Ahhh Fudge!

Come "buy" and see the fudge at Samantha's Lil bit of Heaven, 287 East Northport, NY

We've all heard about the loaves and fishes, but who would have thought a miracle is possible through the delicious taste of fudge? And we're not talking your average chocolate or vanilla, but exotic, phenomenal flavors that make you wake up at night reliving their sweetness. Flavors like Raspberry Truffle, Rocky Road, Pistachio, Mint Chocolate Chip, Creamsicle, New York Cheesecake and Butterfinger fudge, just to name a few.

 And despite their delectable charms, these little cups of heaven, complete with their own plastic spoon for instant fudge emergencies, can be classified as anything but "sinful". This fudge is on a mission, you might even say, a mission from God.


Across from the Wendy's in East Northport, New York, sandwiched between the animal hospital and the butcher is a little bit of Heaven on earth. Honest. I know, it's not where you pictured it to be, but heaven rarely is.

Welcome to Samantha's Lil Bit of Heaven, a unique ministry, completely run by volunteers, that is open to all denominations. Samantha's is known worldwide for their weekend coffeehouse ministry where they feature life inspirational music and clean comedy nights that families, yes families, can come together and enjoy. They also offer weekly faith-filled workshops, support groups, bible studies and more!

For the musically inclined, there's even an open mic night that anyone from age 6 and up (you could be younger but it's hard to reach the mic) can perform music, poetry or comedy in an attempt to gain a spot in one of Heaven's weekend slots. 

 At a time when the country is held captive by reality shows starring teenagers behaving badly and glitzy show-biz extravaganzas where audience votes are always questioned for integrity, it's refreshing that a little bit of Heaven on earth does exist.

Samantha Tetro welcomes guests at Heaven

Started by a Jewish gal, Samantha Tetro (yes, a Jewish gal) this innovative ministry was created to provide a safe haven away from all the misery and pain of the day-to-day world. Tetro's vision of the ministry was actually conceived  after watching a news report of a young Long Island girl who had been kidnapped.  


Step into Heaven and regardless of your faith, you feel welcomed.  People are smiling for goodness sake! They actually GIVE you chocolate kisses if you're a newbie! And the entertainment is always top notch.

Sure, it's faith filled and that does make some folks shift in their seats and squirm. There's actual mention of (dare we say), God, and faith, and praying, but not in over abundance and I assure you, no one makes anyone dunk themselves in a river and declare themselves sin-free (although there are a few folks that do kick their shoes off and tap to the music).

What happens at Heaven is a miracle in itself: you walk in alone most often, and you walk out with friends. There's a current that runs through the people there that basically says,  "I'm part of something really exciting. If you want to ask me, just let me know. If you don't, that's cool too." And it really is. 

There's no pressure at Heaven. If you come in with questions, you leave with answers. If you come in with a burden, you feel it lifted, even if it's just for the night. You won't get that happening at your local bowling alley, movie theater or video arcade. And if you just want to enjoy great music and have fun with your family or take your kids to a comedy night where you won't blush, Heaven's the place.

Delicious selections of fudge seem endless!

So what's fudge

got to do with it?

When this unique place began nearly 17 years ago, it was housed in a teenie tiny location that could barely seat 25 people but somehow managed to squeeze in more than 60 every night.

Today, gifted and known musicians, speakers and songwriters have come from around the world to play or perform at Heaven. To date, over 100,000 people have come through their doors from countries worldwide. Marriages have been formed here (38 love matches with more to come no doubt), although it's not a singles club. Bands have been created and gone on to record successful CDs.

Through the years, Samantha's grew from its first humble building to a larger location at 287 Larkfield Road in Northport.  And now, with faith, there's a dream that the ministry will be getting ready to move again with the help of a Fudge-raiser. Yes, a Fudge-raiser.

The ministry is looking to increase its ability to reach out to the local community and meet its growing needs. With growing unemployment in the area, Long Island is in need of places like Heaven to lift not only spirits, but to offer hope. In order to meet the growing needs of the community, Heaven needs a bigger building.

The ministry offers desserts during their weekend entertainment and what better way to create a building fund than through through the sale of something sweet and delicious like fudge?

Recently, Heaven has been offered a property that has truly been an answer to their prayers for the community: (a prayer that was sent over 16 years ago).  As we all know, real estate is anything but cheap, but Heaven answers to a "higher authority" and believes their goal is to purchase this  property and build their dream completely debt-free, (not an easy task in today's times). So in true faith, they are selling fudge to make it happen.

