Author: KikiFikar

There are certain colors that instantly transport you back in time. For me, it’s a particular shade of bright red. The moment I see it, I’m standing in my parents’ kitchen staring at the shiny red espresso maker that replaced our old two-piece stovetop pot.

Every evening, after the dishes were washed and the kitchen sparkled, Mom would slice fresh lemon wedges while that little machine worked its magic. She and Dad would sit together, sipping tiny cups of espresso like it was the perfect ending to another ordinary day.

Somewhere along the way, I caught the coffee bug.

College introduced me to daily coffee, and before long there was an extra demitasse cup waiting for me whenever I came home. Suddenly the coffee world exploded. Fancy coffeehouses popped up on every corner, drive-thrus became a way of life, and somewhere in there my daily Starbucks stop became part of my morning commute.

“Venti Iced Americano, please.”

Coffee isn’t just a drink anymore. It’s a tiny event I look forward to every single day.

Naturally, I’m always on the hunt for my next favorite concoction.

Last week Pinterest sent me tumbling down one of its famous rabbit holes. An advertisement for Trader Joe’s Bourbon Vanilla Bean Paste caught my eye. Beep…beep…beep. Somebody back up the coffee truck. A few hundred clicks later I had a shopping list: bourbon vanilla bean paste, Starbucks Blonde Espresso, and fresh lemon peel.

Well…

Let’s just say my gym rest day turned into one of the most relaxing 45 minutes I’ve had in a long time. No Shoes Radio was playing in the background while blonde espresso, bourbon vanilla, and fresh lemon peel danced together in my favorite mug.

It was ridiculously simple. Completely delicious. And somehow it reminded me that the best recipes aren’t always found in cookbooks. Sometimes they’re tucked inside memories, mixed with a little curiosity, and served one beautiful cup at a time.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I think tomorrow morning has already placed its coffee order.

☕️☕️☕️☕️☕️☕️☕️☕️☕️☕️☕️☕️☕️☕️☕️☕️☕️☕️

Some people carefully research a project before they begin.

I am not one of those people.

My brain has a wonderful little habit. It gets an idea, convinces me it’s brilliant, and before common sense has a chance to weigh in, I’m already halfway to the store with my wallet in hand.

Today’s adventure began with a craving.

Not just any craving. I wanted fresh Cherry Stone clams on the half shell with a generous squeeze of lemon. I could practically taste the salty goodness. Into the Jeep I went and off to the market where I proudly purchased a dozen beautiful clams.

Look at me… practically a New England seafood expert.

Back home I dug through the kitchen drawer until I found the clamming knife that had apparently been waiting years for its moment in the spotlight.

There was just one tiny problem.

I had never shucked a clam in my entire life.

No matter. YouTube has raised half of America at this point, so I found a video, watched a guy casually pop open clam after clam like he was opening birthday cards, and figured I’d be right there with him.

I was not.

Those clams fought back like they had signed UFC fighting contract. Every single one was a wrestling match. I poked. I pried. I twisted. I questioned my life choices. Somewhere around clam number four I started talking to them. By clam number six I think they were winning.

Eventually I managed to shuck seven of the twelve.

By then I wasn’t hungry anymore.

Apparently wrestling shellfish for an hour is an excellent appetite suppressant. Hey maybe I’m on to something?

This isn’t the first time my enthusiasm has outrun my abilities, and I suspect it won’t be the last. My life seems to consist of jumping into the deep end first and asking questions somewhere around the middle of the pool. Sometimes it works out beautifully. Sometimes I end up with sore hands, a kitchen that looks like a seafood crime scene, and seven perfectly good clams that took every ounce of determination I possessed.

I don’t know why my brain works this way. It never says, “Maybe buy six already shucked clams.” No, it says, “Let’s become a shellfish expert by lunchtime.”

Still… I’d probably do it all over again.

Because every once in a while those crazy little ideas become great stories. And if nothing else, I can now officially add “amateur clam shucker” to a résumé that absolutely no one asked to see.

