Mattel's New "Mad Men" Barbies

Don: “When Matthew Weiner created me, I believe he meant for me to have, well, a weiner. Guess they missed that in the negotiations with Mattel.”

Roger: “Yeah, I could use one of those myself.” (Don hands Roger his drink; Roger lifts his glass to Don).

Don: “And that’s even before he knew that my real name is Dick.” (Don tries to furrow his brows. Nothing happens.)

Roger: “At least they gave us arms – the better to drink with, as somebody says.” (Roger unscrews his left leg from his thigh, takes the scotch in his right hand and pours it through the plastic hole in his thigh). “Hit me again, Draper. It may not be wooden, but a plastic leg could come in handy.”

Before Don can get Roger another drink, there’s a knock at his office door.

Don: “Come in.” Don attempts to pull the cuffs on his sleeves down, but finds that  have been sewn into his jacket. He looks toward the door. The door opens and Joan Harris is poised in the doorway.

Roger: “Jesus, Joan. Did you get a breast reduction, for God’s sake? You’re gonna give me another heart attack.”

Don: “I don’t know if ladies like Joan want to talk about that.” Don looks to the floor and puts his hands in his pockets. His pinkies stick out over the top of the pocket. He tries shoving them in, but again, his pinkies catch on the pocket opening.

Joan: “It was Greg. He’s still trying to work on his surgical skills. It’s okay; the man has no brains in his fingers.”

Roger: “Humph. So he’s decided to be a plastic surgeon? Could be money in that some day.” Roger stands and attempts to straighten his tie. “I already have a leg up, which is even better than a foot in the door.”

Joan: “I knew you wouldn’t like it,  but I married him for his heart, not his hands.”

Roger walks to the door and turns to look at them before leaving. He eyes Joan’s hips from the back.

Roger: “Looks like he took a whack at your butt, too.” Roger closes the door behind him.

Joan looks to Don and tries to roll her eyes. They don’t move.

Don: “Sit down, Joan.” Joan moves to the sofa. She tries to cross her legs at the knees, then tries again with the other leg.

Joan: “Nothing is the same, Don. You, Sterling, me.”

Don: “And, Betts. Trapped in a party dress. What will the kids think when she shows up at school like that?” Don walks to the side chair and lowers himself in to it. He reaches for his cigarettes and offers one to Joan.

Joan: “Can’t. Had to give them up. Haven’t you heard?”

Don: “Burning plastic. I can live with the smell, but can’t live without the smokes.” Don attempts to light his cigarette. His thumb won’t slide down the igniter; he throws it across the room and  puts his hand to his forehead. He sighs.

Joan: “It’s not about the plastic. It’s Mattel. An image thing. Surely you can understand.”

Don: “Yeah. I heard about the martinis. It’s why I’m drinking scotch this morning.”

Joan: “I just can’t believe they let my arms bend like this and it’s of no use since I can’t smoke.”

Don: “You can still put your hand on your hip, or, (Don clears his throat) what’s left of them.”

Joan: “At least this look has always worked for Betty. What does she think?”

Don: “Have you forgotten about the divorce?”

Joan: “Right. Reno. Plenty of plastic there. So you’re not even talking to each other?”

Don: “I’ll get a chance to tell her what I think. What she did to Sally and how it’s affected us all.”

Joan: “Don, I don’t know what you mean … what she did to Sally?”

Don: “She gave our poor little girl a Barbie. (Don attempts to shake his head, displaying empathy – to no avail. He reaches for his neck and guides his face from side to side.) “Sally had nightmares. Screamed bloody murder every time she looked at the damn doll. This was only a year ago, and look at us now. Betts should have known better.”

Joan: “I’m sure it was innocent. Betty probably just wanted Sally to slim down a little bit. You know, be more like Barbie. More like herself.”

Don has a flashback to the scene where the interior decorator that Betty brought in to re-do the living room is telling him “the hearth is the soul of the home.” Don lifts his glass and drains it, then smiles.

Don: “I hope Betts moves that antique chaise lounge right in front of the hearth with a roaring fire. It will look great with a plastic puddle of my ex-wife.”

Mattel, Inc., Lionsgate and AMC have  introduced the Mad Men Barbie, for a mere $74.95 per doll, or $300 for the set. Poor Peggy is just too real to be included.

This is Heide Wilson and this is not lupus-lite. This is twenty years of hell and hope. This is Heide sporting a wig from lupus hair loss. I met Heide through the S.L.E. Lupus Foundation and the Lupus Research Institute. This was no random accident; I requested to speak specifically with a lupus patient who had suffered organ-threatening disease and who had advocated on behalf of lupus research and education. I was also keen on knowing more about the tragic racial disparities in lupus treatment. If I’m lucky, Heide will become my friend for a long time.

Heide Wilson

Heide is 48-years old, was a computer manager on Wall Street; is an Air Force veteran, a single-mother who paid for college degrees for her two children; a Brooklyn resident, a lupus patient and a strong voice for people with lupus. She lost her younger brother to lupus ten years ago. She signs her emails “peace and blessings,” and I believe her. She is smart. She is committed to this cause and others, despite being “officially” disabled. Heide volunteers for HIV-New York City and the youth group at her church. She has gone from a full life of a well-paying corporate job and single parenting to an empty nest and work that is – at once, meaningful and without pay. Regardless, Heide has a sense of humor that is endearing and engaging.

“I’m just tingling, ringing and hurting all over,” she said to describe some of the symptoms she faces on an on-going basis. Thanks to recent, excellent care through participation in a clinical trial, Heide spends more time at home now than in the hospital.

Heide’s lupus story is typical in many ways. As a young bride, in her early twenties, while serving in the Air Force, Heide began to have extreme fatigue, joint pain and other symptoms. Her military physician suspected lupus, but Heide chose not to follow up. Understandably, she was young and did not want to be burdened with a lifetime chronic disease. She also wanted children (women with lupus can have complicated pregnancies -- more on this in part three of the Wolf at the Door to come).  Two healthy pregnancies followed, which Heide recognizes in retrospect is by no means always the case for lupus patients. By age 26 Heide was working two jobs. She was still performing weekend duty in the Air Force reserves while also working as a computer technician on Wall Street and in the field.

“I had terrible fatigue. Some days it was almost impossible to get out of bed. My arms and legs felt like lead. My joints were so painful, red and inflamed,” she said as she described her life in those days. By that time, Heide was a single parent, and as she said, “you just don’t stop.”

Visits to her HMO general practitioner when her hands were swollen and her hair was falling out led to speculation of an allergic reaction to “something” and a “stress” diagnosis. She was referred to a psychiatrist who prescribed multiple medications. Over time Heide began having what was diagnosed as panic attacks, one of which resulted in a trip to the emergency room where the doctor speculated that she might have lupus. A battery of tests followed. Heide was diagnosed with SLE, but was still under the care of a general practitioner. Rather than being prescribed common front line treatments such as Plaquenil and Prednisone, Heide’s doctor loaded her up with Methotrexate, which is sometimes used in SLE treatment, but more generally in tandem with the aforementioned drugs.

