In Which Super Hot PopChips Leave Me Cold...

I don't care for chocolate, ice cream or pastries.  Mom didn't really believe in serving dessert, so I never developed much of a sweet tooth.  But as I've said before, my people do love a good salty snack (perfect for cocktail hour) so don't step between a bowl of potato chips and me! 

Since I try to avoid succumbing to high-fat chip temptation too often, I was excited when PopChips were finally available in Chicago.  I kept reading tantalizing things about these lower fat chips that are "air-popped" rather than fried or baked.  Supposedly they are all the rage on the West Coast with svelte actress types (at least, the ones who still eat carbs).  I also love that the company is so consumer-friendly, giving samples away and supposedly even sending handwritten thank you notes in response to fan comments.  

Alas, I don't believe I will be receiving such a note.  I tried to love PopChips, I really did, but I don't understand the appeal.  They strike me as overly salty, and their texture is reminiscent of that of Munchos, the odd "potato crisps" that seem as though they should be low fat (which is to say, they feel and taste like cardboard), yet aren't.  Check any depleted vending machine and you'll likely see a lonely bag of Munchos hanging forlornly in the corner, the last choice of a desperate snacker.

I trust, however, that the wildly popular PopChips will avoid a similar fate, even without my support.

Who Does That Dudley Girl Think She Is?

In my last post I wrote about the episode of Who Do You Think You Are? where Sarah Jessica Parker learns, to her surprise, that she has Puritan roots. She says something to the effect of how strange it is to be connected to early American history.

I played the wanton seductress Abigail in a high school production of The Crucible, but until recently never gave much thought to the fact that I was descended from some of the real women who called each other "Goody" (instead of "Mrs.") and got into a tizzy about witchcraft. 

I've mentioned that my family tree includes hapless pilgrims who boarded the Speedwell, the Mayflower companion ship that didn't make it to Plymouth Rock.  Another Puritan ancestor, Thomas Dudley, came over later as part of the Winthrop Fleet.  Dudley was colonial governor of Massachusetts after his rival John Winthrop, and signed the charter founding a little college called Harvard.  

Dropping Dudley's name has elicited interesting responses over the years.  Once I was out to dinner with a number of colleagues, including an eminent statistician and his brilliant wife, who had just completed her dissertation on the Puritans. I trotted out Dudley and she said, “Oh, his granddaughter is in my research!” I asked the subject of her thesis. “Fornication in 17th Century Massachusetts,” she replied matter-of-factly, causing me nearly to choke on my filet mignon. (Turns out Marguerite Dudley escaped prosecution and in fact sued her married seducer for paternity.)

Perhaps the thought of their daughters riding around in fast carts with boys is what has the church elders looking so concerned in this painting?  (Image courtesy of Wikipedia)

Who Do I Think I Am?

NBC heavily promoted its "heartwarming" new ancestral-search show Who Do You Think You Are? during the equally warm and fuzzy Olympics.  (Alas, it runs on Friday nights, so I'll likely watch it via On Demand.)  The premiere episode featured fellow Cincinnati native Sarah Jessica Parker finding out that she has Puritan ancestors, including one who was accused of witchcraft and narrowly escaped the hangman's noose. 

Make no mistake, this is a reality TV show, complete with obviously staged moments of "shock" and "delight."  (Not to mention lots of conspicuous product placement for Ancestry.com.) When SJP finishes her quest and goes to her mother's home to tell her all she has learned, they beam at each other and even shed a few tears.  Hmm.  When I was at mom's over Christmas and dug into some of the family papers and photos for my book research, there was a little less beaming and a tad more muttering under the breath (mom) and cursing (me--I couldn't get the stupid scanner to work).  Good thing mom and I are not famous actress and mother-of-famous-actress types, and thus have no cameras following us around.

Still, the new show is clearly an improvement over squat women getting punched in bars (c.f. The Jersey Shore).  I have high hopes that the nation will be swept up in a craze for genealogy and wacky true family tales, thus increasing interest in my memoir (not to mention decreasing interest in overly-tan people with strange hair and few apparent manners).

Drunken Flower

Recently I had a fabulous champagne cocktail at The Gage, the Irish gastropub on Michigan Avenue opposite the ‘Bean.’ The drink had a hibiscus flower in it and I confess I ate the garnish once I drained my glass. (Quelle horreur, I know.)  The hibiscus was blood red and nicely sweet, with a tart edge. It's sort of like a fruit, so it has to be healthy, right?  (Never mind the champagne and sugar.)

