As I walk leisurely around the grocery store, my heart goes out to the young mothers, as they try to juggle groceries and inquisitive kids. I do remember clearly the days over thirty years ago, when I was in their shoes.

We lived in Edmonton. Life seemed to be a blur of getting my son, Leslie ready to go to the sitter, fall into the car, fight traffic, work, get Leslie, slap dinner together and collapse in an armchair until his time for a bath and bed time story. Money was short, even with two salaries, so take-out or restaurant meals were reserved as treats. Add to this my husband’s food restrictions and Leslie's poor appetite, creating cheap, quick, but nutritious meals were important. On top of this, my husband a junior executive, trying to climb the corporate ladder, loved to bring visiting out-of-town executives home for dinner on short notice. I loved to rise to the challenge and most of the time pulled it off graciously to my husband's great admiration, although at times it was not easy. This is when I got into the habit of planning the meals in my head while driving home.

The one spectacular failure of my system haunts me to this day. It was the end of the week; the narrow little apartment sized fridge was nearly empty. I was particularly tired after a grueling week, so I opted for a dinner of patties made from canned salmon and frozen French fries baked in the oven. The only enhancement was my own quick and easy tartar sauce and the meal was ready. I heard the key in the door and went to greet my husband. To my consternation, there stood behind him his CEO from Vancouver. My face fell as I was riffling through my brain for a solution, but before I found one, the words: "Oh Ron! Nice to see you, but I have such a lousy dinner!" slipped out. Ron smiled and graciously replied: "Don't worry. I always enjoy being here."

I went back to the kitchen, opened another can of salmon, to make some more patties. My husband opened a bottle of wine and I fussed a bit with my presentation. We all had a companionable evening over my "lousy dinner."

I asked Ron a couple of years ago if he remembers the incident, but he swears he never had a "lousy dinner" in my place.

Eva Kende

http://www.telusplanet.net/public/ekende

Eva is a non-fiction writer. Her electronic cookbook Eva's Kitchen Confidence clarifies techniques, attitude, ingredients and much more in an attempt to impart some of her cooking experience and confidence in others battling the daily chore of getting a meal on the table.

Visit Eva’s web site for information on ebooks and how to read them.

***

Two years ago, my mother-and-law and I were having coffee and watching my children in the back yard. The empty lot beside our property, full of rocks, kid-made bicycle jumps, and the sand pit, kept the kids occupied much of the time. Unfortunately, the empty lot hid just beyond our view. From time to time we'd check on the kids, my fourteen year old nephew, and the two neighborhood boys who had come to play.

Just as I'd commented that it had been a good ten or fifteen minutes since we'd heard from them, my oldest daughter came slowly into the house.

"How would it be," she said, softly, "if some kids dug a hole?"

She's the queen of tip-toeing around and drawing out stories.

"It'd be fine," I said. "Holes are fine."

"And how would it be if they put a small child inside that hole?" 

My mother in law and I exchanged confused glances.

"And how would it be," she continued, "if they buried that small child and the only thing sticking out of the ground was his head?"

Oh...my...God...

I sped out of the house and stopped just outside five children circled around the sand pit. My kids, wide-eyed and baffled, stared at the ground. One neighborhood boy gaped at the same location, not a muscle moving. And my nephew had nearly folded in half from laughter.

Uh, where was the other neighborhood boy?

Lowering my gaze...I found his head...and only his head...sticking out of the ground.

Panic flashed in his eyes, but he managed a weak smile. "I can't feel my legs."

I kept from swallowing my tongue and reached him before the baby followed through with sitting on his head. My nephew stopped laughing long enough to explain why it wasn't his fault. The kid had requested to be buried.

Of course, the boy was rescued. No fire trucks or special units were involved. Only a mother grumbling vague obscenities and the occasional threat under her breath. Thankfully, the boy trotted home with his brother, filthy, but unharmed. My nephew was banished to his home for a week or
until the red left my face (whichever came first). And my children avoided the sandpit like the plague.

That night I sat at the computer, determined to see black words fill the white space of "page one."

