amyarden – Amy Arden

Giving it Another Tri

July 25, 2025 No Comments

It’s 9:30 a.m. on a Sunday morning. I’ve already been awake for the better part of five hours. The air is warm and muggy as I navigate through uneven terrain of rocks, mud, sand, and tree roots. I’ve just swallowed a second gnat.

Yet I’m exactly where I want to be, here on this twisting, narrow path through the woods. Slogging through the humid air, feeling my muscles beginning to protest what I’m putting them through.

Preparing to compete in the 700m swim, July 22, 2025 (in blue cap on the right). Photo by Peter Sabol.

This was my second chance. This was redemption for last summer, when a torn hamstring a few weeks before the triathlon made participating as an athlete impossible. Now I was back, relying on my training and preparation to carry me through this time.

I wore the same tri suit as I had 11 years before, when I’d done my first and only previous triathlon. I rode the same bike, my trusty red Trek on which I’d had many adventures (and misadventures).

But my mindset was different. I was more determined. More grateful to be present. I no longer took my mobility for granted.

For much of the previous twelve months, running any distance more than a mile had been intensely uncomfortable, if not impossible. During that time, I often berated myself for not running further, faster, or more often. I held the 10-mile jogs I used to do from Capitol Hill down the National Mall, across the Potomac, and through Georgetown as the standard of excellence. And that mental picture meant that by comparison, every run I made fell far short. I felt defeated before I could even get myself to the playing field.

Then one day, as an experiment, I decided to stop treating my body as the enemy. Because it wasn’t. I might not be able to replicate the level of performance I’d done the past, but I was still capable of an awful lot. Instead of issuing critiques, I allowed my inner voice to start cheering me on.

This mental shift – along with a medication change, time away from running, and a triathlon training program that very gradually increased intensity – enabled me to start reclaiming my ability to run short distances. And it felt good.

Sometime between the day I began training and the morning of the event, I reached a mental and physical tipping point. Training became not a punitive obligation, but a celebration of the possible. I decided to stop fixating on the gap between what I could do and what I wanted to do. Instead, I’d appreciate my own capabilities.

Because wasn’t that all what we’d come here on this July morning to do? To race against ourselves. To find achievable challenges, and embrace them. To recognize that others were doing the same.

I lost track of how many strangers called “Great job!” “Keep it up!” “You’ve got this” as I made my slow progress through the woods. Sometimes their encouragement did result in me picking up the pace. Other times, I moved to the side and let them pass.

Because even getting here was something. I had made the time to train five days a week. I had put in hours at the pool (and my arms and shoulders were nicely toned to show for it.) I’d done the hard climbs on my bike, I had made the sweaty runs. All so I could get across the finish line this morning.

And when I got there, I’d celebrate.

And I did. I saw Peter in the distance and heard his cheers, along with a friend ringing an enormous cowbell. I smiled. I picked up speed, running across the finish. There were hugs, gulps of water, congratulations. And for myself, pride in a job done not perfectly, but well.

My tri suit, after over a decade in service, is headed for retirement. But that doesn’t mean I’m done. I’m already thinking about next year.

Writing

Disturbia

June 20, 2025 No Comments

Art is to comfort the disturbed and disturb the comfortable.
Cesar A. Cruz

I can’t recall the first time I encountered that quote. But I do remember feeling intrigued, amused, and slightly uneasy as I read it. I wasn’t sure which category I belonged to. Neither? Both? I viewed myself as too conventional to be an artist, and too idealistic to be comfortable with the status quo.

I wobbled in the middle. Which, I’ve discovered, is often an uncomfortable place to be. The middle ground has many connotations. It can be a noncommittal retreat, or a compromise, or a self-preserving ethos. Or it can be stormy and ambiguous, a vortex of conflicting winds and strange tides for which there are no reliable maps or pathways. Perhaps the middle is a combustible place where the fiercest monsters live, and might be found and wrestled with, but where people tend not to stay for long.