Back in 1984, Saturday Night Live wasn’t just a television show—it was an event. I planned my Saturday nights around it. That cast was pure magic, but my favorite was always Billy Crystal.

Every character he created was hilarious, but none made me laugh harder than Fernando Lamas, the overly charming host of Fernando’s Hideaway. Picture a swanky 1960s lounge with tufted black leather booths where Fernando would interview celebrities. He’d shower his guests with compliments, barely listen to a word they said, and then flash that grin before delivering his unforgettable catchphrase:

“You look marvelous, dahling.”

It was ridiculous. It was brilliant. And to this day, when I need a good laugh, I still find myself watching those old clips on YouTube.

Tonight, though, Fernando unexpectedly made an appearance.

I found myself sitting in a director’s chair in front of about fifty people on the seventeenth floor of a New York City gallery with a microphone in my hand. My sister was hosting another Leadership Salon to celebrate her new book, and she had asked me to emcee the evening.

I was honored…and if I’m being truthful…a little jittery.

I reviewed the evening’s agenda, studied my conversation cues, and silently wondered if I could pull this off. Then I reminded myself that this wasn’t about me. It was about Kathy, her message, and the years of wisdom she had poured into helping people become better leaders.

And then, out of nowhere, Fernando showed up in my head.

Suddenly I wasn’t sitting in a director’s chair beside my sister. I was back in Fernando’s Hideaway, tucked into one of those famous black leather booths with my guest beside me. I looked over at Kathy and had to stop myself from blurting out, “Kathy…you look marvelous. Absolutely marvelous.”

Just like that, the nerves disappeared.

The conversation became exactly that—a conversation. I interviewed Kathy about why she wrote the book and how our dad influenced the leader she became. She later welcomed two fellow CEOs to discuss the human side of leadership in an age increasingly shaped by artificial intelligence. The audience leaned in, asked thoughtful questions, and became part of the discussion. The entire evening simply flowed.

Afterward, I had the chance to meet so many wonderful people. Some were just beginning their careers. Others were preparing to close one chapter and head off to retirement in Florida. Different ages. Different professions. Different journeys. Yet every conversation was warm, genuine, and memorable.

Watching my sister share her heart and her experience with that room filled me with enormous pride. Her message isn’t just for corporate America. It’s for every organization, every team, every family, and every person who has the privilege of influencing someone else’s life.

And somewhere along the way, I realized Fernando had taught me something I never expected. Sometimes confidence doesn’t arrive because you’ve rehearsed enough or because the butterflies disappear. Sometimes it comes from finding one familiar thought that makes you smile, reminds you not to take yourself too seriously, and allows your authentic self to take over.

So thank you, Billy Crystal. Thank you, Fernando, for years of laughter…and for unknowingly sitting beside me in that director’s chair. You didn’t just make me laugh all those years ago.

You helped me remember that the very best hosts aren’t the ones with the perfect questions or the cleverest lines. They’re the ones who make someone else feel comfortable enough to tell their story.

And Kathy…

You looked marvelous, dahling. Absolutely marvelous.

******The image included in this 07/22/2026 blog was created with Chat GPT for entertainment purposes only.*****************

Daily Prompt 2820

By now you know that I grew up without the World Wide Web. The closest I came to surfing the internet was learning how to use the microfiche machine at the Bethpage Public Library back in the early 1970s.

We also had a full set of Encyclopaedia Britannica, which I believe my parents acquired by opening an account at Reliance Federal Bank in town. If we needed to research something for school or settle a family debate, we pulled the appropriate volume off the shelf and flipped through those meticulously alphabetized pages. If the answer wasn’t there, we hopped on our bikes and pedaled across town to the library.

That was our search engine.

I don’t have to tell you how dramatically the world changed once the internet arrived. I dove headfirst into those technological waters and, quite frankly, haven’t come up for air since. In the immortal words of Jimmy Buffett, “I used to rule my world from a pay phone…” These days? I pretty much rule mine from my cell phone.

