Garden. She came visiting my blog, left a hello, we chit-chat-commented back and forth, and before long, I was trundling down Margaret’s own dirt road to visit her and her garden–our first date. We like to tell people we met online. She and Marion and Anastasia were already sisters of different sorts, but soon they invited me to the party as well. We have lived through some things, the four of us, since our first meeting in Margaret’s cozy house; you can read about some of them in The Book. Mostly, there, though, you’ll read about Margaret and her search for self in a post-power-suit world.

I relate to that search, having packed up my own power suits nearly a decade ago. My motivations were both the same–the frustrations of reining in my own ideas in the service of others–and different: I had a toddler at home who seemed more compelling than many of those boss-like others. It took another three years before I’d trade in L.A.’s fast lanes for my corner of rural paradise-slash-insanity. In the process, I had to redefine myself (yeah, yeah, still working on that one, but coming ever closer), find new friends and face down fears. Mostly mine didn’t slither, like Margaret’s (read the book already if you don’t know what I mean by that snakey reference!), but they had no less powerful an impact on my transformation from a Hollywood television executive to a backroads writer.

Margaret writes in her book of the teachers who helped her find her away along a new, ever-unexpected path. Well, readers, I’m here to tell you, she’s been one of mine. As a mentor and a friend, Margaret is matchless. And when I ran into Ellen, a sweet sister at the supermarket, her effusive praise for this site reminded of how it all started here: escapees from two different rat-races, a couple different kinds of sisterhoods, and connections forged easily in blog comments as in the produce aisle. Sisterhood is where you find it, and I’m blessed to find it here.

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To manage her many intrigues, the lovely Lady Mary definitely could use what my new fave writer Brené Brown calls a “move a body” friendship. Until this week, I’d never read Brené Brown’s theory of what makes the truest sister bond, but thanks to my fellow travelers in my (amazing) Mondo Beyondo “Dream Lab” online course, I’ve seen the light. You’ll have to read Brené’s explanation for yourself; I can’t possibly do it justice. But trust me: with just a teeny soupçon of dark humor, she imagines the bleakest scenario in which we might call upon our sisters for help, the one in which we need and deserve support without judgment.

How far would you go, could you go, have you gone for the sisters in your life? Do you know who your move-a-body sister friends are? It’s worth pondering, before you need them. Watch some great TV, study up with Brené, and chime in.

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Shauna, Danny and Lu, photographed by Todd Porter and Diane Cu of White on Rice Couple

WE ALL SAY it so often it’s become a cliché: this online world of ours, it really is its own community, maybe even a family, a sisterhood. We admired the Gluten Free Girl from afar; then we profiled her here; and now, we are thrilled to say, we have become IRL (that’s “in real life”) friends, too. Read on for all the delicious details of our very own dinner with Shauna (and Dan and Lu, too.)

Shauna emailed a few months back to say she, Dan and Lu would be heading east for their new book, Gluten-Free Girl and the Chef: could she swing north from NYC and visit me and Margaret at our crazy homes in the sticks? Uh–YES, please! Plans were made, transportation arranged, and last Friday, the Aherns arrived for dinner. That’s right, dear readers, I had to cook for one of the most popular food bloggers, oh, on the planet (just ask the London Times, or Gourmet, or Bon Appetit.)

Of course I was quick to order the book, and wasn’t disappointed: it’s a lovely memoir-cookbook combination, with recipes that range from simple comfort fare (their favorite meatloaf) to more “cheffy” stuff, like Poussin with Red Quinoa and Rhubarb (which I am dying to try.)  I’ve just started cooking through the book, and I highly recommend the Roasted Chicken Roulade with Goat Cheese and Arugula. But I didn’t want to cook dishes from the book for our dinner with them. What if I flubbed them? Were they sick of those recipes? (Probably not. But what if I flubbed them?)

