A letter (to someone who will probably never read it)

To my dear husband:

You have asked me countless times this week where I would like to go for dinner, what I would like to do tomorrow, what I would like you to get me for breakfast. You will ask me the same type of questions when my birthday approaches, and then again at Christmas. And then as now, I will not be able to give you a straight answer. That frustrates you, and I am sorry. So I'm taking this opportunity to explain it to you in the only way I can really think of.

What I really want is for you to never ask. I want you to already know the answer. What I want is for you to understand me so well that you can anticipate what will make me happy without a word.

I want you to know without asking that I want to sleep in as late as possible, that I like Starbucks iced coffee with white chocolate and nonfat milk, and that I would love a freshly-baked croissant with strawberry jam, if not from someplace fancy like Croissant Brioche, then from a place like La Madeleine. I would like you to know without asking that I want you to bring it to me in bed on a tray with a single flower and a card made and signed by you and Chris and Dana together, with maybe a small gift on it- even if it's something the kids made for me, or a tiny box of chocolates, or a single cupcake, or a story they have written and you have typed up on pretty paper.

I want you to listen when I tell you (and I do, every year) that what I really want is for you to go find me something pretty to wear- a scarf, a top, a hat- or a perfume that you choose because you think know I will love it- and because it reminds you of me. I want you to remember when my birthday comes that I really DO want a cake, and that my favorite flavor is lemon, or maybe plan ahead and have Jody make me a box of cupcakes. I want you to listen when I lament that I haven't gone shopping in ages and take me to get new sunglasses or send me off to a spa for a manicure and pedicure.

The point is, I do not want things. I want you to know me better than I know myself, to take care of me better than I would ever dare to do. I know you love me- you are sweet, and attentive, and loving, and the most wonderful dad and housekeeper and all-around rock that a girl could ask for. But what you do not do- and not many men are capable, to be fair- is really, truly understand me.

It's not your fault. We women can be terribly difficult- we ask you to do the right thing, and then we can't tell you what that is. Well, here's the secret... that? Is pretty much it. In a nutshell. Listen. Get to know what I like. Don't write it off as pointless babble, or let your mind drift to whatever's on the TV. I'm trying to tell you something about me. Something you can file away to use for all those times you get frustrated because I'm sad and you don't know how to make it better (here's a hint- make me a card. It can be a cheesy stick figure drawn in dried-out marker and I will cherish it). Make a mental file of my favorite things or phrases that have worked in the past, and pull them out whenever you have occasion. That is what I want for Mother's Day, and my birthday, and Christmas, and every other day when you want me to feel special.

Project 2995: Alona Avraham

Early September 2001 must have seemed like a dream come true to 30 year-old Alona Avraham. Israel in September is hot, and dusty, a nightmare of bombings and shootings, where every day could be your last. Boston, in contrast, was a sunny, cool vision of peace and beauty.

Alona arrived in Boston on August 30, and spent ten days visiting friends there... she went whale watching, shopping in Cambridge, with the changing of seasons and the cries of the coxswains on the Charles River as her backdrop. When she talked to her mother, she enthusiastically related her adventures, as well as plans for picnics and sightseeing with her friends.

On September 10, Alona called her parents and told them of her plans to fly to Los Angeles to visit her aunt and uncle for Rosh Hashanah. She would be home by Yom Kippur, she told them. She then gave them her flight information- United Airlines flight 175- talked about her excitement to see California, and said goodbye. Peretz and Miriam Avraham would never speak to their daughter again.

When news of the attacks reached the Avraham family in Ashdod, Israel, they feared the worst. As soon as they were able to travel safely to the United States, they came, with photos of Alona pinned to their clothes. In this way, they hoped that someone would recognize their daughter as one of the survivors and end their nightmare. They left New York disappointed, but they did not give up hope... as long as there was no evidence of her death, they could continue to believe she might be out there, somewhere. Still, as is the custom in the Jewish faith, the family sat shiva* for 7 days, always hoping that it was not needed.

It was late 2007 when the family received word that some of the recovered remains from the South Tower of the World Trade Center matched their daughter's DNA. It was both a relief and a reopening of old wounds: they would relive the anguish again, but at least they would have something of her to bury, a place to visit their daughter and pray. Miriam Avraham asked that the news not be released until the remains arrived in Israel. They arrived inside a box, placed on a stretcher and draped with an American flag. All that remained of her little girl, fit inside a box.

Little more is known of Alona's life. She had completed her MBA and was an industrial engineer at Applied Materials, known for working long hours. She was the eldest of three children, leaving behind a brother and sister in addition to her loving parents. She was independent, religious, and loved to travel. Her fateful trip was her first trip to the United States, where she particularly enjoyed the cool weather, low prices, modern cities, and the respite from the violence she experienced back home in Israel. She looked forward to making many return trips to the United States.