Our phones have become modern-day encyclopedias that fit in our pockets. There is virtually nothing you can’t learn online. Apple even coined one of its most memorable slogans back in 2009: “There’s an app for that.” They weren’t kidding. You can fix things, cook things, exercise, learn a language, decorate a house, diagnose why your hydrangeas are sulking, and probably teach a goat to tap dance if you’re willing to search long enough.

I don’t even know what generation I officially belong to anymore. Am I Gen X? Gen Z? Gen XYZ? Hold on…let me Google it.

My parents, born in 1939 and 1940, were introduced to the internet later in life. They were/are incredibly smart people, but this whole technology thing? Well…let’s just say my sister and I became the family IT department.

The calls came at all hours.

“Karen Anne…something’s wrong with the computer.”

One afternoon I drove over to my parents’ condo to find my dad in a complete tizzy.

“I don’t know,” he said. “It just isn’t working.”

I glanced at the computer tower. There, glowing quietly, was the blue power button.

I pressed it.

The computer sprang to life.

My father looked at me as though I had just performed open-heart surgery.

He called me a miracle worker.

I grabbed my keys, kissed him on the cheek, and said, “I learned from the best, Daddy.”

Then I giggled all the way home.

From that point on, my lessons became simple.

“When in doubt…Google it.”

I explained that if you typed almost any question into Google, you’d probably find your answer within the first few results. Once they mastered Googling, they graduated to YouTube.

Our next family curriculum included searching for instructional videos, saving them, forwarding them, and discovering that there really was a video for just about everything.

It was a glorious new chapter.

The very people who had once sent me downstairs to the encyclopedias and across town to the library were now being taught by their oldest daughter how to navigate the digital world.

I’m happy to report that Mom has become quite the student. She’s currently designing her new bathroom using ideas, photos, and apps she’s finding entirely on her own. I couldn’t be prouder.

Watching all of this unfold has made me realize something. During my lifetime, learning didn’t become easier—it became more accessible. We traded card catalogs for search bars, encyclopedias for smartphones, and waiting days for answers for finding them in seconds. But the real lesson hasn’t changed one bit. Curiosity is still the engine. Whether we were turning brittle pages in Volume G of the Britannica or asking Google a question at two o’clock in the morning, the joy has always been the same. We simply never stopped learning. We just found faster, smarter, and sometimes far more entertaining ways to get there.

Talk about the fire service for more than five minutes and one thing becomes crystal clear: these are people who willingly run toward burning buildings while the rest of us are running away.

Volunteer firefighters. Career firefighters. Police officers. Vice presidents of banks. Auto body shop owners. School custodians. Restaurant owners. Electricians. Teachers. Moms. Dads. Every profession imaginable is represented in those firehouse bays. I live with two men who have given their lives to our local department. My husband has served for over 40 years and our son is an Honorary member.

The pager goes off and everything else stops.

Family dinners are left half-eaten. Backyard barbecues suddenly have an empty chair. Birthday parties, holidays, anniversaries, warm beds in the middle of the night—it doesn’t matter. They answer the call because someone, somewhere, needs help.
It’s a life built on selflessness, responsibility, and kindness.

Last night we attended our volunteer fire department’s annual Installation Dinner. It’s an evening where new officers are sworn in, accomplishments are celebrated, medals are awarded to firefighters who went above and beyond the call of duty, and those who made the ultimate sacrifice or have gone on to Heaven are remembered with tremendous respect.

After the speeches, applause, and congratulations settled down, dinner was served. Then, without warning, the sound of chairs scraping across the floor broke through the room.

Silence.

One of the firefighters had begun choking while eating his dinner.

His company member sitting across from him calmly stood up, walked behind him, performed the Heimlich maneuver, and within moments the obstruction was cleared.

About five minutes later?

Everyone—including the firefighter who had just been saved—sat back down and finished dinner.

