Mmmm ... how'd you make that?

Rest assured, if you like something I've made and want the recipe, it's yours. And I would never even consider leaving out an ingredient to ensure that my dish would always be better. Although, I've eaten things that suggest other cooks are not that magnanimous.

Yes, my arm hurts from patting myself on the back.

You see, my efforts at honesty and generosity are no guarantee that you'll ever get the recipe, or that it'll taste the way it did at my house.

It's more about my memory. I often forget that someone somewhere asked for something. And problems often crop up even when I do remember all of that.

Like the other day when my husband said Jen, a friend at work, had seen him eating leftover frittata and asked for the recipe. He wondered if I knew which Web site I'd found it on. Oddly enough, no.

So the next morning, I decided to type up the recipe from memory. The first thing that came back to mind was that I had read the recipe, couldn't get it to print out in fewer than 72 pages, and decided to go with whatever key points I could remember by the time I got to the kitchen, three steps away.

It wasn't my first frittata, and that helped. The other one I'd made half a dozen times about a dozen and a half years ago. So, I knew I could skip the potatoes that we were out of and could add whatever I could find. That's actually the beauty of frittatas, a Spanish word loosely translated "anything but the kitchen sink."

The new recipe said I should add 2 Tbs. of half and half or water or milk but that the half and half was better. We had it, so I used it. It also said that you should cook the vegetables in oil before pouring the eggs and your laundry-list ingredients over it. So, I tamped down the urge to use butter instead.

Unfortunately for Jen, the recipe quickly morphed into more about how it came to be than the ingredients themselves, and I was in the mood to share it all:

1. You can use as many eggs as you like; the recipe writer recommended a dozen, if you want it to be tall and full of lunch-leftovers potential. (I used six because I only had 12; my frying pan was 10-inch instead of the 12 she used; and personal history told me that I’d have trouble enough getting six cooked all the way through.)

2. I cooked the bacon on a foiled-lined cookie sheet, at 400, after forking holes into it to prevent curling.

3. Below, I suggest combining everything but the vegetables with the eggs and pouring it on all at once. Truthfully, since I was winging it, I added the eggs and then the other things as I thought of them, and there was no problem.

4. The recipe mentions putting the cheese on last and broiling it, but I didn’t feel like bothering; plus, the frying pan had a plastic handle. As a cheese lover, I would have enjoyed tripling the cheese and broiling until golden brown. So, laziness saved me a few hundred calories and unknown grams of fat.

It was a snap, so I soon clicked send and it was on its virtual journey to Canandaigua.

Moments later, though, I discovered that I had, indeed, left an ingredient out. I was walking by the dining room table and noticed a note from Fred, reminding me to send the recipe. He'd even given it a name: Shrimp and Bacon Frittata.

Oops ... I hadn't mentioned the shrimp. So, I sent it quickly, aware that its absence could signal that I actually do hold back when sharing.

But, if I were inclined to make some ingredients secret, I hope I'm a tad smarter than putting it in the title.

If I remembered, that is.

Snow can protect us from what we'd rather not see

Some days it just doesn't pay to go out and embrace late January's day of surprising sunshine.

In one brief stroll along our driveway and front walk yesterday, I noticed things in the yard that would normally have been buried under piles of shoveled snow.

Things that ... well ... I didn't drop there. Things I'm not happy that someone else did drop there.

The easiest culprits to identify were those I credit with digging up, then abandoning the now-rotting tulip bulb that's hiding in plain sight near our dormant trellis roses. It had to have been the posse of squirrels that have been tormenting us for months. Ma and Pa Squirrel and their extended family no doubt tired of the hockey game they've been playing in our attic each morning. So, they took the kids and Gramps out for some good old-fashioned garden destruction. Thanks, gang.

Then there was the salad-dressing cap. It might be reasonable to guess that it had just blown out of somebody's trash. But whose? Not ours. You see, we recycle, which means my husband washes the goo off before dropping it in the recycling bag before tying it up on alternate weeks and leaving it for the men in blue-box collection regalia. So, it's not ours. Which may well mean that Ma, Pa, Gramps and the kids went on a field trip to someone else's trash.

Unless those same squirrel-ly tenants of ours decided they needed a little pocket change, they're clearly off the hook for the stash of thin blue rubber bands scattered where our old silver maple once stood. They were, most likely, left by a newspaper carrier.

It's also doubtful that I can blame the rowdy rodents for the most repulsive find of all -- a used condom. The images it brings to mind (it hasn't been that sunny a January) are ... well ... forget it. They just ARE, and that's bad enough. But, I'm certain that a Trojan treasure would not have been left behind by the squirrels. Surely, they would have carted it up the utility pole, across the wires and through one of the three-inch entrances they've chewed into the wood.