What to make when you’re cooking for a crew, and slightly nervous to boot? Something well within your comfort zone. And, if you can draft a friend to help out and keep you company, even better. My dear friend Alana, of Eating from the Ground Up, agreed to join me, and I planned my favorite comfort food–specifically, a rustic Mexican feast. Guacamole, salsa made with tomatillos from my garden, herby green rice, black beans, and sumptuous carnitas: pork butt spiced, braised and roasted until it is falling-apart tender, succulent and crisp, all at the same time. Alana suggested homemade corn tortillas, and brought along two fantastic red salsas, one fresh, the other roasted. Dessert? Dense chocolate walnut cookies (gluten free, of course) and local ice cream.

We all forgot to get our cameras! Luckily, Dan had his phone.

The food was delicious, I am happy to say. But the company was even better, as we all laughed and talked together: internet lives, rural lives, cooking lives…things we all share. And in the spirit of sharing, here’s the how-to for the carnitas that fed our crowd (and, to my great joy, prompted praise from our guests.) I hope you’ll enjoy them as much as we did. Come to think of it, if you’re making ‘em, invite us to dinner, too!

Carnitas for a Crowd
adapted from David Liebowitz
Serves at least 12–with leftovers

10 lbs pork butt (Ask the butcher to leave the bone in, but cut the meat into large chunks. And I do mean large! Mine were 5 inches across and 2-3 inches thick.)
1 Tablespoon coarse sea salt
1 Tablespoon Bourbon Smoked Sea Salt* (This works very well, but feel free to use an additional tablespoon of the coarse sea salt, instead.)
2 Tablespoons canola or neutral vegetable oil
1/2 cup cider vinegar
water
2 cinnamon sticks
2 teaspoons chile powder
2 teaspoons ancho chile powder (you will probably have to buy a whole dried ancho chile, and grind it yourself in a coffee grinder or spice mill)
2 bay leaves
1/2 teaspoon ground cumin
6 cloves of garlic, peeled and thinly-sliced

1. Rub the pieces of pork shoulder all over with both salts. Refrigerate for 1- to 3-days. (You can skip this step if you want. Just be sure to salt the pork before searing the meat in the next step.)

2. Heat the oil in a roasting pan set on the stovetop. Cook the pieces of pork shoulder in a single layer over medium high heat until very well-browned on all sides. (Let one side brown until it releases from the pan, then turn to the next side, and so on.) If your pan is too small to cook them in a single layer, do them in two batches.

3. Once all the pork is browned, remove from the pan and blot away any excess fat with a paper towel, then pour in the cider vinegar and about half a cup of water, scraping the bottom of the pan with a flat-edged utensil to release all the tasty brown bits.

4. Heat the oven to 350F degrees.

5. Add the pork back to the pan and add enough water so the pork pieces are 2/3rd’s submerged in liquid. Add the cinnamon stick and sprinkle in the chile powders, bay leaves, cumin and garlic, trying your best to spread them evenly around the pan.

7. Braise in the oven uncovered for 3½ hours, turning the pork a few times during cooking, until the pork is falling apart. Remove the pan from the oven and lift the pork pieces out of the liquid. Cover both the meat and liquid, and cool to room temperature.

8. Remove the meat from the bones and chop coarsely (1/2 to 3/4 inch chunks are best.) Pour the liquid remaining in the pan into a heatproof container, and refrigerate until the fat solidifies on the top. (You can cheat and put it in the freezer, as long as you wait until the liquid comes to room temperature first.)Refrigerate the meat too if you are not planning to serve it immediately.

9. When you are ready to serve, preheat the oven to 350. Return the meat to the pan, and pour the defatted juices over. Cover loosely with foil, and place in the oven to reheat for about 20 minutes (more is fine as long as you check the meat to make sure it’s not drying out–you should have plenty of liquid, so this is unlikely to be a problem, and you want some crisp bits on top: the dual texture of the meat is one of the joys of the dish.

*I was given the Bourbon Barrel Sea Salt by the producer, Bourbon Barrel Foods.

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CERTAINLY NOT PICTURES. Nope. As a friend told me a few weeks back, I’ve got a face for radio. And now, you can hear exactly what it looks like. As with everything, there’s a backstory…

First of all, yes, my friend really told me that I have a face for radio. (Yes, she was serious. And not meaning to be unkind. To be fair–-we’d had a bit of rosé.) But she must have been onto something.

