It was a Saturday evening in early October of 2003 when the the title was coined. My mother was recovering from a surgery that left her with nearly two feet of stitches along her front. Miles and I made the decision that my place was with her during that time. He gets my vote for friend, husband, and man of the year, every year, for his understanding and compassion.

I am mesmerized by the order and timing of life.

In early July of 2003, Mom mentioned in passing that she felt a bump on her tailbone. It wasn't a big deal to any of us, as she had discovered many harmless cysts over the years. My family flew here for our wedding in mid-July. Upon her return, she commenced the barrage of routine tests that come with finding a bump. To be honest, I had all but forgotten it existed. My mother is my rock; I was quite simply unable to fathom anything being seriously wrong.

I still remember the pitch of her voice as she told me they were ordering more tests. I still remember the chills running along my limbs. What followed was a period of uncertainty. My mind was very firmly set that this was not Cancer. I did not know of any member of my family having ever had the disease. I stubbornly believed this until the very last moment when another phone call contradicted my reasoning. It's strange to look back on a period less than two years ago and be able to say the words that I have heard my grandparents say so often in recollection of simpler times. "It was a different world then."

Following her surgery, Mom's recovery was difficult. Her strength reached through and carried her, but I've never been closer to my mother than I was in the days when our roles were reversed from my infancy...when I was the nurturer. Often, I wonder if I ever truly understood love until then. The experience changed me, and made me a better person.

Besides the physical weakness and pain, she had to come to grips the the enormity of what happened to her in the operating room, and with the months and years to come. That Saturday was a bad day. She wept constantly, and we were disarmed. Finally, my dear Aunt Debbie thought of something happy to say. "Your favorite casserole! I'm making Tuna Noodle Casserole tomorrow night!"

Mom, sitting beside me and holding my hand, sniffed into a tissue and erupted in giggles. "Tuna Nooda!" was how it came out, and the air thinned as we all enjoyed a good belly laugh after such a doleful day. We've known it as such ever since. It's silly and stupid, and it summons such a dear memory to me.

I still catch myself calling it "tuna nooda". Miles, knowing the story, encourages me not to stop.

I have been rather inundated with work as of late. With a headache looming tonight, I stepped away from the laptop. To clear my head, I decided to prepare dinner, as I find the chopping of vegetables very relaxing...read into that what you will.

Anyway, I finished slicing the zucchini, green peppers, and such. I threw them in a large plastic bowl. Atop them, I added Italian dressing and black pepper. The idea was to coat everything and then broil it in the oven for pita sandwiches with parmesan and parsley. This was why I grabbed a plastic bowl (lighter weight) with an accompanying cover...logic is my strong suit, which is why this retelling is all so very sad.

Just then, I was struck with inspiration for a fresh layout direction. My mind occupied by this exciting new idea, I grabbed the bowl with both hands, and exuberantly began the shaking process. I say "began" instead of "finished" because it took all of two seconds to realize that I had neglected to cover the bowl and that the floor was decorated with a confetti of vegetables.

Miles and I have been playing powerful rounds of Frisbee in recent days, and we are really quite good—or approximately 10,000 times better than we were the first time we played together. Whipping the saucer across 60-70 yards during a period of thirty minutes or more is quite energizing.

I'm very accurate with my delivery, but something was lacking last night. I felt weighed down and lethargic. The wind was wreaking havoc (not something that usually deters our accuracy), the light was failing, and the rain was looming. I saw images of the wuss trying to spit like the 'manly' men, and then brushing his shoulder quickly so as to remove the wayward saliva before those other men noticed. My tosses were akin to that wayward saliva.

On came the rain. The ominously heavy clouds blanketed our park area, and the thunder growled grumpily. (as if a growl can be anything but grumpy) The lighting scattered to obscurity and the air became hazy, murky if you will. It felt like one of those graveyard scenes from the silver screen, fog raising from the ground, moans materializing from the trees.

It was eerie at best, and the atmosphere sent chills travelling along our spines. We were drenched, a little shocked at the sudden onslaught of the storm, and yet, skittish all the same. Then, it happened! I threw the Frisbee uncertainly at my partner, in a silent query of, "do you want to go in for the night, even though we've scarcely been doing this 10 minutes?" Through wind and rain, my projection endured; through wind and rain, my pass landed directly in Miles' hands. He gazed my way, and through the veiled distance I still detected his astonishment.

He returned the throw, which I ran to catch and then bulleted one back. Bulls eye again! It continued on this way for ten minutes before a flash of overhead lightning had us scurrying toward home. Miles draped an arm around my shoulders as we cleared the road and looked upon me with respect. I shrugged and replied the only way this Wisconsinite could: "I am the Brett Favre of Frisbee."

Tonight, the Phillips' dinner table hosts a "Mediterranean meets the Far East" extravaganza! I am eager to witness this landmark event, as the egg roll wrapper attempts to craft the calzone. Eager, and not a little curious. Do wish me luck, won't you?

