Dear Reader

Dear Reader Column - December 16, 2022

Dear Reader,

Forty-six years. On Sunday,  my husband, Bob, will have been married for 46 years. It's romantic just thinking about it. Lately I've been adding to my conversations, "Oh, did I tell you that on December 18th, Bob and I will be married 46 years!" People smile and look at me with amazement. Truthfully, my husband and I are amazed too, whenever we say "46 years" out loud. Time passes way too quickly when you're in love.

Forty-six years, we may be getting older, but the romance is still in bloom. When we get in the car to go somewhere, my husband opens my door and frequently tells me, "Suzanne, when we're driving somewhere together it still feels like we're on a date."

It was a simple start, married by a Justice of the Peace. No diamond ring, instead I wear a gold initial ring on my finger that was passed down through my husband's family. No honeymoon. My husband and I were running a business together (we've worked side-by-side for all 46 years) and we couldn't get away for a honeymoon. But we hardly even noticed. The important thing was just being together, and we still feel that way today.

When friends ask, "What are you going to do to celebrate 46 years?" 

I tell them, "Nothing special, we'll probably split a sandwich, sit on a bench near some shops and do some people watching."

That might not sound very exciting to most people, but when you're still crazy in love it's a very special celebration, to simply do a little bit of "nothing" with the man who has loved and cherished you for 46 years.

Thanks for reading with me. It's so good to read with friends.

Peace be with you this holiday season,

Suzanne Beecher
[email protected]

Dear Reader Column - December 9, 2022

Dear Reader,

Like a lot of people this time of year, I've been under a lot of stress lately--busy, busy, busy. It's all good stuff, but nevertheless it's taking a lot out of me. When I get to feeling worn out, I long for a place to go where someone who cares, is waiting to pamper me. When I was a kid, I always felt that way when I spent some time with my Grandma and Grandpa Hale.

Every morning at Grandma's house I'd wake up to the smell of freshly scrambled eggs with bacon, toast and homemade jam--made from berries she grew in her backyard. Grandma’s freezer always had New York Vanilla ice cream in it, and if I wanted some for a breakfast dessert, no problem.

A trip to Grandma's house also meant I'd go home with at least one new pair of shoes. Walking down Main Street with Grandma, when we'd get to the shoe store I'd always pause and take a long look in the store window. Our conversation at that point was always the same. We each knew our parts by heart.

Grandma: "Suzanne, do you think you need a new pair of shoes?"

Me: "Well, I think I could use another pair. Those right there look pretty nice." And into the store we'd go.

I miss my Grandma and Grandpa Hale, but I'm left with wonderful memories I can revisit anytime I need some special TLC…and I think that's just what I'm going to do today.

Thanks for reading with me. It's so good to read with friends.

Suzanne Beecher
[email protected]

Dear Reader Column - July 8, 2022

Dear Reader,

A friend of mine is helping care for her two grandchildren this summer and was wondering if I had any fun baking ideas. I shared several, but she settled on the idea of Bubble Wrap Cake.

Melt semi-sweet baking chocolate, paint it on bubble wrap (not on the flat side), let the painted bubble wrap set on the counter for 10 minutes, then wrap it around the outside of your homemade cake, put the cake in the refrigerator until the chocolate hardens, take the cake out of the refrigerator and slowly peel off the bubble wrap. Your cake will be wrapped in a chocolaty beeswax pattern. It's stunning and it's fun to make. Your family and friends will be amazed, but it's really very simple to do. 

Several years ago we took some photos when I made it with my grandchildren, I’m sharing them again so you can see the finished product, go to: http://www.emailbookclub.com/photo/bubble-cake.html

Tips if you make the chocolate bubble wrap:

* Use a warm knife when you cut the cake, so the chocolate wrap doesn't crack.

* Cut the piece of bubble wrap to fit the height of your cake, leaving about ½ inch at the top.

* Frost the cake (lightly), before you wrap it with the chocolate bubble wrap.

* Peel the bubble wrap away from the hardened chocolate slowly.

* Add cut up fresh berries to the top of the cake inside the ½ inch chocolate rim, or simply some extra frosting on the top.

* I made a six inch 2-layer cake, but any size will work.

Thanks for reading with me. It's so good to read with friends.

