Mobile Order For Karen

The calendar reads June 4, 2026. Apparently, it is National Cheese Day.

Why not? There seems to be a national day for absolutely everything these days.

Today, however, I received a reminder of why cheese holds such a special place in my world. Please hold while I explain…

Cheese and I are old friends. There really isn’t a type of cheese I don’t enjoy (although Monterey Jack and I have never quite been on a first-name basis, and that’s okay. We smile politely and nod when we pass each other.)

Even now, after all these years, I automatically say “cheese” when posing for a picture. Truth be told, after a cocktail or two, I’ll often say fromage, which is French for cheese and somehow sounds far more sophisticated than anything I usually say.

Anyhoo, back to this morning’s reminder and how cheese came knocking on my Thursday door.

Ding.

A text from Jake.

He tells me that our local News12 station is reporting that today is National Cheese Day. He follows that up by saying cheese always reminds him of his former classmate, Matt.

Instantly, I smiled.

And instantly, I remembered why cheese became such an important part of our family’s story.

We were somewhere around the year 2000. Jake wandered into the kitchen wearing a tiny velour bathrobe, his hair sticking up in every possible direction. He shuffled toward the refrigerator with the confidence of a twenty-year-old who had been out all night and was desperately searching for something to revive him.

He knew exactly where he was going.

He also had a lot to say.

The words weren’t entirely clear, but the conversation coming out of this little human seemed endless. I stood there trying not to laugh because I didn’t want to interrupt whatever important business he was conducting. The running commentary lasted several minutes before he finally settled on milk. I swooped in, grabbed it for him, and went on with my day.

Months later, we returned to the pediatrician for a routine visit.

The usual questions came first.

Height?

Weight?

Walking?

Jumping?

Standing?

Then came speech.

“Any speech?”

I froze.

No.

Not recently.

My once-chatty little boy had gone silent.

The babbling, the chatter, the endless observations about his world had disappeared. There were blank stares and occasional outbursts of frustration, but very few words.

The doctor must have seen the panic spreading across my marquee-sized forehead.

“No need for alarm,” he said gently. “Let’s just explore some options and see if there are any delays.”

Many of you who have been here for a while know where those “options” eventually led. Testing resulted in Jake being diagnosed with Autism.

At the time, there were many discussions about children who stopped speaking after rounds of vaccines and never regained language. I never fully bought into that theory, although I will admit that every parent searches endlessly for answers when something changes so dramatically. To this day, I still wonder what happened. But that’s a road that can quickly lead to despair, so we’ll stay firmly planted on solid ground and keep moving forward.

The next two years were filled with specialists, teachers, therapists, and extraordinary people who patiently helped pull words back out of him.

Jake learned to communicate using visual cards. He would assemble words into sentences and show us what he needed. It was fascinating to watch the wheels turning in his head.

He was communicating.

Just differently.

At night, after everyone was asleep, I would sometimes find myself sitting in the laundry room crying and praying. I begged God to let us hear his voice again. I prayed for conversations. I prayed for words.

Just words.

Then the summer of 2005 arrived.

One evening, I opened the refrigerator and pulled out a package of Land O’Lakes American cheese to make Jake’s dinner—grilled cheese and Smiley Fries.

As I stood there, Jake suddenly appeared beside me.

“Cheese,” he said.

I froze.

The package nearly slipped from my hands.

My heart started racing.

“What was that, Jake?” I asked.

He pointed.

“Cheese.”

I stared at him.

Then he added:

“Matt eats cheese.”

Matt was a little boy in his class.

With a few more questions, we learned that Matt brought cheese sandwiches to school for lunch every day.

Jake smiled, turned around, and casually walked down the hallway as if he hadn’t just altered the course of my universe.

Meanwhile, I was leaning against the refrigerator, looking toward the ceiling.

Tears streamed down my face.

I thanked God for those three simple words.

“Matt eats cheese.”

Three words.

That’s all it took.

Three words that opened a door.

Three words that announced his voice had returned.

Three words that launched an entirely new world for our family.

And the conversations we’ve had since then?

Well, those are stories for future blogs.

Stay tuned for one involving a Spelling Bee.

Trust me.

That’s a hoot.

So yes, today may officially be National Cheese Day. Most people will celebrate with a charcuterie board, an extra slice of pizza, or perhaps a grilled cheese sandwich. Me? I’ll celebrate something entirely different. Every time I hear the word cheese, I’m transported back to that kitchen, standing in front of an open refrigerator while a little boy unknowingly answered years of prayers. It wasn’t just cheese. It was hope. It was progress. It was the beginning of conversations I once feared we might never have. And for that reason alone, cheese will always be one of my favorite words. 🧀❤️

Daily Prompt 2781: Do You Believe in Minimalism?