You may remember back in January, I wrote about some big changes I was trying to make in my life: Move more. Make stuff. Tell my stories. Almost seven months in, I’ve done pretty well, if I do say so myself, of sticking to all three. (Yes, my art-making has suffered with the kids out of school; yes, my writing has been articles, not my own fiction or life stories; and my attendance at the gym isn’t as regular as I’d like. But I DO all three: they are part of the fabric of my life, and they make me  happy.)

The exercise part was a gift from the gods, in the form of my hilarious and inspiring cardio teacher, Mimi, who’s older than Oprah, funnier than Ellen and as uninhibited as Lady Gaga. (She’s not OLD, mind you. But she’s not in her 30s, either.) I adore her. But I didn’t really know her, despite all the sweating I did with her twice a week, so it was a surprise when she asked me to lunch to talk about a non-cardio project. To make a long story, you know, less long: she had a radio show. Her cohost was leaving town. Would I be interested in joining her?

I pondered, perhaps longer than I should have, given that this seemed like a moment of sisterly kismet, but finally said yes, and it’s been a blast. She’s Conan, only shorter, and (with apologies to my friend Andy Richter, who for the record, is not fat) I’m the fat guy on the couch. (My husband said, “Andy’s not fat. And, please–don’t turn into the fat guy on the couch.” He also said he loves hearing me talk about sex on the radio, so I guess he approves.)

Mimi likes to describe the show as “The View, on crack” and I’ll just say that Mimi likes to talk about fashion, fitness, sex and animals (those last two not–usually–at the same time) and I talk about cooking, and Hollywood and…you know, other sisterly stuff. You can have a listen to the show on iTunes, where you can also subscribe to our (free, of course) podcast (just search for Mimi’s Morning Mojo), and check out our Facebook page.

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SISTER MARGARET AND I have been lucky to know writer, stylist, crafter and all-around super-duper sister-friend Kari Chapin for several years now, and we couldn’t be more excited to feature her and her new book, The Handmade Marketplace, here on TSP. Read on for the scoop on Kari and her take on sisterhood, and a chance to win a signed copy of her book!

Kari is one of the most creative, can-do people I’ve met. She’s full of amazing ideas, and (this is the part that kills me) she’s also able to turn those ideas into reality, in part because she’s the ultimate people person. She thinks a childhood spent constantly on the move (Kari is an Army brat) deserves some of the credit.

“I think all of this moving around helped me to become really comfortable around people,” she says. “I credit all of the schools I had to attend as the new kid, and all of the different kinds of cultures I was exposed to, with my ability to make friends anywhere and with almost anyone.”

After her parents split, Kari divided her time between Denver and North Carolina, where her dad was stationed for most of her teenage years. Kari has a younger sister, E. (Kari prefers not to publicize her name) who she laughingly describes as “ever my tormentor and defender.” (Sound familiar, sisters?)

Kari’s crafty life started early.

“Growing up with creative parents and grandparents,” she recalls, “making things with my hands just came naturally. It wasn’t until my late teens and early adult life that I realized I had actual skills that my peers didn’t have, like mending or making a scarf in the winter…I just love making things by hand–-it is my version of being Zen or meditating.”

Gorgeous mittens, made by Kari

Kari sews, crochets, has painted, taken pottery classes, you name it. One thing she’s not: a knitter.

“People assume I’m a knitter when they see how many knitting books and needles I own, but truthfully, I was gently kicked out of the only knitting class I ever went to, but that hasn’t stopped me from collecting vintage knitting supplies. ” Sister E is handy, too: Kari describes her as an amazing painter and jewelry designer.

A few years ago, Kari was working as the buyer and manager for a home furnishings store. Relationships with the craftspeople whose work she was buying for the shop eventually gave her the idea for The Handmade Marketplace.

“I wanted to stock the store with even more handmade goods and after approaching several artists and crafters I found via Etsy, I found myself answering the same questions over and over again from these talented people,” she explains.  “Also, lots of my friends are crafty and were looking for ways to make money with their crafts – and I knew the world is full of people just like me, people who like their day jobs and yet love to craft in their free time. I wanted to create a resource for anyone who likes to make things but wonders what to do with all of their creations later on.”