Suzanne Beecher
[email protected]

Dear Reader Column - July 1, 2022

Dear Reader,

“Hi Suzanne, I'm wondering since you love to bake from scratch, if you would have a divine, moist, chocolate cake recipe. My son was always gluten-free growing up...so all my recipes were gf. But every once in a while I get a craving for a good, non gf, chocolate cake...and many of the recipes are disappointing. Can't wait to see if you have a good one to share!” – Warmest Regards, Deanne W., Librarian I - Literacy Coordinator, OC Public Libraries 

(Suzanne replies) Deanne, when I read your email I knew right away which moist and delicious chocolate cake recipe I wanted to share with you. When I found the recipe, I also found the column I wrote when I first baked the cake several years ago...

I love to bake. In fact, I've used the same chocolate cake recipe for over 25 years. Tried and true, it's always produced rave reviews. So I was surprised the other day when I decided to try a different one.

I've heard other people comment about a favorite food confessing, "I started eating it and just couldn't stop," but I could never relate. Food isn't that big of a deal to me. In fact, sometimes I get so busy I forget to eat. But now I know exactly what they're talking about. This new chocolate cake is good, I mean really good, I mean as good as it gets, and I too confess, "I just can't stop eating it."

I've gained two pounds since I baked it. My waistline is expanding but my pants aren't, so if I plan on getting them zipped up tomorrow morning, I've got to get this cake out of my house. There are only the two of us--me and my husband--so whenever I bake, each of us indulges a little bit and then we give the rest away to friends.

I've cut the leftover pieces, put them on paper plates and covered them with plastic wrap, but as I'm standing here licking chocolate cake off of my fingers and desperately trying to scrape every last crumb off the bottom of the pan, I don't know if I've got the willpower to do it. Truth is, sharing is overrated when it comes to good chocolate cake.

Hershey's Disappearing Cake

1/4 cup (1/2 stick) butter or margarine, softened

1/4 cup shortening

2 cups sugar

1 teaspoon vanilla extract

2 eggs

1 3/4 cups all-purpose flour

3/4 cup Hershey's Cocoa

3/4 teaspoon baking powder

3/4 teaspoon baking soda

1/8 teaspoon salt

1 3/4 cups milk

Heat oven to 350 degrees. Grease and flour 13 x 9 x 2-inch baking pan.

In large mixing bowl, beat butter, shortening, sugar and vanilla until light and fluffy. Add eggs; beat well.

In separate bowl, stir together flour, cocoa, baking powder, baking soda and salt; add alternately with milk to butter mixture, blending well. Pour batter into prepared pan. Bake 35 to 40 minutes or until wooden toothpick inserted in center comes out clean. Cool in pan on wire rack. Frost as desired. Homemade chocolate buttercream is my favorite..

Enjoy the cake!

(On second thought, I'd recommend opening a can of your favorite chocolate frosting, so you start eating this cake as quickly as possible.)

Thanks for reading with me. It's so good to read with friends.

Suzanne Beecher
[email protected]

Dear Reader Column - June 29, 2022

Dear Reader,

She was a short woman, with a round face, her cheeks had a natural blush when she smiled, and a whitish tint covered her head--she was getting her hair colored--but it was her smile that first caught my attention. 

I was fifteen minutes early and waiting for my hair appointment. I stopped and stared--I couldn't help myself. For a moment I could hardly breathe and I tried to hide my shaking hands. I thought it was her; she looked just like my mother, but my mother's been gone for years. My headset, where's my headset--I turned the music on louder and louder--thinking maybe I could transport myself somewhere else. It was all too much for me. 

Every week I visit the hairdresser. I don't even own a bottle of shampoo, and my mother's to blame. Yes, my mother who washed out every container; "Throw nothing away, buy nothing unless it's on sale, buy the wrong size and make it fit if it's a good price." Oh, how many times did I hear those words? Yet Mom had a standing, weekly appointment at the hairdresser. In fact, I don't ever remember seeing my mother wash and dry her own hair. 

When you live in a small town, like my mother did, the price of a weekly wash and blow dry and a monthly tint were somehow justifiable in her self-imposed budget. Maybe it was because she always worked a full-time job, or maybe my mother was like me--I just can't blow dry my hair into anything that looks respectable. 

But the first year Mom came to winter in Florida, she gasped when I took her to the hair salon on my weekly visit. Thirty dollars for a wash and blow dry, $50 for a haircut, my mother was beside herself. But it was one of the few times in her life she decided to take a chance. 