It didn't happen. No story. No opening line.
No brilliant premise. Writers' Block.
No surprise. This is the way most of my novels begin.
But then I heard it: a distant voice.
"How would it be," it said, softly, "if some kids dug a hole?"
So I typed the words.
"And how would it be if they put a small child inside that hole?" the voice asked.

Already, I knew where this was going. That night I wrote the first scene for Remembering You, a scene where four mischievous children bury their little brother in the ground behind a barn. Within months Dray and Isaac's story, unfolded. Dray, Isaac, and the five orphans who unknowingly brought them together. It's a book very close to my heart, featuring many more child-induced incidents that fell in my lap that year.

Remembering You is now just a breath away from its release at Wings ePress.

They've created a beautiful cover, featuring the children who inspired this book: my kids and, of course, my nephew:-)

I hope you check it out when it's released this November!
Until then, you can sample my work in the free release of Shrouded Hearts, available to everyone at www.booksbycass.com or go to www.patriciacrossley.com and click on ‘great free stuff’

Monica stifled her yawn and tried hard to concentrate on the laboured reading of the little first grader sitting beside her.

"The…cat…sat…on…the…m-m-m."

Monica could feel herself mouthing the word, willing it to spring into little Janelle's head.

She carefully adjusted her ample posterior on the inadequate and very painful seat of the classroom chair. In her mind she invented tortures to inflict on the designers of such furniture who it seemed, did not recognize that there were people above a size six who might like to sit down from time to time.

"The frog…jumped on… the…l-l-l"

Log darn it!

"You're doing just great honey. Keep going."

Her back was beginning to ache. Janelle made fifteen students Monica had heard read in the last hour and a half, none of them particularly fluent. It was almost becoming painful to sit and listen to the stumbles and false starts.

She stretched her legs out under the small table, bumping her knee on the metal support in the process. She hissed through her teeth and shot a reassuring smile to her student. She could feel her thighs sticking together with sweat, and knew that when she stood up, she would likely hear that embarrassing 'fart' noise the chair would make. More tortures wound through her mind.

"The bear sat…sat…on the…c-c-c." Janelle stopped and looked for rescue from Monica.

"Chair." She smiled and stroked Janelle's long stringy hair. Didn't her mother ever wash it? "See the h standing there with the c? He's helping her say ch."

Janelle frowned in concentration and said, "chair."

"Good for you. You're almost done now."

Janelle plodded on, her voice a mesmerizing monotone that started to act like a soporific on the already tired Monica.

She stole a glance at her watch. Only five more minutes until the bell. She could feel her eyelids starting the descent to closure and her whole mind felt fuzzy and distant. A loud yawn erupted without warning and she tried to squelch it with her hand. She was pretty sure that she wasn't fooling little Janelle.

Ah, Janelle, such a sweet little thing. Sad, really. She struggled so hard to conquer this world of print and yet seemed to continue to be floundering. Monica could see that the girl wanted desperately to read. Why was it so hard? She wished she could just wave her hand and give the gift of literacy instantly to Janelle.

Monica thought back to the time she had first met her. It had been early in September. The first grade teacher had come to her, the reading specialist, with great concerns about the new girl in her class. Monica had gone to observe.

She saw a pudgy little six-year-old who so reminded her of her own self at that age. She was taller by a head than all the other first graders. And she was chubby, with dimples in her knees and a little second chin and a poochy belly that tried always to escape the covering of her shirt.

But where Monica had been a well cared for child, Janelle was not. Her almost black hair hung in greasy strings down to her shoulders. And because Janelle walked always with her head down, this curtain of strings often hid her face from view. Her clothing was a ragtag mixture of hand-me-downs and thrift shop finds, not very clean and in need of repair.

She distanced herself from the other children and whether by choice or by cruelty, was all alone.

Monica's heart filled with sorrow at the pity of it all and she found herself trying desperately to help Janelle succeed.

Little by little over time the two bonded and it was a day for celebration the first time Janelle smiled at Monica. It was dazzling. Her head was up, and her face was bright and animated, if only for a moment. It was such a special gift.

Monica knew that life would often be cruel to this chubby child. It had been for her. She had struggled all her life with the demon fat and general attitudes about size. Most times she felt she had failed in the battle. But at least she'd had a decent start to her life—a stable home, loving parents, creature comforts. What about this little one? What chance did she have?