Despite her wanderlust ways, Kari’s settled now in Northampton, Massachusetts, with her husband, a writer, and their puppies, Baxter and Charlie Parker. They sometimes craft together (how cute is THAT?) and also love to go on local adventures, whether geocaching or hunting for the ultimate maple syrup house breakfast.

Wherever Kari goes, we’re sure she’ll find sisters to share her passion for making things by hand, and her enthusiasm for living a creative life. Have you read her book yet? It’s a lot like Kari: really fun, and packed with practical wisdom about how to make things work. Thanks to Kari’s generosity, we have three signed copies of the book to give to our readers. Want one? Winning is simple: just leave a comment on this post telling us what crafty or creative hobby you’d like to learn to market. On Monday, we’ll close comments, and randomly select our winners. In the meantime…read on to see how Kari answers our TSP sisterhood questionnaire.

E and Kari

Q. Fill in the blank: You know you’re a sister when…?
A. “I asked E to help me answer these questions, and her answer for this one was: ‘When you come from the same woman’s vagina.’ Hummm. I’m going to be a bit more descriptive here and say you know you’re a sister when you come to realize that there is a person out there who really, really knows you. Someone who can hold your hand in the funeral home someday and agree that your parents were crazy/wonderful/horrible/amazing with you. Someone who knows that you love a good pickle and peanut butter sandwich and knows exactly how to make it for you when you’ve had a bad day. When you realize you have secret words for everyday things or like E said, when you come from the same vagina.”

Q. What does the word “sister” mean to you?
A. “I’m not really sure. I have lots of really close women friends that I have very deep sisterly feelings for. I guess for me in lots of ways, it boils down to safety. Sisterhood means safety to me. Maybe safety in numbers, safe from bad things at home, safe from loneliness…often times safe from myself and choices I might make that aren’t the best.”

Q. Are there any pop culture or cultural references that make you think of your sister/sibling/sister-friend(s)?
A. “So, so many. My sister was very ill when she was younger and she got a lot of attention for it. I remember one hospital room in particular had just about been furnished by a popular toy company. She had every single Care Bear made at the the time and all of their subsequent products. Also, the movie Annie.

“Our mom took us to the movie and every local theater production of Annie when we were little and E had the soundtrack on vinyl. She knew every single word and even some of the dance steps and she belted it out over and over on a daily basis. Even though at the time, it annoyed me, I must admit that I know own the soundtrack and listen to it now and then fondly. And Annie was right–the sun does in fact come out tomorrow.”

Q. Are there any worst-of/best-of sister tales you want to share?
A. “E is 4½ years younger than me, but she looks about 15 years younger–no joke. People often mistake me for her mother, which once made me cry in the pajama section of a Target store in Denver, Colorado. E. had been yelling at me about one thing or another and a random lady, who maybe had rude children of her own at home and felt sorry for me, said ‘Young lady! You shouldn’t speak to your mother like that! Especially in public!’ I promptly burst into tears, and started blubbering through my tears, ‘But I’m only 4½ years older!’

“My sister, ever my tormentor and defender, jumped in and started hollering about how we were sisters and that the nosey lady should mind her own business. In the end I felt sorry for the lady, who was just trying to stand up for me, but I felt even more sorry for myself. That is the day I started saying we were 4½ years apart –rather than the easier to say 5 years–and I promptly bought a boat load of face cream. Alas, I’ll never have the perfect skin of my sister, no matter how much money I fork over to the make-up counter at Macy’s.”

Q. What’s the most important lesson you’ve learned from your “sister” experience?
A. “I think the most important thing I’ve learned from having and sister and being a sister is forgiveness. E and I had some rough times growing up, and not just because of each other. But we also had some truly wonderful times. The good times greatly outnumber the bad, even though, like all things, the bad things are sometimes the easiest to focus on.

“Through my sister, or maybe because of her, I have learned how to truly forgive and move on. We are bonded, through blood and through choice, because let’s face it, you can quit a family member if you really want to. My relationship with E has taught me to fight hard, forgive completely and love always.”

For more about Kari, visit her website. and don’t forget to leave a comment here for a chance to win a signed copy of The Handmade Marketplace!  COMMENTS ARE NOW CLOSED. Congratulations to winners Jan, Iris Shreve Garrott and Judy Wright!