“The Methotrexate totally knocked out my white blood count. I was put in reverse isolation in the hospital. I had no resistance. There was MRSA [methicillin-resistant staphylococcus aureus] in the hospital at the time and I think the hospital really wanted to get me out of there.”

Heide was sent home, still suffering with a variety of problems including pericarditis. It was at about this same time that Heide’s 28-year old brother, Keith, became acutely ill – seemingly, out of nowhere. “He never had any symptoms. He just suddenly became very ill and went to the emergency room,” she recalled. It was indeed an emergency. Keith was in kidney failure due to lupus nephritis. He was immediately put on dialysis. “After a couple of years he received a cadaver kidney, which worked for a couple of years, but then his body rejected it. He went back on dialysis.” (Listening to Heide at this point, I’m thinking, praying, and hoping, — “please tell me soon how this ends and that today he is somehow thriving.”) “ He died at 36 from heart failure,” Heide revealed. “It tore my family up emotionally,” Heide said. “It put my parents in a panic mode [about me]. If I don’t answer the phone they get very nervous.”

Thankfully, at the time in which her brother died,  Heide was under the care of a rheumatologist and receiving better-informed care. Before long Heide’s feet and ankles began to swell. “I remember my daughter telling me that it looked like I had cankles.” Heide laughs then turns somber. “But I also remember how painful it was to walk during that time, especially on the day of my daughter’s junior high graduation. I was going no matter what,” she added.

The edema (swelling) that Heide was experiencing was a symptom of lupus kidney involvement. Protein was found in her urinalysis and Heide was immediately treated with intravenous steroids, Cellcept (an immune suppressant) and diuretics. She received IV steroids three times weekly for several years. Her kidneys have stabilized with evidence of a small amount of protein in her urine now. “Of course you don’t want any protein, but one gram is so much better than where I started,” she said.

By 2007 Heide could no longer work. Her disease and the related time and energy devoted to treatment made it impossible for Heide to continue to meet her job demands. She now receives social security disability because of lupus but her former insurance company and former employer came up with a different diagnosis for the insurance funded disability: Mental illness.

“I do believe it was discriminatory as a way around having to pay the benefits,” Heide offered in response to my gasp. The insurance company did their own investigation separate from Social Security. Basically, Heide described a witch-hunt that enabled her insurance company and former employer to  pay only 24 months of disability (the max allowed for “mental illness” in her policy), versus a lifetime disability check for a “physical” disease. “I just don’t have the energy to fight this,” she added.

When asked about her overall experience with health insurance, Heide tells a story that may, in fact, be telling. “The whole time I was in an HMO plan, I was misdiagnosed and I never saw a specialist. It wasn’t until I was in a PPO-POS plan that I began to get good care.”

Today Heide has especially good care while enrolled in a lupus clinical trial for Benlysta, the first successfully tested new drug developed specifically for people with systemic lupus in more than 50 years. “It’s given me a lot of hope,” said Heide, who was forced to give Plaquenil (a disease modifying anti-rheumatic drug that is typically prescribed to help control lupus) over seven years when the drug began to affect her vision. Plaquenil can cause vision problems and even permanent eye damage among patients with abnormal kidney function. Heide falls in to this rare group. Otherwise, most patients tolerate Plaquenil very well and are advised to obtain a baseline eye exam prior to beginning the drug, to be followed by eye exams every six months. Benlysta has had two successful Phase 3 trials to date is filing for FDA approval.

Heide believes that the Benlysta has allowed her to reduce the amount of prednisone she receives. As she said, “I’m getting older and I can’t keep getting large amounts of Prednisone.” Corticosteroids like Prednisone can create such side effects as: a swelling, or rounding of the face (moonface), acne, dramatic weight gain, hair loss, easy bruising, thinning of the bones, high blood pressure, diabetes, increased risk of infection, depression and aggression, muscle atrophy and this is not a complete list.

She’s grateful for the help, support and strong friendships she has received from the S.L.E. Foundation and attended the Lupus Advocacy Day in on Capitol Hill last year where she spoke out on behalf of lupus research funding and in support of important lupus education initiatives. I’m dedicating TODAY to Heide and asking readers to take just a moment to advocate on her behalf, and for others like Heide. Call, e-mail, tweet. Here’s how: Tell Congress

Do it now. Time is wasting, and bodies like Heide’s are wasting away, even though her spirit soars. I can still hear her laughter and relief when she recognized that she was being interviewed by someone who knew what she was fighting. Let’s help her win, shall we?

www.youtube.com/watch?v=Qbq2ltEMG70

You may think you can huff and puff and blow my door down but I’m ready for you to get the hell out of my way. I know that I’m not alone. Get out of their way, too – all 1.5 million Americans with lupus have had it with you. So Mr. Wolf, take your fancy Latin name (lupus), your mean, fiery eyes; ferocious growl and vicious bite and turn it on your own body, the way you make us turn on ours.

Howling Back

We’ve tried it your way; we’ve tried to let your sleeping dog lie, but you insist on waking up and picking a fight. We’ve tried to tame you, pet you, and coddle you. We’ve fed you what you what craved – sleep, the dark, the corticosteroids, yet you’re still ravenous.

We quiver at the sight of you out there sniffing in our yards, inhaling the scent of our vulnerabilities as you do. We bolt our doors, draw the shades and hide from the sunlight, but still you find a crack in the window, a forgotten ladder to the upstairs, a back door not locked. The alarms sound: you’re hungry – our hair falls into our hands, mouth ulcers erupt, temperatures flare, joints creak and swell; migraines explode, fingers stiffen, and infections flourish. If you’re especially starved, you’ll go for the good stuff: heart, lung, kidneys, brain, gut. Carnivorous bastard. Is there any part your nasty teeth don’t devour? Flannery O’Conner was right. “The wolf is tearing up the place.”

The body cops arrive armed with their steroids, the only acute weapon in their arsenal, non-discriminating as they are. They start firing in every direction. Now cower. Lick your wounds. Hobble away. Friendly fire explodes. Is that you limping back Mr. Big Bad Wolf, or is it I? And others like me, or God forbid, much worse.

Go back to your den. Curl up with your pack. I’ve got a pack too – my family, my friends, my doctor, myself. And another thing – get near my cub and I’ll tear you apart.

Aujourd’hui, le lupus

What will it be today? Will you take our breath, our strength, our mental clarity? Will you simply light upon our skin, a visible outward threat to the inward inflammation? These are some of the questions asked by people living with systemic lupus erythematosus (SLE), ninety percent of whom are women. The disease most often strikes women of childbearing age. For an unknown reason lupus is all too often more physically devastating for women of color. Research is finally focusing on this group after a CDC study identified the highest lupus-related death rates to be among black women. (Another study published in “Disease and Ethnicity” predicted that the lowest SLE disease severity was among Caucasian females with PPO/POS insurance.)

