Let's talk about breasts. My breasts.

You know you want to talk about them. Everyone does, right? Oh, wait. That's me that wants to talk about them, because I'm the only one who cares. It's really pathetic, how much I obsess, but that's what blogs are all about, yo.

I was at my parents' house a few years ago, the day after my youngest sister's wedding. A friend of my other younger sister's was being picked up there by a friend of her mother's. But none of that is important, which is good because it wasn't very clear. Anyhow...after the guy left with my sister's friend, I asked who it was. My mother named someone who people like me (who are obsessed with their breasts) recognize instantly as one of the best boob lifter and separators in the business. His creations look natural, yet buoyant. Youthful, yet sophisticated. Just like the real thing, but better. Way, way better. I did what anyone in my situation would have. I chased him up the driveway, clutching my ever more saggy bosom, to tell him how much I admired his work. Classy.

It was during the time before my sister M's wedding that I realized how much the mighty had fallen. I spent a lot of time in dressing rooms with my sister E - who has my old boobs. It was shocking. Until I saw hers, I didn't realize how bad mine were. They were a shadow of their former selves. I started thinking about getting...gulp...some work done.

But I'm lazy. And cheap. And I hate pain. I decided to wait until five years after weaning my youngest to make my decision. I got pregnant again before the end of the five years. Pregnancy briefly gave me my rack back. That was fun. I should have taken pictures, if only to show to a surgeon. I guess I'll just have to take my sister in instead. Hope she'll be ok with that.

I think I'm a reasonable person. It's not like I want a set of these. In fact, overly aggressive breasts scare me. I just want a nice, classic matching set that looks good in clothes. I don't care about scarring. Exotic dancing is not in the picture. I just want to go from being a 32 Long back to 32 Reasonable.

I keep hoping for a fun miracle cure. I had a facial today at Pout* and Shannon used this cool electric thingy to make me look perkier. On my face. I don't know if it would work in other areas. She used little electric gloves to do my face and she told me they have a paddle for people who want the treatment on their bottoms (Rowrrr!) I don't think they do breasts, which is good because they would have to electrocute me to have any hope of it helping. Maybe there is some place that accepts skin donations, like a medical school. Extra skin is my problem. Let me know if you need some.

Anyhow...I just want to wear a cute shirt without a bra once before I die. Is that so wrong? Probably. And sometimes I feel really shallow, because I look at them and get depressed. I'm not a person who hates my body, really. I hate myself for caring so much about this one little thing - well, two little things. So which is worse - to hate myself for having ugly breasts or hate myself for changing them?

Namasté, y'all!

P. S. GAME!

* Yup. Pout is doing facials now. Amazing. I left there without a stitch of makeup on and I wold have been willing to go in public. I'm going to start buying lottery tickets so I can go at least once a week. Or more. They have cool machines - kind of like time machines, because they make you look younger.

Big Yoga Weekend!

I had the great pleasure this weekend of spending two days doing Yoga. In Charlotte. Without kids. A friend and I shared a hotel room and spent most of Saturday and Sunday stretching, om-ing, expanding our unenlightened minds and indulging our total hippy sides. It was great, which I'll try to remember tomorrow morning, when I can't get out of bed.

Because Yoga is all about balance, we also had a scrumptious meal Saturday night, with plenty of wine and my first shot of Tequila, and we went to the mall today before coming back to Columbia. Even though I know Yoga attracts all kinds (like my own strange self), I'm still always surprised to see the number of fake bosoms at these workshops. I suppose they're no more distracting than the hot Yoga dude without the shirt. Or the Yoga dude in tight pants who likes to do back bends. Or the any-gendered Yogi who thinks deodorant is for nature haters. Or the person who can't carry a tune and insists on chanting louder than everyone else. But I digress. I was talking about bosoms.

Please understand. I'm not in any way criticizing owners of fake boobs. I know and love plenty of ladies who have them. I want fake boobs, even though I'm probably too chicken and cheap to get them. I agree with the guy who said,

"Hey, if I can see 'em and I can touch 'em, they're real."

Amen to that. But I just don't expect to see them in Yoga. I saw one set so large they must have challenged the balance of their owner. I saw another pair trying desperately to escape their meager sports bra container. I saw a few sets that led me to wonder,

"Did she or didn't she?"