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Not since we all decided to make our lists of 25 things have I struggled so much to define myself. I listen to all kinds of music, save, perhaps, polka, and have for most of my adult life. Even so, the first track was an easy pick.

In high school, my taste, though somewhat diverse, always came back around to the early 70s flower-child music that was the default soundtrack at every American boarding school in the 1980s. Though I was never a Deadhead, I did buy Grateful Dead records (how hopelessly uncool; bootlegs were the ONLY way to go) in the hope of gaining sufficient knowledge to impress a sophisticated Manhattan boy, who was the first of many unrequited high school crushes. (By the time we went to college, he had become a good friend, and he once made me the best carrot cake I’d ever eaten. So all was not for naught.)

Luckily, my mooning infatuation didn’t maintain control over my musical taste. No, at 14, the key influences on my record choices (remember records?) were my sisters, my sweet friends, the dorm girls who helped with English papers and listened to my loopy recitations about crushes 1-100 of those heady, hormonal years. The soundtrack? Joni. Always Joni, and I have the high school yearbook page to prove it. I could drink a case of those sister friends, and over the years, I have.

My tastes broadened a bit in college. The Dead were still the high water mark of preppy cool, and I even went to a few shows. But I liked to dance, and whatever unkind thing you want to say about late 80s music (oh, and there are a lot of them!) there was some pretty fabulous dance pop being recorded then. Madonna was at the height of her popularity. INXS, fronted by the late, lamented Michael Hutchence, was definitely able to mystify.

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After college, I moved to New York, and then Washington, DC, and then finally to Los Angeles. The constant in those years was one of my dearest sister-friends, Leslie. (You’ve read about her and her famous sweet potato pie before.) To say that our musical taste differs is to put it mildly. Kiss? Not so much my thing (much to my son’s dismay) while Leslie has not just all their music, but T-shirts and action figures. (Go figure.)

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I could go on, and on, and in future posts, I expect I will. But meantime, tell me: what’s the soundtrack to your sisterhood?

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I WAS SPOILED LAST week: Not one, but two of my dearest BFF sister-friends came visiting, each for two days of sheer girly bliss. My husband was away on a business trip, so the estrogen could flow down like water, or, perhaps more accurately, wine.

My prep time for the first friend’s visit was abruptly obliterated by a visit to the emergency room, where the Rock got her first stitches and I practiced my deep breathing/I-will-not-cry exercises. She lived up to her name, while I found myself seriously frazzled by the whole (relatively benign) experience. By the time Lee arrived, I was absolutely ready for a drink.

Lee has food sensitivities and the only alcohol she drinks (in responsible moderation) is vodka; after my distracting day, I wasn’t at all sure we had any in the house. I found some, and did my best to recreate her favorite cocktail, the Ivy Gimlet, knowing that close counts in cocktails as in horseshoes, and she’d be pleased with my efforts. (The drink is a lime and mint concoction that’s the house special of L.A.’s celeb-heavy Ivy restaurant.) We each nursed one as we watched our kids play (nicely, and without further injury) and the sun set. Perfect end to a horrid day;
divine start to a fabulous visit.

Two days later, Lee left and BFF #2 arrived. It was pouring rain, but without a midday run to the hospital, I felt fairly calm. In the maelstrom, the kids and I drove to the airport to pick Chris and her son up. By the time we arrived home (after pitstops at a farmstand, and a farmers’ market–hey, she’s my cooking buddy!) it was nearly 8 o’clock. The kids poured themselves onto the couch in front of a movie, too excited to see each other to go to bed; too tired to do much else. We looked at each other. “Cocktail time?” she asked hopefully.

Chris is semi-famous for her drink concoctions; she often calls to crow over her latest mixological triumph (or perhaps she’s just trying to make me sorry I moved away) so I felt some pressure to deliver something better than just drinkable. I’d actually spent time trying to figure what in the world I’d serve.