Now, this is not just any fudge: this is gourmet, knock your-socks-off-fight-your-family-hide-in-a-closet-just-to-be-alone-with-it kind of fudge. It is quite frankly, Heaven's Faith-Filled Fudge-To-Go, and the donation for one of these sweet treats is just $4.00.  The goal is to sell 1 million cups of fudge so the ministry can purchase the building completely debt-free. An insane goal? Perhaps. But apparently Samantha's has already sold 2500 cups just this summer alone. Which means there are 2500 happy fudge fanatics out there and you could be one of them!

Interested in lending a hand? With your help Samantha's can sell a lot more fudge and get that building a lot faster. If you don't like fudge, send this blog on to someone you know that does. Or better yet, jot an email to your friends and family and tell them about Samantha's building fund and the fudge-raiser. It's the best $4.00 they could ever spend. And yes, if they ask, Heaven is a charity, so this may be the only time they can buy fudge, eat it and have it go to a good cause. 

These days, miracles seem to be beyond our reach. But every so often, God puts the miracle making in our path. And this is a pretty sweet way to make a very special miracle come true for some pretty terrific people and a community in need.


Call Samantha's (631) 262-1212 or visit the website at www.samanthaslilbitofheaven.org and send an email asking Samantha how you can buy some fudge and help the ministry get to their goal.  All proceeds go to the building fund.

Most of us will never be able to do the really big stuff like walking across water or multiply loaves and fishes, but  paying $4 for a delicious cup of fudge to help build and grow a place to be inspired on Long Island and take family and friends on weekends?  Awww fudge, now that's something we can all do!

Sing along with Mitch

In his head, my father's voice rang out like Pavarotti: in truth, even the dog left the room when he sang. Despite Dad's less than golden tones, there were moments he could melt into a symphony of music, thanks to a little man with a small white stick and a huge chorus known as "the gang."


Mitch Miller played on our living room hi-fi throughout most of my childhood. Taking up most of the wall, the hi-fi was made of mahogany and the speakers were built as part of the unit. To play, you lifted the lid, that of course would snap closed at will, causing you to nearly lose a hand if you weren't deft at switching albums quickly.

The inside of the hi-fi was simple. An on/off button, a volume and a needle to play the records which, unfortunately, often needed a penny to balance on top of or you got this alien type of warble. Occasionally the penny would fall off the needle, sending it careening across the vinyl with an ear splitting SCREEEETCH that I have to say, riveled Dad's vocal charms.

The covers and inside covers of the Mitch Miller albums were all about having fun. You wanted to be wherever "the gang" was. The women were laughing, the kids were laughing, and Mitch was in the midst of it all, eyes twinkling and his arm slung around someone's shoulder. "Come on," Mitch seemed to say. "Leave those dishes and sing along with us."  And we were only too happy to.


My father was a New York City cop. Not ever easy job, and certainly not in the difficult times of the 1960s and 70s. My Dad seemed to me, to always be a man trapped in his own skin. During the day, he saw tremendous violence, hopelessness, and betrayl: in the evening he had to leave that somehow and come home, facing being a suburban father and husband. The transition was helped by the hi-fi. Put on those Mitch Miller albums and his face would visibly relax. Heading into the kitchen you could hear him singing songs that no one ever hears anymore. Tunes like, The Yellow Rose of Texas. By the Light of the Silvery Moon, Down By the Old Mill Stream, That Old Gang of Mine, She Wore a Yellow Ribbon that now seem like old friends whenever I hear them.
If it was summer,  the front and back doors would be wide open, and the music would spill out onto the front lawn. As evening fell, neighbors would wander by, sitting on our front step (known as the stoop). As kids we chased up and down the block, looking for fireflies and playing games like Freeze Tag and Murderer Come Out (okay, we were strange kids). But always, in the background, we would hear Mitch Miller and his gang singing, and from time to time, neighbors' voices would chime in. It was a good time. A safer time. You could ride your bike fearlessly in the dark and familiar voices would softly drift past your face as you rode by in the night air.


In the winter, the front door would still be open, the inside glass frosting from the heat of the house. We would wait for my father, his shifts lasting almost to the last moment of Christmas Eve. Still, we would wait.