It was what I like to call a classic “please pass the mashed potatoes” moment.

Business as usual for these everyday heroes.

Last night’s emergency just happened to involve one of their own.

Later in the evening I watched Jake out on the dance floor laughing with his buddies. I looked around the room and couldn’t help but smile. Familiar faces smiled back. Some waved from across the room. Some blew kisses. Others walked over with hugs and stories about vacations, parties, practical jokes, and memories we’ve shared over decades.

I realized once again how incredibly fortunate I am to have landed in this family of heroes.

Then I felt a tap on my right shoulder.

Standing there was a friend I’ve known since grade school.

He joined our volunteer department as a teenager and eventually rose to the rank of Chief, all while serving as a career firefighter with the FDNY.

On September 11, 2001, he was one of the thousands of firefighters who responded to the Twin Towers.

In the days that followed, two of our close friends who were FDNY firefighters were missing. We couldn’t reach them. We were frantic.

Thankfully, Richie and another friend were eventually found alive.

Our friend Brian never came home.

The night after the attacks, I sat down and wrote Richie a letter.

I honestly hadn’t thought much about it over the years.

Last night, nearly twenty-five years later, Richie hugged me and told me he still remembers that letter. He said it reminded him of the overwhelming love and support he felt from our fire department family during the darkest days of his life. Whenever he felt like giving up, those words reminded him that he wasn’t carrying the weight alone.

Even now, retired and living in Florida, he still thinks about that letter and what it represented.

Not just words.

Family.

We clinked our glasses together and toasted the friends we’ve lost, the friends who remain, and the family this fire service creates.

It’s a bond that doesn’t retire. It doesn’t move away. It doesn’t disappear with time.

The next time you hear sirens echoing down your street or see flashing red lights racing toward someone else’s emergency, pause for just a moment. Let it sink in. Inside those trucks are people who have left behind half-finished dinners, sleeping children, quiet conversations, and ordinary moments they may never get back. They go anyway. Every time.

Most of us will never know their names. We won’t hear their stories. We won’t see the weight they carry long after the sirens fade.

They don’t ask us to.

They simply answer the call.

And after witnessing moments like last night—from saving one of their own over dinner to carrying the memories of September 11 nearly a quarter century later—I’m reminded that heroism isn’t loud. It isn’t performed for recognition. It lives in the quiet decisions, the steady hands, the unwavering presence when it matters most.

It lives in family.

In loyalty that never fades.

In love that shows up, again and again, no matter the cost.

Every week my social media feeds are flooded with products, gadgets, books, services, and films that I apparently need to buy or watch RIGHT NOW. The algorithms are relentless. They know me far better than I’d like to admit.

And because my shopping tendencies are well documented (mostly by the Amazon delivery drivers), it’s no secret that I often surrender. Before I know it, whatever caught my attention is sitting on my front porch within a day or two.

This week, however, Instagram kept knocking on my door with something different. Instead of another kitchen gadget or pair of sneakers, it introduced me to a new Apple TV documentary called Row for Life.

The film follows Angela Madsen—a retired Marine, Paralympian, and extraordinary athlete—who, at the age of sixty, set out to row solo across the Pacific Ocean from Los Angeles to Hawaii.

I quickly learned that this wasn’t her first impossible dream. Angela had already successfully crossed the Atlantic Ocean twice despite being partially paralyzed from the waist down. Before long I was completely hooked. Listening to her describe the preparation, the physical demands, and the winding road that had brought her to this moment was captivating.

If you’re looking for something meaningful to watch, I encourage you to find this documentary.

Go ahead.

I’ll wait.

Seriously.

But if you don’t already know how the story ends, stop reading now and come back after you’ve watched it.

I’ll still be here.

I wasn’t prepared for what I experienced.

As I drove to the gym this morning at the completely unreasonable hour of 4:35 a.m., I couldn’t stop thinking about Angela. I had questions. Lots of them. The ending stayed with me. It haunted me. Yet somehow, so did her determination to keep rowing.