With lupus, the body overreacts to an unknown stimulus, making too many antibodies directed against otherwise healthy body tissue. In other words, the body turns on itself, often igniting an inflammatory or infectious process, hence its classification as an autoimmune disease.

Capricious by nature, lupus is cruel in its unpredictability. Severe, organ-threatening disease can cause such complications as lupus nephritis, or other kidney involvement (The Lupus Foundation estimates that approximately 40% of lupus patients have kidney involvement); pericarditis, (an inflammation of the pericardium, a sac lining the heart); and premature atherosclerosis (the third most common cause of death in lupus patients, following kidney disease and infection). Even the non-organ threatening manifestations such as arthritis, recurrent infections and more can be chronic and painful, forcing lifestyle changes and limitations of one’s capabilities. Patients experience acute stages of the disease, known as “flare-ups,” periodically throughout their lives.

Lupus is a disease that is simultaneously under-diagnosed and over-diagnosed, either of which can have devastating implications for people in the prime of their lives. A highly elusive disease, lupus frequently dodges diagnosis for many years. Surveys show that most patients have suffered symptoms for at least three years, and commonly, as many as ten before lupus is identified. In the absence of a diagnosis and treatment, patients may sustain permanent damage to vital organs. At the same time, tenacious patients in pursuit of answers all too often find themselves hearing the humiliating words, “that it’s all in your head.”

On the other hand, an inaccurate diagnosis may render costly and toxic treatment. Corticosteroids (such as Prednisone) are often among the first line strategies of treating the disease, particularly during an acute episode. These medications, while offering relief and results for lupus patients, are not without a potentially dangerous, disfiguring,  and disheartening price. A mistaken diagnosis may also influence a patient’s ability to obtain insurance, significantly raise their premiums if they have insurance, or potentially interfere with successful employment. (A health insurance broker once told me that insurance companies really dislike lupus patients as “so many don’t die and none get well.”)

In “The Lupus Book,” Daniel J. Wallace MD, a world-renowned rheumatologist and Clinical Chief of Rheumatology at Cedars-Sinai Medical Center, wrote, “lupus is a difficult diagnosis.  A complex diagnostic workup is often necessary, and few physicians are equipped to interpret the necessary battery of tests. In these instances, most physicians will consult a board-certified rheumatologist or recommend that their patients visit such a specialist.”

My own story. This is not a pity-party. This is for other lupus patients, or those lost in diagnosis land.

I began suffering symptoms at the age of thirty, a year after the birth of my daughter. Stabbing pain in my chest and center of my back prompted me to see my doctor. The diagnosis was pleurisy, an inflammation of the lining of the lungs that is not unique to patients with lupus and can strike virtually anyone. Ten years later when I was diagnosed with SLE, I was told that pleurisy is often one of the first manifestations of the disease.

Profound fatigue followed. By ever-increasing measure, the fatigue was soon accompanied by muscle and joint pain. I had always been an energetic and active person, described by some friends as actually hyperactive. A reduction in my stamina was glaringly apparent to me and them.

Another bout with pleurisy followed. After much frustration and fear, I sought a rheumatologist who diagnosed my condition as fibromyalgia, which is defined as “a pain amplification syndrome characterized by fatigue, a sleep disorder, and tender points in the soft tissues.” This was in the 80’s and fibromyalgia naysayers abounded. I was among them, now thoroughly convinced it must be in my head.

Within a few years other symptoms presented, yet my efforts to find successful treatment remained elusive. In time, a series of “episodes” occurred in which I began to have memory loss, acute speech difficulties, dizziness and loss of balance. (Close friends should be advised that these episodes are not be confused with my general klutziness. Moreover, no wine was involved.) Migraine headaches held me hostage in the dark and quiet. Next came a rare form of migraine that sent me to the emergency room several times with acute and bizarre symptoms in which I could suddenly only see half of an image – as in half of someone’s face. At the same time, the room I was in might turn upside down in my vision. Trust me, that is scary. I never did LSD in my youth, but I’ve wondered if those experiences couldn’t be likened to a bad trip. At least one of these episodes may have been a stroke, or TIA as a later MRI showed evidence of such. I was 42.

A chronic and mysterious swelling in various lymph glands alarmed me and became more painful and more swollen every day, particularly when I was more fatigued than usual. My hands, which ached night and day, began to look rather patriotic: red, white and blue. I had chronic kidney and bladder infections and was treated with prophylactic sulfa, which turns out to be an absolute “no-no” for lupus patients.

Again, I made the rounds of physicians including neurologists, cardiologists and even a psychiatrist. Each offered an explanation, diagnosis and treatment of the symptoms related to their specialty. None could link the symptoms to a bigger picture. I soon found myself on a wide variety of expensive and potentially harmful medications.

I was defeated and ready to surrender in my quest for an answer when I became acutely ill with a rare form of inflammatory colitis. Oddly, what I recall most about that time was the distant sound of a train making its way toward Atlanta around 5AM during those sleepless nights. To this day, the sound of a train makes me feel alone and afraid. After three weeks and fourteen pounds of weight loss, I was admitted to the hospital, dangerously dehydrated and with life threateningly low blood pressure. The situation led me to a gastroenterologist, one of the few physician specialties I had not previously sought. A colonoscopy identified lymphocytic colitis (also known as collagenous colitis), which, like lupus, is an autoimmune condition. My joints were swollen and painful. The gastroenterologist brought in a rheumatologist to consult. After another extensive battery of tests, I was diagnosed with SLE.

My husband and I were somewhat relieved. On the one hand, I had begun to fear the likelihood of lupus, so much so that I had dreams about the disease, yet I was relieved to at last comprehend the relationship between the vast array of seemingly unrelated symptoms and be able to begin a treatment regimen.

Everyday living with lupus

Since my diagnosis fifteen years ago, I have experienced many other manifestations of the disease: pericarditis, costochondritis (inflammation where the sternum meets the rib); osteoarthritis, hip bursitis, uveitis (inflammation of the uvea – the eye’s middle layer); anemia and malabsorption; interstitial cystitis, repeated opportunistic infections, shingles, and  today’s diagnosis of an inflammatory eye condition associated with a staph infection and more lupus du jour expressions. No matter – I have lupus-lite! I’ve included this list not as pity-party favors, but rather to demonstrate the myriad of ways in which this wolf can bite, even among those of us who have dodged some of the scariest and life-threatening afflictions that can lead to renal failure, dialysis, kidney transplant, pulmonary embolisms and death.

Tell Congress to continue biomedical research and lessen the disparities in care for people with lupus.