I wish I knew a graceful way to ask that question, because if she did, I want to know who the artist doctor was. And how much they cost...and how long the recovery was... But you have to know someone pretty well to ask that question. In fact, if you know them that well, you probably already know the answer, because you brought them soup when they were recovering.

Yoga attracts all kinds, including, but not limited to, the following:

• Crazy people.
• People obsessed with their bodies.
• People who really like big boobs.
• People romantically involved with people who like really big boobs.
• People who do things for themselves, in a positive way, because they're in tune with their feelings.

Any of those people might also be people who would have boob jobs*. If I can ever figure out which one of those people I might be, I'll consider getting the boobs. I'll only get them if I become enlightened and realize I'm the in-tune-with-her-feelings sort. It will take a lot of meditating to find the answer. But, man, would I ever love some fancy boobs, the kind I could take anywhere and put into any sort of clothing without worrying where they might end up. The sort of boobs that didn't wander into my armpits or towards my belly button at the slightest provocation. The sort of boobs that wouldn't reach up and slap me in the chin if I went running without a bra**. Boobs 2.0.

By the way, if anyone ever sees me and wonders if I did or didn't, please ask. If I didn't, I'll be thrilled that they look good enough to be manufactured. If I did, I'll be happy to share. Not "share" as in let you touch them, but "share" as in tell you all about them. You'll wish you never asked. Eh. You could just wait to read about them on my blog.

Namasté, y'all!

* There's a lesson in here somewhere about sets and sub-sets, but you won't get it from me. Math teachers take note! Venn Diagrams could be involved. Venn diagrams of two sets look like fake boobs, so it would be a great visual reminder. I've always found Venn Diagrams very comforting. Maybe because I was breastfed. Yup, this is the stuff I think about.

** Not that I would go running without a bra. I'd be very protective of my fancy boobs.

Seriously?

In South Carolina last week, seven people were arrested after cheering for friends or family members at high school graduations. Arrested, like by the police. And you know who wasn't arrested? This lady, an Aiken County Magistrate whose granddaughter accidentally shot herself in the chest when she pulled her grandmother's handgun out of her purse in Sam's Club. She wasn't arrested because she had a license to carry the gun. Although she must have taken some sort of required safety class, I guess they didn't mention the rule about not letting a four year old hold your purse with the gun in it while you peruse industrial sized jars of pickles. So...where I live...it's okay to let a four year old play with a gun, but if said four year old makes it to high school graduation in spite of your pathetic lack of supervision and judgment, you can't even clap.

Parenting is so hard now. The rules just aren't clear. In the seventies, things were different. These are some neat things Seventies Mom could do with little to no guilt:

• Ignore the kids at the pool while she talked to her friends. I wasn't allowed within ten feet of my mom if her friends were around. My mother didn't give a rat's a** about my self esteem and I turned out fine. Right? I mean, don't you think I turned out fine? I just want you to like me. Do you? Are you mad at me? I have a tummy ache.
  
  
• Feed the kids non-organic food. There weren't as many scary foods back then, so organic was just extra credit.


• Breastfeed. Or not, without discussing it with anyone.


• Tan, on purpose.
  


• Drop the kids off at Bible School all over town, not volunteering to help with a single one.


• Smoke. In fact, smoking was essential, because if some kid got stung by a bee at the pool, all the moms would reach for their cigarette packs, so someone could cover the sting in wet tobacco. I guess the nicotine numbed it. So what if it did go right into the kid's bloodstream?


• Lie to the kids. "We can't go to the pool today. It closed early because someone went to the bathroom in it yesterday. You don't know who that was, do you?"


• Hang out at the pool all day without accomplishing anything.


• Let the kids hang out at the pool all day, neglecting to sign them up for a single educational camp. In fact, those camps weren't essential to a mother's sanity like they are now, because Seventies Mom could just...


• Drop the kids off at the pool as soon as it opened and leave them there for hours, marginally supervised by teen-aged life guards and other parents.
  


• Cram all the kids that got left at the pool when it closed into the car, seat belts be damned, and drive them home without even asking their parents. Seventies Mom couldn't get permission, because she didn't have a cell phone.


• Wear whatever kind of bathing suit she liked without getting a boob job, tummy tuck or bikini wax. To be honest, having spent my childhood eye level with the result of Seventies Mom's lack of attention to waxing, I'm kind of in favor of the bikini wax.