Maybe it all depends on the day.

What I do know is this: I find myself there often. Whenever the world is “too much with me” (to borrow from William Wordsworth), going inside my own head is as reflexive as a child ducking under the covers during a thunderstorm. I don’t go in search of dragons. But I sometimes find them, nevertheless.

My head can be an unruly and unpredictable place. Memories are untidy things. They don’t always remain where I left them. Perceptions, too, can shift around, change color, grow or shrink.

But for all its peculiarities, my mind is also, sometimes, the only place that feels at all familiar. It’s the only place where I can make sense of anything – or at least attempt to. If I can find the words.

Writing is what anchored me during the pandemic. It anchored me through my divorce, job losses, and grief. In the most trying and chaotic periods of my life, writing brought me comfort. The simple act of choosing words, typing them onto a page, became the place where I was most myself.

But sometimes even that failed. In the darkest, darkest times, I didn’t write. I painted. Not because I had a talent for painting, or wanted to become a painter, or thought I should have a new hobby. The truth is simply that selecting words and arranging them in ways that were sensible took too much effort. I picked up a brush and mixed paint. I let the colors say what I couldn’t find the words for.

Sometimes I find myself comforted by others’ art. Sometimes I find myself disturbed. And sometimes, I just need to make my own.

Writing is an escape hatch when the world feels smallest and coldest and at its most cruel. A life of the mind can become a bunker. But a bunker with sunlight. A bunker with infinite pathways, strange gardens, subterranean rivers. A bunker with trapdoors and ghosts.

There is a kind of magic inside. As the external world whirls in chaos, the bunker contains only what its creator permits. What is written, what is painted, what is composed, what is captured or spoken may come into being. The rest does not exist. What better alchemy for coping with trying times? What better proof for seeing that we are not alone?

By peeking into other bunkers, we might see beyond the borders of our experiences, our countries, our ideologies. We might venture into the middle ground. We may encounter dragons and pass them by; we might see monsters and not wish them tamed.

Food, History

Trifles

May 18, 2025 No Comments

As a woman who will happily spend a weekend tramping around old battlefields or watching a demonstration of 19^th-century metalsmithing, getting me interested in anything history-related is rarely a hard sell. The same goes for food: whether it’s growing it, shopping for it, cooking it, or eating it, it’s a rare day when someone has to twist my arm for a culinary adventure.

And when the two are together? Dangerous indeed.

I recently fell down such a rabbit hole. I’d been browsing the wares at a museum shop when I spotted a neat paperboard box labeled “An Edible Timeline of Modern Candy”. The box purported to claim candies like those manufactured in the 1800s. I could see what appeared to be chocolates and Good n’Plenty through the cellophane window.

A sugar-spiked history lesson? I had to buy it. Then, naturally, I had to try what was inside.

I’ll jump right to the spoiler: for those of us raised on the hyper sweet, artificially colored, artificially flavored confections of the 20^th century onward, candies from the 19^th century are, in a word, underwhelming.

Perhaps it’s not fair to pit humble rock candy and marshmallows against a Reese’s cup or Milk Duds. How could the sweets of yesteryear – with their simple flavors and muted colors – possibly compare against the likes of PopRocks, gummi worms, Tootsie Pops, or my personal guilty pleasure, a Snickers bar?

Of course, as technology advanced, candy production became more sophisticated, with the likes of chocolate-covered nuts and candy corn appearing by the end of the 1800s. There was apparently plenty of sugar to be found at home, too. Watch any costume drama set between the Regency period and Victoria era, and I’ll bet you $20 you can’t get through it without at least one scene of the characters drinking tea and eating dainty cakes.

I get it. If I were a production designer, nothing screams “period piece” like neatly matched china, tiny spoons, a fireplace, and a passive-aggressive manner of offering strawberry jam. But this convention happens, best as I can tell, to be somewhat grounded in fact.