For weeks, I’d been trying to remember where I saw a recipe for a watermelon and rum drink that sounded so refreshing and delightful that I couldn’t get it out of my mind…but with no idea where the idea came from, I was stumped. Shopping for dinner before my airport run, I’d halfheartedly looked at the watermelons, thinking I might attempt to recreate the drink, but they were pre-cut, wrapped in plastic, and uninspiring.

Nearby, a pile of locally-grown melons, all nubbly warty skin and sweet smell, lured me, and two of the ugly ducklings came home with me. I seeded them and cut the fruit into small chunks; I threw the chunks into a plastic container and into the freezer. Inspired by the gimlet, I guess, I also picked some mint, checked my lime supply, and headed out for the plane.

With Chris in the kitchen (one of our favorite places to be together), I pretended I knew what I was doing, as I was desperately winging it. Luck was on my side. The drink was delicious: aromatic, tart and a tiny bit but not too sweet. I’m thinking she approved; we sipped, ate runny goat cheese, and caught up while our kids basked in their own experience of the joy of just hanging out with lifelong friends. Even at 8 and 4, those smart kids of mine know how irreplaceable the people who’ve known you longest are.

But one question remains. What to call it? Chris and I thought of a few ideas, but then I realized that maybe I should open this question up to the sisterhood. What do you think this should be called? Chime in in comments with your suggestions, and Marion, Anastasia, Margaret and I will pick the winner. We’ll send her (or him–hey, it could happen!) a (non-alcoholic) culinary surprise. Chime in, sisters. The bar is open, and no idea is too off-the-wall.

The ???
Makes 8

2 cantaloupes, halved, seeded, fruit cut into 1/2- to 1-inch chunks and frozen
juice of 4 limes
1/4 cup fresh mint leaves plus some sprigs for garnish, if desired
4 oz dark rum
2 oz white rum
1 oz elderflower liqueur (St. Germain brand)

Place the frozen cantaloupe, mint leaves and lime juice in blender, and blend on high until smooth. Add the alcohol and blend again to just combine. Pour into a chilled martini glass, and if desired, garnish with more mint.

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YOU KNOW YOU’RE a sister when your friendship can survive one of you writing, publicly, about the other. Or can it? It all started innocently enough. I sat down for a coffee with the editor of a regional magazine based here in the hinterlands, talking about what I might write for him, what I was writing for other folks, and inevitably, the conversation turned to The Sister Project, and our amazing oldest sister, lovely Margaret. I should have known what was coming. The editor, like everyone else I meet, wanted to know all about her, her garden, her projects. Now there was a subject! Could I finagle a profile of my friend (and regional celebrity) Margaret? Yikes.

Margaret, for someone who lives a pretty open online life, is also a private person. More important, she’s my friend. I tried to explain. “I work with her, you know.” “Are you her employee?” he probed. “Well, no…”

“Then I don’t see any conflict. See if she’ll do it. We will run it this summer–perfect for a garden story.”

I called when I got home.

“Err…How would you feel about being profiled?”

“Mmmm…#$%@%. Can’t get this post to upload properly…” Margaret was distracted. “Sure, sure, whatever you want. Tell me what I need to do.”

And so it began. I interviewed Margaret, and was thrilled when she gave me some tidbits about her rural odyssey I hadn’t read anywhere else. Maybe, just maybe, this would all be ok. I interviewed four other sources, friends and plantsmen all, who were transparent in their love for Margaret, their amusement at her quirks, their deep admiration for her knowledge and creativity in the garden and beyond. They confirmed her stories, adding color and detail; one of them gave me a slightly snarky but funny and accurate quote that I thought twice about using before deciding that my article had to be written by a writer first, a friend second. In truth, everything was going so, so well.

And then. Photography. Margaret had images of the garden she’d shot herself that could be used by the magazine, saving them money and allowing them to show off the garden in its best light, through all seasons. It would be a lot of work for her to select and format them, but she was willing. Great! But there remained one sticky issue.

Here’s something you may not know about Margaret, though if you were a close reader of Martha Stewart Living when she was editing there, you might have suspected it. She really, really doesn’t like to be photographed. Not in the way I don’t like to be photographed, where I’m all, “Oh, crap, I’m so fat, let me contort my body to try to find some angle where I don’t look like the Michelin man, and meanwhile I’ll hope the light is catching my cheekbones nicely so everyone will look at them instead of my saggy everything else.” Nope. Imagine how the last Dodo bird might have reacted if confronted by James Audubon: running like hell, convinced that to surrender to the portraitist may well mean the end of the entire freaking species.