• Drink during the day, as long as it was in a cup.


• Have her friends in for Bridge Club, where everyone was allowed to smoke, drink and cuss in the house because the children weren't allowed downstairs.
  


• Cheer wildly at graduation, because it was one step closer to an empty nest.

I'll admit to indulging in some of the above, but not without a certain amount of guilt. At least I can still carry a loaded gun in my purse...

Namasté, y'all!

I swear I haven't discussed this with him!

In my quest for more Elmo, I came across a YouTube video of Elmo and Alicia Keys, which reminded me of a conversation I overheard between the X-Man and a friend of his, when they were about four years old. They were watching Alicia Keys sing with Elmo.

"That's one of those ladies who doesn't wear a bra," said the X-Man's friend with great authority, who I swear is from a very nice family.

"Well, you don't have to wear a bra, just if you're going to exercise or you have a baby in your tummy," was the X-Man's equally sure response.

I have no idea where he got that idea. For the record, I wear a bra all the time, thanks to three children and years of breastfeeding. And, although I can't claim that we're as nice as that other family, we're not too trashy, either. At least not around the kids.

"Well, she does have a baby in her tummy."

"No, she doesn't."

"Yes," argued the X-Man's friend, making a motion in front of his own tummy to show how round he thought the lovely and slender Ms. Keys' belly was, "She does!"

They argued back and forth and I felt very glad that Alicia didn't have to hear it. As most men, and some truly clueless ladies, have learned firsthand, no one likes being told they look pregnant. I never ask if some one's pregnant, unless I can see the baby crowning. Even then, I'd probably say something like,

"Oh, my goodness! Are you pregnant? I had NO IDEA!"

I would make a very annoying labor and delivery nurse, wouldn't I?

Most women with children have been asked the question when the answer was a definite "no." It's always awkward, probably more so for the asker. When our first child was born, he stayed in the hospital for a month, because he was born two months early. Given that I gained eighty pounds in the mere seven months I was pregnant and he weighed a measly three and a half pounds (Do the math. It's fairly horrifying.), I didn't quite look not pregnant for a while. That, combined with the fact that I was supposed to still be pregnant and didn't have a newborn to carry around, led to some awkward moments. I would see someone I knew coming towards me, ready to ask me how much longer I had to go. I'd try to interrupt them before they could ask and save them the embarrassment, but some people are determined to talk first. Serves them right*.

"You don't have much longer to go now, do you? Ha ha ha!"

Since I was so enormous and not due for two more months, I guess they felt safe. I was usually able to breeze past the moment without too much suffering by whipping out a stack of pictures of our cute little tree frog in his incubator. It sure was a relief when he made it to the magic four pound mark and got to come home. No more awkward moments! Hooray! And there are some advantages to having a baby that small. He looked like a newborn for about three months, so I was able to walk around like a whale without attracting too much attention**.

As for people who are determined to make a meal out of their feet, I have no pity. I have a friend who, by her own admission, stands a little sway-backed. She has three children and a perfectly nice figure. Like many of us, she's still rebelling against generations of older women telling her to, "Stand up straight!" She does not look pregnant. In my experience, once you've had one baby, if you're not wearing a skin-tight tube top and in possession of a perfect six pack (ab-type, not imported beer-type), the rumors start to fly about your impending birth. My friend was at the gym one day and some big toothed, grinning lady bounces up to her, squealing,

"Ooooh! Congratulations! Another one on the way!"

My friend, having experienced this before, stood up a little straighter and smiled politely.

"No, not me. Ha ha ha!"

The spandex-clad clod would not be deterred. Looking at her with one of those aw-I'll-keep-your-secret faces, she lowered her voice maybe one decibel.

"Yes, you are! How exciting!"

"No, I'm really not," said my too kind friend, "You must be thinking of my sister in law. She's pregnant."

I think this was a very kind thing to do. She gave that annoying twit the perfect out. But some people just won't take it, even when it's handed to them on fine china with a sterling dessert spoon and a perfectly starched linen napkin.

"You are too!"

With that, the most clueless woman ever made the same motion with her hand that my son's friend made to indicate a growing belly and pointed to my friend's belly. As if she was walking around in the dark, completely oblivious to her own condition. I can only imagine this woman thought she was doing her a favor. Wow. Some people...