I flipped to my favorite source for what was on the menu in the early 1800s: A New System of Domestic Cookery by Mrs. Rundell. Part recipe book, part housekeeping guide, this volume has been my go-to source for the eating habits of 200 years ago.

“Candy” makes only one appearance, and that in a recipe for preserving fruit by coating it in sugar. “Chocolate” is also rare: it is an ingredient in a beverage recipe (hello, hot chocolate!) and referred to again for variations on a dessert.

Mrs. Rundell has no shortage of cake recipes. There are several recipes for “cream,” from almond and coffee to orange and lemon; a look at the ingredients list (heavy cream, eggs, milk, sugar) makes me think the result might resemble what we’d call custard. Pies, tarts, and puddings are plentiful, even if the methods of preparing them seem unfamiliar.

Perhaps that is what is the most striking: the work involved in preparation. Any cook who bakes from scratch can attest to the labor involved. I imagine making one of my most intricate recipes in a kitchen where water needed to be brought in by hand, the ovens were heated with coal or wood, and there were no stand mixers.

Speaking of cooking, it’s time to get dinner started. And I can’t help but wonder, on a day when I’m feeling brave, if I just might try one of Mrs. Rundell’s recipes.

P.S. If you’re curious, her trifle recipe is below.

Apple Trifle

Scald such a quantity of fruit as when pulped through a sieve, will make a thick layer at the bottom of your dish; of apples, mix the rind of half a lemon, grated fine, and as much sugar as will be pleasant.

Mix half a pint of milk, half a pint of cream, and the yolk of one egg; give it a scald over the fire and stir it all the time: don’t let it boil; add a little sugar only, and let it grow cold. Lay it over the apples with a spoon; and then put on it a whip made the day before.

Pets, Pittsburgh

Basket of Adorables

April 30, 2025 No Comments

I believe that the world is comprised of cat people and non-cat people. I am a cat person. I have been for as long as I can remember. By age seven, I could have become a serious cat hoarder (kitten hoarder, specifically), had I had the autonomy to do so. My love for animals doesn’t apply exclusively to cats. It’s for frogs, salamanders, dogs, rabbits, horses, goldfish. Ducklings. Backyard chickens. I had a pet hermit crab at one point, and in high school, a guinea pig. 

But even if I shared a house with a cat or two, I never felt that was quite enough. There were many I couldn’t take home (or worse, had to give back) during my formative years. I’m not sure I’m quite over that. So this past winter, I signed up to be a foster caregiver through one of Pittsburgh’s amazing animal shelters, Humane Animal Rescue of Pittsburgh. A few months later, kitten season started.

Colin, Daphne, Benedict, and Eloise awaiting their next adventure.

When the opportunity to foster four kittens from the same litter arose, I took it. Perhaps this was retribution of sorts, a leveling out of all the no’s of my earlier life. (I imagined my 8-year-old self shaking her fists while declaring, “Oh, I can’t have one kitten? Fine, I’ll take home a litter. Try to stop me!)  Or perhaps, after having lost two beloved pets, Rosie in January and Hendrix in February, I was seeking a different kind of animal bond. Companionship with animals that were young and healthy, with their whole lives ahead of them. 

One warm April afternoon, I triumphantly bundled my new charges home. Inside, I showed them the space I’d set up, complete with litterbox, bed, bowls, toys. They quietly emerged from their carrier and began exploring. I sat and watched, amazed by their courage and curiosity. Even then, they showed glimpses of distinct personalities. Two came out right away, one a moment after. The last to appear took his time, but once he was out, he was fearless.

That’s when I found out exactly the amount of chaos I’d signed up for. It was equal parts cute and crazy. Yes, I had had cats and yes, I did have experience with raising kittens. I felt reasonably well-prepared.

But that was one kitten at a time. This was four kittens. All at once.

Three things became very clear very quickly.