By the time I was married and settling into my first home, the 1980s were in full swing. Everything was BIG. Bigger was better. Flashier was fabulous. Subtlety wasn’t exactly trending.

Even designers known for a more classic look were thinking on a grand scale. Ralph Lauren may have been more understated than some of his competitors, but there was nothing minimal about the price tag.

Houses in my area seemed to grow overnight. Once-modest Capes and Ranches were transformed into sprawling “McMansions” complete with five or six bedrooms, multiple en suites, and enough Jacuzzi tubs to start a small water park. Hot tubs appeared in backyards like dandelions in spring.

It was easy to get swept up in this larger-than-life lifestyle.

And swept up I was.

My love of shopping reached new heights in the late 1980s. Before the internet, there were catalogs stacked on coffee tables and weekends spent roaming the mall. Nail salons began popping up in every strip mall. Long acrylic nails in bright colors were practically required. It was fast, fun, and unapologetically over the top.

I was all in.

Picture it: a head full of curls that added several inches to my height, a Chevy Camaro, Madonna’s “Material Girl” blasting through the speakers, and Happy Hour somewhere along Long Island’s South Shore.

Life was about accumulating. Stuff wasn’t just stuff—it was success.

Then came 1995.

We bought our first house—a modest three-bedroom, one-bath ranch located mid-block on the very street where I grew up. For those of you who have been reading along for a while, this was the house that sat at Third Base during our neighborhood kickball games.

The price was right. The location was perfect.

We gutted it room by room and slowly made it our own. Infertility treatments were consuming much of our savings, so any dreams of creating a mini mansion would have to wait. Looking back, that turned out to be a blessing.

The years passed and eventually the kids arrived.

Along with the kids came more stuff.

My clothing collection migrated to the basement where everything was neatly organized. Winter wardrobes swapped effortlessly with summer wardrobes. I had bins, systems, categories, and labels. It was practically a retail operation.

Then Jules went away to college.

Every time she came home, she brought more belongings. The basement accepted each new arrival like an overbooked hotel somehow finding room for one more guest.

Then COVID arrived.

Suddenly we were all home. All the time.

The walls started feeling a little closer.

Determined not to give up my daily workouts, I found an incredible gym program on Zoom. The only problem was that I didn’t particularly want my fellow exercisers staring at my carefully stacked clothing bins every morning. So I carved out a sleek little workout space that looked far more impressive on camera than the rest of the basement.

It worked beautifully.

For about eighteen months.

Then one day I read an article about an artist in New York City who had passed away. Everything she owned was emptied from her apartment and piled curbside. The photographs were heartbreaking. An entire life reduced to mountains of possessions stretching down the block.

I couldn’t stop thinking about it.

Who was going to clear out my forever when I was gone?

Certainly not my children.

Years of watching HGTV and countless decluttering videos and podcasts had entertained me, but none of them prepared me for that realization.

Then I discovered The Gentle Art of Swedish Death Cleaning by Margareta Magnusson.

Despite the dramatic title, it isn’t about scrubbing floors or polishing furniture. It’s about intentionally reducing what you own so the people you love aren’t left with the overwhelming task of sorting through a lifetime of belongings after you’re gone.

The concept hit me like a ton of decorative throw pillows.

This process has been life-changing.

I’ve looked around my home and realized just how much unnecessary spending has occurred since about 1988. Some of it made sense. Much of it didn’t. Yet every object seemed to come attached to a memory, a season, or a version of myself that I wasn’t quite ready to release.

But little by little, I’m learning.

I’m not talking about moving into one of those Tiny Houses that seem to be all the rage. I still enjoy my creature comforts. I simply want less clutter, less maintenance, less excess, and more room to breathe.

Funny enough, my hair has already come down a few inches from its 1980s peak. Perhaps it’s only fitting that the rest of my life follows suit.

These days, I don’t think minimalism is about owning as little as possible. It’s about being intentional. It’s about making room for what matters and letting go of what doesn’t. The memories aren’t in the bins, the closets, or the boxes stacked in the basement. They’re in the stories, the laughter, the photographs, and the people who shared those moments with us. If I’ve learned anything during this journey, it’s that a life well-lived isn’t measured by how much we accumulate. It’s measured by what we leave behind in the hearts of the people we love.