I think there's only one response to the inappropriate, "Ahhh! Are you expecting?!", and I hereby give you all permission to use it:

"Why, yes! I'm expecting to see you hit the floor just as soon as I punch you in the head as hard as I can!"

Say it with a smile and give them about three seconds to run away, because that's only fair.

Namasté, y'all!

* My suggestion for those folks is, "Get a blog." It's all about you. I love it!

** Oh, the joys of being twenty five years old. I lost all eighty pounds in two or three months, mostly through breastfeeding and walking to the ice cream store four or five times a week with the baby in a sling. Three years later, at twenty eight, I smugly gained the same eighty pounds with baby number two and, to my surprise and dismay, had to actually exercise afterwards to keep from looking like Jabba the Hutt.

Bad, Worse, Worst.

Bad: Realizing your current bra size is a 32 Long.

Worse: Realizing that you must be a crazy, country grandma because you regularly keep stuff in your bra.

Worst: Not finding some of the stuff until the end of the day.

By the way, you might not want to ask to borrow my cell phone. Just sayin'.

There was a time when I was sure I wanted to have my breasts put back in their place. When my youngest sister got married, I saw my other sister naked quite a bit, when we were trying on bridesmaid dresses. Lo and behold, there were my old boobs, albeit on someone else's chest. It was then that I realized how the mighty had fallen. And deflated. I got depressed, just a little. I mean, I have plenty of high tech (and high priced!) bras that do what they need to do, but I sometimes wonder what it would be like to buy a shirt or a dress without worrying that my foundation garment might not fit under it. And most of the stuff I wear underneath my clothes isn't fun and cute; it's utilitarian and expensive. I love expensive stuff, but I like to get some fun for my money.

After my second child was born, I pledged to wait five years after I was finished breastfeeding and assess the situation. I was pretty sure I would go ahead with the re-placement of my breasts then. As things go, I got pregnant again before the five years was up*. Once again, I've decided that I'll wait five years after he's finished breastfeeding and see how I feel. If I still care, I'll get the lift. Maybe. You see, I'm not so sure now. I thought this might happen, which is why I've always given myself the grace period. After a few years, you get used to the way things are. I no longer lament the time it takes me to roll them up and stuff them in another expensive carrier each time I get dressed. I know which bras fit me best and I know how to find them on Ebay or at tullulah. And, at my age, I really don't need to be rocking tube tops, no matter where my breasts are.

After my third c-section, I also realized that recovering from an operation isn't really much fun, and my recoveries have been relatively easy. I'm not sure I'm willing to do it if I don't end up with something really awesome, like a kid. Breasts would be really great, but I had them before and I don't remember my quality of life being any better. I hate pain and I hate not being able to exercise, so the prospect of having to take any down time after an operation isn't appealing. Also, I saw a film of the operation at the gym (where I get my television fix, since we don't have one). It was scary. I know I'd be asleep and all, but it was really, really gross. Seriously.

I do have an agreement with one of my girlfriends: If I'm ever in a coma, she has sworn that she will force my doctor to give me a breast lift and maybe a bikini wax for good measure**. I tried to get my doctor to go ahead and give me a bikini wax during my last c-section, but they didn't have the equipment and frankly, I probably wouldn't have wanted to rock a bikini immediately after the birth anyway. I also tried to get him to give me some sort of combined c-section/tummy tuck, like the stars get. He said that was more or less a myth and not really possible. Apparently, those stars actually have to breastfeed, exercise and eat less, just like the rest of us; they just have more help, so it works quicker. I do think it's important that I make this declaration official:

If I wake up from a coma with these same old boobs, someone's in big, big trouble.

You are all responsible now, because I would hate to waste a good coma. Please go ahead and bookmark this entry, so you can forward it to my doctor if the need arises. Thank you.

Namasté, y'all!

* Just so you know, the second child was really supposed to be our last. We even had the consultation for the Big V, we were so sure our family was complete. But my husband is a slacker and never followed up by getting the actual vasectomy and, one night, after a couple drinks, one or the other of us (we can't remember who) asked the other if he/she ever thought about having a third child. Baby J is very, very cute and we all love him very, very much. The End.

** Incidentally, all of my girlfriends and I have agreed to pluck each other's random facial hairs if we are ever in comas. You may want to make this agreement with some of your closest friends, too. Don't bother telling your husband, because he would probably just think you were joking. Take care of this today; you won't be sorry.

