I am one of those people who has letters after my name. I have a feeling I will be losing them soon.

It was around this time, five years ago, that I started training to become a CTR. Certified Tumor Registrar. When people wanted to know what I did, I always had to explain. Basically, I abstracted data from medical records. Things like tumor size, how far it spread, and the treatments used. This was all part of an abstract to be followed up on for the rest of the patient’s life.

I passed the test and dove into the work, an endless stream of detail and complexity. It wasn’t an average data entry job. You followed myriad rules and footnotes from different manuals. Not easy, but rather fascinating.

That job became less and less of a fit. I just couldn’t keep up. I believed in the quality of the work, but I couldn’t do it quickly. After four years it was over.

Skimming through charts became automatic, but sometimes you’d be caught up short by the human element. These were real people with jobs, families, and passions. Certain people stick out in my mind, like a 30-something woman who died of leukemia. She was in her prime. She had a great job and was finishing her grad degree. She was engaged. The mighty hand came down and plucked her from the planet, never to be seen again.

This work could break your heart if you dwelled on it too much. Perhaps that’s how doctors feel. I once sat next to an oncologist in Barnes & Noble who told me that his field was the most short-lived. He seemed philosophical, but I sensed sadness underneath.

It wasn’t largely depressing though. My favorite acronym in follow-up was NED. No evidence of disease. I’d go through the follow-up pages, swiftly doing large chunks of NEDs. The fastest part of the list, and a good majority.

People are amazing. They get knocked down but they survive. A human body and spirit is incredibly strong. I read Lance Armstrong’s book earlier this year. The man was indefatigable, blasting at his widespread testicular cancer with the mindset of the athlete he is. Many people don’t have his extreme level of toughness, but we can learn from him. There is a fight in everyone. And there is also letting go. It is hard to know where the line is.

It was at this job that I tried and developed a love for chocolate croissants. A coworker and I would take our breaks, whether randomly strolling, heading off to the cafeteria, or refueling at the coffee bar. It was the coffee bar chocolate croissants I became addicted to.

I’ve had others since then, but those are still my favorite. I think it’s because of the meaning attached to them. After tackling mountains of emotionally-laden information, a sweet spot was warranted.

I thought about making croissants from scratch for this entry. Then I started looking it all up. Oh lordy. Considering my past baking debacles, my brain started overloading. Puff pastry was going to be in one corner and I’d be in the other. I knew I’d be down for the count within 20 minutes. This, plus the fact I’ve been working constantly, resulted in the crescent roll. (Thank you, intergalactic internets.)

Gack. Crescent rolls. No buttery flakiness. Hydrogenated. Still a bit addictive nonetheless! A crescent roll is the croissant’s redneck cousin. I’m part redneck, so here we go!

I thought about simply stuffing crescent rolls with chocolate chips. Mmm-nah. The beauty of a croissant is that it can be stuffed with anything. Go wild, go crazy! I had mango-passionfruit jam lying around. Some raspberries. Lemon curd. This was when the non-redneck side of me took over.

To further the attitude, I used the bacon bar. The legendary Vosges bacon bar. It was blathered about at work, but I’d never quite get up the nerve when I went grocery shopping. It’s six dollars. That’s a lot of money for a chocolate bar you may not like. I had an excuse this time.

Dad and I tried it. A curious look passed over our faces. An acquired taste, definitely. It was enfolded into a crescent.

My little ducklings were lined up and popped in.

Oh my.

Sometimes you need to realize what’s important. Life is not always a real croissant. Sometimes time is too precious for it. But sometimes you can fold something special in anyway.

How does one write about a friendship which has been so influential and monumental in one’s life? Where does one start?

I guess I will start with Mr. Ruch’s study hall. Mr. Ruch was my junior high school science teacher, a free spirit who played his stereo and jumped across the tabletops. His study hall was pretty empty, with five people at the most. This was where I met Krista.

Krista was the new girl, trying to fit in. Me? I wasn’t part of the popular crowd and kept to myself. A little shy. I was a choir geek, a good student, and never played any sports. I sucked at sports.

She and I hit it off right away. But we had met before. We were in kindergarten together. Before the Christmas play, she came up and pointed out spots on my neck. They turned out to be chicken pox.

Krista still has a talent for pointing things out. She is literal and practical. She is a tactful straight shooter. And always honest. I prize that, even when it makes me squirm. But even after the squirm, I prize it in hindsight. I always know where I stand with her. There are no surprises coming out of left field. She is my best friend.

I am opposite of her in a large way. I’m a dreamer and float around in my head a lot. A bit scatterbrained and not nearly as disciplined. While she grounds me, I help her fly a little. Live a little. The girl is a workaholic and needs to be dragged into a good time once in a while.

Not that she doesn’t know how. She is funny and outgoing. She has cute goofy voices and noises. She and I could go to Wal-Mart and laugh our asses off.

Her birthday was last Tuesday. I don’t think it’s coincidental that she shares a birthday with Mae West. She has moxie.