"The bee…fl-fl-fly in the….flew in the tree."

"Good girl. One more page."

She watched Janelle's face, a study in concentration. She had such will, such drive. She never quit. She never complained. She was her own little engine fighting to get up the hill. I think I can. I think I can.

Monica admired that about her. Here's what would take her far, perhaps save her from her wretched beginnings. Maybe she would be smarter than Monica and not struggle so hard with body image. There was a spark in this child, a fire. Monica reflected that she could learn a lot from this spunky six-year-old.

Janelle sighed deeply and sat back in her chair, closing the book firmly. Her whole body went limp from exhaustion and Monica sympathized. She opened her arms to the girl.

"You did such a good job. I'm very proud of you."

The chubby little girl stood and walked into Monica's embrace. Her head rested on the big woman's softness and her own little arms wound their way around the teacher.

"Oh, Miss Dennison," she said with a sigh. "You feel just like a pillow."

Monica smiled and rested her cheek on the top of the child's head. A lump had formed in her throat and tears threatened. Here was a gift she hadn't known she was giving. She felt blessed.

Did you like this story? Check out Judy’s web site

http://writerlady.homestead.com/homepage.html

We spotted the tabby in a bottom cage at the Humane Society. When I picked her up; she squirmed and hissed. Laughing, I dumped her in my husband’s arms. As if she’d found her soul mate, she sighed and closed her eyes. It was love at first sight, for both of them, so we brought her home. We named her Slinky. She was 12 weeks old.

Slinky was Daniel’s cat. On the day we brought her home, they started this routine. He’d sit down in his easy chair to read. She’d climb on his lap, start purring; they’d both fall asleep. Daniel says that Slinky’s purr is more relaxing than New Age music.

Everything went relatively well for the next three years. I’d feed her, brush her, change her litter box. She’d ignore me, adored Daniel. Then, one day in November, she began throwing up. Not to worry, I said. Hairballs, probably. Near Christmas, before we were leaving for a weekend to visit family, her right eye became red. Not to worry, I said. Probably some dust from the litter box. When we came back, though, her eye was completely closed, the other one on its way. She also had severe diarrhea. Time to visit the vet.

Diagnosis: Feline Infectious Peritonitis, commonly called cat’s AIDS. Incurable.

With FIP, the cat is unable to metabolize food. She was slowly starving to death. Her immune system weakened, it wasn’t able to fight the herpes in her eyes, nor the form of dysentry she’d contracted from who knows where since she’s an indoor cat. The vet said Slinky already had the viruses in latency, waiting to develop.

Just before New Year’s day, my vet warns me: if Slinky is not better at the beginning of January, we’ll have to euthanize her. In the meantime, I should try to give her this new type of food especially conceived for cats with severe allergies. If she can eat without throwing up, she has some hope.

I came back home with Slinky, and we had a serious talk. "Listen," I said, "you’re not dying, and that’s that. Buck up, will you?" She hissed at me. I figure there was hope yet.

By then, she was wearing a collar to prevent her from scratching her eyes. She had three different types of eye-drops, two different types of antibiotics, and this special kibble that cost more than my first car.

Slinky began eating. She loved the food. No wonder, I thought. I wouldn’t mind steak every day either. She began to gain weight, although her eyes were still bad. Then, one spring day, I put her outside on a lead. She looked up at the sun, soaked up that vitamin D, and her eyes dried up. Another three months and she was deemed recovered.

She still has FIP, will always have it, a bit like someone with HIV. She has good days and bad days, but more good days than bad. She’s overweight, and that’s good. It means the food stays in.

And she still curls up on Daniel and puts him to sleep. But something’s changed, too. She follows me everywhere, needs to be close to me. She jumps on me and looks up at me adoringly with her big, green eyes, purring louder than a lawnmower. My vet says that the cat knew I saved her life and is grateful.

I’m not sure about that. I’ve always wondered who had been the most stubborn about keeping her alive: my vet, me, or the cat. I vote for the cat.

