Sandwich and toast ideas for busy days

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I’m not a huge fan of what’s usually marketed as bruschetta or crostini.

(I said what I said!)

It feels like every time I’ve turned around for the past decade, a food magazine or blogger wants me to put some kind of tasty-sounding topping on a slice of hard, dry baguette or sourdough (don’t tell me rubbing it with a garlic clove and brushing it with olive oil makes that much of a difference) and serve it as an hors d’oeuvre.

Worse yet, I've occasionally accepted one, against my better judgment, from an appetizer tray at a fancy event, back when we could attend such things.

They always look great in the pictures…

But really, I was talking to my dad

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“It’s so curious; one can resist tears and ‘behave’ very well in the hardest hours of grief. But then someone makes you a friendly sign behind a window, or one notices that a flower that was in bud only yesterday has suddenly blossomed, or a letter slips from a drawer… and everything collapses.”~ Colette

Grief is a funny thing, manifesting in strange ways. It can creep in slowly or startle us with that acute wave of sadness, making us think it might finally pull us under for good.

Sometimes, we laugh sheepishly, realizing that our grieving behaviors have moved just…

Well, not exactly, but I was there to stalk my latest crush

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Growing up in Athens, Ohio in the 70s and 80s, I don’t recall waiting with great anticipation for new albums to drop. As a child piano prodigy, I’d spent most of grade school immersed in classical music, practicing hours each day to prepare for the next recital or competition.

My parents were not fans of popular music, so it wasn’t until my older cousin David sent my little sister and me home from a visit in the late 70s with a stack of 45s that we could play on our little red-cased turntable that I saw a whole new world…

“Cherish” and “Every Breath You Take” are not included!

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I was the girl who always fell too quickly and he was the guy who was slow to trust. That balancing act alone could have torn us apart back when I was 23 and not sure what to make of this cynical 31-year-old I’d somehow fallen for.

I wasn’t exactly known for making good decisions based on instinct and gut feeling back then, so it’s a miracle this one was actually right.

When he proposed, 18 years after we hooked up at that bar he managed (where his band played and I drank Absolut Citron lemon drops and Crown Royal…

Don’t read the comments, and don’t feed the trolls

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There it was, just sitting there taunting me. That little “manage comments” icon under my most-viewed News Break article to date, the story of my personal experience with fibromyalgia.

A blast from the past was just what I needed to lift my spirits

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As a recent Friday evening hit, and another happy hour at our dining room bar loomed, I found myself longing for a certain set of albums. I approached my husband with my proposal.

“Well, sure”, he said, “but that means I have to put actual records on.”

Before we continue, I should tell you that I myself own a hundred or so vinyl albums and my husband has more than a thousand. We recently inherited my dad’s collection as well, bestowing us with an additional thousand or so.

(The excuse I’ll offer for my meager showing is that I was…

Pondering the importance of transitions on inauguration day

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Yesterday was not a good day. A week that started poorly stretched out before me, a gaping maw of mediocrity and ennui. I finally took to Facebook for advice and solidarity.

“I’m tired and bored,” I said. “I feel like there’s nothing to anticipate, like all the fun has been taken away.”

As I suspected, I wasn’t alone. Friend after friend chimed in to say “I’m in the same boat, and I don’t have any suggestions but if anyone else does, I’d like to know.”

Others offered activities that have been helping them stay relatively sane, as the icy fingers…

My oh my, how things do change!

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When I was in my 20s, I prided myself on rarely blushing. I co-owned a restaurant and worked in the kitchen, and swearing and innuendos (or turns of phrase nowhere near as subtle as innuendos) were just par for the course. I always told the guys I worked and partied with that they couldn’t make me blush.

So, of course, they’d fall over themselves trying.

There was one guy, we’ll call him Jacob (who was, at the time, a housemate of my now-husband). Jacob was the exception to the rule and was frequently successful where so many others had failed.

This is the story I’ve been avoiding for months

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I started writing this story more than a year ago. It sat in my drafts for a while, taunting me, as so many stories do. And then it got lost in the shuffle of COVID life.

I recently found it and was struck by the comparison between how my eating disorder manifested in 2019 and how it manifests today.

I gave myself a pass in 2020, ignoring my recovery. And now I’m paying the price.

THEN: December 2019

I just broke down in the gym locker room shower.

What extreme trauma has befallen me to elicit this reaction? I know you’re wondering.


It won’t erase a devastating year, no matter how festive we try to make it

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“An optimist stays up until midnight to see the new year in. A pessimist stays up to make sure the old year leaves.” — William E. Vaughan

I’m what you might call a connoisseur of New Year’s Eve. I’ve spent quiet evenings at home and wild goth nights at Neo in Chicago. I’ve attended fancy shmancy galas at the Cleveland Museum of Art and I’ve walked alone to the corner store for a tin of smoked oysters and a cheap bottle of bubbly because that was all I could afford.

I have a tendency to expect too much from New…

Kathryn Dillon

Life’s a journey. Sometimes a peaceful hike in the woods, sometimes a screaming joyride down a dark highway. I’m on a quest to discover my truth by sharing it.

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