My family, especially my father's side, has blessed me with many unique recipes. I consider my ancestors nothing short of culinary geniuses...thank goodness they cannot see the farcical kitchen show that we of the 5th generation orchestrate. We do try....

A couple of years ago, I wanted to impress Miles with my then limited cooking skills. I called Mom and asked her for the recipe to great-grandma's chicken. It's always been called great-grandma's chicken—always! I knew it by no other name. My grandparents called it so, my aunts, uncles, parents, and cousins too.

So I'm trying to get the recipe for this terribly tasty chicken and Mom is fumbling with the recipe cards in her memory bank. After many painful moments of failed recollection, she stated, "Just get a box of cornflake crumbs. The recipe is on the back."

Disillusionment stung. Unless my family was sitting on a secret Kellogg's fortune, my great-grandma's recipe was not my great-grandma's at all. In the scheme of things, I've found that this matters very little. I still call it great-grandma's chicken. My children will call it great-great grandma's chicken...that's just the way the cookie crumbles.

And speaking of cookies...(How's that for a segue? *nudge, nudge...wink, wink*)

My brother and I grew up thinking that Mom's chocolate chip cookies were the very best of all things. They tasted better than all other chocolate chip cookies, I still attest. Barely out of the oven, they were warm and fluffy...the chocolate silky and smooth.

You guessed it: the recipe comes straight from the Toll House chocolate chip package...I doubt my family is sitting on a Nestlé fortune either.

Friday night, in a kitchen utensil aisle, I pick up a tool and prepare to toss it in the cart. "Whoa, whoa, whoa! What's that?"

I respond to the excitable lad by showing him the tag. "But, what's it for!?" questioned he. Again, I drew attention to the label. "Yeah, I know what it's called, but what do you use it for?" Deep breath, Laura. This may all be one of his mind games...one of his, "how far can I ride the irritating pony before I get tossed" stunts.

I waved the tag in front of his face once more and commanded bluntly, "Read it aloud and think about it."

He paused. "Potato Masher. Oh."

Today is our very dear Jason's birthday, and we couldn't know a nicer, more decent person than he. Twenty-three years ago today, the world became a little better place.

He came over today to pick up his digital camera, which I have been borrowing as of late. Ours died and went to hang by the big neck strap in the sky. His camera has filled the void during my bereavement. Together, we partook of strawberry turnovers and [perfect, cookie scoop domes of] cool whip. Yum.

I wanted to make him a cake, but Miles wasn't certain that Jason liked cake. I wasn't either, even though I once shared an office with the dear boy...I should have known. Naturally, I knew of his preference toward Peanut M&Ms, Cheetos, and Steak...but this hardly solved the cake quandary. Miles, being the highly rational sort, declared, "If you make a cake and Jason doesn't want it, we'll be stuck with a whole cake to eat!" I gazed at him in my impatient, I'm failing to see the downside way. He went on, "BUT, strawberry turnovers...I've got no problem eating those."

Miles is the voice of reason, after all.

I have always enjoyed my long talks with Jason. He's a good breeze-shooting partner. And, he can totally follow me as I scoot from Kohl's, to Iraq, to Caramel Macchiatos. He even followed the lineup with Atkins, exercising, and then weblogs. His breeze-shooting would've impressed the likes of Wyatt Earp and Doc Holliday, no joke.

A very happy birthday anniversary to you today, Jason! You will always be our wee one, and our source for many wonderful and memorable moments. We hope that 23 treats you well!

Miles and I don't really watch TV. It isn't that we look upon sitcoms, or upon sitcom viewers, unfavorably; we simply lack the desire to engage in the "activity". We get our news from CNN.com. We get our weather from Weather.com. (notice a trend?)

I watch TV when I'm with my parents, though! I'm a "Social TV-Viewer". Whenever I return from a visit, I return knowing so much more about pop culture than when I left. I find this very sad: I chill with my parents to get up with what the kids are doing for fun these days.

I suppose we use our TV to watch movies...but we're just as happy to spend the evening reading—perhaps more so. In the on position, it receives the most attention when I manipulate the DVD player to stream compact disks. And off, it excels in the collection of dust...it has a nice big surface perfect for a healthy dust crop to grow between the weekly polishings. It's sort of a side project we're working on for supplemental income. It hasn't been real profitable yet.

The one shred of decency our TV holds, is its constancy in the 10:00-11:00P slot every night, seven days a week. "Who's Line is it Anyway?" ABC Family airs the reruns...good stuff, really, superbly good stuff. I laugh uncontrollably during every episode....and LOUDLY. I am a person of a soft-spoken sort, and rarely find myself untamed in my amusement. The drollness of my momma and my Anna are notable exceptions, along with this grand improv comedy show of bygone days.

Miles is still boggled by the volume of my cascading laughter during the show—"My silk-voiced wife? A closet "Who's Line..." hyena? My God! What have I gotten myself into!? If only I had known..."