And my father, after dealing with city's most desperate, most violent, and most depressed would ride home to Long Island, flip on the hi-fi, turn and fill the house with the sound of the gang, singing Jingle Bells, Silent Night, O Come All Ye Faithful. Now, the holidays could come.

Mitch Miller, died at 99, this past Saturday, July 31st. According to his family, he had a "full, happy and long life." I think it was more than that. The little man with his white baton, brought more than sing along songs to the world. He brought a peace to people. He gave families a language to speak when they couldn't understand the world around them. He built a bridge. It may not have been everything we needed, but it was enough.

And for Dad, maybe singing, even off key, helped him wade through the frustration, rage and anger of the what he witnessed day in and day out. Each song helping him transition from cop to father and back again giving him the ability to deal through the pain of another day, and to  eventually, even heal.

Bravo, Mr. Miller.

Bravo.

Policy Doesn't Suit Me To A Tea

I don't want to complain, but coffee drinkers have it made. Seriously. I live with a coffee drinker and whenever we go out, he gets either a giant silver pot steaming with hot coffee at the table or seventeen people asking him over and over again, "More coffee sir?"

As a tea drinker I get one cup of hot water and one bag. If I'm lucky, a diner may bring me a little tiny tea pot of water that I can eek out one and 1/3 cups of tea. If I want a refill, the waiter will say, "You know I have to charge you for another bag?" If I don't want to be charged I get to reuse the wilted teabag from my first cup over and over while my husband enjoys a fresh cup of Joe for as long as we dine.

What's up with that? Now, I don't want to tell diners or restaurants how to do their business, but I'm thinking the cost of teabags is not what it was during those wild days of the Boston Tea Party. I can't believe handing out a free bag or two is going to break the bottom line, in fact, it may actually improve customer service. I've seen a diner hand out big sprinkle cookies to kids, pass out free papers to little old men, hand out an extra pie slice to a pretty girl, but for goodness sake, what's with not giving an extra tea bag? Is there a shortage? A plot? A curse on the heads of all tea drinkers?

I finally asked the owner's son of the Lighthouse Diner in Wantagh, New York,  and the answer was so amazing I couldn't believe it. "We do it because the other diner across the street started it, and we wanted to stay competitive." When I pointed out they could be the "good guys" the defender of tea drinkers everywhere by giving that free extra bag, he just shrugged and said, "Hey this is the way it's always been. No point in changing it now."

Today, that's seems to be a safe answer for a lot of people. "It's the way it's always been, why bother arguing, changing, complaining, voicing an opinion." So when the landmarks get ripped down, good people get passed over, families keep secrets, governments don't change people shake their heads and say, "Well, what do you expect, that's the way it's always been. Nothing's going to change."

Not if someone doesn't become a trendsetter, the pioneer, the free thinker. There has to be someone that looks up and says, "This stuff doesn't make sense, let's change it, let's start somewhere." It doesn't matter where.  Maybe it's a tea bag one day. Maybe a policy change in Albany the next. When the ridiculous makes sense, we are all in trouble. That's all I'm saying.

Until then, can I get some more hot water?

Star Qualities That Really Shine

Nicole's Mom Jo and Good Citizen Nicole

The votes are in! The ballots cast and the winner is... Nicole. Nope...not Richie, or Miller or even Kidman but...Vutera.

Unlike the Grammys or the Tonys or even the Oscars, the JFK Citizenship award was voted on and given out in each of the graduating classes in Mandalay's 5th Grade. I am sorry I can't report the other winners, but I know for a fact that in one of the classes, this award, which is far more valuable than anything that Hollywood could possibly devise handing out, Nicole Vutera was the undisputed winner. And unlike the ugliness of the Oscars, she did not flood the ballot boxes with emails touting her qualities or try to get People Magazine or even the Wantagh Citizen to post incriminating pictures of the other contenders. Nicole didn't even vote for herself. Because in her own words to her mom, "that just wouldn't be fair."

I remember this award from my own graduating years. It was a highly coveted award, voted on by the classmates and given to the one student that you felt had the qualities of true citizenship: good sportsmanship, kindness, fairness, respect for others and a general overall spirit of enthusiasm. Wow. Try giving THAT one out in Hollywood--- no one would ever take it home. That award show would last for years.