*

Meet M D Benoit: As long as she can remember, M. D. was either listening to her father's stories, or making them up herself. As a child having to do chores, many dishes were broken, or dust bunnies passed over, because she lived in her own imaginary world. Things haven't changed much since then --she still breaks dishes, and isn't much on housecleaning-- but instead of dreaming the stories, she writes them down.

What makes us human? Explore this concept by meeting a whole bunch of aliens that have no human features, but may surprise you by acting more human than the flesh-and-blood bodies.

M. D. currently lives in Ottawa with her husband and her cat (who is really an alien in disguise)

She was a finalist for the 2000 Dream Realm Awards and won Second place in the Focus West Writing Contest, The Ottawa Citizen, 2000.
.
http://mdbenoit.com Author of "Metered Space", a Sci-fi Mystery, available from

http://www.electricebookpublishing.com

Lost and Found by Patricia Crossley

Anne started to look for her wallet right after breakfast. The paperboy would ring to collect his money around four in the afternoon , after he finished school. She was afraid she’d forget later to put out the money, and she wanted to make sure she had enough change.

She checked her purse, her coat pocket, a shopping basket she hadn’t used for weeks.

Nothing.

As she searched, a lump in her chest grew larger and heavier. Why couldn’t she remember where she’d put it?

She had to find it. Her bank card and medical card were in it, as well as a little money. If her children found out she’d mislaid one more thing, and an important thing at that, they would start to talk at her again. "Mom," they’d say, "this house is too much for you. Dad wouldn’t have wanted you to struggle on here alone."

Why couldn’t they understand that it wasn’t a struggle to stay in the home she and Alistair had built? Where they’d raised three kids and cultivated vegetables and roses?

A neighbor used the vegetable plot now, and the roses were getting old and woody, but it all looked comfortingly familiar to her.

After she’d checked her sewing basket and the cookie jar, just in case, she made herself some tea. The phone rang as she was pouring the first cup.

"How are you Mom?" said Helen, her daughter.

"I’m fine dear. No problems."

"Good." Helen rushed on. "I’m in a hurry, mom, there’s a meeting in ten minutes. Sure everything’s okay?"

"Everything’s fine, dear. Thanks for calling."

She put the phone back carefully. Last week she’d forgotten to hang up and Helen had come round, in a whirlwind of panic, to see why the line was busy all the time.

Anne drank her tea and ate two chocolate digestive biscuits. She had no appetite for the can of soup Helen had left for her.

She looked for the wallet in the bedroom and in the hall closet.

At three thirty she went to her neighbor and borrowed the money for the paperboy. "I only have a big note," she said, apologetically. "He never has change."

"No problem, Mrs. S." Sam was the one who used the vegetable patch now he was retired. "Got some zucchini for you!"

"Thank you, Sam. That’s very nice." She could no longer cope with the amount of zucchini that appeared every year. When the children were small, she’d made bread and salads and used it all somehow. Maybe the paperboy would take some for his mother.

After she’d paid the bill for the newspaper, Ann struggled through the rest of the day, consumed with worry. It wasn’t the loss of the money, or even of the cards. There was little enough cash. She just dreaded breaking the news to Helen. Only last week, she’d brought round an ad cut from the newspaper about a new place . "Seniors’ Residences" they called them.

Just after nine she switched off the TV, drew a glass of water. She checked the list Helen had left for her: lights, door bolts, windows.

At last she drew up the covers in the double bed and switched off the light. She felt cold and a little sick, already prepared for the inevitable confrontation. They’d be sure to take her to look at one of the tiny apartments they had in mind for her.

She turned her head to the side where Alistair had lain for fifty years, and slipped her hand under his pillow, as if under his neck.

Her fingers closed on the smooth leather of the wallet, and she remembered. She’d been going through some old photographs and found a picture of them both on their honeymoon. Alistair was smiling and handsome, the wind whipping back his hair. And she’d been young and slim, her eyes full of hope. She’d fitted the picture into the wallet so she’d have it with her all the time, and then taken it with her into the bedroom, to tuck it under his pillow to share it with him.

She’d found the wallet. She wouldn’t have to tell Helen. Not this time.

