Muddle is just one of those perfect words. It’s almost onomatopoeic– like smooch, or mushy. In fact, I think that I abuse this little double syllable. Phrases like “muddle through it” seem to so aptly describe my life at times, when I’m just at a loss, when every little thing seems completely insurmountable. Yes, it is times like those that I just seem to muddle through, and then I muddle right home, and make myself a cocktail– a wine cocktail.
Now, I’m not much of a boozer. I guess you would call me a lightweight. One martini and I’m a bit woozy. But give me a wine cocktail, a warm evening with the sun casting a pink light on the horizon, and I am a happy girl! I know, I know, a wine cocktail? You might be saying, “Who am I reading [...]

Sunday evening, 1987. I come to the table for a typical Sunday night meal. At the close of a busy weekend our dinners were filled with usuals: rotisserie chicken and a salad, some soup, leftovers from a more appropriate weekday meal, or sometimes my mother would whip up her version of Hamburger Helper– a mix of ground meat, a sauteed onion, and plenty of elbow macaroni. Now this wasn’t the sort of meal my mother would usually whip up, but on Sundays, typically fend for yourself night, this sort of American ease was a welcome change.
I have never even had traditional Hamburger Helper, neatly packaged in a cardboard box, with that jolly four-fingered gentleman smiling back at me; but I loved my mom’s version. It was pleasantly bland, seasoned only with salt and pepper, and I gobbled up the little crooked pasta which were far from [...]