"Go ahead, cut my hair. Make me look beautiful...something different," she told my hairdresser. And that's exactly what my hairdresser produced--a different Mom stood before me. I barely recognized her. My mother became a different woman that day and she smiled that smile... 

...it's the same smile I see across the room today. She looks like my mother. Oh how I wish she were my mother, even for a minute--just a hug and embrace to feel her arms around me again. 

But all I could do was stare at the woman with the tint on her hair. I walked away from her view. Maybe I'm imagining things. But when I returned, she was still there, and so was that smile. 

That smile from across the room meant just for me--a smile to keep in my heart.

 Thanks for reading with me. It's so good to read with friends.

Suzanne Beecher
[email protected]

Dear Reader Column - June 23, 2022

Dear Reader,

Several years ago, I asked my son, "What kind of cake would you like me to make for your birthday party?"

I expected him to place an order for a chocolate cake with chocolate frosting, because he loves my chocolate pie, and chocolate brownies, and he always used to steal chocolate chip cookie dough when he was a kid. "Hey Mom, look over there.." And when I'd turn and look the other way, he'd scoop a handful of cookie dough out of my mixing bowl. My son loves chocolate.

So when he requested a yellow cake with chocolate frosting--what a surprise! A yellow cake? Every year I've baked his birthday cake and it's never been yellow. I didn't even have a recipe for a yellow cake. So I started looking through some of my old cookbooks. My thinking was, that a cake recipe from a back-in-the-day cookbook, when everything was made from scratch, would have to be a winner. But when I baked the cake the night before the party, it looked dry, and--it didn't look very yellow to me.

So what the heck makes a yellow cake yellow? A good friend and Google came to my rescue. "A yellow cake has egg yolks, a white cake has whole eggs," my friend emailed, and she also included her recipe for a yellow cake. 

I made the cake for my son…with chocolate frosting. It was divine.

Yellow Cake 

6 large egg yolks

1 cup milk

2 teaspoons vanilla extract

3 cups plus 3 tablespoons sifted all-purpose flour

1-1/2 cups granulated sugar

1 Tablespoon plus 1 teaspoon baking powder

3/4 teaspoon salt

12 Tablespoons unsalted butter at room temperature, cut into pieces

Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Spray two 9-inch x 1 1/2 inch cake pans with non-stick spray and then line bottoms with parchment paper, then spray again with the non-stick spray.

In a medium bowl lightly combine the egg yolks, 1/4 cup milk and vanilla extract.

Combine the dry ingredients (flour, sugar, baking powder and salt) and mix on low speed for about 30 seconds or until blended.  Add the butter and remaining 3/4 cup milk.  Mix on low speed until the dry ingredients are moistened. Increase the mixer speed to medium and beat for about 2 minutes and scrape sides of bowl. Gradually add the egg mixture, in 3 additions, beating 30 seconds after each addition.

Divide the batter and pour into the prepared pans, smooth the surface with a spatula.  (Pans will be about half full.)  Bake 25 to 35 minutes or until cake springs back when pressed lightly in center. 

Place the cakes, in their pans, on a wire rack to cool for 10 minutes.  Invert the cakes onto a greased rack.  To prevent splitting, turn cakes right side up. Cool completely before frosting.

Thanks for reading with me. It's so good to read with friends.

Suzanne Beecher
[email protected]

Dear Reader Column - June 22, 2022

Dear Reader,

My son stopped by the other day and in the middle of a wandering conversation about life he commented, "It was so good to see Uncle John when he visited last Christmas. You know, I still have one of the semi-trucks that he gave me for my birthday when I was a kid."

Uncle John, my husband's brother, was a long-distance truck driver when our son was young and every now and then we'd get a phone call, "I'll be in the area tonight and I thought I'd stop by." And sure enough later that evening, a big blue semi-truck would show up in front of our house. We lived on what used to be the outskirts of the city, so there was still plenty of room to park his rig. Climbing up into the cab of a semi--it was a dream come true for an eight-year-old boy and his Uncle John always brought a gift, too. It wasn't ever anything elaborate: a toy truck or maybe a T-shirt, but they were keepsakes for a little boy.

"I remember I used to wake up in the middle of the night and look at the semi-truck sitting on my shelf and wonder, 'Where was Uncle John on the road tonight?' I wish I would have told him how much his gifts meant to me," my son said. "Maybe I should buy Uncle John a present?"