  Mind mapping:

Are you plotting that new story? Are you struggling through a difficult scene? Are you tired of backtracking to put in the essential pieces of information that you missed out in your first outline? Do you need the "big picture" to be ready for your next Book In A Week challenge? Are you writing a synopsis? We all need all the help we can get, and there is a technique that could prove useful. Maybe you could use mind mapping.

Mind mapping is a creative method to put down your thoughts in the form of free association diagrams. It mirrors the way our brains work and often stimulates the thought process. A technique widely used for preparing speeches, for outlining reports, for taking notes and for creative writing, it's taught to children in schools for note taking, essay and project preparation, and to business people for strategy planning. It can be used to good effect by all of us, so here are a few reminders of what it's all about.

Mind mapping starts with idea collection: We all have different ways of doing this. Some of us brainstorm; some keep notebooks for jotting down thoughts. If you're like me, you finish up with a hodge-podge of notes to sort out into some kind of coherent whole. Most of us let ideas simmer & stew for a while until they start to take a shape and a form. Let's assume that you have your basic ideas, some characters and a situation.

Now for a mind map of your new project or book.

First, take some unlined paper, as large as possible, and raid the kids' supplies for some coloured pens. (A whiteboard with wipe off coloured markers is ideal if you have it.)

Start with your main idea or topic and put it in the centre of your page in a bubble, or to the side of the sheet like the beginning of a family tree. Do a little sketch if you like. Have fun, this is creative. All ideas, shown by keywords, branch off from that theme. Using your collected ideas, and allowing your brain to add more as you go, expand the map with one or two keywords for each line or bubble. You can add branches, lines or more shapes in a circular or linear pattern. Some mind maps look like a web, some like a tree, others like an octopus or trailing seaweed. Experiment a little and use the format that works best for you. We all work differently.

It's useful to use colours: one (ex. yellow) to indicate the first level of thoughts or ideas. (We could call this your "Acts" or "Sections") Use another color (ex. blue) to represent the second level ideas. ( These might be your "Chapters".) A third colour (ex. red) would show your next level - (possibly your "Scenes") Some work in colour right away, some add the colours later. There is no order of how to write your ideas and no limits to the levels you use nor to the connections between your thoughts. Around each keyword you can add more, smaller branches or bubbles as you think of physical settings, emotions, significant objects, bits of backstory.

After the first draft of your mind map, you can go back and add points, refine your thoughts and move things around. When you have your basic map, you know the story you want to tell. Now to figure out the "how" --the sequence. A book is a linear form of communication where the material must be presented one word at a time. So take each section of your mind map and expand it, shape it and reorganize it into a sequential format.

The beauty of the map is that you can move around it with symbols, keywords and even sketches in a way that is not possible in a linear representation. Have fun with this.

Laying down a lie or lying down a lay?

We don't seem to have a problem with a hen laying an egg, or our villain lying to the heroine in our story. But, my oh my do we have problems with the two verbs "to lay" and "to lie" in other contexts. This is not easy to explain in simple terms, but let's try working it through step by step.

How about this?

"I was laying (down) on the couch," she said,"thinking up ways to murder my husband." No, No, no. Her major crime is murdering grammar right now.

Let's remember the chicken in the paragraph above. Hens can certainly lay. (Now there is a British expression "to lay the table" which has caused some hilarity amongst the offspring of some of us when the kids reach a certain age. I've learned to say "set the table" and since this is not a common usage, we'll ignore it for now together with the naughty connotations the kids have in mind.) So, only hens can be laying, meaning they are depositing eggs.

The verb "TO LAY" means to put in a low or horizontal position. It must take an object, real or understood. That means that the action is done by the first person mentioned (subject) to the thing following the verb. Hens are supposedly laying eggs.

"Every morning at exactly seven o'clock John lays the newspaper beside his cup of coffee"

John (subject) lays (verb) newspaper (object)

So far, so good. If there is a noun (a thing) after the verb, it's "lay"

If you've got this, the future is easy "John will lay the newspaper"

(There are figurative uses of this verb which follow the same rules. The hero lays bare his plans and so on.)

So what should the murderous wife be doing if she can't lay on the couch? If there's no object and the only person doing or receiving any action is the subject, your verb is "TO LIE". Sometimes you can check it by adding "myself"

"I lie (myself) down on the couch at least three times a day to think up ways to murder my husband."