1) Kittens are Messy

At just 5 weeks old, everyone was still getting accustomed to using a litterbox. And consequently, only mildly successful of burying their pee and poo. Often, it got stuck on their feet and found its way onto the floor, their bedding, their toys. I bought massive quantities of Lysol and cleaning wipes. I resigned myself to taking the cute fluffy bed I’d purchased out of rotation and using towels that could be more easily cleaned. As for the floor – well, lets just say I became intimately involved in its upkeep.

They weren’t much better with their food. At first, the kittens were so small they could actually walk through their feeding dishes and sometime get into the dishes themselves. Ever wondered what happens with a hungry little cat encounters an enticing pile of wet kitten food? It gets everywhere. Including on them.

2) Kittens are Needy

They are also loud. Most days began with the kittens hurling themselves en masse at my ankles while screaming like tiny ringwraiths. As they got older, they became adept at climbing my pants, or even my bathrobe. Their demands could be about food (mostly it was food), but sometimes it was play or attention they wanted.

The kittens also needed frequent weight checks to ensure they were healthy and growing appropriately. In fact, I took them to the post office for their first weight check because I didn’t own a scale small enough. (The clerk rolled with it, and I like to think the other customers found it entertaining.)

Don’t get me wrong: kittens are very fun to play with and care for. But my little dudes and dudettes had an average attention span of 1.8 seconds. Each toy would be played with in spurts of intense interest. Then they would be off to the next thing: chasing each other, wresting, playing with a different toy, climbing up to my shoulder. Repeat 20 times in 18 minutes.

Furthermore, retracting claws wasn’t a skill my brood had mastered yet. My legs looked like I’d rolled downhill through a blackberry patch, and my hands weren’t much better. However, the kittens were amazingly gentle with two kiddos who visited. It was if they sensed that they couldn’t interact with a toddler at the same intensity as an adult.

3) Kittens are Delightful

Literally, I watched the siblings change before my eyes and their personalities manifest. Colin, one of the tuxedos, was the first to climb into my lap and he remained one of the sweetest and most affectionate of the bunch with an irresistible purr. Eloise, the other tuxedo, had an incredible aptitude for speed (and escapes). Even though she was the smallest, she had no reservations whatsoever about attacking her larger siblings and looked adorable doing it. Benedict delighted in stealth attacks on the others and was the first to become really interested in toys – particularly those he could hunt. Daphne showed up fearless on day one and continued so for the duration of her visit. Boss lady energy was all over that girl.

Week by week they grew. Each of the kittens became stronger, faster, more independent. Seeing their rapid development was astonishing. My husband enjoyed them as well. We had multiple daily play sessions with the kittens and since Peter works mainly from home, sometimes he had one or more roaming around his office.

The only one who wasn’t happy was our resident cat, Abby. I wish I could have explained to her in a way that she could understand that these little ones were young and needed our help, and that they wouldn’t be living in the house permanently. (Although, admittedly, I secretly thought about having one or two stay.) She remained nonplussed. Calming treats, extra attention, special food, and a pheromone diffuser did not alter her view.

After three and a half weeks in my care, the kittens were big enough to find their forever homes. The morning I placed them back in their carrier was bittersweet. They were wonderful cats and deserved live with a permanent family. But it always hard to say goodbye to something precious.

I took my time driving to the shelter. The staff was kind enough to allow me to help set them up in their new space, and I felt comforted being able to stay with them a little longer. Then with a few final pets, I said goodbye.

I was sad, but not too sad. It was a gift to have them in my home for the time I did. It was a gift to see animals at the start of their lives instead of at its end. My heart was grateful that I would not witness their deaths, but instead feel I’d done something to help this rambunctious bunch grow and thrive. Who wouldn’t feel happiness at that?

And so the chapter closed on my first experience as a kitten foster. All was well.

Except for one thing: Abby is still upset.

P.S. All of the kittens were adopted within 2 days of their return to the shelter!

Feminism, Women's history

Legacies

March 28, 2025 No Comments

Alternate title: My Great-Uncle, the Feminist.

