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You might think that as we roll into 2006, I would have enough on my plate:  There is a paper to write and present at the Oxford Symposium in September.  There are cooking lessons, five of them, that I gave my brother as a college graduation present -- in 2000 -- that he can finally take, and I can finally teach, this year.  There is still a book to write, for those of you wondering whatever became of the book I started under the auspices of the American Egg Board Fellowship in 2004.  There is travel to plan, and ways to pay for that travel to consider.  And in the very short term, there is my New Year's Eve Party of Fabulosity, in which Lloyd and I and a gaggle of our dear friends will gather to watch Comic Strip and Invader Zim DVD's and eat country ham, biscuits, hoppin' John, slaw, pecan pie and birthday cake for bunni.  By any reasonable criteria, that would be more than enough to keep me busy...but no, my dear Snow has decided that it's time for me to cross the rubicon and see how the other half knits, and that somewhere in the universe is a pair of socks just begging me to knit them.  It is for all these reasons, plus the desire for a little comfort and food-based contemplation at the end of a happy but frankly tiring holiday season, that moves me to trawl my own archives one more time and reprint the following, which was originally published on December 16, 2003.  Scandalous coasting on past achievements, it may be, but if you're like me, having dipped into one too many cookie jars and soft-center assortments, a little whole-grain goodness is just the ticket right now.

Although it doesn't happen much anymore, one of the most frequent topics of "you know what you should do?" conversation was the one on which I solicited the least advice: dieting. I never knew whether it was because I was, once upon a time, an easy and obvious candidate for weight loss, being much more of a muchacha than I am now, or whether diet regimes are so embedded in the landscape that it has become expected of all of us. I will never forget the look on Lloyd's face when I told him that a friend and co-worker, a stunning 23-year-old Taiwanese woman, already a hardcore gym rat, decided to go on Atkins. At least in New York, or at least in the circles in which I work, there is an idea that it is somewhat immoral not to be on something. If you are not in need of dimunition, then maybe you need to do something about your triglycerides, or your HDL/LDL ratios, or your insulin resistance, or maybe all of these are fine but you want to know how to make them better.

In my case, though, no one would have looked twice at me if I announced that I was going on Atkins, because once upon a time there was much more to this bakerina than meets the eye. (There also used to be less than meets the eye, but that is for once and future times.) What garnered looks was my polite thanks for the advice, but no thanks, I'll figure it out for myself. I could see the unspoken assumption in their eyes: but wasn't it figuring it out for yourself that got you fat in the first place, dear? Depending on the receptiveness of the friend in question, I would explain that I had spent years taking similar advice from people who knew the trick, who had the key, and all I needed to do was follow their path. I spent years on Pritikin and Atkins and Stillman and a particularly wiggy diet by a particularly wiggy female bariatrician who was famous in the late 70's/early 80's, a woman who regularly wrote diets for Teen magazine and counseled us that there was no reason for a fat teenager to eat more than 850 calories a day. I tried Weight Watchers, safest of the bunch, which gave me an excuse to obsess over every blessed thing that went into my mouth. I even tried a regime of, shall we say, disordered eating, the kind favored by ancient sybarites and frightened college girls. I was rewarded for my efforts by losing 5 pounds, then gaining a minimum of 10, yearly, for 10 years. You can do the math.

In the end I decided that I couldn't do any worse for myself than I had allowed the experts to do for me, so I started making sneaky little changes, the kind where every time you find yourself with a craving for stale candy from a vending machine, you force yourself to have a cup of tea instead. (The stale candy habit is gone, but now I have a wicked tea habit.) Last February, when I suspected that I was pregnant, I started eating a lot of broccoli and craving foods with a lot of sesame in them, like hummus and halvah. The pregnancy turned out to be a false alarm, but the broc habit stayed, and I remain staggered by how much halvah I can put away. Most importantly, though, I decided that I was not going to cut anything out. More vegetables? Why, yes, thank you. Lean meats? Mais oui, bien sur. But I am not going to panic if I go to Zarela for dinner and the gallon of mole sauce her chef made that afternoon contains a teaspoon of lard in it. I will give up the stale vending-machine chocolate, but if someone offers me a brown-butter-flavored ganache from La Maison du Chocolat, I am going to thank that person profusely, and possibly plant an open-mouth kiss on him/her. And I am not, not, not going to give up starches.