But I suggested that instead of buying a gift, he should write down the "Uncle John story" that he just told me. I assured my son that in his Uncle John's mind it would be a bestseller--one of those stories he'd love reading over and over again.

Thanks for reading with me. It's so good to read with friends.

* Congratulations to Sue G., the winner of the mini stuffed crab.

Suzanne Beecher
[email protected]

Dear Reader Column - June 8, 2022

Dear Reader,

I believe the worst thing about being stranded on a desert island would be that there wasn't any coffee. I was visiting a friend of mine in Madison and she was supposed to pick me up at 8:30 a.m. We were going to Starbucks for coffee. 

Coffee is a big deal to me in the morning. I'm usually up and at 'em for only a mere 15 minutes before I get my first coffee infusion, and since I'd already been up for an hour and a half I was starting to experience coffee withdrawal. 

Every thought I had, had a cup of coffee attached to it. I was surrounded by coffee. There was even a coffee table for guests in the hotel's lobby. I was sitting outside, and every time someone walked through the front door, a big whiff of freshly brewed coffee would taunt me. 

Oh boy, what time is it now? I could really use a cup of coffee. Maybe I should call her? But maybe then I'd sound desperate. But I do feel desperate and I'm feeling more desperate every minute. Tall, insulated, coffee to-go cups are dancing in my head. The only reason I started writing this column was to try to think about something other than coffee. Obviously it's not working. 

Relax and breathe, Suzanne. I wonder if Lamaze breathing would deliver me from these coffee pangs. 

Okay, we said we'd meet at 8:30 it's now 8:34. Where is she? I know I'm a little over the edge this morning, but aren't you supposed to be prompt for job interviews, business appointments, and a coffee rendezvous? 

All smiles and looking totally put together, my friend showed up at 8:35. She looked so good. How did she do it? I just had to ask, "You must have already had your first morning cup of coffee?" 

No, she hadn't. In fact she doesn't even drink coffee anymore. And therein lies a valuable coffee lesson: Make sure the early morning designated coffee driver "actually" drinks coffee. 

Thanks for reading with me. It's so good to read with friends.

Suzanne Beecher
[email protected]

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Dear Reader Column - June 7, 2022

Dear Reader,

Today's guest author, Cleyvis Natera, was born in the Dominican Republic, migrated to the U.S. at ten years old, and grew up in New York City. She holds a BA from Skidmore College and an MFA from New York University. Her writing has won awards and fellowships from PEN America, the Bread Loaf Writers' Conference, The Kenyon Review's Summer Writers Workshops, and the Virginia Center for the Creative Arts. Cleyvis lives with her husband and two young children in Montclair, New Jersey. Her first novel is, Neruda on the Park, an exhilarating debut novel following members of a Dominican family in New York City who take radically different paths when faced with encroaching gentrification.

Please email and welcome Cleyvis to the book club: [email protected]

ARRIVALS

My three siblings and I left the Dominican Republic on Feb 15, 1988. I was ten years old, my younger sister Evelyn was eight, while my older brother Lindo was twelve and my older sister Shany was fourteen. According to weather data, there was a light rain that fell throughout the day in JFK, temperatures rather mild hovered in the mid to upper 40's. But for a bunch of kids from the Caribbean--we might as well have landed in the Arctic. When we stepped outside onto the JFK sidewalk, to locate the uncle who hadn't shown up as expected at baggage claim with our coats, we hollered and screeched like we were getting murdered. Mami, who'd been living in the US three years by then and had gone to the DR to get us, laughed, delighted at our exaggeration. It's not that cold, she said. In that moment I thought of how I would describe this new sensation to my father, who remained in the Dominican Republic, who would never travel to our new home.

When we arrived at my grandmother's apartment in Washington heights, we were enfolded into so many arms--aunts and uncles and my grandparents offered the warmth of family, ensuring we knew we'd just arrived at a place where we were all so deeply loved.

The day went by at high speed. There was so much food, so much to drink, we ended our first meal sated and awed. But as night descended, we came to find out our family would be further splintered--no one's apartment could accommodate four children.

We glanced at each other, worried. We'd never been apart. I asked Mami where she would go? She struggled to find the words. She reminded us she worked 24 hours a day as a home health aid in the Bronx. She would be saving as much as possible, so we'd all be living together before the start of the school year. I suddenly felt very small, cold, sad. I missed my father. When I asked about calling Papi, she said we'd have to wait until she came back--calling centers were already closed, there was no long distance calling in anyone's apartment.