It’s funny what we sometimes remember from childhood. This being Women’s History Month, my thoughts turned to people in my early life who helped me set my own course. Who knew when to offer encouragement and when to just get out of the way.

My Great-Uncle Matt (referred to as Uncle Matt forthwith) was one of those people. On paper, he seemed an unlikely proponent of female self-determination. He was a lifelong Catholic, a WWII vet, and – though he and I never discussed politics – I’d guess was socially conservative. He played polka songs on his accordion and kept his garage in pristine perfection. I never saw as much as a stray grass clipping on the spotless concrete floor.

But what I remember most powerfully is that he was one of the only adults I knew who wasn’t trying to get me to “settle down” or “behave.” Rather the opposite, if one considers conventional gender norms of his generation.

Aunt Stella and Uncle Matt with me on the legendary green velvet sofa.

For example:

Uncle Matt let me shoot his BB gun (I was 7).

He gave me a dollar at the end of every visit and never told me what I should do with it (whereas my parents were all about saving and usually funneled any birthday money I received into an account I couldn’t touch).

I’m fairly sure I remember him coaching me on how to throw punches. I was about six, my sister three, and Uncle Matt supervised as we practiced on each other in the kitchen of he and my Aunt Stella’s modest brick ranch.

He watched my gymnastics and swim classes, and there was always a jar of peanut M&Ms in the living room. I ate as many as I wanted. Uncle Matt and Aunt Stella were, for obvious reasons, my favorite babysitters.

He also gave advice. Alongside the sparring session between my sister and I, he said, “Never start a fight. But if someone starts a fight with you, you finish it.” One of his mottoes was to “pace yourself.” Meaning, I think, to not take too much on at once and to work at your own speed to get through it.

He was tall, kind, steady. The sort of presence a kid needs in their life.

He died when I was in high school. I was sad to lose him – he’d always been much more of a grandfather than great-uncle. I’d had a secret wish that he would live long enough to play his accordion at my wedding.

Instead, I have memories and a pair of his hedge trimmers. Along with advice which I carry to this day. I always feel better if I tackle a project in manageable phases instead of swinging for the whole thing at once. As far as finishing fights, I’ve had very few physical altercations in my life. And I don’t think his words meant to advocate for aggression. Rather, I think his intent was to urge fortitude in the face of opposition. Perhaps it is telling that he didn’t say “win” or “lose” – he said “finish.”

I used Uncle Matt’s hedge trimmers this afternoon to do some early-spring cleanup. After several hours of pulling weeds, getting rid of last year’s dead leave and branches, and cutting the grass, I surveyed my handiwork. I like to think my Uncle Matt would approve. He did always appreciate a well-tended yard. And I’d been careful to pace myself.

Pittsburgh, Road Trips

Snowflakes

February 23, 2025 No Comments

I grew up in a place with long winters. Snow might fall as early as October or November. Of course, it didn’t stay: real snow didn’t come until December when the sun set in the afternoons and ice completely covered the lake. But I didn’t mind the cold. Winter meant sledding and snow angels and ice skating. I was giddy whenever there was fresh snowfall in the mornings, with a child’s excitement to see everything covered by a white blanket as if by magic.

Later, in junior high, winter activities grew slightly more adventurous. I took skiing lessons. Mind you, the mountain was small, the slopes manageable and the lodge’s specialty was deep-fried Oreos. There was no chair lift; a creaking T-bar pulled you to the top. I don’t recall anyone wearing helmets except a few snowboarders. It wasn’t unusual for a Carhartt to double as a ski jacket. But one has to start somewhere.

And I did. I learned how to fasten my boots and use the poles. I could execute cautious snowplow wedges as I descended the slopes. I progressed grom green circles to blue squares to black diamonds. Things gelled just as I left for college in Atlanta GA. Over the next several years my studies and career took me away from snowy places (although I did manage to get frostbite skiing with friends in Maryland.)