I Don't Care What You Look Like

And I don't think you should care what I look like, although feel free to tell me if you think I'm looking particularly foxy. I have yet to experience a major breakdown over someone else's appearance (over my own, I have. Back in the day, a single zit could send me into a downward spiral faster than you can say Clearasil.) I've been told by more seasoned parents than I that I don't know how bad it can get. Maybe they're right. But maybe not.

My parents and I don't always agree on what looks good. Apparently, my Doc Martens made me look like a lesbian. I'm not quite clear on why, especially because, several years later, when the cute girls started wearing them, they were suddenly...cute. And I don't really see anything wrong with looking like a lesbian (if a pair of shoes can do that, which I sincerely doubt), although I guess it could be seen as deceptive. Somehow, I don't think Mom was thinking about all those poor disappointed lesbians. Or maybe she was, because when I stopped shaving my legs for a brief time, she seemed concerned again that I was trying to fool lesbians. If I caused any difficulty for lesbians, I do apologize. Sorry, lesbians! I like you and I never meant to hurt or deceive you!

My nose ring was met with similar anger. And I use the word anger, because that's what it was. From my parents' reaction, you would have thought I had gotten a tattoo of a naked bum smack in the middle of my forehead, a hairy naked bum. I got my nose pierced because I thought it looked cute. Period. I was always willing to take it out for work, without being asked, even. It was never a political statement. It was just a fashion statement. It was no different from the fashion choices my mom (Talbot's) and my dad (pleated pants) make every day. I wouldn't make those choices for myself, but I couldn't care less what they wear. And I don't care what my kids wear, as long as it sort of fits and is more or less appropriate for the weather.

Clothes should make us feel good. On the first day of pre-school, O. wore a carefully planned outfit. At the time, he was in the habit of rocking my sister's t-ball shirts from the early eighties (so Old School - that kid has always had serious style.) That day, he wore a red polyester t-ball shirt, red polyester gym shorts that he had insisted on buying, to go with the shirt, red socks, pulled up like thigh-highs and red shoes. He looked awesome and felt like a bad-ass. I was so proud.

For an entire year, O. wore shorts to kindergarten. At first, I objected, until I remembered that we live in South Carolina. If it ever was cold enough here for there to be a risk of frost-bite, the kids wouldn't have school any way. The only time we'd leave the house would be to buy milk, bread and eggs for the impending blizzard (we like to eat French Toast during blizzards). And I knew that the only reason I cared was that I was worried what the other parents and teachers would think of me as a mother. And I know I'm doing just fine. Any time your answer to a "why" question starts with, "Other people..." it's probably the wrong answer.

The other day, my mother in law visited my sister in law, V.* She was only there for fifteen minutes, but that didn't stop her from driving V. a little crazy. Our mother in law, with tears in her eyes and a choked voice, begged V. to get her seven year old son a haircut. "Other people" apparently think terrible thoughts about my nephew because of his hair. Although it's beside the point, I think he looks pretty cool, like a British rocker. But these "other people" do not agree. I'm not sure what they think about him, perhaps that he's a drug user, a pimp or a little boy with parents who don't care if he gets a haircut. According to our mother in law, he is a handsome boy, but no one will ever know, because his hair makes him look ugly. Wow.

My mother still makes comments about my looks, although she tries to be kinder. I think she really believes she's doing me a favor, but it hurts my feelings. Telling someone they have spinach in their teeth is doing them a favor; telling them their eyeshadow looks bad is mean. Mom would claim that I shouldn't be hurt, that I shouldn't care what other people think. On this point, I agree, but it's a fact of life that we usually do care what the people close to us think. It's not that I need everyone to approve of my fashion choices, but it hurts to think that someone you love could love you less because of something so inconsequential.

My mother's brother is getting married on Saturday (his third wedding, but he's remarrying his second wife, but that's another story!) and I know I'll wear the wrong thing. Somehow, I always manage to be dressed wrong around my mom's family, so I've given up and just wear what I like. There are a bunch of unwritten rules in her family about what's appropriate, and I really need someone to write them out for me. Several months ago, I was with her family, including two cousins who have babies a little bit younger than Baby J. At some point, I had to breastfeed Baby J, which I did fairly discreetly; after three children and years of breastfeeding, I'm pretty good at it. I was rather proud of myself for being so smooth, until I saw my cousins whip out tents. They had these tents velcroed around their necks, so their babies could eat in peace out of the public eye. At least, I think they were eating; I guess there's no way to know for sure what was going on under there.