Did I expect the fairy-tale ending?

Absolutely.

I wanted the triumphant finish. The celebration. The crossing of the finish line.

Maybe that’s because I know what it’s like to train for one. I’ve spent months preparing for races, dreaming about crossing that final line with my hands in the air. I’ve also experienced my share of DNFs—Did Not Finish—not just on obstacle courses, but in life itself.

Instead of letting the story go, I started digging.

I looked up the filmmaker and discovered a podcast about the six-year journey of bringing this documentary to life. Six years. Imagine believing in a story for that long.

Naturally, I found her Instagram page and followed her. I left a comment explaining how deeply the film had affected me and how haunted I was by Angela’s story while simultaneously inspired by her relentless courage.

To my surprise, she responded just a few hours later.

Instant fan.

She is a remarkable storyteller, and she honored Angela’s life with incredible care and compassion.

Driving home through the rain this afternoon, I realized something.

Not every story gets the ending we desperately want.

Not every race ends with medals.

Not every dream reaches the shore.

But maybe that isn’t the point.

Maybe the point is to keep rowing anyway.

To keep showing up when the waves are higher than we expected.

To keep believing in ourselves when no one is standing on the shoreline cheering.

To keep moving forward even when the finish line disappears beyond the horizon.

Angela Madsen reminded me that courage isn’t measured by how a story ends. It’s measured by the willingness to begin, to keep going, and to refuse to let fear decide when the journey is over. None of us are promised a fairy-tale ending. We are, however, given the opportunity to choose how we face the miles in front of us. Whether the shoreline is ten feet away or ten miles beyond what we can see, I’ll keep rowing. I hope you will too.

Happy Fourth of July! 🇺🇸🇺🇸🇺🇸🇺🇸

Our recipe for celebrating America’s birthday is pretty simple.

Start with our small town parade, waving flags, proud Marines, bagpipes, and marching bands. Add a few pool floats, a platter of clams, a couple of cocktails, and a table at a marina. Finish it all off with one spectacular sunset.

Now stir in plenty of smiles, laughter, and family stories—some we’ve told a hundred times and somehow still laugh at just as hard as the first time.

That’s it. That’s the recipe.

No fancy ingredients required. Just gratitude for the people beside us, appreciation for the freedoms we often take for granted, and another opportunity to celebrate this beautiful country we call home.

Happy Birthday, America. 🇺🇸

I have a confession to make.

Every so often, life taps me on the shoulder, laughs just a little, and says, “Kiki…bless your heart.”

Sometimes I believe I’m an intelligent person. I raised two children who somehow survived adulthood. I’ve navigated cancer, a flipped Jeep, Spartan races, PTA meetings, and enough office politics to qualify for a minor in diplomacy.

Yet every now and then I discover I’ve been carrying around a belief that turns out to be spectacularly…wrong.

Take hurricane evacuation routes. I passed one of these blue and white sign beauties on a pole today. My eyes caught it at a red light. I burst out laughing.

For years—and I do mean years—I honestly believed that if you followed those blue hurricane evacuation signs all the way to the coast, there would be boats waiting to ferry everyone to safety.

It made perfect sense to me.

“Hurricane coming? Head toward the water. The boats are there.”

I pictured an organized operation. Coast Guard. Ferries. Maybe someone with a clipboard checking names before waving us aboard. We’d all sail off into the sunset while the hurricane did its thing.

Imagine my surprise when someone finally explained that an evacuation route is actually the road that gets you away from the coast.

Away.

Not toward.

Apparently, the giant body of water producing the hurricane isn’t where they’re trying to send you.

A few years ago Ernie and I had just finished a delish lunch on our way from the Tampa airport to our resort and were updating the GPS with the address. I spotted the Hurricane Route sign. I said “Ern you can turn there. That’s the way to the coast.”Ernie looked up and straight into my eyes. He said calmly…”Wait. You think there are boats waiting to pick you up in a hurricane?” My heart sank and in that moment I had never felt so blonde and naive. Instead of denying it I told the truth. “That’s right!” I declared. We giggled and drove towards the Gulf.