But it is strange how life comes full circle. Earlier this month, for the first time in more than two decades, I was back at the place I began. It was a beautiful February day. Bright sky. Mild temperatures. Sunshine. A friend and I made the two-hour drive from Pittsburgh, leaving highways behind for two-lane roads that cut through farmland.

I saw that things had changed since my last visit. There was a chair lift and an upgraded bunny hill. Wooden walkways, and an extended snowtube area. But mittens still hung around the enormous wood fireplace in the lodge. I even spotted a few Carhartts.

My first run was cautious. The second one was the same. I wasn’t a careless 17-year-old anymore, swooshing down the hill. Age plus past injuries¾ a torn ACL, motorcycle accident, sprained ankle, and hamstring tear¾ made my risk calculus much different from what it had been.

But each time the apprehension grew a little less, and the joy took hold a little more. The day was so beautiful it was impossible not to fall under its spell. My body remembered how to glide. How to let go. And for a couple hours on a magical afternoon, I did.

Pets

In Memoriam

January 30, 2025 2 Comments

Pets come into our hearts, burrow in, and make warm and fluffy spaces for themselves. And when they are gone, the space where they used to be aches terribly.

Earlier this month I lost my beloved German Shepherd, Rosie. I first saw her as a puppy, a fuzzy, floppy-eared little creature who curiously trotted across the room and, after some sniffs and pets, allowed me to pick her up. I was immediately smitten. Cuteness in canine form has always been the death knell of my resolve. 

I’d lived with dogs before, and loved them, but Rosie was the first one I could call my own. She soon became not only a pet, but a presence. I loved watching her curl into a tiny ball for naps. She was adorable romping in snow. Eventually, she started learning to sit and play fetch. As she grew a little older, I took her to the local dog park. Rosie was shy at first, but soon gained enough size, speed, and confidence to join the other dogs in a frenzied circle of collective zoomies until they all collapsed in a panting heap. She made doggie friends, a Newfoundland of about the same age named Chewy, and neighborhood pups named Zoe and Sparky. Later, in Pittsburgh, she cougared it up with the much-younger Goliath, who lived next door, for rambunctious backyard playdates.

We went on adventures. Hikes, parks, city walks, doggie dips, visits to pup-friendly restaurants and businesses. As a breed with a certain reputation, some people drew away. But the majority of folks stopped, petted her, complimented her looks and good behavior. She was unfailingly patient and affectionate with kids and made fast friends in the under-five crowd. I heard many stories of smart, loyal, beloved German Shepherds during these spontaneous encounters. It seems that most people who experience a German Shepherd become superfans of the breed. I was no different.

I came to know her mannerisms and personality. The head tilt, as if she were contemplating her next move. Her masterful use of puppy dog eyes – usually deployed when she rolled onto her back and then stared you down for a belly rub. The lopsided way of sitting that she never really outgrew. And my favorite, which I dubbed “the exasperated sigh.” This behavior was pretty much the dog equivalent of a disgruntled teenager: Rosie would take a deep breath in, flop onto her bed, and exhale with an audible huff. It got me every time.

She could be very dramatic.

And Rosie needed to be close to her humans. She participated in holidays and vacations. One year she made a fantastic Batman for Halloween. When she turned 10, we had a birthday party for her – which included human and canine guests – at a pup-friendly brewery. She attended our wedding, where she insisted on sitting at Peter’s feet for the duration of the ceremony.

The heartbreaking thing, though, about living alongside a dog is that your timelines are different. You watch them get old. Your rationale mind knows that they are mortal. Your heart does not. You are never ready.

Rosie aged. Health issues arose. Contrary to a popular assumption about the breed, it was never her hips. She got allergies and developed food sensitivities. These conditions required multiple daily medications and a special diet, plus regular visits to a veterinary dermatologist. I applied topical treatments for her finicky skin. But with effort and medications, they could be managed. Later came periodic tummy issues and a propensity for ear infections; I’m sure she enjoyed her frequent ear cleanings as I much as I enjoyed giving them.