My editor, a nice enough guy, wanted his photographer to shoot Margaret. None of the portraits she already had (taken, beautifully, by her friend, Erica Berger, who knows exactly how to manage Margaret in a photo shoot, and no, there are no pharmaceuticals involved, although, note to self, maybe not a bad idea for next time) would suffice. He wanted his own. Oh, [expletive deleted].

I tried gently to suggest that he try, hard, not to set himself and Margaret up for the pain of a shoot. Not only was there the issue of Margaret’s aversion to the lens, she was also, rightly, concerned that a portrait shot in the garden in (very) early spring might look out of place in a story running in July. And, there was her schedule to contend with. Always busy, she was now immersed not only in her two websites, but also in writing the first draft of her book. She really didn’t have a lot of time to give away. As the tug-of-war over images continued, I grew more and more worried.

Selfishly, I had thought this profile would be good for my portfolio, good for developing a relationship with a new (to me) magazine and editor, good press for Margaret and the websites. More, as I finished the piece, I liked what I’d written and thought it presented an accurate and compelling picture of my friend.

But as the tension mounted, I put the article out as a sacrificial lamb to Margaret. If the photo shoot was going to be too much trouble, she could walk. I would understand. The editor might never forgive me, but I was crystal clear on this point: My relationship with Margaret, the one I feared I’d jeopardized by trying to write honestly and with some humor about her, quirks and all, was not available for the chopping block.

And so, as she does in most things, Margaret prevailed. I still don’t know (and don’t want to) what magic she worked on my editor to get him to use an existing portrait;  until the magazine arrived in my mailbox yesterday, I had no idea (I’d been afraid to ask) how this issue had played itself out. Apparently I, too, have something in common with a giant flightless bird, because I’d stuck my head into the sand, not even discussing the article with Margaret again until just the other day. After reading the online version, I sent off a tentative email. I needed to know she didn’t hate it, or me.

“I hope you’re ok with it. I know it wasn’t the highlight of your year,” I stumbled.

She came through, like a sister. In part, her response read, “I love you and love your writing.” Right back at you, sissie. Now, when can I take your picture for my photo album?

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REMEMBER MY SUMMER GOALS? Now that summer is more than one-third past (read that bit again, why don’t you, as you weep into your iced coffee) and I’m about to embark on our few short days of family vacation, I thought I should check in with, um, myself, and err, you all, and ‘fess up to what I’ve done, or not, on that list of mine.

My kids made me do it. Those ambitious little shorties forced me to come to terms with the things that seemed really important to do, see, or experience this summer. Progress is being made, but not all the news is good. Read on…

1. Tomatoes, basil, corn. Too early, too rainy, too cold. These will all have to wait until August, though I did break down and buy a supermarket tomato this week to eat with a salad nicoise I made…from ARUGULA I GREW MYSELF. (Hold your applause until the end, please.)

2. Sun on skin. See above. We had more rainfall in June than in any year since 1903. Even so, today the sun shone, and the Rock and the River and I went swimming in our own pond. My husband is convinced that amoebic dysentery is just around the corner for us all, but the sun on our backs in the cool water felt divine.

3. Fireflies. Going, going, gone, but it stays light so late here, that my kids are always asleep by the time the lightning bugs start to show themselves, anyway. Maybe next year. This year, they made do with sparklers on the 4th of July, which were as close to magic as either child has yet come in their short lives.

4. Bonfire. S’mores. See Number 1, above. Thunderstorms every night=zero campfires, though my kids did have s’mores, they tell me, at their first ever non-family, brother-sister sleepover this weekend. While they were having s’mores, I was having…my husband. Alone. For a whole 16 hours. We owe our friends, big time.

5. Beach, seaglass, crustaceans. We left for four days in Maine Monday. I’ll report back, but signs are promising.

6. A run in the rain. With all the rain we’ve been having, this one should have been a breeze. I’ve been lazy, running mostly on the weekends, not nearly enough during the week, and rain has been an excuse not to. Now that I’ve confessed my sins, I’ll try to do better.