Once I admitted my hurricane theory out loud, I started wondering how many other things I’ve confidently believed without ever questioning them. It turns out my brain has been quietly writing its own instruction manual for decades.

The funny thing is, I don’t mind being wrong anymore.

Life has taught me that asking the embarrassing question is far better than spending another twenty years believing there’s a fleet of rescue boats waiting at the end of Long Island or in that case the west coast of Florida.

Besides, these little moments remind me that we all have gaps in our knowledge. Most people are just better at hiding them.

Me?

I write blog posts about them.

If my occasional misunderstanding gives someone else permission to laugh at themselves—or admit they’ve been quietly believing something equally ridiculous—then I’d say we’re all headed in the right direction.

If you had asked me ten years ago if I thought I’d be running through waist-high mud or carrying 75-pound sandbags up and down hills, I would have called you both crazy and delusional. Ten years ago, however, I approached a line of rocks and fire, leapt to the other side, threw my hands into the air, and stood there with tears streaming down my face.

At age fifty, I had conquered a goal I never imagined I’d even consider, let alone accomplish. Running a Spartan Race was certainly not on my bingo card.

Even after nine months of training, I had no real idea what I was getting myself into. The moment I entered the start corral—which, by the way, requires climbing over a six-foot wall just to get inside—I knew I was in for a battle. An uphill battle. Literally.

I climbed the first hill and immediately saw stars. My lungs looked around and collectively asked, “What in the world is happening here?”

Somewhere ahead of me I heard one of my trainers yell, “Where the F is Karen? Keep breathing, Karen! Keep breathing!”

And so I did.

For the next four hours and fifty-one minutes, I just kept breathing.

I rolled under barbed wire and sliced open my forehead. I commando crawled across rocks and left pieces of skin behind on my elbows and forearms. I swung from monkey bars, missed a grip midway through, and came dangerously close to donating a tooth to the course. Every obstacle seemed designed to convince me to quit.

I didn’t.

I kept moving forward until I eventually reached that finish line and jumped over the fire.

The following year, I cut my time in half.

Three years later, I completed that same course in just over an hour.

Progress.

Forward.

Proof that we are capable of far more than we give ourselves credit for.

Eventually, I upgraded to races that stretched close to twenty miles. I pushed my body far beyond limits I once thought were fixed. Along the way, I learned something important: life doesn’t stop when things get hard. It keeps moving. And because it keeps moving, so must we.

My Spartan adventures are well documented throughout the pages of this blog, so there’s no need to relive every mud pit, bruise, rope climb, or bucket carry. The real message after ten years isn’t about obstacle racing at all.

It’s about refusing to stop.

When an obstacle blocks your path, find another way around it. If you aren’t strong enough yet, train harder. If the answer is no, keep searching for a yes. Don’t settle for average simply because the first attempt didn’t work. Explore every avenue. Push every door. Exhaust every possibility before you ever consider giving up.

More than anything, I wanted my children to see that resilience isn’t something you talk about—it’s something you demonstrate. Life will knock you down. It will throw mud in your face, steal your breath, and occasionally leave you bleeding. But quitting can never be the automatic response.

Lately, I’ve scaled down from course racing to station racing, and that’s okay. As one of my closest peeps recently reminded me, “You’ve done it already. Let’s concentrate on new contests for you to win.”

And maybe that’s the lesson this decade of Spartan racing was really trying to teach me. The goal was never the mud, the medals, or even the fire jump. The goal was becoming the kind of person who believes she can tackle hard things. The contests may look different now, but the mindset remains the same. Keep breathing. Keep moving. Keep finding a way forward. Because whether you’re climbing a mountain, carrying a sandbag, or facing whatever life places in your path, the finish line isn’t where the victory happens. The victory happens the moment you decide not to quit. ❤️💙💚💜