I was chatting this afternoon with a co-worker today about the architecture of a doughnut.

Earlier in the day, I noticed there was a pesky box of leftover, doughy remnants in our agency kitchen area, and it was staring me in the face each time I neared its perch. Half a doughnut here, a crumb of a doughnut there…some were still whole, but they were mostly the weird kind that nobody ever wants — airy and glazed with annoying bits of unattractive glaze that awkwardly stick to your lips after each bite, versus those gloriously dense and substantial hunks of cake with honest-to-God frosting. The former are the kids that always get picked last for the sports teams. It goes to figure that I should feel a close connection with them, but…nope. Cake all the way. After a frustrating call with my credit card company over a hefty charge that I didn’t make, I heard a distinct noise in the office. Was it the A/C? No. The sound of the men’s room plumbing in the walls behind me? Hopefully not.

At first I wasn’t sure, but…yes, it was certainly there. If the sound had a color, it would be a pastel…perhaps something…girly. Yes, the vibrant pink mom n’ pop doughnut box was calling my name.

I tried to give it the finger, but it retaliated by giving me a look of longing when I passed by for the seventh time.

So I might’ve stolen a piece of a blueberry doughnut. And I don’t even like blueberry doughnuts. But credit card company call center employees sometimes get the better of me. And my tastebuds.

The co-worker and I discussed my moment of weakness, then began talking about our favorite dough formation. We both agreed that the glazed old-fashioned is high up on our list, if not the highest — but that needs to be the round option, not the glazed old-fashioned bar.

I break the edges off first, and it turns out she does the same thing. We agreed that there’s something about taking it apart in a methodical manner that amplifies the enjoyment.

Sort of the same way that doing our own thing to the beat of our own percussionist makes the process of any undertaking more enjoyable than if we were to do it someone else’s way, or by someone else’s rules. Diving in head-first gets the job done easily enough, but there’s also a lot to be said for looking left, looking right, picking the route that looks the most pleasing, then picking the next most pleasing route after that. Not measuring ourselves or our progress or our normalcy by the masses, because really – what do they have on originality? Not much.

The lesson learned in going edges first and saving the circle for last is such that we remember to not simply go barreling through life without any regard for the art that surrounds us each day. Don’t take the most direct way into a city, explore the outskirts. Savor them.

Don’t achieve speed for the sake of saying it’s done – enjoy the dissection, enjoy learning the quirks of something. Tonight I am thankful for the lesson of the old-fashioned doughnut. I never thought there’d be anything to learn from a masterpiece of fried dough, but it turns out there are lessons all around us.

Raising the bar.

The wow factor.

There are a lot of ways to say that something has demonstrated or possesses an element that elevates it head and shoulders over something else. And it’s always refreshing to hear a new way of saying something.

I came across a site recently that contained some hysterical warnings about idiotic idioms. All mentions of an orange clog were, of course, missing.

This evening on Iron Chef America, one of Mario Batali’s dishes had such a unique element that someone referred to it as “the orange clog.” If you know Batali, you know his penchant for said footwear. He and that horrendous shoe are synonymous, they are attached at the hip but — for better or for worse — they are, undoubtedly, unique.

The orange clog that one of the judges referenced identified something in that particular course that was Batali-esque. Something that someone else would be hard-pressed to replicate. Something that was a hallmark of his craft, even if that hallmark had never seen the light of day before; its creation and its existence, however, all pointed towards one man, and one man only: Mario.

Tonight I am thankful for the unique personalities that surround us and add a splash of color to an otherwise routine — yet perhaps peaceful — journey that many of us find ourselves living out. While striving to make something a cut above, or ensuring that it has a certain wow factor, maybe we can also remember to bring a uniqueness to it, as well.

Our uniqueness.

Something that says “I was here,” and in such a way that nobody can deny it.

I’m not a fan of taking the trash out at 9:15 at night and stepping into 80-degree weather.

Last week we were lucky enough to get some much needed rain. A few days later, it still felt like fall was in the air. Today, not so much.

This time of the year kills me. It’s like summer is still hanging on, not ready to give way to cooler temperatures. A couple years back, I remember we went from high heat straight into two weeks of solid rain that finally came…in December. Prior to that, we roasted on Halloween and Thanksgiving.

And while we’re (meaning I’m) on the topic of holdiays, if there’s one thing I give two giant thumbs down to, it’s a sunny, warm Christmas. C’mon.

But if there’s one thing that California always teaches me, it’s patience.

Patience when it comes to rush hour traffic.

Patience when driving for two hours to go 30 miles.

Patience when it comes to road-ragers who wreak more havoc than the havoc they’re irritated at in the first place.

Patience when I go from driving in the shade of palms to being blinded by a beautiful sunset.

Patience when it comes to waiting — agonizing, in fact — over when we’ll get the first rain of the season. Inevitably, we do — and its beauty, not surprisingly, is amplified by the wait.