I (subject) lie (verb) no object.

Again the future is easy: "I will lie on the couch."

The tricky part comes with the past tenses and if you don't have a good feel for this, you may want to note these verb forms on a little card and stick them somewhere where you can refer to them.

We've all agreed that the verb "TO LAY" takes an object. The past tenses are formed with: LAYING, LAID

Yesterday morning he laid the newspaper in its usual place beside his coffee cup

(maybe this is why his wife wants to murder him, but I digress.)

Still an object receiving the action.

Moving right along:

Yesterday morning he was laying the newspaper next to his coffee cup when the phone rang. (If you're interested, this is past continuous or imperfect)

Yesterday morning he laid the newspaper next to his coffee cup and smiled at his wife (little does he know what she's plotting) This is simple past

"Every morning he had laid the newspaper in exactly the same spot beside his cup" This is past perfect going farther back into the past.

You might be thinking this is all too easy, but English grammar is not for the faint of heart. The parts of the two verbs to form the past are dangerously similar, leading to our confusion.

The past tenses of "TO LIE" are "LAY, LAYING, LAIN" The sharp eyed amongst you will have noticed this little sucker has three past forms and that it looks suspiciously like our friend, the verb "to lay.".

"His wife was lying on the couch thinking up ways to murder her husband"

"The wife had lain (herself) on the couch at the same time every day, plotting how to murder her husband"

"The paper lay in the gutter where he'd thrown it."

Most English verbs form the past tense with a -d at the end, and so this is why we think that "laid" is a more correct form than "lain." Maybe in a few more generations this will be true.

Here's the summary:

to lie (down) NO OBJECT

I lie, I will lie, I was lying, I lay, I have lain, I had lain

to lay (something) OBJECT

I lay, I will lay, I laid, I have laid, I had laid

          Travels in Europe:

For six weeks in the fall of 99 my husband and I plunged into nostalgia. We drove the leafy lanes of southern England with thorns scraping both sides of the car, flew along the empty (and expensive) autoroutes of France, wove our way through Paris in early morning, were rocked by powerful machines that passed us on the Autobahn when we were doing 110 mph and sat in five kilometre Staus in industrial Germany.

We heard the Archbishop preach in a centuries old installation ceremony in York, saw again the seventeenth century murals that had been obliterated with whitewash, maybe by followers of Cromwell, in the tiny church in the Devonshire village where my uncle had a farm, and read the sermons of the Roman Catholic Bishop of Muenster, who preached three times against the Nazi regime in 1941 with SS officers sitting in the congregation.

Our ears attuned themselves once more to the accents of England, rural France, southern Germany and the Hanseatic north. We ate chips with everything in English pubs, consumed sausage and beer in noisy German Kneipes and indulged ourselves with a two and a half hour lunch with wonderful wines in Champagne, sitting in sight of an eleventh century basilica. We walked the Yorkshire moors, the Devonshire lanes, the monoliths of Stonehenge, the cliffs of Dorset, the woods and fields of northern France and the cobbles of moated castles. We penetrated part way into the rubble filled escape tunnels that would take a full coach and horses to safety when the castle of the dukes of Guise was under siege. We strolled through the Indian artefacts brought back by Lord Clive to Powys castle and rolled through the remains of the Viking settlement of Jorvic under the streets of York. We followed part of the Wine Road in Alsace amid flowers and cobbled streets and half timbered houses with dates anywhere from twelve to sixteen hundred.

Best of all were the old friends who welcomed us so warmly, some of whom we had not seen for over thirty years. We talked and laughed ourselves into a stupor almost every night and the years rolled away as if they had never been.

We are blessed to have friends and family in different parts of Europe and are very aware of the many differences between the people and the ways of life of the three countries we visited recently. Some are obvious and some more subtle. Sometime I could write a paper on the different ways of getting hot water for a shower: the method and equipment chosen has to convey some deep, nationalistic conditioning. But perhaps one of the most intriguing differences is that first, most important meal of the day--you know, the one your mother told you never to miss. You probably muttered a half hearted agreement as you reluctantly swallowed a glass of juice and grabbed a piece of toast, right?.