Was she hard to care for sometimes? Yes. Did I often wish it was less hard? Yes. Did I do it anyway? Yes.

Rosie was my constant. Through a move, a pandemic, a divorce, two layoffs. She kept me grounded. She kept me engaged with the world, much as I sometimes wanted to shut myself inside the house and bolt the doors.

The kicker was cancer. She had surgery to remove the tumors and then spent the next 10 days in a sort of dog onesie to keep her from licking the incision. Naturally, the onesie had to be removed and then replaced every time she needed a bathroom break. Sometimes this occurred in the predawn dark. After she was out of the onesie she started chemotherapy and ancillary medications. The treatment wouldn’t cure her. But it might buy us some time.

And it did, for awhile. For a few months, Rosie seemed normal-ish. But one week in the middle of January she became lethargic. She wasn’t much interested in food, toys, or walks. Her breathing sounded irregular, leading us to rush her to a 24-hour veterinary clinic one night. After some tests she was released with medications, and we scheduled a follow-up appointment with her primary vet.

For a few days, Rosie seemed a little better. But by the third day, as a winter storm blew in during the wee hours, her condition rapidly worsened. When morning came we carried her from the house and drove to the vet as soon as we could. We watched as she was carried into treatment on a gurney. We were at her side when, moments later, she slipped away.

Through the bone-chillingly cold days that followed, we grieved. Eventually the weather broke. On the first mild day after her death, we scattered her ashes in a stream alongside one of her favorite trails. She loved the water and had been happy there. In the winter twilight, the setting sun lit the clouds with glowing orange and pink light. It was gorgeous. It was peaceful.

As we walked back to the car, it occurred to me that the dead do not know what we do for them after they’ve departed. The ritual of laying to rest may, in reality, be only for the living. We alone can take comfort in this last act of love.

I carried the box that had contained her ashes in my hands. It felt lighter. And my heart felt a tiny bit lighter, too.

Food

Kitchen-ish

December 22, 2024 No Comments

Days are short, nights are long, and the air is cold. It’s the time of year when I’m caught between wanting to do nothing (nothing = sitting in bed with a book) and throwing myself into a frenzy of festive activities (gift wrapping! baking! candles! decorations!).

This year, I did a little bit of both. Like Goldilocks, I searched for the happy medium: not too much, not too little, just right. And I think I found it in baking a few batches of these Molasses Spice Cookies. Not only do they go beautifully with a cup of coffee or tea, but they make the house smell wonderful and make a crowd-pleasing addition to a cookie exchange or winter potluck.

Molasses Spice Cookies

Ingredients:

2 cups all-purpose flour
2 tsp baking soda
2 ½ tsp ground ginger
1 tsp ground cinnamon
1 tsp ground allspice
½ cup (1 stick) unsalted butter, softened
¼ cup vegetable shortening
1 cup packed light brown sugar
1 egg
¼ cup molasses
1 Tbsp grated orange peel
¼ cup sugar, for rolling (Note: I like to use a blend of Turbinado or demarra and granulated sugar)

Method:

Sift first 6 ingredients into a medium bowl. In a large bowl, combine butter, shortening and brown sugar in a large bowl. Using mixer at high speed, beat until fluffy, scraping down sides of bowl as necessary. Add egg, molasses and orange peel and beat until blended.

Gradually add dry ingredients, mixing until just incorporated. Dough will be somewhat stiff and light brown in color. Cover and chill for one hour in the refrigerator. (Note: dough may be chilled overnight. If using this option, remove from the refrigerator approximately 20 minutes before baking to allow the dough to soften slightly.)

Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Grease baking sheet. Using a spoon, scoop the dough into small portions and roll into balls with your hands. You should have 24 to 30 equally-sized balls, depending on scoop size. The dough may be slightly sticky; if this is the case, wet your hands for easier rolling.