There was a time when the Tooth Fairy was a frequent flyer in and out of my home. She’d presumably receive some sort of urgent notification from the Dental Gods that one of my cherubs had a loose tooth hanging on for dear life, and preparations for pickup would begin immediately.

My kids were very precise about lost tooth placement on the night of collection. This wasn’t some casual “leave it on the dresser” arrangement. Oh no. There were rules. Procedures. Exact coordinates. The exchange had to be swift and silent so the Tooth Fairy’s identity was never compromised. One creaky floorboard…one mistimed sneeze…one child popping awake at 2:13 a.m. and the whole operation was blown wide open.

It was basically a CIA mission with glitter.

On one such evening, Jules lost tooth number…oh, I don’t know…six? Seven? The child was an early dental overachiever. I was out of the tiny snack-sized bags I usually used to package the tooth along with a lovely little note to Ms. TF. As I was straightening my dresser and putting laundry away, I spotted one of those teeny-tiny jewelry bags from Tiffany & Co.

Perfect.

I tucked the wrapped tooth inside the suede-like turquoise pouch and snapped it shut like I was securing crown jewels. The package was carefully positioned under her pillow at approximately 8:30 p.m., well after Jules had entered a solid REM cycle.

Now, we all know the Tooth Fairy, much like Santa Claus, keeps an outrageous schedule. She’s flying all over the globe collecting teeth and distributing rewards deemed appropriate for the departing enamel. Occasionally, mothers must pinch hit for these transactions.

I checked my wallet.

One $20 bill.

That was it.

I called my husband, who was working nights at the time.

“Do you have any cash in the house?”

“Nope.”

Well then. Twenty dollars it is.

The next morning, I heard a squeal erupt from Bedroom Three clear down the hallway. Jules burst into the kitchen clutching the Tiffany bag in one hand and the twenty-dollar bill in the other.

“OMG MADRE! I’m rich! The Tooth Fairy came last night and brought me TWENTY DOLLARS…IN A TIFFANY BAG!”

She was practically hyperventilating with joy.

Meanwhile, I stood there packing mini muffins into lunch bags feeling like I had just won Motherhood MVP.

Score one for Team Tooth/Madre.

The very next evening was our school district’s Budget Vote and School Board election night. In an effort to lure parents out for their civic duty, the district hosted the annual “All-American Bake Sale” along with chorus performances, dance numbers, and enough patriotic enthusiasm to power a small village. It was basically a giant “Hooray for Everything!” extravaganza — but honestly, it worked. Parents showed up.

I had both kids with me. Jules was singing with the chorus and Jake never met a school hallway he didn’t want to revisit. We bought a few brownies from the bake sale table and when it came time to pay, I realized I still had nothing smaller than another twenty-dollar bill in my wallet.

The total was maybe $1.50.

Wanting to support the fundraiser, I waved off the change and told them to keep it.

That’s when Jules’ teacher — who had clearly been waiting for her moment — gently pulled me aside.

She smiled and said, “So…Jules came into class this morning announcing that the Tooth Fairy brought her twenty dollars last night. In a Tiffany bag.”

And suddenly my brain went into overdrive.

Wait.

Where exactly is this conversation headed?

Was she politely suggesting my daughter was a liar? Or was I now being viewed as some sort of over-the-top suburban mother tossing twenties around town like I’d just wrapped filming for The Real Housewives of Bethpage?

Because honestly…both scenarios felt possible.

And that’s the thing about parenting. One minute you’re sneaking around in the dark playing Tooth Fairy with a Tiffany pouch and a prayer… and the next you’re standing in an elementary school cafeteria wondering if you’ve accidentally created a tiny diamond-loving diva with a luxury brand expectation before second grade.

But those are the moments that stay with us, aren’t they? The ridiculous, funny, wildly imperfect little stories that become part of the family folklore. Not the big vacations or expensive gifts — but the twenty-dollar tooth, the Tiffany bag, and the look on your child’s face when they truly believe magic visited them overnight.

People love to tell you their favorite movies and exactly why they matter. They have Top 10 lists…sometimes Top 5 if they’re feeling decisive. They can recite dialogue from films they haven’t seen in twenty years and somehow remember entire scenes more clearly than the names of second cousins on their mother’s side of the family. It’s true. I know because I’m one of them. I hand out movie quotes freely like cocktail napkins at a wedding. Most days there’s a line for every occasion.

But there are two movies that stand apart in my memory for entirely different reasons.