(to be continued: other patient stories, treatment, research and the future)

Of course, today is not just any Monday. It is Martin Luther King Day and it is widely purported on the Internet that King loved red beans and rice. Being the theme queen that I am, I’m tempted to latch on to this rumor for the convenience of timing. Rather, I’ll share the recipe with Dew readers and the beans and rice with some of our homeless neighbors in the park in honor of King and one of his many protégés, Congressman John Lewis. It was Lewis, along with former Democratic Senator, Harris Wofford who authored and sponsored legislation to create the MLK Day of National Service, which, in my humble opinion, is a fitting and purposeful tribute to Dr. King and his legacy. The legislation was signed in to law by President Clinton in 1993.

I’ll also acknowledge that yet again, I did not plan well enough in advance to contribute more on this day. Last year, my friends Chrys Graham and Martha (Grace) Fagan and I just showed up at Samaritan House of Atlanta on MLK Day in hopes of being of service. They put us to fairly good use, but I suspect not so much as they would have if we had made advance plans with this very valuable charity committed to helping homeless men and women gain self-sufficiency. I felt that I was given much more by SamHouse and their clients on this day of service than I gave to them. We had the privilege of participating in a discussion with their clients about what Dr. King had meant to them and how his life had influenced their own. There were many moving words spoken and tributes paid, but I believe the loudest and most powerful King influence on this group was never said, yet understood: It was about hope. These men and women would not have been accepted by the Samaritan House program, which requires personal accountability, were it not for their hope that they too could “overcome” the illnesses, addictions, mistakes, domestic violence and various other influences on homelessness that had led them to need Samaritan House.

So share some hope, some service, and some beans and rice. And be thankful, especially for your washer and dryer on wash day.

Red Beans & Rice
First things first – it’s not too late to make this dish today thanks to the “quick-soak” method on beans. Total “prep” time is only about a half hour, but total cook time (including the quick soak) is closer to five hours.

2 lbs. dried red kidney beans (see quick soak method on package, or soak overnight)
6-8 strips of bacon (all you really need is the bacon drippings so you can enjoy a BLT while doing the rest of the prep)
2 yellow onions, chopped
1 green pepper, chopped
3 celery stalks, chopped
4 minced cloves of garlic
A ham hock (size doesn’t matter much)
Salt and pepper to taste
1 – 2 teaspoons of cayenne pepper – to taste, or a couple of dashes of cayenne sauce
2 bay leaves
1/2 teaspoon of dried marjoram
1 beer (if you can think you can spare it)
1 teaspoon of sugar
Enough water to cover the beans (I prefer to add at least one cup chicken stock in place of some of the water)
1 tablespoon of tomato paste (more as a thickening agent)
1 package of Andouille sausage (6 links)
1/2 pound Tasso ham (failing to plan in advance as Tasso is not readily available, I substituted with diced pancetta and missed the Tasso flavor) The ham is optional.
White rice (enough for 6-8 servings)
Sliced green onions and parsley for garnish

Sort the beans discarding any off-color beans or small stones. Rinse thoroughly and follow instructions for quick cook method or soak overnight.
Fry the bacon in a large skillet (preferably cast-iron). Saute the onions, pepper, celery and garlic in the bacon drippings. (Set the skillet aside; you will use again).When the beans have soaked, rinse thoroughly and pour off the soaking liquid. Add the vegetable saute to the beans, followed by the ham hock. Add the spices, beer and sugar and mix thoroughly before adding the water. Add water/stock and the tomato paste. Bring to a boil, then reduce to simmer for 2 and a half hours. (Take a nap, read a book or fold some clothes). You’re allowed to peek under the lid and stir occasionally. Slice the sausage to a size you would prefer ( I like 2 inch links) and chop the Tasso ham into small chunks. Fry the sausage and the ham in the original skillet until browned. Add to the beans to cook another half hour. Serve over hot white rice. Garnish with green onions and parsley. This recipe will serve 8-10 or more. Can be frozen for future Mondays.

We like our loft and have maximized every inch of space, from floor to soaring ceilings. Even with inventive use of space (using unreachable ceiling beams as bookshelves for books long ago read), the loft move was still a serious downsize. Adding a temporary “plant” might have required sleeping with it, had we not concocted this scheme to accommodate beloved ornaments (a euphemism for fond memories). The windows were the only space available to us.

Frankly, I don’t recall exactly how we came up with the idea other than to report that one of us offhandedly remarked, “What we need is a flat tree.” As my husband and I so often do, we engaged in a Mimosa, or wine-fueled brain storm that more closely resembled a sprinkling of one goofy idea that fertilizes another until the front moves on. At times, laughing gets in the wonderful way.

The 22-foot flat tree is nothing more than garland strands tirelessly woven together over a couple of days and adhered to the window with hidden suction cups. Of course, we miss the real thing, the shelling out of a hundred bucks or more, the pine needles everywhere, and the strapping on to the car. Actually, we do miss the scent, but at least this version allows a one-dimensional view of all the memories and a lovely, unexpectedly bright spot when viewing it from the park below.

We now refer to trimming our flat tree as “rolling out the tree,” since it does exactly that: rolls out as a tree and rolls back up into a jelly-roll tree fit for storage. Yes, we take the ornaments off first, but not the lights, which is especially handy since the de-tangling of lights, as we all know, is less than no fun at all. This year, we’re even thinking of resorting to flat presents for all.

My mom created a fireplace, replete with hearth, out of a desk and brick patterned paper.

In a similar vein as the flat tree, my mother, who was exceptional at creating bright spots from unusual sources, created a fabulous faux fireplace when my brother and sister and I were kids. We were living on Okinawa, where I was pretty sure Santa would not find us. Mom created a fireplace, replete with hearth, out of a desk and brick patterned paper. She hung our stockings there and even Santa fell for it.

In a shrinking world, (or as Tom Friedman says, “The World is Flat”), the flat tree could save a few Fraser firs and light up some vertically challenged domains with joy. Trust me, Santa has fallen for it before.

Note: Anyone wishing to buy this Flat Christmas Tree idea or invest in creating it for production in time for next season, should contact me at: Terri@LikeTheDew.com

Until now, my Madeleine pan has baked Boursin biscuits and other such things past. I even once considered cornbread shells but decided it would be un sacrilege – or at a minimum, an uncomfortable culture clash. Cast iron is for cornbread. At least the Boursin originated from Normandy.

If the Madeleine made Proust shudder as described, then I shuddered to think that I could ever make a cookie worthy of his remembrance, despite his inability to criticize from his spot in Père Lachaise. I never tried. Until now. Thanks to a blast from the past (this was no involuntary autobiographical memory in Proustian fashion), I received an emailed recipe from an old friend in Hawaii, now a facebook pal and darned good Dew reader, named Steve Spence. Steve, and wife, Valorie sometimes bake the madeleines in their design studio where he claims they, “have to beat the neighbors away with a bat,” when the cookies come out of the oven. His description of the cookie reception, while a bit less prosaic than Proust, was incentive enough for me. The recipe burned at 375 degrees in my inbox until I accepted the challenge.