Nicole's good friend, JFK

The really cool thing was Nicole really does embody all those qualities and more. I've known this kid since before she was born and you never met a nicer more perfect representative of a JFK Citizenship award in your life. JFK himself would have really liked Nicole.  But an important thing to remember is she didn't just "hatch" into a good citizen: she learned by example. Her parents are also really good citizens. So are her grandparents. I don't know why through the years that became a quality that embarrasses people, but I know as a cop's kid, I was always taught that was something to be proud of.  

Citizenship isn't a word you hear a lot about these days. People don't turn to each other and say, "You know that Mike, he's one heck of a good citizen." But you know, they should. We all live in our towns, we all work together, we all are part of the greater good. Being a good citizen is something that we should be doing on a regular basis. Opening doors. Helping the elderly. Being polite. Picking up trash, even when it's not ours. Being respectful. What in the world happened to that?

Being a good citizen is also about changing things that you can do something about, in your own little world. It doesn't have to mean going to Washington D.C. If there is something that makes you unhappy, be a good citizen and see about changing it. It could be something important like putting a street sign up or a stop sign where there isn't one. Or it could be like bringing spirit back to an event that fell asleep. That's what I did.

About 8 years ago I was surprised how our Wantagh 4th of July parade had suddenly lost it's spirit. I grew up going to that parade and loved seeing the Veterans march with pride, the firemen, the Wantagh Marching Band. You felt proud to be a citizen of Wantagh when that parade marched by. My mom always dressed us in red, white and blue. But through the years people sort of went out of habit, rather than respect. The crowds dwindled and few stayed to watch the Miss Wantagh crowning, the highlight of the parade's end. I was stunned. Where were the floats of my childhood? The kazoo band from the Community Church (always a favorite)! The bell ringers? The clowns? The daughters of the Revolutionary War?

I wanted this hometown parade tradition for my own son who was growing up in the town so I gathered a group of boisterous women over the age of 40 and together we woke that parade right up. We called ourselves the Long Island Sweet Potato Queens, created a float, borrowed a CD player and blew up some plastic palm trees, stuck some wigs and tiaras on and drove down main street.  People stood there surprised and then laughed. Every year we pick a new theme. We don't go in it to win a trophy. We go in it to bring smiles. Now  every year Wantagh townspeople look for us and wave and there are even signs that say "We love the Long Island Sweet Potato Queens."

The Sweet Potato Queen!

We didn't do it for the glory, we did it to bring the spirit back to the town.  We're being good citizens and ensuring that something that is important is staying in good shape for the next generation. Now every year there are more floats. More music. More people. The crowds are back. The excitement is back. You see the kids jumping up and down and saying, "here it comes, it's the parade, the parade!" Being a good citizen is something everyone can strive for every day in their own little world.

I'm so glad that in a time when so many preteen and teenage girls are trying to emulate poor examples of Hollywood's behavior, somewhere in Wantagh there is a 5th grader so happy to simply be good citizen. It's like a fresh breath of air breezing through this area. I'm proud that someone like Nicole is a citizen of my town.

How wonderful her classmates recognized these wonderful qualities and rewarded it. How even more terrific that Wantagh Middle School will now be getting several JFK good citizens from schools across the area. Congratulations to all JFK Good Citizen Award Winners. Maybe with more good citizens in the world, there is hope that people will emulate your good qualities.

And on a personal note, congratulations Nicole. I wish I had a giant Flashing Glittering Good Citizen Award and a big fancy Glitzy Hollywood Red Carpet for you to walk down. But being the good citizen you are, you'd probably let your big sister Julie walk the carpet for you, and let your younger sister Sabrina play with the statue.

Thanks Nicole for being a such a good citizen. I hope the other Nicoles (Richie, Miller & Kidman) learn a thing or two from you.

Writer's Blockhead

I've got nuthin.

Nada.

 Zippo.

Some days my head is whirling with a thousand words all spilling out and then there are those days... like today, that every word that is pulled from my brain is like major surgery.

My husband, son and the cats are in hiding, slipping Hershey bars and cokes to me. I can't seem to make the words flow. I love when people say, "Oh come on. You're a writer. Just....write."

Why don't they ever say that to like a brain surgeon. "Oh come on. He's got a headache. Just go in there, see what's happening. We don't mind. Here, use my plastic knife from my lunch. I didn't even open it."

Or come on! You're a policeman. Go over there and tell those kids right now to stop drinking and driving fast. Yes those kids. With the big motorcycles and those tattoos. Hey....hey....where are you going???