7. Infinite Jest. OK, I’m only about 150 pages in, but progress is being made, people. Considering that I only made it to page 19 the first time I tried to read it (I know exactly where I stopped, because I found the dogeared page when I cracked the book this time). I think hope is in order, even if it’s too early for optimism.

8. A night away with my husband. See Number 4. We were in our own house, but we were alone, and it was free.

9. Stay tighter with my friends. I had a fun meet-up with a bunch of fellow writer/social media type girlfriends last week for brunch. I spent leisurely, lovely time with a couple of L.A. friends I hadn’t seen in a year or so, a high school friend with whom I reconnected at my recent reunion, and am about to see two more of those high school sister-friends in Maine this week. On the downside, I have phone calls and emails from treasured friends lingering unreturned. Two steps forward…

10. Having more fun? Definitely. While I can’t necessarily say I’ve succeeded at the “stress less” part, I’m definitely playing more. I related strongly to this blog post about the importance of play time from a wonderful writer and blogger, Jen Lee. See what you think.

How is your summer going? Is it living up to your expectations? Do you have secret goals you want to confess? C’mon, tell the sisters.

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ARE YOU A SUCCESSFUL list maker? I try to be, I do. I use different tools, on paper and on my computer, to try to keep track of the too-many-to-list obligations and opportunities in my life (not to mention the lives of my husband and kids.) But somehow, I’m not so good at organization, which means I’m not so good at actually accomplishing long-term goals. I can do the stuff that’s right in front of me, but looking beyond the disaster at the end of my nose is, um, a challenge. When it comes to flaws and failings, there’s nothing like a little exhibitionism to keep you honest, so for this summer, I decided to come out of the closet with the things I need and want to get done.

My kids’ insistence on setting goals for the summer (apparently, I’m raising them well, i.e., not too much like me, a notorious avoider of goals and goal-setting) got me thinking. What do I really want for the summer that lies ahead, the way-too-short two months of green and warmth and swimming and farm-fresh vegetables?

My 10 Summer Musts

1. Tomatoes, basil and corn. As much as possible, as soon as they arrive. (Given that it’s been Noah’s Ark-like weather for the last three weeks here, they may arrive exactly never, but hope springs eternal.) I’ll be visiting some of my favorite food bloggers for recipe ideas.

2. Sun on skin. Sunscreen, sure. But that feeling of your skin slowly heating up is one to treasure, especially when you live in a place where winter’s five months long.

3. Fireflies in a jar. My kids have to do this, at least once, if only so I can have the joy of seeing them replicate one of my favorite childhood activities.

4. Bonfire, with s’mores. We’re trying a new version: chocolate graham crackers, peanut butter, chocolate (duh) and homemade marshmallows. I promise a full report.

5. Beach. Seaglass. Hopefully a lobster roll or three. We’re heading to Maine in a couple of weeks to benefit from a sister-friend’s hospitality, so this one should be easy.

6. A run in the rain. Remember that 10-mile goal? I need to conquer my fear of slipping and sliding on the dirt roads that surround my home if I’m going to get there. Though the sun shone yesterday, more storms are coming, and I can’t let them derail my training schedule (because, believe it or not, I actually have one!)

7. Infinite Jest. One of my absolute favorite bloggers has challenged friends and readers to join her in a summer readathon of the late David Foster Wallace’s doorstop of postmodern fiction. I tried to read this when it was first published, and failed, but this time, I’m hoping to conquer it. I guess I better add it to my beach bag full o’ books.

8. A night away with my husband, and without my kids. We’ve only done this once, and it was almost three years ago. I think it’s time. Any suggestions on where we should go for a grown up sleepaway?

9. Get better about keeping in touch with friends both online and real. Does this mean you? Keep me honest.

10. More play, less stress, and a keen eye towards making the most of ever-shorter summer days. Maybe what I really need is this inspired non-planner from designer Keri Smith and Little Otsu.

What about you? What are your must-do summer activities? Who better to share them with than your sisters?

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