Proustian intimidation be damned! This was easy. Little golden cakes, their fat, smooth sides up soon emerged from the oven perfectly lined up as if they were plump soldiers on parade. Their shell sides were even better, a deeper gold with a crisp trim and clean ridges. I didn’t know whether to eat them or worship them.  The aroma provided the answer: Eat. Now. Make more.

I made more Madeleines and off we went to a gathering where they lined up to await compliments. My favorite, from a Francophile and serious smartie pants, went something like this, “Not bad. I feel like I’m in some second-tier French city.” If only my little soldiers could have spoken for themselves, they would have answered (with a decidedly Pepé Le Pew accent), “Mais oui, Monsieur! Even less than a second tier city. La Madeleine was created in Commercy, a very small village in the Lorraine region.”

La Madeleines

• 1 and ¼ cup of superfine sugar
• 1 and ¼ cup of plain flour
• 1 and ¼ cup of melted butter, plus extra softened butter for the moulds
• 4 eggs
• A pinch of salt;
• 1 teaspoon vanilla;

Preheat oven to 375 degrees. Butter the madeleine moulds and place in the freezer to set the butter. Combine sugar, flour, eggs, salt and vanilla in a bowl. Work with spatula until smooth. Stir in the melted butter. Remove the mould from the freezer and butter again. Return to the freezer to set and let the batter rest while butter freezes again in the mould. When ready, spoon the mixture into the moulds 2/3 full each. Bake for 14 minutes. Serve with love.

Note: This could be a lovely holiday gift for the Francophiles you know, or for anyone who loves Madeleines – for whatever reason. To be true to Proust, consider adding some tea to the gift.

The good news is that Paula did not fall flat on her face; but let’s face it, she didn’t exactly ham it up either, despite typically being one of the biggest (and best) hams on the face of the earth. This completely flies in the face of her reputation, which I hope will be enhanced by having shown her face with good deeds to help feed the hungry and by her good sportsmanship in the face of such adversity. She really put some bright pink lipstick on this pig that smacked her upside the head.

Deen has proven how tough she is and may yet face many more chances to prove it when someone next calls her pig-headed – or worse, a butt-head. I hope they have the courage to say it to her face, instead of being two-faced about it. Besides, she has already faced fears that many Americans are still awaiting – the swine flew, and she survived.

Before you pig out this Thanksgiving, let’s go whole hog and tell Paula what a hero she is for taking it on the chin on behalf of the  hunger problem we have in America and around the world. Comment on her facebook fan site. She was just the pearl before this swine.

www.youtube.com/watch?v=Tn-mc7QcDBU

A bit about the creator of the recipe before baking:

I first met Crescent in Eureka Springs, Arkansas in the heart of the Ozarks. (Eureka is a funny word as well, although not rib-rattling. It’s rarely seen without an explanation point. None here.) Like Crescent, Eureka Springs is authentic. It’s part hippie, part redneck, part poet, definitely Southern, and delightfully friendly. It’s the kind of place where the many turn-of-the-century homes have wicker furniture on the porches, none of which needs to be chained down to avoid theft.

Crescent, who has gone geographically Yankee on us and now lives in Vermont, spent decades in Eureka Springs, where she first founded Dairy Hollow House, an acclaimed country inn and restaurant with her late husband, Ned Shank, a true Renaissance man. Ned and Crescent eventually co-founded The Writers’ Colony at Dairy Hollow on the original site of the inn.

I spent three idyllic weeks in the state-of-the-art culinary cabin at Dairy Hollow Writers’ Colony in 2002. I came away with many chapters of a novel, successful test recipes, friends and fellow-writers whom I’ve lost contact with, but still admire; a humiliating case of chiggers from my daily walks through the countryside, and recollections of a dinner at Crescent’s off-site home that I can still taste today. The food was fresh, delicious and inspired, but my most vivid memory is my initial surprise that nothing had been prepared prior to our arrival. I was stunned. I, who prep for hours prior to welcoming “company,” could not believe how effortlessly she prepared the meal before her guests, as if this were actually the way it is supposed to be done. Naturally. Congenially. Simply. And downright sneaky easy. Then again, as a prolific cookbook author, Crescent has had plenty of practice.

The Honey of a Pie

If I were to make only one pie this Thanksgiving, which will not be the case, I would choose this recipe. Hands down. This recipe comes from Crescent’s 2003 James Beard award-winning book, The Passionate Vegetarian. The ingredients may appear to be the usual pecan pie suspects, save the honey and the browning of the butter – therein is the magic.

Honeyed-Browned Butter-Pecan Pie

• ½ cup butter
• 3 large eggs
• 1 cup sugar
• ¾ cup light corn syrup
• ¼ cup honey
• 1 teaspoon pure vanilla extract
• ¼ teaspoon salt
• 1 cup chopped pecan
• One 9-inch piecrust, unbaked
• 1 cup heavy cream, whipped (optional)

Preheat the oven to 425 degrees. Place the butter in a saucepan over low to medium heat and cook, watching closely but not stirring, until golden brown, 5 to 8 minutes. Do not burn. Pour browned butter into a bowl and set aside. Blend the eggs, sugar, corn syrup, honey, vanilla and salt in a food processor until smooth. Add the browned butter and blend. Add the pecans and process with just a few quick pulses. Pour the mixture into the piecrust. Bake for 12 minutes. Lower the heat to 325 degrees and bake for another forty minutes. Remove and cool.

Make sure the cook gets some pie.

I am, of course, referring to pie. As Andie McDowell sang so passionately in the movie, Michael, “Pie. Pie. I love pie.”  You may recall the scene in the movie in which John Travolta (the earthly angel) and his companions, Andie McDowell and William Hurt order every pie in the restaurant for dinner. Oh how I wish I had been invited to that tasty affair. We might have settled it once and for all, together – just a few Hollywood heavyweights and me – debating the merits of these crusty creations.

I’ve been experimenting in preparation for the big bird day.  Should it be pumpkin? Pecan, perhaps? Apple, you say? What about chocolate with a frothy blanket of meringue piled high? Anyone for chess (or as my grandfather called it, “jes pie”)? And let us not forget the whole category of cobbler. Did I mention tarts? What about all of the aforementioned?

There is only one pie to which I can answer a resounding, “No!” I will not mince words, here. I would eat a plough mud pie (with all the live critters) before I would eat a mincemeat pie. The problem begins with the name: Mincemeat. I’ll repeat that.  Mincemeat. Why would anyone ever want to eat a pie – of all things – with that name?

Speaking of disgusting names, the only worse food name is an ingredient to be found in none other than mincemeat pie–Suet. As Dave Barry might say, “I am not making this up.” If you think suet sounds suspicious, you would be right. Suet is defined in one of my favorite books, The Food Lover’s Companion as, “the solid white fat found around the kidneys and loins of beef and sheep.” Further, it states, “Many British recipes call for suet to lend richness to pastries and puddings.” Leave it to the Brits, whom I admire for their exquisite taste in many otherwise worldly things, to concoct a combination like suet and cherries. It’s no wonder they have perpetually asked God to save their Queen. Perhaps it was due to suet that the tradition of “tasters” evolved to protect the royalty.