Oh...Come on. You're an accountant. Find me some extra money. Right now. Here's my receipt. I just went to Stop and Shop. Did I overbuy on the ring dings and Jimmy Dean sausage Patties or should I get the no name bagels and forgo the cream cheese?

Everyone thinks  writers are just faking it. That this is such a cake career. Puleese. It's hard stuff. Okay. The working in the pajamas, very cool. But that aside, it's hard.  When you got nothing I mean...it's like the emptiest of theme parks. No rides are moving. No music playing. You can't even get a decent carnival game to work. Nada.

I remember my gym teacher, Mrs. Fontana told me once, years after I graduated and I was pregnant with my son that she was glad that I became a writer. "That's the perfect career for you. I used to watch you in my health class and you used to float away and come back just before the bell rang. Thank goodness you weren't a scientist." HELLO?????

Okay, so I daydreamed. Okay so apparently I wasn't as stealth at it as I thought. But back then, the creative faucet was running all the time. I mean I had stacks and stacks of journals and diaries and stories. You couldn't stop me. I was like a combination of Brenda Starr, Mark Twain, Emily Dickinson and Carol Burnett rolled up in a pair of overalls and a flannel shirt with a very bad shag haircut.

But now....the words they just take their precious time. They come when they want to, not when I want them to. But when they do...they make a lot more sense then they used to. Re-reading those classic journals and diaries I mean....EWWWW. Drek, bleck. I mean P.U.

But still. What I wouldn't give for a little less writer's block and a little more running faucet. Or maybe I just need another Hershey Bar. Oh good. Here comes the cat.

Apples, pears and blenders

This gorgeous picture is not me. It's one of the coolest women I have ever known in my life... my friend...Cookie. She is actually the Mom of my friend Angela, but I claim Cookie as my friend too.

She is way too cool to be just some one's Mom. She is just about the most hilarious fantabulous woman anyone could be lucky to spend time around and her laugh makes you laugh too. And her stories....ahhh....pure gold. I mean it. From sheer hysterical to poignant to jaw dropping, there is nothing ordinary about Cookie.

Ang found this photo and Cookie told us she was 15 when this photo was taken! 15!!!!! Look how glamorous she is... now I don't know about you...but at 15....gorgeous was not a word you could use about how I looked. I was rather .... strangely shaped. Even now, I am not quite sure when the magazines say "What body shape are you? Am I an apple? A pear?" So I stood in front of the mirror.... and determined....I am refrigerator shaped. Not square... not exactly round... not exactly rectangle. I am built like the fridge with a round head.

How do you dress for that? Does Dress Barn have a section for the "Appliance Shaped" woman? I shared this theory with my girlfriend (who refuses to disclose her name) and she agrees completely and claims to be a Blender!  We went to Kohls looking for dresses and the saleslady tried to convince her to try more toward the Pears, but nothing really looked flattering. "I am not a Pear," she insisted. And later, while we were in the kitchen section, she stood next to the blenders, and you know, she was right! She was a BLENDER!

Obviously today's designers are missing the mark. Instead of creating fashion for fruit shaped women start creating fashion for industrial shaped girls. How about the telephone pole girl or the woman with piano legs (another pet peeve of mine). Try creating skirts that flatter the lampshade shape or the electric range look. Not everyone is a piece of fruit.  That's all I'm saying. That, and if I looked like Cookie did at 15....I probably wouldn't be looking for appliance shaped clothing now.

Hunting For Eggs and Mom's Sanity

My friend Bonny wanted to strangle me one Easter.

I was one of THOSE moms. Those obnoxious imaginative Moms that wanted childhood to last forever and I attached mythical charming elves and fairies to just about every holiday. I also had one of those obnoxiously charming children who believed every tale I wove and when I said there were leprechauns that lived in our air conditioning vent, there was no reason for him to doubt me. The only problem was, I never counted on meeting Bonny and her adorable daughter Michelle.

Michelle was a charmer when I met her, at the age of 4. Giant blue eyes, the sweetest smile and a mass of blond curly hair. You couldn't help but fall in love with her. Bonny was a fellow New Yorker and both of us were misplaced in Florida, both single Moms and both of us stretching a dollar so far that it looked like a beach towel. We were destined to be friends. We met at one of those free book store events. My son was thrilled with meeting Curious George and was peppering George with about a million questions while the rest of the 4 and 5 year olds stood frightened and stage-struck. Michelle stood in awe of TJ, amazed that anyone could be so self assured in front of a giant monkey, and the two of them were destined to be friends. From then on, we were a foursome: inseparable.