So, my uncle's (third) wedding (to his second wife - oh wait, did I already say that? Oops!) is coming up and I don't know what to wear. The wedding is on a farm. The ceremony will be by a lake and, following that, we'll walk up a hill on a dirt road to some sort of building with concrete floors. As you can imagine, this scenario presents me with shoe challenges. The only clothes I own that go with dirt road, hill walking shoes are sweatpants and jeans. And those aren't even my party jeans, which I wear with heels. Despite my pleas for suggestions, mom is no help. Maybe I should call my cousins, who seem to be more in the know. As it stands, I'm planning on wearing a brown tweed, pleated mini skirt, a deep teal silk blouse (by Mayle, bought on sale - yes!) and my brown Yves St. Laurent platform boots (also bought on sale, several years ago, for 90% off!) All I need to complete the outfit is a pair of magenta fishnets. I'm going to look great, according to me.

By the way, I don't rock the nose ring any more, but I've kept the hole open. When I'm in a nursing home, I plan to wear it. It should help me weed out the people who are more interested in the way I look than they are in me. Too bad for them, because I have good jokes.

Namasté, y'all!

*V. and I are married to brothers, although one time, after a few glasses of wine, V. told someone at a party that our husbands were married. That earned us a few funny looks.

Life Simplifier of the Day

When O was little, like a good and lonely new mommy, I regularly attended La Leche League and a Hippy Mommy Playgroup. Although I don't go anymore, they both served me well at the time. I learned a lot in LLL:

• Breastfeeding is normal.
• I don't have to defend my parenting choices, but I can, if I'm willing to risk boring the heck out of other people.
• Some people take the whole natural parenting thing too far and are extremely boring when talking about it.
• Even hippies can be judgmental and small-minded. Okay, I already knew that, but I got to see it in action.
  

The Hippy Playgroup meant a lot to me, too. I made some good friends and these are some things I learned:

• A. can take care of his own children just fine while I go out with friends for a few hours. Really.
• I can still carry on interesting conversations, as long as I have coffee, even though my brain has gotten more and more addled with each child.
  
• Bringing food to a family with a baby is a super nice thing to do. Doesn't matter what the food is and doesn't matter how well you know them. After the X-Man was born, we had food almost every night for over a month. I still get teary thinking about how much that meant to me. Not all of the food was our preference and we didn't know some of the people very well. I'm eternally grateful to them and I try to help other people when I can, without worrying if it'll seem weird.
• I don't have to defend my parenting choices and, if I want to be a good friend, I won't question the choices of my friends. I can assume all of my friends are intelligent (cuz I aM so sMarT.) If they want my opinion, they'll ask. If they have all of the information they want or need, they'll make a great decision based on that, without my help or judgment.
• The vast majority of people who choose to homebirth and/or homeschool do it for great reasons. A very, very small minority make those choices because they are socially phobic and/or very small-minded.
  
• Hummus is not appropriate for a party.
• How to make a pie crust right in the pan, no trouble, no mess.

The last was courtesy of my friend J's grandmother, who I've never met, but suspect I would like immensely. And now, I am passing it on to you.

Pat in the Pan Crust, by Madeline Colletti*

Right there in a 9 inch pie pan, dump and mix the following:

1 1/2 cups + 3 tablespoons flour. If you want to use whole wheat, I recommend whole wheat pastry flour. But what I really recommend is good old all-purpose flour (organic and unbleached, of course!)

1 1/2 teaspoons sugar

1/2 teaspoon salt

1/2 cup vegetable oil

3 tablespoons milk (It works fine with whatever kind of milk: soy, rice, goat, cow, skim, whole, etc.)

If you want to get fancy, you can mix the dry ingredients (in the pan!) with a fork first. Then pour (in the pan!) the milk and oil. When I made it last night, though, I dumped everything right in the pan (!) and it came out great. Mix it with a fork (guess where!) until the dry ingredients are moist and the dough is chunky.

Now press it into the pan with your fingers. I recommend pressing it into the sides first, then use what's left for the bottom. After you add your filling, you can go back around the edges and press the dough lower if it was too high. I like to make it a little bit too high so I can get a nice fat edge around the top.