Both were seen at the old Plainview movie theater on Old Country Road — which, for bonus Long Island points, is now a medical office building. Nothing says “the magic of cinema” quite like a podiatrist’s waiting room where the popcorn machine once stood.

The first movie was Disney’s Herbie the Love Bug. Three mothers and about eight sticky children packed into one row on a rainy weekday during summer vacation. I remember the laughter, the chaos, and my mother quizzing us in the car afterward.
“What was your favorite part?”
“Which scene made you laugh the hardest?”

She wanted details. She wanted us to pay attention to the story.

The second movie was That’s Entertainment. If memory serves me correctly, it was a celebration of filmmaking itself — a giant love letter to Hollywood filled with scenes from legendary movies spanning decades. I remember loving the movie, but what stayed with me most wasn’t on the screen.

It was my mother’s face.

The second the lights dimmed and the music began, she transformed. Her entire expression softened and lit up with wonder. She was completely captivated by the screen in front of her. And that’s how it always was at 36 Grant Avenue. Mommy loved movies — and more importantly, she loved where they could take you.

Over the years we talked endlessly about television shows, films, writing, and performances. My favorites. Her favorites. My father’s picks. She appreciated sharp dialogue and stories that actually said something. She used words like “glorious” and “rich” when talking about writing. If a script fell flat, she’d dismiss it in seconds. If it sparkled, she celebrated it like art.

And somewhere in all those conversations, I realized I wanted to write for the screen — big or small. I wrote constantly. Stories. Scenes. Fragments of dialogue. When college applications rolled around, I had a plan all mapped out. I wanted to attend Northwestern University for Journalism, earn a practical living, and secretly write films on the side. I thought I had cracked the code to adulthood.

Heavy sigh.

I was accepted to Northwestern, but somewhere along the line I was told maybe that path wasn’t realistic for me. Business Management and English Literature were “safer.” More “solid.” More sensible.

So life moved on.

The writing career quietly drifted off after college while the corporate world came rushing in. I worked hard. I had success. I laughed. I traveled. I built a life. But somewhere underneath all of it sat a tiny unlit theater marquee flickering inside me waiting for someone to turn it back on.

Today, sitting in Row F, Seat 17 watching The Devil Wears Prada 2, I felt unexpectedly emotional. Not just because Stanley Tucci delivered a line with the kind of perfection only Stanley Tucci can deliver — but because the movie reminded me what my dream always was.

To entertain people.

To create something that lets someone escape their life for two hours while happily inhaling buttery popcorn and washing it down with a suspiciously oversized Diet Coke.

I glanced over to my right at Julia in Seat 16, happily watching the movie while balancing popcorn and what appeared to be a 675-ounce Diet Coke like a professional. And quietly, on the ride home, I reminded her to listen to her dreams. To never ignore the thing inside her that lights up when she talks about what she loves.

I told her to keep the fire alive inside her brain.

Because dreams may get delayed. They may get buried under careers, responsibilities, fear, practicality, or time. But sometimes all it takes is one dark movie theater, one perfect line of dialogue, or one memory of your mother smiling at a screen to remind you who you were before the world told you who you should be.

And maybe…just maybe…that fire never really goes out at all.

“Comfort or The Cross? When Following Christ Costs Everything…”

There are certain books that arrive at exactly the right moment. Not because we planned it that way, but because somehow the message finds us when we need it most. That was this book for me.

My friend — and truly our friend — Willie Torres Jr. has just released his new book, and I couldn’t be happier for him. Please visit him and see what I mean @willie13torr

My copy arrived today and I made the mistake — or perhaps the very best decision — of opening Chapter One before heading to the gym. Suddenly my workout schedule was hanging by a thread because I was immediately pulled into Willie’s words and the honesty behind them. Needless to say, cardio almost lost that battle.

As someone who still holds tightly to her faith while struggling with the idea of returning to church, this book hit me in a very personal way. Willie writes with a style that feels less like preaching and more like sitting across from a trusted friend having a heartfelt conversation over coffee. There’s no judgment. No pressure. Just a gentle reminder that we are loved, seen, and never abandoned — even during the messiest seasons of life.

One passage especially stayed with me as I drove to the gym:

“It is easy to declare faith when life is comfortable. It is easy to follow Christ when pain is distant, needs are met, and the world feels predictable. But life is rarely so simple. What happens when comfort is stripped away? When ease, security, or relief is offered at the cost of your faith, your convictions, or your soul?”