Krista loves dark chocolate oranges and usually gets one at Christmas from her hubby. So I decided to make her cupcakes in this flavor.

But there was a twist. My gal has food allergies. She discovered this only recently. She can’t do dairy and gluten. Corn and soy in small doses. This was going to be a challenge.

I own a copy of Vegan Cupcakes Take Over the World and sourced their gluten-free chocolate recipe for inspiration. But I wasn’t about to buy a variety of gluten-free flours I wasn’t going to use again. I bought a gluten-free baking mix instead. I also didn’t use soy milk. I used chocolate almond milk. Yum. I now love chocolate almond milk. So much better than soy. I also used drops of orange and chocolate extracts instead of almond. And a little more sugar. Because there wasn’t any gluten, I mixed the hell out of it.

I also candied orange peel, using this recipe. I didn’t add any chocolate though. Making this and sampling it was delightful. And addictive. Please people, don’t waste your peels. This is a wonderful treat and doesn’t take long. It’s natural candy!

With the cupcakes, I made an experimental batch a few days before and they came out swell. The second time around, I got trigger-happy and OVERFILLED MY CUPS. They overflowed and stuck. NO CUPCAKES. I overturned the pans and slammed the crumbs onto the counter in frustration. Edible, yes. Gift and food blog worthy, NO.

What to do?!?!?!? I sulked around the kitchen a while, then I got it. Chocolates. I mushed the cake into balls and dipped them in a mixture of melted chocolate chips, a little orange extract, and the remaining candied orange syrup. And topped them with peel. Into the freezer they went.

It worked.

She loved them. Thank goodness. Happy birthday, girlfriend.

My friend Venessa tweeted about eggplant the other day. She lives in a previous city-love, Buffalo, and owns a house with her fiancé Nic. They’re renovating their house, and she has planted a garden. It’s a bit of a vicarious pleasure to read her updates of domestic joys and frustrations.

She pulled an eggplant from the soil, exclaiming over the quality of her eggplant parmesan. I swiftly wanted to be there, sitting across from her, eating and drinking wine. I don’t think I’ve ever had eggplant parm. Eating vegetables from Venessa’s city plot is a large reason why I want to revisit Buffalo.

I have a garden too. Not really. It’s the result of my parents’ hard work over the years. Though in my defense, I’ve pulled weeds in the past. I’m excellent weeder. No weed escapes my thorough eye. Though excruciating, weeding is meditative hard work. If hard work can be meditative….heh.

As excellent as produce CAN be at quality grocery store…as amazingly excellent as it CAN be at a farmer’s market…nothing beats a sun-warmed tomato pulled off your very own vine. Direct sustainable pleasure. We should all be farmers in some shape or form to know this.

On Wednesday, me and my boss-lady went blueberry picking after work. I love picking blueberries because you can eavesdrop on conversation in the next row over and not get caught.

A lady with a foreign accent said, “You come into this world and then you die.” ….or something to that effect. Somber words for a beautiful day among the bushes.

When I brought the blueberries home and transferred them to ziploc bags, I still felt their warmth. Into the freezer they went.

There are other things which lurk in the freezer. Like last year’s crappy peaches. It’s been an ongoing joke in my family. We have a peach tree out front. You really can’t eat them on their own, but once they do ripen, they’re frozen and used for other things. Only we’re not entirely sure what. There are only so many cobblers and jams to be made before the sweet tooth retires.  But not forever…

I’ve taken to puréeing them.

And adding the glop to pancake mix. I brewed peach tea last week and added that too, which resulted in subtly aromatic pancake.

On Monday I attempted a sauce with brown sugar and Wild Turkey American Honey Liqueur. It turned out a little sweet. I wasn’t satisfied. More glop for the fridge. My parents are tiring of all my glops.

Yesterday was my day off, so I made a meal with new and old. I made a BLT with garden tomatoes and roasted garlic mayo.

And the new glop was added to a crisp. I added a little ginger to the filling and pulverized almonds to be added to the topping. Almonds give it that extra something - CRUNCH!

Now to clean out the fridge. Dad wants watermelon.

It’s been a while since I’ve gone anywhere purposefully. The last time was Paris. Yes, I’ve had months off this past year looking for a job and getting back on my feet, Baltimore and here at home. But there was an underlying desire to work. Being unemployed is as stressful to me as being employed. (In Baltimore, I had the added stress of figuring out what to do next after leaving a job which didn’t fit me.)

So to take time off within the security of a job…and having the money to do so? Something to look forward to with utmost glee. Especially when you’ve worked your ass off to get there.

The money part was what determined the trip. No plane ticket, no car rental. So Mom and I went to Vermont, a six-hour drive from here. We originally wanted to go years ago, but it never happened. It felt awesome to finally do it, rather than talk about it.

We stopped first in Bennington and spent a few hours there.

I googled bakeries ahead of time and we beelined to Crazy Russian Girls. Their cupcakes have celebrity names!