On the other hand, who can blame the Brits for a poor menu of pies? They don’t celebrate Thanksgiving, nor were there actually any pies on the menu among the newly landed Brits at Plymouth Rock. Happily, our contemporary menu has expanded to include an array of divine desserts.

Here are two recent experiments (click here to download a PDF of the recipes). The pear pie is original.

ABC Pear Pie

I named this pie for the variety it features: Anjou, Bosc and Comice, all of which are perfectly in season at present. It is flavorful and not too sweet, even for breakfast.

Prepare your crust. (I always use the Cuisinart® Pâté Brisée recipe*, which is really easy as long as you have, well, a Cuisinart and plenty of butter. It keeps in the refrigerator for up to a week, and in the freezer for months. I find it efficient to make and freeze several at a time. Recipe follows. Important note: This pie crust dough must refrigerate for at least two hours prior to rolling out.)

• 3 pounds of pears, preferably Anjou, Bosc and Comice. Peeled and sliced in 2-3 inch chunks. Set aside in a large mixing bowl.
• 3 tablespoons melted butter
• ½ cup of brown sugar
• ¼ cup white granulated sugar
• ¼ cup raw, rolled oats
• 2 tablespoons of lemon juice
• 1 teaspoon vanilla
• ¼ teaspoon each of cinnamon, nutmeg and salt
• 2 tablespoons of Minute Tapioca
• Dash of liqueur (you can use Triple Sec or Grand Marnier, although I happened to have a pear eau de vie for which I will mourn when it’s gone)

Add all ingredients to the pears and mix well. Let stand for 15 minutes. Preheat oven to 400 degrees while the pear and other ingredients are getting to know one another. Fill the pie shell and top with a lattice crust. Bake for approximately 45 minutes, or until the crust is golden and the filling is bubbly. Serves well hot, room temperature, or cold – especially when served with love.

Glory’s Sweet Potato Pie

This recipe comes from Glory Foods®. It is basic, easy and delicious. Nothing fancy here, just good pie. I prefer it chilled, and once again, recommend it as breakfast food.

• 15 oz. can Glory Foods Sweet Potato Casserole (coupon available for multiple cans)
• 3 tablespoons melted butter
• 2 large eggs
• 1 cup Sweetened condensed milk
• 1 teaspoon Vanilla
• 1 tablespoon cornstarch
• Pieshell, uncooked

Preheat oven to 400 degreees. Set rack to center of the oven and place a cookie sheet on center rack. Combine all liquids (including eggs) in large mixing bowl. Blend in the cornstarch and mix. Add Glory Foods ® Sweet Potato Casserole, and mix thoroughly until smooth. Pour mixture into the pie shell. Place filled pie shell in the oven on the cookie sheet and bake for 10 minutes. Reduce heat in oven to 300 degrees and bake for approximately 40 minutes. Test the filling. The filling is cooked when the tip of a knife inserted in the center is clean when removed. Bake until filling is set. Remove from oven and allow to cool. (Options: Add a teaspoon of lemon juice, or a sprinkle of cinnamon, or nutmeg to the mixture.) Serve with love.

Cuisinart® Pâte Brisée

• 2 cups unbleached, all-purpose flour
• 1 teaspoon table salt
• ½ pound unsalted butter, cold and cubed
• 4 tablespoons ice water

Place flour and salt in a Cuisinart® Food Processor fitted with the chopping blade. Process for 10 seconds. Add butter to work bowl and pulse until the mixture resembles coarse crumbs. Pour in water, 1 tablespoon at a time, and pulse until a dough is just forms. Note: you may not need to use all of the water. Form dough into 2 flat discs; wrap in plastic and refrigerate until ready to use.

Day One

1)  Head to your nearest Home Depot for caulk. Look for the cutest guy in the caulk aisle (who happens not to be a Home Depot employee). Ask his opinion on the best caulk. Pray that he won’t actually give you the straight line, which, of course, he does.

“Depends on what you’re going to use it for.”

Now is the time you can lie, or you can give the guy a good story to tell when he gets home. I told the truth.“I’m making a wedding cake with it.” For some reason, he did not seem surprised. Was it something I was wearing? Perhaps the leopard scarf? The Prada sunglasses? Or, just that I posed my question as such: “May I ask you a boy question?”

2)   Dash into Michael’s for some paper mache boxes, a little paint and some disposable pastry bags. Ask yourself (again) why you’re the only person in line who does not have a 40% off coupon? Their customers are so crafty; they always get savings I can’t find.

3)   Head over to Gail’s Fabrics on Cheshirebridge Road where you can find exquisite, embroidered French wedding lace for trim. Do your dead level best not to be distracted by all the shiny stuff and impossible dreams of things you could (but actually can’t) sew yourself. Try to act as if you know what you’re doing among the couture designers on a mission for their wealthy clients, or the sequin-seeking Mom’s making majorette and beauty queen costumes with their whiny teenage girl on her cell phone in tow. (It’s one thing to give a guy a good story to go home with from the Depot, and quite another to provide “stock” for the laughing later by snooty designers.) Various lace and trims in hand, along with some silk to line the inside of the cake, now is when you whisper to the clerk, “just a yard and half of each, please.” This is pricey stuff. Bolt before any of the bolts of gold lame or, Jersey silk, or rhinestone-riddled velvet make you wish you could sew for real. Rhinestones! That’s what I forgot! The bride has rhinestones on her cake. Back to Michael’s. This is worse than forgetting the cream cheese for the frosting on a real cake, which you can at least get at Publix, thankfully not yet as gussied up for Christmas as is Michael’s.

4)   Be uncharacteristically thankful that your husband is out of town. The laughter and ridicule would be unbearable.

5)   Here’s the easy part: paint the boxes (inside, outside, bottom) and let them dry. Arm yourself with a caulk gun. I usually keep a glue gun in my holster, but this time is different.  Fill a few bowls with caulk. This is fun. Add some food coloring to some of the bowls, but keep the all-important bright white as it is. It does actually look tasty, even more so after you’ve painted the boxes using a frosting knife to create textured swirls on the cake. You’ve earned a glass of wine while the cake is drying – uhhh, baking. Turn on a Turner Classic Movie – this is a serious chick moment.

6)   Carefully line the boxes with the silk. Thank God (or Martha Stewart) for the invisible double stick tape that actually works. The inside complete, put the tops on the “layers” (boxes). Discover that the caulk was not actually dry and that the box top is now permanently attached to the bottom of the “layers.” Briefly consider whether the bride really does actually need to place keepsakes in it, and whether she might just enjoy having a smallish replica with no purpose of any kind.

7)   Call your daughter, who is a bridesmaid, and for whom you’ve actually baked up this scheme. She’s going to give it to the bride (maybe). Ask her opinion on the dilemma of the sealed box. “Mom, that’s just weird. It has to open.” It’s likely that she is remembering some other projects that you have “re-purposed.” Thankfully, she has other gifts planned as well.