She was a young woman who had dreams and plans, like so many of us, and who was ripped away from her family and the world far too soon, and far too violently. Let us keep her in our memories and never forget the loss we all experienced that terrible, dark day.

To read more tributes, or to volunteer to write your own, please click here.

*sat shiva= a seven-day period of grief and mourning in the Jewish religion, reserved for the closest members of the family (mother, father, daughter, son, brother, sister, and spouse). Most regular activity is halted, hence 'sit' shiva.

Couscous is a funny word

Hi there! You seem relatively intelligent, so I'm going to give you the benefit of the doubt, and figure that you can tell by the lack of other posts that this is the first. I used to blog over on MySpace before it got all seedy; someday maybe I'll migrate those over here. I think some of them are at least worthy of a giggle. Probably not much more than that, though. Sorry.

I'm going to start off with, of all things, a recipe. This is decidedly the last thing you should expect from me, but since I promised a great many people on Twitter and in my book club that I would share it, I'm willing to buck tradition. Just for you guys. You're welcome. This post one will borrow heavily from a previous MySpace post because I'm lazy because it fits the topic...

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There's something I think you should know about me... I'd say it's actually a pretty well known fact in the family, but I try not to let the outside world in on it.

I can't cook. There, I said it.

I'm not saying I can't cook anything. I am perfectly capable of starting a microwave, after a few miscues (still reliving the Jell-O incident of 2004; it wasn't pretty). And I can usually follow directions, as long as it doesn't involve any actual common sense. And boiling water? Hooboy! If it were an Olympic event, I could totally... okay, I could maybe be a judge. Or the analyst who doesn't know thing 1 about the sport but is just there to be funny. Except I probably wouldn't be very funny.

Aaaaanyway, when left to fend for myself, dinner is pretty much like this: open cabinet/fridge/freezer. Search wildly for something that requires nothing more difficult than the microwave, or possibly the oven, if I'm really desperate. Then close the fridge/freezer and grab a box of cereal. When David (my husband) leaves for business trips, the entire stock of Pop Tarts in the Houston area will suddenly go missing. David can cook... he can take a frozen sausage link, one leaf of lettuce, a box of stale crackers and a peanut and turn out something that would make Emeril weep with joy. If I put those things together (probably in the blender, I can work that), I would likely be sick for a week.

So when my turn to host Book Club comes up, David usually cooks for me. He is fabulous that way. This time, though, I determined that I was making the food. Our book was 'Reading Lolita in Tehran' (I may post a review later), and it seemed appropriate to make something somewhat exotic... spices, unusual (for me) ingredients, etc. I settled on a chicken dish, made with couscous, chickpeas, almonds, carrot, and red onion. It. Was. NOM. And as I said before, many people asked for the recipe. It follows below. Please note, this should feed about 6-8 people, assuming you don't have one of those guests who really piles it on. You know, the guy you always put at the END of the buffet line. Yeah, that guy.

Teri's Moroccan Chicken and Couscous

1 pkg. chicken thighs and 1 pkg. chicken breasts with rib meat, cubed

4 TB Ras El Hanout (Moroccan couscous spice blend), divided

Olive oil (2TB for the couscous, plus some for cooking the chicken)

1 cup plain couscous

1/3 red onion, chopped small

1/4 cup almonds, roasted

1 can (approx. 15oz) chickpeas

1 large carrot, shredded or shaved

1 1/3 cup chicken broth or water

Salt and pepper

3/4 cup white wine

Use approx. 3 TB of the spice to season the chicken. Stir well to coat and set aside in refrigerator for at least 1 hour. Brown the chicken in a large saucepan (we browned it in batches and set the finished chicken aside). In the meantime, boil the chicken broth or water. Add 1 cup coucous and 1 TB spice mix, stir, and remove from heat. Cover and let sit for 5 minutes.

When the chicken is finished, use the wine to deglaze the pan. Reduce heat to low, add all remaining ingredients (chicken, couscous, onion, carrot, chickpeas, almonds, and olive oil) and stir to combine. Salt and pepper to taste.

*Notes: I served this with feta cheese, and it was a hit. David thought it needed salt, but most of my book club ladies thought it was great as-is. I think it would adapt well to different vegetables (other suggestions included broccoli florets, asparagus, cauliflower, etc.), and I think it would be nice with more curry powder added, but I have no complaints. I don't know that I have ever cooked a dish from scratch that worked so well! I bought some mix for a naan to serve with it, but I ran out of time for that. Would have been nice to have the naan or pita to go along.

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There. I have posted a recipe. If the world ends now, please think well of me.

Happy eating,

T