Aha! I've just recognized the silver lining to this particular cloud.

It would have been much more unsettling to someday find the condom tucked somewhere in the attic.

To each her own gift

OK, so I accept that each of us has skills that another might not. For instance, I would advise you not to even think about challenging my ability to separate M&Ms into color groups before eating them. And forget about competing with my unparalleled genius for putting my socks on one at a time without falling over.
They're gifts. Both of them. There's no use envying me. Everybody has their own gifts, and these are mine.
What I'm bummed about is that other women got the makeup gift. If you look around, you're sure to notice that, in most cases, the makeup gift went to the same crowd that got the beauty gift. What kind of sense does that make?
It'd be like giving me socks with instructions or a gift certificate for M&Ms packaged by color. A little "spreading it around" is in order, wouldn't you say?
It's not that I think I should have been given the whole makeup gift.
I'm willing to live with the emergency room visits whenever my hand slips and I ram the mascara wand into my eyeball.
And, looking like I was slapped around isn't so bad. Blush is meant to add color, isn't it?
What's got my Q-tips in a knot is foundation. What, pray tell, is the secret to buying the right shade? 
Over the course of 35 years, I've gradually worked my way down from the deep tan I really wanted -- until I realized the idea was to MATCH my skin tone and cover up the odd pimple or dark patch.
It makes sense, but that doesn't make it easy.

My skin tone is white white, but nobody sells that or the shade my husband keeps suggesting, prison pallor. Ivory? There's plenty of it, but it isn't quite right.
I thought a change of scenery might help. So, I went outside. As everyone knows, the best possible place to put makeup on is in your car's rear-view mirror on a sunny day. Kind of a combo indoor/outdoor lighting effect that serves you from morning through evening. It's a wonder Maybelline or Hyundai haven't caught on yet.
So, anyway, I was out in the car the other day, shortly before noon, and thought I would nail it for sure. My makeup would be sensational for lunch at the Ramada.
I carefully shook the bottle, opened it and wiped my finger across the top. But as I dragged my finger across my cheek (at an upward angle, of course), I was stunned ... it was three shades darker than my skin.
I looked at the bottle, squinting as I held the label to my eyeball. 
Bare Nude.
Bare nude??
How much lighter a shade can there be than Bare Nude?
I don't get it.
Unless, of course ... it's Transparent Invisible.
That might just be the shade for me.
But what do I know? ... I got the M&M sorting gift.

Just a quick one

It's worth mentioning that our Rotary Club learned recently how much was dropped in Geneva's Salvation Army kettles on Christmas Eve Day, when club members were ringing the bells.
The total for four sites was $4,300 — up from the previous year's $2,800.
There are all sorts of economic extrapolations that could be drawn by anyone in the mood. Mine is more social than economic: In bad times, good people are still aware that others are worse off — and they're willing to do something about it.
Way to go, Geneva!

Lying and laptops and cats .. Oh my!

You know how, on sit-coms, the husband can always tell when the wife has used his razor? And he's not exactly happy about it?

That sort of sharing has been on my mind ever since my 19-month-old laptop died last week.

(Please join me in a moment of silence for everything that wasn't backed up.)

So, I've been using my son's MacBook, which he left behind while visiting his girlfriend. Mind you, deciding to let me use was touch and go.

But I filled out the requisite forms and answered a battery of questions, only stumbling over the one that should have been easiest.

"What happened to yours?" he texted.

"Um ..." I thought, unsure whether he'd let me use his if I told him the truth: "I really don't know."

So, I lied:

"I threw it at the cat because she wouldn't quit licking her incision from being spayed."

"You threw your computer at Ollie? Seriously?" he replied. "That makes me very nervous."

Hmm .. I hadn't pegged him for the gullible one.

"No, I was just going for the laugh. It was just some stupid Windows thing," I explained, without explaining.

"You really had me scared, but good one," he texted before cutting to the chase: "What are the chances of the same thing happening to mine?"

Windows problem on a Mac?

I was fairly safe, but I threw in a carrot just to be sure: "And I promise I won't snoop."

Sold! (er ... loaned) to the woman who can't keep her story straight.

So, I've been plugging away on the MacBook for several days now, trying to leave no tell-tale signs that will annoy him.

No full trash cans.

No downloads overflowing from their folder.

No cookies that will dog him until the end of his days.

It's been harder, though, to stop myself from bookmarking sites; downloading another search engine; or reorganizing the desktop so it feels more like home.

I've managed so far.

If Ollie can just resist licking herself, I'm all set.