Through his writing and the messages he shares in his series, Willie has slowly been reminding me that faith is not reserved for people who have everything figured out. It exists for those of us carrying questions, disappointments, fears, and everyday struggles too. Somewhere along the line, I convinced myself that part of my life had closed off for good. Yet here I am again…thinking about faith, reflecting on it, and maybe even opening the door to it a little wider than before.

And that is the beauty of Willie’s work. He shares difficult truths in such a loving, simple, and deeply conversational way that you don’t feel overwhelmed by the message — you feel invited into it.

I’m incredibly proud to call Willie a friend and fellow writer. More importantly, I truly believe this book is going to reach people who need hope, reassurance, and healing right now. Sometimes the right words don’t just inspire us. Sometimes they quietly begin putting pieces of us back together again.

My family is somewhat small and scattered all over the East Coast, stretching from Maine down to Florida. Despite the miles between us, I’ve always been lucky enough to call my aunts and uncles not just family, but true friends. Most of our cousins were born within five years of one another, which means every gathering somehow feels less like generations colliding and more like an ongoing dinner party that simply pauses between visits.

This weekend, my aunt and uncle traveled down from Maine to spend time with my mom. My uncle is my mother’s brother, and with our Norwegian roots and my Swedish aunt folded into the mix, there’s always been a distinctly Scandinavian flavor to our family traditions. Cozy. Warm. Quietly sentimental. Also heavily dependent on carbs and coffee or tea.

I could share everyone’s names, but honestly there won’t be a quiz at the end, so let’s keep moving.

What I will share is that this side of the family gave me my lifelong love of soft-boiled eggs and toast. Not just the breakfast itself, but the ceremony of it all. In our family, a soft-boiled egg was never tossed onto a plate like some common scrambled peasant. It was presented properly in a beautifully crafted ceramic egg cup. Many came straight from Sweden or Norway, tiny little treasures wrapped in tissue paper and handed over like heirlooms. Somehow those egg cups made breakfast feel elegant, even if you were eating in pajamas with bedhead and one sock on.

There’s also an art to the perfect soft-boiled egg. Timing is everything. Too little and you’re drinking breakfast. Too much and you’ve ruined the whole point. But when it’s right? Pure comfort.

This visit came together somewhat last minute, so we quickly pulled together a casual dinner at my mom’s house with my sister and brother-in-law. Somewhere in the middle of setting the table and refilling iced tea glasses, I started feeling sentimental. Really sentimental. The kind that sneaks up on you as you watch everyone talking and laughing in the kitchen while your brain quietly whispers, these moments won’t happen forever.

I hope that’s not true anytime soon, but lately those thoughts have started creeping in more often.

Naturally, my mind wandered to the egg cups.

Yesterday, since I had the day off, I made it my mission to find some. I mapped out a few antique shops in the next town over and headed out like a woman on a highly specific Scandinavian breakfast-related treasure hunt.

The first antique shop had a young girl at the counter who seemed so thrilled to finally have a customer that I’m not entirely sure she heard a single word I said. I asked if they carried egg cups and she immediately replied, “No, but would you be interested in a crystal decanter that just came in?”

No thank you, ma’am. I’m here on egg business.

Second shop? I’m fairly certain the girl working there couldn’t have spelled the word egg if I spotted her the “E.”

Alrighty then.

Next stop: HomeGoods. Surely among the seventeen thousand decorative pillows and seasonal hand towels, I could locate one tiny egg cup.

I marched in with purpose. As I cruised down an aisle, I spotted an employee stocking shelves. Perfect. I asked, “Do you happen to know if you carry egg cups?”

She smiled politely, turned around, and picked up a tiny bowl about the size of something you’d use to serve pistachios at a cocktail party. As the word no floated toward my lips, my peripheral vision kicked in. Shark eye activated.

There they were.

Two actual egg cups. Sitting quietly on the shelf waiting for me like they knew I was coming.

I practically shouted, “Look at this! Egg cups!”

The employee rolled her eyes and laughed. “Oh man, I thought those were shot cups.”

And immediately all I could think of was the line from Ferris Bueller, “I weep for the future.”

Tonight my aunt opened her gift. I added little plates for toast, a glass-blown mug, and tea to complete the breakfast experience. As she read the card, I told her that every single time I make soft-boiled eggs, I think of her. I think of our family. I think of childhood kitchens and laughter and those simple mornings that somehow became lifelong memories without any of us realizing it at the time.

We may not see each other often, but I never forget how I feel when I’m around her. Safe. Happy. Content.

Funny how something as small as an egg cup can hold an entire lifetime inside it.