Bonny and I had many hilarious adventures with our children but the holidays were probably the most hysterical. Bonny adored Christmas and knew every holiday fair, Christmas sing-a-long and place to visit Santa and all the reindeer, even in Sunny Florida. she was the original GPS of holiday events.

 I was more responsible for the crafty end of things. It was my home where the kids could glitter up paper snowmen, create sticky glue ornaments and basically paint and color to their hearts content. It was also where the imaginary holiday characters were created and discussed at great length at the craft table. Unfortunately, I often forgot to clue Bonny in.

The first was Domenick the Donkey (yes, after the song). He brought all good girls and boys new pajamas for Christmas Eve and left a hoof print on the window. Bonny, though confused by a flying donkey bringing pajamas to little children, managed to distract Michelle from this tradition saying it was only given out to those of Italian descent. Fortunately, Michelle was willing to take that into consideration.

Next came Louie the Leprechaun. He left chocolate gold coins and played tricks like hiding socks or left a small present in the morning next to the cereal bowl. Since Michelle was part of our carpool in the morning, she benefited from Louie, so again, no problem.

The trouble came with the Gold Shoe Easter Bunny, brought about by the wonderful book of the same name. This was a childhood favorite story of mine that of course I shared with my child. Now, being a rather wild boy, prone to being strong-willed, the lure of the Gold Shoe Easter Bunny was the bringing of a very coveted gold egg, given only to children who had behaved the best through the year. Now, betting on my child's desire to achieve the egg, I casually mentioned the Gold Shoe Bunny had dropped by in the past but my son had yet to past the incredibly well behaved standard of the Gold Egg (I know....this is grounds for years on Dr. Phil, but he was my first, what did I know about trauma). So began the quest for the gold egg.

The night before Easter, after an egg-austing day of Easter egg hunting, of which Bonny of course knew the latitude and longitude of every hunt within 50 miles, Bonny heard the kids discussing Easter morning. In a sweet clear voice, she heard her daughter say,

"Do you think I might get the Gold Egg TJ?"

And my son responded by saying,

"I've had a pretty tough time so I'm pretty sure I won't be getting the egg, but you've been great Michelle. I'm sure you'll get the gold egg so good luck to you. Let me know when you get it." and with that, TJ left the car and ran up our drive. Bonny looked back in horror to a dreamy-eyed Michelle who clasped her hands and said,

"Did you hear that Mom? TJ doesn't think he will get the gold egg, but I know I will. I've been so good! The Easter Bunny just HAS to bring me one." Bonny smiled the loving smile of motherhood while gripping the steering wheel tightly as if it was my neck. If she could have run the car up on my lawn at the moment, I am sure she would have.

About an hour later I was just about to get TJ in the tub when the phone rang.

"I put up with flying donkeys. I put up with leprechauns who played tricks. But do you think you MIGHT HAVE TOLD ME ABOUT A FLIPPING EASTER BUNNY WHO LEAVES GOLD EGGS??"

"Bonny??"

"Who the heck else would be calling the night BEFORE EASTER IN DIRE NEED OF A GOLD EGG THANKS TO YOU!!! NOW TELL ME WHERE I CAN GET THESE FREAKING EGGS IN THE NEXT HALF HOUR OR I WILL COME OVER TO YOUR HOUSE AND TAKE YOURS!"

There is nothing more frightening than a mother on the edge of disappointing her child. I gave her instructions to the Walmart and prayed. Hours later, the phone rang. Apparently Bonny had found the snap-together gold eggs that I had purchased, and decided to bypass them to make her own bejeweled, bedazzled, be glittered gold egg. An Easter miracle had happened! The mother who had always been afraid of glitter on the rug had turned into a regular Martha Stewart overnight!

The next day Michelle couldn't wait to tell TJ how she had been given the most wonderful gold egg. It sparkled, it shined, it dazzled. TJ was suitably impressed and since he knew he was lucky to have even gotten a gold egg at all, he was not surprised that Michelle's was the grandest of them all.

And Bonny couldn't wait to tell me the next time I dreamed up a leprechaun, a monkey who gave out birthday balloons or a talking snowman, I should keep it to myself.

Happy Easter and may you find your own special gold egg this year.