8)   You haven’t earned it, but another glass of wine is in order. Using your frosting knife, pry the box tops away from their box. Patch the mess you’ve made, decide to think about it tomorrow, but first … turn a fan on the cake. Try to sleep.

Day Two

9)  You awaken from a nightmare. No wait!  It’s true. You’ve remembered that this patchwork cake is for a Beverly Hills wedding. It’s pouring rain and humid in Atlanta. Call your husband in Maine at 6:30 A.M.

“How the hell do I get this caulk to dry? I’ve got to overnight this thing to LA tomorrow.”

His son, another handy genuis gets involved. Double the ridicule and laughter. “Put a fan on it,” they say, after first suggesting that I read the instructions on the caulk packaging. Clever.

“Been there. Done that. All of that, in fact. I’m considering a hairdryer.”

Hours and google searches go by before I surrender. (No results for “caulk cake.” Now there will be.) I cover more of the cake with the lace than originally planned, but it’s pretty. The wet caulk welcomes it; I can soon move on to the frosting. This really is the fun part. Fill the pastry bags with caulk and decorate the edges. Cover your boo-boos with rhinestones. Hope and pray that it stops raining and your newly applied caulk will dry this time.

Day Three

Decide that the bride can take the cake after the honeymoon. It’s drying in the sun today – her wedding day.

“Unless someone like you cares a whole awful lot, nothing is going to get better. It’s just not.” –

During National Breast Cancer Awareness Month, LikeTheDew writers and readers have cared a whole awful lot about breast cancer with stories and comments from survivors and accounts about those who did not survive. Many of us have smiled, laughed and cried as we’ve traveled with Rosemary Griggs on her “Stroll Down Mammary Lane.” Rosemary’s authentic voice and art has provided us with insight that may be as raw and real as the fortunate among us will ever literally encounter with this disease.

The Pink Pyramid

We have shared information from, and about, Susan G. Komen for the Cure^® related to the importance of early detection of the disease and their hope – and promise – to end breast cancer forever. We turn now to Komen’s global outreach, in places where an account like Rosemary’s Mammary Lane journal might not endure cultural taboos, yet the word is now spreading and the dialogue and education are making inroads abroad that will help to save lives.

To Understand the Moment, You Must Understand the Plight of the People. LikeTheDew has just received this blog from Katrina McGhee, vice president of global partnerships for Susan G. Komen for the Cure, who is currently in Egypt:

“What was a very private pain became a public rallying cry as thousands of women from around the world raced together through the pyramids of Giza to help raise breast cancer awareness in Egypt. A day of joy and celebration as many women – for the first time – proudly proclaimed to the world that they were breast cancer survivors.  It was an inspirational and enlightening experience to represent Susan G. Komen for the Cure at the first ever Egypt Race for the Cure. Unsure of what to expect, I simply hoped that the renewed sense of hope and purpose you experience at a Race for the Cure in the United States would somehow be replicated amongst the majesty and mystery of the Great Pyramids. But what happened in the sands of Egypt was so much more. It was the magic of the movement coming to life.

To truly understand the significance of the moment, you have to understand the plight of the people. Breast cancer is not something you talk about in Egypt. A woman’s diagnosis is often hidden as she suffers alone and in shame. In some cases her husband leaves her and the children while she’s in treatment. Despite the great work of our partner, Breast Cancer Foundation of Egypt, it can be a very lonely experience. In many ways it reminds me of the United States 30 years ago. When breast cancer was referred to as the “Big C” or the “Women’s Disease”. Back when there was no voice for our suffering, or a vision for how we would successfully put an end to the disease.

I reflected on all of this as I stood amongst the Race participants eagerly awaiting the call for the Race to begin. I should pause here for a moment and tell you almost all of the announcements were in Arabic – a language I don’t speak.  But I soon learned that some things simply don’t require words. The euphoria of survivors in their pink shirts connecting with each other in the crowd elated to meet others who were a part of their intimate club. The laughter of children enjoying the celebration of life and the hope that springs eternal when so many are united for a common purpose. The sense of pride we all felt – young and older, black and white, Christian or Muslim, survivors and supporters – when more than 10,000 people took a public stand in the fight against breast cancer.

At Komen for the Cure we believe that where you live shouldn’t determine whether you live. It is the driving force behind our global movement to end breast cancer forever. And so, I have great hope for the women of Egypt. Indeed, for women everywhere who have been touched by breast cancer. After all, has there ever been a time in history where women – when banded together around a common goal – have not achieved greatness?”

The right to bear children

Second amendment activists loudly proclaim their right to bear arms, yet the right (and affordability) to bear children is endangered by some health insurance companies as evidenced by the recent disclosure by a Colorado woman who was denied individual coverage after leaving an employee provided plan. Golden Rule Insurance turned down Peggy Robertson due to a pre-existing condition of having had a C-section (over 30% of births are delivered by C-section), but offered to insure her if she were to be sterilized. This draconian “offer” was actually made in a letter to Ms. Robertson after she filed an appeal related to her rejection by Golden Rule. (This concept is so shameful to me that it’s difficult to imagine any company would say this, much less actually put it to paper for posterity – and the Internet.)

Sometimes, irony is downright delicious

Even if painful and unjust. In this case, I’m referring to the name of the insurance company: Golden Rule. Seriously? They dared to brand their company with a moniker that is synonymous to the ethic of reciprocity. Do unto others (you know the rest), a basic tenet of civility and human rights, the real Golden Rule would then suggest that only men who have had vasectomies would be covered by their insurance plan. What then is next? Voluntary mastectomies because Eve’s plumbing also came with ready nutrition for the children she might bear, but put her at risk for breast cancer?

In all but five states, it is legal for insurance companies to discriminate against women who have had C-sections, as if these surgeries are usually elective, and tantamount to a facelift. Never mind that most C-sections are performed for lifesaving reasons for child or mother, or birth defect preventing reasons for the child. (“Please Mr. [or Ms] OB/GYN, pretty please cut my gut open! I’d really like to stumble around in pain with my newborn and get that new grey stitch line above my bikini.”)

Domestic Violence and Abuse – Another pre-existing condition.

According to a recent study by the non-partisan, non-political National Women’s Law Center, eight states allow insurers to deny individual coverage to women based on the so-called “pre-existing” condition of domestic violence. Give me a break --  and I don’t mean of the arm or leg. More irony – isn’t that what insult to injury is all about? Interestingly, the states involved are either in the “Wild West” (Idaho, North Dakota, South Dakota and Wyoming) or the South (North Carolina, South Carolina, Oklahoma and Mississippi).

Thankfully, Senator Barbara Mikulski (D-MD) is taking on the issue of Health Care Equality. Women – and men, need to tell congress how grossly unfair these discriminating practices are to all people, male or female. Get loud; get very, very loud. Do this for yourself, your wife, your daughter, your friend, or man and womankind. Or, at least quietly (and easily) become involved by being just another number – this time with some power.