Yes, I know that you lost 50 pounds. I know that you have more energy. I know that our ancestors were hunter/gatherers, more suited to hunting mastodons than cultivating grain. I have heard it all, and I'm glad that it works for you, but if you tell me one more time that our wee baby little intestinal tracts were not designed to eat that big bad bowl of oatmeal, I am taking that oatmeal, and the little pitcher of heavy cream and the brown sugar and the wee dram of Macallan 18 that accompanies every proper bowl of oatmeal in my house, and I am going home. And before you make some well-meaning comment about how much faster I would get thinner if I just gave up all of that oatmeal and millet and amaranth and barley and polenta on which I warm up during the winter, let me remind you that there was 37 pounds more of me to tell this to when I did it your way. Pardon me while I add one more dram of Macallan 18 to my oatmeal.

If you are not a fan of oats but you still like the idea of a hot breakfast to power you through a cold morning, any good cookbook on grains can give you instructions on how to cook them and what to serve on/in/with them. One of the best is Mollie Katzen's Sunlight Cafe. It is an all-purpose breakfast cookbook, filled with recipes for eggs and potatoes and breakfast puddings and pancakes and waffles and muffins, but for me the crowning glory is the comprehensive grains chapter, filled with clear, friendly instructions on how to cook and serve them. One of my new breakfast staples is amaranth wafers, made by patting cooked amaranth into silver dollars and pan-frying them at a high temperature in high-oleic safflower oil. Because the oil can be heated to high temperatures without smoking, the wafers stay crisp even at room temperature. Lloyd likes his as a sweet, with maple syrup. I prefer mine savory, with tiny dabs of sour cream and a little Maldon salt. There are recipes for oatmeal cooked in sweetened milk with chai spices, couscous with dried fruit and yogurt, barley cooked in apple juice, and my very favorite, Orange-Pecan Skillet Millet, made by cooking millet risotto-style in vanilla-spiked orange juice. I love it like mad, and Lloyd does too, even though every time I make it, he crows "who's a pretty boy?" in a spookily-accurate parrot voice.

If you are a fan of oats, you may want to try to procure a copy of this. It is out of print, but copies pop up here and there. I got mine from my home away from home, Kitchen Arts & Letters (212-876-5550). If you buy it, be prepared: People will look at you oddly, wondering at you as you chuckle over this little book of whimsy. Let them look. You and I know good stuff when we see it.

It's Boxing Day, dear friends, and Lloyd and I are home, tired but happy.  After three days of mewling and puking over whether we would be able to get out of town, a day of High Intensity Christmas Eve Dinner Preparation and 2 1/2 days of lounging about on my parents' comfy sofas, reading, knitting (or trying to) and watching Do Not Adjust Your Set for hours at a time, I am now so relaxed that I almost -- almost -- don't mind the prospect of heading back to LuthorCorp in the morning.

While relaxing holidays are the stuff of which dreams are made, they do not exactly make for scintillating reading, so I will refrain from the minute-by-minute replay, which can only induce tryptophan levels of doziness.  Rather, I will keep it concise and snappy, PowerPoint-style, as I recap The High Points of the Weekend:

• Anticipating a two-hour trip to Penn Station on the first day after the strike, only to make the whole trip in 20 minutes.
• Spending two hours on a pair of speedy, silent, sun-drenched trains.
• Seeing the look on Lloyd's face as he opened his Christmas present.
• Seeing the look on Lloyd's face as I opened mine.
• Being my mother's sous-chef for our Christmas Eve dinner, and turning out what might be the closest thing to perfect pecan pie I have ever made, and probably ever will.
• Catching my parents' cat trying to steal pate off the cheese platter, scaring him away after he had only licked the pate, and thus being able to coin the phrase "cat-lick pate," which we all said as many times as we could over the course of the weekend.
• Baking cookies with my mom on Christmas Day.
• Eating cookies into a state of oblivion on Christmas Night.
• Slowly driving Lloyd mad by asking him if I had gained any weight every time I ate a cookie.
• Slowly driving Lloyd madder by announcing that I was legally changing my name to Enormous McVastbottom every time I ate a cookie.  (He didn't think much of this, so I suggested changing it to Large McCookieconsumption instead.  I am *this* close to reducing him to a gibbering paste.)
• Opening what my stepdad called "the interactive Christmas gift":  Lloyd and I were given a small wrapped package and a pair of tote bags, and told to open everything together.  The small wrapped package was an Eyewitness Travel Guide to Boston.  Lloyd's tote bag contained a photo of a jet.  My tote bag contained a Monopoly hotel.  Thus did we learn that my parents gave us a weekend at the Parker House, with tickets from New York to Boston on the Jet Blue shuttle.  I'm still trying to find the words to describe how excited I am about this, but I keep getting stuck on "wow."
• Returning home on a fast train and an even faster cab ride, courtesy of the fastest, smoothest, most professional cabbie in New York City.
• Firing up my email and learning from a dear friend that the topic of the 2006 Oxford Symposium on Food and Cookery practically demands that I attend.
• Firing up PTMYB and knowing, once again, that I have the best friends in the world.

Funny how one little transit strike takes all of one's best-laid plans and mashes them into a paste.  This was supposed to be a week of incremental cleaning of the apartment, leisurely packing and a nice early stroll to the N train on Friday morning.  Instead it has been a week of walking in the bracing air, applying Band-Aids to blisters and eating Afghan takeout while watching The French Chef on dvd.  Happily, the strike is over, but we are still hedging our bets, keeping our 3:30 a.m. car pickup just in case someone doesn't get the message that high-occupancy vehicle rules no longer apply between 5 and 11.  Yes, I should have been in bed an hour ago.  Thank you for your concern.

This time tomorrow, I should be curled up blissfully on the sofa in my parents' tv room, falling asleep in front of some permutation of Law and Order.  The spiced beef, our Christmas Eve entree, will have been roasted, cooled, wrapped in wax paper, pressed between two cutting board and tied together so that it will pack down in the fridge.  Maybe at that point I will stop feeling as if I have had the everloving stuffing kicked out of me.  I'm not there yet, though.

Dear friends, I might just be able to check in from my parents' newly DSL-ed house, but should I be wrong, please have a beautiful and happy Chrisnukahkwanstice.  Travel safely.  Kiss everyone you love, and then kiss them again. 

He will kill me when he reads this, but I'm writing it anyway.  Dear friends, I've been told that my parents have a spiffy new DSL connection, which now means I can blog from the family homestead in Philadelphia this weekend, but just in case I can't, I am seizing the moment to say happy birthday to one of my boyish friends, one of the best fellows to be found on this green and pleasant earth, whose birthday falls on Sunday.  (That would be the fellow, not the green and pleasant earth.)  In tribute to him, I offer two poems, or rather, a poem and a song.  The poem comes from that hardworker, freethinker and overall studmuffin Robert Burns.  The song comes from the late Laura Nyro, whose records my mom used to play when I was little, who I rediscovered and listened to for hours as a teenager, and who, thirty years later, still sends me into swoony paroxysms of pop music love.

Happy birthday, you.  Yeah, you.  You have a problem with that? 

To A Mouse.

-- Laura Nyro

Well, kids, unless we get our Festivus miracle in the next six minutes, the Transport Workers Union will be striking for the first time in 25 years, and thus will New York City Transit grind to a halt.  I am less worried about getting to work and back tomorrow (I have a taxipool with three coworkers to get me to work in the morning, and Lloyd and I are going out to dinner with Bunni, and should be able to get a taxi home afterwards) than I am about getting to Penn Station on Friday, when we are supposed to head to Philadelphia.  We have a car service scheduled to pick us up, but I've just taken another look at the contingency plan, and it would appear that we will not be allowed to travel below 96th Street unless there are four people in the car.  Lloyd plus me plus the driver:  that makes three.

I know that there is something to be done, some way for us to get there.  From this vantage point, though, I have no idea what that something is.

It's 12:01.  No deal.  We're all sitting and waiting.