Roll each ball in sugar to coat. Place 12 balls on a prepared baking sheet, spacing equally. Bake for 11-14 minutes. Cool 1 minute on baking sheet before removing to a wire rack to cool completely.

Yields approximately 2 1/2 dozen cookies

Recipe adapted from Brer Rabbit Molasses Gingerbread Ice Cream Sandwiches

History

Case Study

November 12, 2024 No Comments

I reread the classic novel Pride and Prejudice every year. Usually in early spring, at approximately the same time in the story when plucky heroine Lizzie Bennet makes a pivotal visit to the English countryside and re-encounters her antagonist (and love interest), the enigmatic Mr. Darcy. Turning the pages no longer brings me any surprises – I know the book too well for that – but there is a soothing satisfaction in revisiting a familiar story, whose characters and their feelings are as real for me as any flesh-and-blood entities I’ve encountered.

There is another book, of a very different character, that I read almost as often: Obedience to Authority by Stanley Milgram. I first encountered the text as a 21-year-old college student in my Psych 101 class. The book is a case study of a series of experiments conducted at Yale in the early 1960s which explored the relationship of human behavior to authority. Specifically, the experiments examined the willingness of many Americans to obey the instructions of figures whom they perceived to be in authority, even if it led to harming or killing another human being who posed no threat to themselves. Furthermore, to avoid guilt or other emotional fallout, the study participants often made stunning psychological adjustments to avoid any moral culpability.

It was fascinating. I read it. And reread it. More than 50 years after it was first published, I still find Obedience to Authority just as relevant, just as incisive, just as compelling. It is no exaggeration to say that the book changed my life.

Of course, there are notable differences between the America of the early 1960s and America today, too many to list here. But what struck me is that the most significant variable – human actions – is largely unchanged. And once I’ve seen that the mechanisms of control and authority (both visible and invisible) are present, I can’t unsee it.

Americans, according to Milgram, are no exception. We are no braver, no more free thinking, no more righteous than the Gestapo police or Nazi soldiers who perpetuated unthinkable cruelties under the auspices of “following orders.”

Milgram puts his conclusion this way:

The results, as seen and felt in the laboratory, are to this author disturbing. They raise the possibility that human nature, or – more specifically – the kind of nature produced in American democratic society, cannot be counted on to insulate its citizens from brutality and inhumane treatment at the direction of malevolent authority. A substantial proportion of people do what they are told to do, irrespective of the context of the act and without limitations of conscience.
Stanley Milgram Obedience to Authority

Some may take issue with what could appear to be Milgram’s lack of neutrality, a refusal to apply clinical detachment and instead consider his subjects through an ethical lens. That is a fair point. At the same time, in American society and elsewhere, it may be argued that human actions carry not just psychological implications, but moral ones.

The warning is clear: terrible things can happen when we absolve ourselves of responsibility. It is therefore incumbent upon us to first see ourselves honestly. To reckon with our shortfalls and failings. To stop being so goddamn fragile, so protective of our precious psyches that we are unable to either admit fault or make amends.

And secondly, to use what power we have mindfully and intentionally rather than reactively. There are choices present in almost every situation. They might not be easy choices. They might come with difficult consequences. But they are there, calling us to step up when more is required from us.

Vive la resistance.

Genealogy, Pittsburgh

Hitched

October 19, 2024 1 Comment

Spoiler: I got married in October. So not a ton of time for blogging. However, I did want to share this pic and a short explanation of what the heck Peter and I are doing.

This photo captures the start of Baumstamm sägen, which is allegedly an old German custom in which a newlywed couple saw through a log together immediately following their wedding ceremony. The shared effort of cutting through the log represents a commitment to overcoming obstacles as partners. When we first began researching traditions to include, this custom didn’t receive much serious consideration (especially as my German heritage is meager, to say the least.) But the more we thought about it, the more we liked the idea. So we went ahead and did it – and I’m so glad we did! It was an amazing memory, a unique twist to make the day extra special and – I’ll be honest – a heck of a lot of fun!

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