This crust is great for a pie or a quiche. If you're a quiche maker, here's a base recipe:

4-5 eggs

spoonful of mustard (any kind, even good old yellow hot dog mustard, but I prefer something with a bit of zing.)

cup of grated cheese (any kind.)

splash of milk

salt and pepper to taste

That can be dumped over whatever veggies or meat you like in your quiche.

Now cook the thing at 350° for 35-45 minutes, until the crust is slightly brown. let it sit out on the counter until the center is truly set. Eat it hot or cold.

Namasté, y'all!

*copyright © 2001 Madeline Colletti

I'm going to Yoga this afternoon and we went out to eat last night, so I thought I'd make dinner ahead. I hate coming home from Yoga all blissed out and having to try to cook, which I enjoy, with hungry people clawing at me and punching each other, which I don't enjoy at all.

This recipe came from a recipe in a stupid book that I bought for a quarter at a library sale, "Eat Well, Lose Weight While Breastfeeding." Dumb title, dumb book. The author makes losing weight while breastfeeding way too complicated, outlining specific nutrients that you MUST HAVE! OR YOUR BABY WILL DIE! OR TURN OUT DUMB! OR HAVE NO SENSE OF HUMOR! She's also convinced that you should determine how much you eat based in part on how big your baby is. Which is dumb, because I'm pretty sure I needed to eat more or the same to feed my three and a half pound baby (who needed to eat all the time) as I did to feed my other two larger, but not as hungry babies. And I lost weight all three times, at more or less the same rate. Anyhow, I think new mothers have enough to worry about without calculating micrograms of vitamins and exact calorie requirements. Ladies, my advice is to eat what you need, eat whole foods and exercise as much as you can without being a nut about it. Not that you asked. And I wouldn't presume to tell you, because there's already enough unsolicited advice in the world for mothers. Just do your best. Or not.

So, the recipe in the book is for Salmon Croquettes, also pretty good, but not what I want right now. And they call for green peppers, which are vile, and some kind of yogurt and dill dip, which is one more step than I want to take. I need to write my recipe down, so I can get rid of the stupid book already. I've had it for 9 years and I only use one page of it. That page is really crusty, though, so I don't think I can donate the book. Not that I'd want to, because it sucks.

Crab Cakes

Into a bowl, dump the following:

1 pound of crab meat. I usually buy the reasonably fresh kind in a jar in the seafood section, but I've used fresh off the boat and I've used canned, and they're all good. I just go by my budget at the moment.

1/2 cup panko bread crumbs. Big shocker, I'm lazy and buy the kind from the store. You can make your own really easily, though, which I've done in a pinch, by throwing crackers or toast into a food processor. My mini food processor works great for this and it isn't a pain to clean. If you get the ones form the store, try to find some without gross stuff, like MSG, high fructose corn syrup or extreme amounts of salt.

1/4 cup mayonnaise. I like Duke's and you should, too.

About a half a cup green onions, chopped. Red onions or even yellow are good, too, but chop them really tiny.

About a half a cup of chopped red bell pepper. Yellow or orange is fine, too, but red is prettiest. The vile green ones are not allowed.

1 egg

One little glop of mustard (more than a teaspoon, less than a tablespoon) I like Dijon mustard, but any old mustard will do, unless it's something weird, like Tarragon mustard.

One little glop of hot pepper sauce. I think Tropical Pepper Company's Tico Papaya Curry is particularly good, but I don't really care what you use.

Blend everything together really well. Sprinkle about a quarter cup of breadcrumbs (add more as you need them) on a plate. Make balls with the crab mixture (whatever size you like. I make about 6 total, because we have this as a meal), roll each ball in the breadcrumbs and gently flatten it on a cookie sheet. Cook at 350 for about 15 minutes, longer if you like them crispy.

You could also fry them, but that's a lot messier.

I like to wear plastic gloves to finish mixing the stuff and to shape and roll the balls. It's less messy and the mixture holds together better than if you just mix it with a spoon.

If you're in the mood for crispy, greasy, thin crab cakes like you get in some seafood restaurants, these are not for you. They aren't fried, but they are super yummy. I like to serve them with Chipotle Dip from Rosewood Market, but they're good just sprinkled with lemon juice too.

Tonight, we're having them with roasted okra and eggplant. And maybe a salad. And a bottle of Sumarroca Cava.

Namasté, y'all.