Bars use the lovely version steeped in syrup pictured here, but Trader Joe's carries dried sweetened hibiscus flowers as an inexpensive alternative.  The texture is similar to that of an exotic gummy candy.  I’ve found that the dried flowers are splendid in green tea, adding a touch of fruit flavor and a hint of sweetness to balance out the bitterness of the tea. (Plus they look really cool and a little freakish, resembling some sort of small sea creature that one can pluck out of the mug and eat in front of one’s horrified coworkers.)

Kiva - Loans That Change Lives (and Republicans)

I’m a huge fan of Kiva, the microloan organization. This despite the fact that I was raised by conservative Midwestern Republican Wasps (all redundant terms), and my people tend to believe in the “up from your own bootstraps” approach. (Not to mention the “no estate tax” approach, just in case those bootstraps don’t stay up on their own.)

My current Kiva portfolio includes loans for a bakery in Tajikstan, a beauty salon in the Dominican Republic, a general store in Tanzania, and a used clothing store in Lebanon. So far my loans have been 100% paid back, and I re-lend the original funds as soon as they are returned to my Kiva account. (Adding loans to my basket is as fun as online shopping, with the added virtue of feeling like an Oprah-type benefactor at a relatively small cost.) I try to spread my dollars around the globe, and tend to be prejudiced in favor of women-owned businesses. When women achieve an income of their own, good things tend to happen for their families and their communities. (And maybe even their inheritances!)

According to Kiva, I've made more than the average number of loans, but I'm sadly lacking in invitations to others to join.  So we'll consider this blog post one big group invitation.  Head on over to Kiva now, and tell them the Tailored Woman sent you!

Dogs I Have Loved (Canine, not Human...)

Some friends roped me into attending a fundraiser to raise awareness of "black dog syndrome," i.e., the lower adoption rate for black dogs (and cats).  Huh?  What weird form of animal adoption racism is this, and how have I never heard of it?  Well, one of the tips for combating the syndrome is to talk about how wonderful and beautiful black dogs are.  I am happy to do my part.

Our first family dog was a splendid black and brown Gordon Setter named Pepper; she was my father's prize birdhunting dog and lies faithfully at his feet in the family photo I posted a while back.  She was equally devoted to my brother and me, functioning as a sort of canine second mother, and would let my brother lie with his head on her stomach when we watched TV in the den. 

After Pepper came a gorgeous though neurotic golden retriever.  His name was Abbey--short for Duke of Abbey--but this caused a lot of gender confusion.  Abbey was meant to be the pick of the litter, a designation which caused much mirth in our household whenever he showed a rather startling lack of brains and decorum.  (Pretty much any time he was actively breathing.)  In this blurry old Polaroid photo (sorry), I am pouting because Abbey would not cooperate with the costume we put together for a parade.  Mom and I thought it would be cute if I dressed up in my riding outfit and put a stuffed fox, also in a riding outfit, on Abbey.  He disagreed and felt that jumping around out of control would have more impact on the judges.  We didn't win the costume prize.

So you see? Go for the smart, soulful brunettes over the shallow, ditzy blondes. (I'm just speaking of canine adoptions here, of course.)

Hidden Truths and Tea Parties

It’s not easy to make me smile when I’m waiting for the (chronically late and overcrowded) bus early on a winter morning. But today the park looked especially beautiful with a light snow falling, and then I spied this cheerful fellow peeping at me from behind the Kennison memorial.

All of Lincoln Park used to be a cemetery. My snowman friend is guarding the alleged final resting place of one David Kennison, who duped the good citizens of Chicago into believing that he was the oldest living survivor of the original tea party—the one in Boston. (Whenever I see headlines about tea parties now, I get all excited for a minute, thinking they mean the kind featuring tiny cucumber sandwiches … and then I see that politics are the only thing on the menu. No thank you.)

Last year an artist named Pamela Bannos added a sign behind the Kennison memorial as part of her “Hidden Truths: The Chicago City Cemetery and Lincoln Park” project. She reveals that Kennison was a con artist; he would have been too young to have dumped tea into Boston Harbor or fought with Washington, and  he likely died at 85, not the 115 years he claimed. These discrepancies didn’t stop the nice ladies of the Daughters of the American Revolution from making Kennison a hero, and more recently his cause was taken up by the Tax Reform Action Coalition, who gathered at the Lincoln Park memorial a few years back.

Perhaps we can all sit down for a nice cup of tea to share Kennison stories. (But remember, no politics in polite company!)