A couple of years ago, as we traveled in Europe visiting old friends and renewing acquaintance with familiar haunts in Britain, France and Germany, it became very apparent that not only are these countries still distinguished by language and culture (and, for the moment, coinage) but also by the way they start the day.

In England, no one (at least in the tourist industry) pretends to be looking for low fat, healthy choices. A pile of fried food--eggs, bacon, mushrooms, tomatoes, sausages--arrives at your table with a proud flourish together with toast in that uniquely English invention--the toast rack--cunningly constructed so that both sides of the bread cool equally quickly. Washed down with good strong tea (warning: avoid the coffee) this "full English breakfast" will stave off hunger pangs until late afternoon, when you'll start to feel ready for your pub meal--with chips of course.

The German "Frühstück" is different but equally plentiful. The coffee is dark and strong and served in small cups--you're not expected to drink more than two and it's probably wise to stick to that unless you feel like bouncing off the ceiling. A soft boiled egg, plates of sliced meats and sausage (Würst) and a variety of cheeses accompany breads and rolls of different colours and textures. Oh yes, butter and preserves are always available to fill that little corner at the end.

At the home of one set of friends in France we still found the big morning bowl of fragrant coffee tempered with hot milk. Bakeries in France and Germany open early enough to supply the breakfast table with warm, crusty breads and flaky croissants. In France the butter must be unsalted and the jams full of sharp, natural fruits.

If you take a tour of Europe, no need to wonder where you are after waking in a strange bed. If the shower system doesn't give you a clue, just take a look at the breakfast table.

What every woman should have

one old love she can imagine going back to... and one who reminds her how far she has come...
enough money within her control to move out and rent a place of her own  even if she never wants to and needs to...
something perfect to wear if the employer or date of her dreams wants to see her in an hour...
a youth she's content to leave behind..
a past juicy enough that she's looking forward to retelling it in her  old age...
the realization that she is actually going to have an old age and some money set aside to fund it...
a set of screwdrivers, a cordless drill, and a black lace bra...
one friend who always makes her laugh ... and one who lets her cry...
a good piece of furniture not previously owned by anyone else in her family...
eight matching plates, wine glasses with stems, and a recipe for a meal  that will make her guests feel honored...
a resume that is not even the slightest bit padded..
a feeling of control over her destiny...

EVERY WOMAN SHOULD KNOW...
(this is important girls, please pay attention)

How to fall in love without losing herself...
how to quit a job, break up with a lover, and confront a friend without  ruining the friendship...
when to try harder ... and when to walk away...
how to have a good time at a party she'd never choose to attend...
how to ask for what she wants in a way that makes it most likely she'll get it...
that she can't change the length of her calves, the width of her hips, or the nature of her parents...
that her childhood may not have been perfect ... but it's over...
what she would and wouldn't do for love or more...
how to live alone ... even if she doesn't like it... 

whom she can trust, whom she can't, and why she shouldn't take it  personally...
where to go... be it to her best friend's kitchen table... or a charming  inn in the woods... when her soul needs soothing...
what she can and can't accomplish in a day... a month... and a year...

If a dog was your teacher      

     you would learn things like .  .  .  .

When loved ones come home, always run to greet them. . .

Never pass up the opportunity to go for a joy ride. .  .  .

Allow the experience of fresh air and the wind in your faace to be pure ecstasy. . .

Never pretend to be something you're not. .  .

Let others know when they have invaded your territory. . .

Take naps and stretch before rising. . .

Run, romp and play daily. .  .

Always protect those you love. . .

Avoid biting when a simple growl will do. .  .

On warm days, stop to lie on your back in the grass. .  .

On a hot day, drink lots of water and lie under a shady tree. .  .

When you're happy dance around and wiggle your entire body. .  .

Thrive on attention and let people touch you. .   .

No matter how often you're scolded, don't buy into the guilt thing and pout--run right back and make friends. . .

Delight in the simple joy of a long walk. .  .

Eat with gusto and enthusiasm--stop when you've had enough. .  .

Be loyal. . .

If what you want lies buried, dig until you find it. .  .

When someone is having a bad day, be silent, sit close by and nuzzle them gently. . .