It's very easy and quick. Become a number with power. To get involved, click here.

www.youtube.com/watch?v=QjmPBh4fzeM

Rubber swords sliced through the air, magic wands failed to turn boy-toads into handsome princes and the brooms swept little more than a trail of candy wrappers behind them.  By now I was wishing that we had offered a prize for best mime costume, and best mime behavior.

The kids had already been through the haunted house part of the party. Blind folded, they had stuck their little candy-coated fingers in the cold spaghetti “worms” and squealed. The boys especially loved the grape “eyeballs” and screeched with pleasure as they threw them at the girls. They had pinned the tail on the wall donkey, but another, as yet unreachable donkey taunted them from above.

The time had come to introduce the miniature, screaming mob of kindergartners to the dangling donkey. Bent on destruction, and in a sugar-fueled frenzy, they descended on the helpless creature hanging limply from the ceiling fan. They took aim, some with bats, others brandished swords. One especially scary character swung a rubber ax. Even the most innocent, non-violent  among them struck the creature with her magic wand.  Their missing teeth, once cute – even charming – looked sinister in this setting beneath the treasure.

Frantic now, they swarmed beneath the creature, a throng on the verge of riot,  chanting ever louder, “CAN-DY, CAN-DY, CAN-DY.” The creature was flying now to and ‘fro in the air, sailing and spinning against every assault to its fragile facade. Not a moment too soon, did its papier-mâché skin finally begin to to crack. A hush descended upon the huddle. Frankenstein and Dracula lifted their masks, their now revealed faces filled with anticipation. Two Ninja turtles, the hobo and a perky cheerleader hung back with one of the clowns. The devil struck the fatal blow. Whack! The pirate barked to the pack, “Now!” Cinderella squeezed her loot bag closer to her chest. Nothing happened. The piñata … was empty. No lollipops, candy corn or tootsie rolls fell from the barren donkey. There was no candy at all, not even paper stuffing. The birthday party girl began to cry. “Where’s the candy?” she wailed, her red devil cheeks now streaked with red-tainted tears and maternal betrayal.

“I thought it came with candy already in it,” I whispered to her, panic rising in my throat. “I didn’t know we had to fill it ourselves.” I pulled myself up and faced the mob. “ I thought piñatas already had candy in them. I’m so sorry,” I begged to the little monsters. They were befuddled. I was dumbfounded. Horrified, in fact (it was Halloween, after all). They looked at me as if I really were the witch I had dressed to portray.

In a flash I dropped the broom I had clumsily straddled for hours and rushed to the centerpiece, a plastic, grinning jack-o-lantern. I dipped in to its guts retrieving fistfuls of wax lips, chocolate eyeballs, spider rings and lollipops. I began hurling them at the mob, swiftly reloading and tossing again and again. The mob began to break up, scurrying for the once missing treasures, quickly forgetting that the donkey piñata had been handled by a total jackass, or was it a dumb ass?  Their toothless grins became charming once more. The party girl wiped her tears and began to smile again beneath her horns. Twenty-one years later she now cries with laughter and smiles, but remains befuddled by the episode.

“MOM! I still can’t believe you didn’t know you had to fill the piñata! Seriously?”

Rosemary is graciously sharing a visceral glimpse of the roller coaster ride of breast cancer diagnosis, treatment and survival. If you think roller coasters are fun, think again. The highs and lows, unexpected whiplash inducing turns, the unknown ahead, the brakes, followed by the accelerator – and the brakes again – the screams, the wind-whipping tears, the nausea and dizziness, and the line you waited in, plus the cost to get there – no, this is not fun. Still, Rosemary offers hope molded from heartache, just as she does with her clay sculptures. Here are her own words and pictures. There will be more each day until the end of October as she shares her Stroll Down Mammary Lane.

In Rosemary’s Words

“A Stroll Down Mammary Lane is an illustrated journal chronicling eighteen months of our experience with breast cancer diagnosis, treatment and cure. During the long convalescence, I spent most of my time horizontal healing from multiple surgeries, chemotherapy and other treatments. I was unable to work in my pottery studio and my career as a full time ceramic sculptor was put on hold while I focused on getting through one procedure at a time. I wasn’t able to do much but I did draw and it resulted in about 90 illustrations of my process of fighting breast cancer.

The Phone Call

“After the follow up magnification mammogram, the sonogram, the first of several biopsies and a long two days of waiting for the phone call, my husband, David Ray, and I wept in each other’s arms at the news that the unimaginable was real. I had breast cancer. David Ray got very efficient with the caregiver duties and he consoled, nurtured, changed bandages, drove, fed, sang and continued to tell me how beautiful I was, even when my breasts were gone and I was sick and bald.”

John W. Anderson, author, husband, son, brother, and friend to four women who suffered from breast cancer has penned a guide for men who live with – and love – women with breast cancer. Fellas, take note: he should be your hero. You need this, but beware – he has set a positively lovely, and downright romantic high standard for solidarity. John Anderson shaved his head when his wife lost her own hair from breast cancer treatments. Leveling the playing field is among the kindest, most thoughtful gifts one (anyone) can give to someone who is suffering from a disease that simultaneously destroys your body and your self-image. Vanity be damned! Insult to injury and all the rest.

In “Stand by Her” (AMACOM, $18.95 paperback), Anderson offers strategies and support on the countless medical and emotional minefields that men face as husbands, sons, brothers, fathers, nephews, cousins, colleagues, and friends of breast cancer patients.  You can hear what he has to say about the precarious path through this minefield on Thursday, Oct. 8 (today) on the Today Show.

I have been a caregiver and a care-receiver – although not, thankfully, related to breast cancer. There is no question that I am naturally far more comfortable in the caregiver role, which is not to  say that I more comfortable than my husband in the caregiver role. He is quite adept and thoughtful, throwing his own body at my needs, at times demonstrating his caregiving in a more pragmatic way than I might choose at that moment, when what I want most is to be relieved of guilt for my body’s failings compared to its aspirations. Still, pragmatism is good and necessary, and I suspect, a much more “natural” method for men to deal with such issues.

When John Anderson’s wife  was diagnosed with breast cancer, she said, “I am so sorry,” as if she could have prevented this curse. In these times we feel the burden we pass on to others, yet there have been times when my husband has needed me as well. Mostly, he has learned to receive with grace, although it is hard for one so giving as he is to accept gifts. Note the choice of language: gift. Let us not use the “help” word which would take most men to an entirely different and most uncomfortable place.

None of us who are blessed with loving spouses ever want them to learn anything the hard and painful way. Still, we should all embrace, learn, and accept both sides of this equation of life, love, health, hope and survival. We will be fortunate if we are able to give and receive. Here’s hoping you – and yours – do not need  John Anderson’s wonderful gift and guide.