When my mother came to see us the following weekend, she made good on her promise. We traipsed to the nearest calling center--a series of tempered glass covered walls with a tiny compartment that hardly fit two of us along with Mami, a phone that had no buttons, no rotary dial. When it was my turn to speak, I stepped up ready. I'd been paying attention--practicing how I would describe all that was new. But when I held the phone, all preparations flew out the window. I found myself shy and embarrassed.

Que te pasa, Papi said, knowing I was quiet on the other side. I told him I was scared I'd never learned English, that I'd never be let into any school. Then, I quickly remembered what I'd been practicing, and like a gorge falling apart, I told him all about our new life, the plentitude, but the sadness that hovered over everything with so much missing him. All in all it was only a couple of minutes, but with his laughter, and his sighs, I suddenly had the power of collapsing space. He and I were near each other, and Mami, who was listening nearby wiped away a tear. Even my siblings quieted down as if with my words we'd all been reunited, together for a precious moment.

This, then, was the day I realized I'd arrived at my true calling which from then on would be found among words.

-- Cleyvis Natera

Please email and welcome Cleyvis to the book club: [email protected]

Thanks for reading with me. It's so good to read with friends.

Suzanne Beecher
[email protected]

Dear Reader Column - June 6, 2022

Dear Reader,

My husband never gets up before me, but this morning when I walked into the kitchen to make my coffee, he was already sitting at his desk studying something on his computer screen. Apparently he'd been up for over an hour working on a strategy to defend himself against the traffic ticket he got the other day when the two of us were out picking up trash in Sarasota. (Keep Sarasota Beautiful--we try to do our part.)

We were driving on an unfamiliar road, spotted some trash, turned onto a side road, drove a little ways and then my husband did a U-turn to get us headed back in the direction we needed to go. But almost immediately after the U-turn my husband saw flashing red lights in his rear view mirror.

"License and registration, please." My husband handed the officer his driver's license while I was digging through the glove box for our car registration.

"I'm sure it's in here somewhere, officer." Plastic fork and spoon, extra napkins from the deli, anti-itch cream, baby wipes, two little packets of ketchup and three insurance cards all from different carriers.

The officer was getting impatient, "If the car's registered to you, I can look it up on my computer." And away he went.

And then we waited--a very long time. I knew what the wait meant, especially when I looked in the rear view mirror and saw the officer filling out a piece of paper. Once they start writing the ticket, there's no turning back. (I know this from experience.)

Back in the kitchen, I wanted to make my morning coffee. But my kitchen counter had been  transformed into the scene of the crime: the CVS Store on the left-hand side of the road (a bag of flour), a gas station on the right-hand side of the road (a can of string beans), the No U-Turn Sign (handcrafted with a straw and construction paper), the painted lines in the road (represented by a line of white candy sprinkles that I use on top of cupcakes) and of course our car--a Blue Toyota--was respectively represented by our grandson's little red triangle block. And my husband had several sheets of paper in his hand--including the county government's rules about deciding where a U-Turn sign is needed.

"Let me guess, Dear, you've decided not to pay the ticket and go to Traffic School and avoid being assessed three points?"

And my husband began to present his case, but I stopped him.

"Yes Dear, I'm dying to know how you're going to explain that you're Not Guilty when there was a No U-Turn Sign posted in the road, but right now I need to make my morning coffee. Judge Suzanne can't listen to any testimony until after she's had her caffeine. (And by the way, you might get rid of the sarcasm when you tell your story before a real judge.)

I wasn't buying his story, for one thing the tiny, red, triangle block was heading in the wrong direction and my recollection of how it all took place, where the flour was located (CVS store), and the string beans (gas station) were, was and how it all happened was totally different than my husband’s. Upset that I didn't believe him, my husband grabbed his camera and said he was going back to take pictures to prove his side of the story. 

"Great idea, you go take pictures and I'll drink my coffee. And remember, no U-Turns." 

It's been proven that eye-witness testimony is unreliable and my husband proved it again this morning. There wasn't any gas station, the driving lanes were positioned totally different from the white cupcake sprinkles on my kitchen counter, the bag of flour was actually on the opposite side of the street, and in addition to "our" No U-Turn sign, there were five others lining the road. 

My husband is back sitting in front of his computer. He's signing up for traffic school.

Thanks for reading with me. It's so good to read with friends.

Suzanne Beecher
[email protected]