I picked out Audrey Hepburn, a mocha cupcake piled high with European buttercream. It was less sugary, but a bit too much frosting for me. That is my common complaint with most cupcakes. There needs to be a precise balance of frosting with cake. A little less frosting, a little more cake. But the cupcake WAS scrumptious. We went there on the way back for a Lady Gaga for Dad (that combination makes me giggle) and other goodies.

We reached Wilmington and checked in at the hotel. Wait, I gotta back up….we went to Dot’s Restaurant beforehand. We meandered around, looking at various kitschy shops, but Dot’s really was the point.

There is nothing I cherish more than eating in a local joint. A family-style place with no pretention. Low prices and hearty food. And that is what Dot’s is. I ordered their prize-winning chili, and it was presented in a coffee mug.

Mom and I ordered blue-plate specials. When the waitress brought them out, I thought I was going to cry from all the comfort-food goodness on my plate. A large portion of pork with gravy on bread, corn on the cob, french fries, and cooked spiced apples.

I told the waitress about my feelings.

She replied sweetly, “Here is butter for your corn and napkins for your tears.”

That was my foodie Casablanca moment. Someone please scrape me up off the floor.

The next morning we went back.

I ordered the mixed-berry pancakes they’re known for.

My vacation was starting off with a bang. A luscious cozy bang.

We drove up Route 100, enjoying the scenery but not stopping much. We did stop for Calvin Coolidge. His birthplace is Plymouth. His family made cheese. We tasted the current version and bought some.

I looked around and was taken with the church he attended. A flag marks where he sat.

We kept driving and came upon Moss Glen Falls. I embraced the rush. Have you ever opened yourself up to a waterfall? You should.

We ended up at Waterbury, ate and poked around, and went to Ben & Jerry’s. Yes, haughty foodies, I went to the Ben & Jerry’s factory. A touristy cluster headache. But we toured. And sampled a new flavor. It was interesting to see the process.

We were in Burlington the next day. It’s a charming breezy town situated on Lake Champlain. On the recommendation of two friends, we went to The Skinny Pancake, a crepe place on the waterfront. There was a long line. On a Wednesday late morning. Thank goodness for that line, because it took me all that time to figure out what I wanted. Sweet? Savory? I vacillated and finally settled on a strawberry crepe with whipped creme. Mom ordered a ham, cheese and egg crepe with a side salad.

We walked around Church Street. An accordionist played heartbeakingly melodic music. Tears almost surfaced again. Where were those damn napkins???

We went on a Lake Champlain boat tour and ate at a lakeside restaurant when we came back.

We wandered up Main St. Mom looked through an antiques store while I scouted ahead for MORE bakeries. I’m a little obsessed, I know. I bought palmiers and exotic-flavored macarons at Mirabelle’s. Major sugar rush. Phew. Back to the motel for A/C and mind-numbing TV.

We decided on breakfast based on proximity the next morning. And it was a damn good choice. Libby’s Blue Line Diner was across the street. I ordered their sausage gravy and biscuit breakfast special.

Holy crap. Mom said that her breakfast was the best she had in a long time. When I finished, I sent back appreciation.

We rolled into Stowe, a small town with a lot of big-town trappings. We scooped up free books from the last-day library sale.

I went to Laughing Moon Chocolates and sampled their fudge. I bought some, along with a few buttercreams. Laughing Moon swirls letters on top to indicate what’s inside. Perfect.

We drove back down the 100, stopping for cider and cider donuts at Cold Hollow Cider Mill.

And at the Cabot Annex Store for cheese. Y’know I had to do it. So I did. I had my cow moment.

We stopped in Waterbury again for their farmer’s market. No foodie vacation is complete without one.

But the place we were aiming for, the climax of this trip, was American Flatbread in Waitsfield. I read about American Flatbread in Food & Wine years ago, and this was the focus of going to Vermont in the first place. Sure, AF is now selling their frozen pizzas in grocery stores. You can also eat it elsewhere.

But to really get it, you have to go to the source. Lareau Farm is along Route 100, with a large red barn, an inn, and outlying smaller buildings. Supper starts at 5 PM and you put your name on a waiting list. They don’t do reservations. We went on a quieter Thursday night, and there was no wait.

We ordered one of the specials. Chicken, beets with citrus vinaigrette, red kale and goat cheese. We settled outside and ordered salad and glasses of riesling. Fresh air always makes everything taste better.

Well, that wasn’t necessary. Because we had a food EVENT. Among the thousands of meals a person eats in a lifetime, few are remembered. This will be remembered.

The sunlight. The fresh breeze. My mother in her sunny yellow shirt. The pizza arrived fresh from the wood-fired earthen oven. It ARRIVED. And it was beautiful, glistening with purple beets and brown crust thickly puffed up.

We ate the whole thing except for two slices. We ate after our hunger was sated. Mom noted this was because “…you can’t bear the thought of losing the experience of it.” Exactly.

And the thing is, I don’t like beets. I’ve never liked them. I still don’t like them. I tried, I did. I picked off the rest and shoved them over.

“Mom, I’m not a major pain in the ass, just a minor one.”

Our dessert was blackberry-peach cobbler. I’m ending on that. Vermont, you kissed me.