Patience when it comes to waiting for those crisp fall nights and mornings where frost rests on neighboring rooftops — because when dusk and dawn arrive with their chill in hand, we revel in their presence even more. We savor them.

Patience when it comes to waiting for that first, cold weekend where the rain on a Saturday morning both keeps us asleep, then gently wakes us up. Bonus points if it’s chilly enough inside to need an extra blanket on the bed.

Tonight I am thankful for the heat still lurking outside, because I know it tells of days just around the corner that are more mild, more characteristic of the autumn and the holidays to come. I’m not happy that I have to, but there’s nothing left to do but to patiently anticipate our cooler weather. And so I shall wait for it.

I have two plants in my office. They’re those wonderfully air cleaning and nearly indestructible plants called pothos. They’re a beautiful emerald color with splashes of yellow, but one has a far more golden look to its leaves. Since they are both green, I’ve named them Eggs and Ham; Eggs is the one with the majority of the yellow, naturally.

I named them about a month ago (yes, it was a slow day). At first I was pondering giving them normal names, like Hank and Gary. Mavis and Mable. Maybe even Mary Kate and Ashley, being that they can seemingly survive on little more than water.

Then I wondered whether I should embrace their green-ness and lean into things a bit more. Lantern and Hornet? Bax and Day? Tea and Bay?

None of the options really inspired me.

Then, when I saw a tribute online to Theodor Seuss Geisel on the anniversary of his death this last September, it hit me. You can’t really go wrong with Dr. Seuss, so Eggs and Ham were born. Or reborn. Whatever.

There are some authors whose works have an inherent childlike quality about them – a quality that defies the years, and that we can pull from whenever we need a dose of whimsy.

Whimsy, in my opinion, is underappreciated. Quite frankly, I think it should count as a food group, if you will, because it can nourish the spirit in ways that the day-to-day cannot.

The day-to-day drags us down. Whimsy lifts us up.

The day-to-day tells us to level off and fly right. Whimsy encourages aerial acrobatics.

The day-to-day can feel as heavy as an anvil. Whimsy rivals the weight of a feather.

Eggs and Ham have inspired many an odd look when passersby learn of each plant’s moniker, but the odd look is always followed by a smile. Thus, whimsy has been incorporated into the workday, and a little dose never hurt anyone. If anything, it can do wonders for the rest of the afternoon. It does for me.

Today I am thankful for whimsy, for imagination and for those before us who have given their magic. Bestowing it upon my two office pothos may not be what was ever intended, but the magic remains intact, and the stories live on in one of the most unlikely of places.

How delightful.

“Impressive” is a funny word.

It’s a word that can sometimes imply a sense of grandeur, a sense of wealth or a sense of awe.

It can bring to mind monuments of great size, natural wonders that dot the landscape and man-made structures that defy gravity.

It conjures up great moments in sports, death-defying stunts and immense beauty.

It can be used when we’ve underestimated people, when they’ve redeemed themselves or simply when the right thing was done.

Impressive is lesser known for its use regarding everyday acts. Impressive is the person who goes to the job that they hate because they have bills, or a family. Or both.

Impressive is the person who has seen the hurtful side of “love,” then takes one more chance and finds out how true and pure it can be.

Impressive is the person who thinks they can in the face of negativity, or simply despite no positive reinforcement of any kind.

“Impressive” does not take sides, even though we don’t always realize it. Impressive is inclusive of all, can be encouraging to many and can inspire confidence when bestowed upon someone who needs a boost.

What — or who — is impressive to you?

Tonight I am thankful for the little things that add up to greatness, and for the people who inspire on a daily basis without even realizing it. Impressive is all around.

Some nights, after the day has died down and the vast expanse of a clear night sky inspires wonder, I find that I have so many questions about my life.

I want to know about the who, what, where, when, the why and the how.

I wonder about my past and how it has affected my present. I wonder about where I’m going, whether my path will remain fairly straight or throw me a curve, and I wonder about my own mortality.

I wonder about the next five years, the next decade, when I’ll retire and what I’ll do when that day comes. I imagine that I’ll see all the places that I’d like to travel to, but I don’t know when they’ll happen, or which will come first.

Some nights I have so many questions, while other nights the thinking and the curiosity is too much…too draining, full of too many possibilities, too pointless to engage with, because no amount of wondering will make anything more clear. Tonight, for me, is one of these nights.

I want to wonder, but wondering isn’t going to do any good. Doing, however, will. And I often think that if I don’t do more in general — each day, I’ll end up being one of those people who is at the end of the line saying things like I wish I would have, could have, should have.

I feel like I’ve done just enough in my life so far to make me want to continue doing and going and seeing — and for that I am grateful. It’s not a lot, but it’s like that little bit of fuel still left in your tank that allows you to get to the next gas station in the middle of nowhere…just in the nick of time before you run out completely and end up stranded. And then you can go on your way once more.

Tonight I am thankful for the “just enough” that inspires more, and for knowing that wondering can inspire action, or complacency. Here’s to action.

Tonight as I was driving home from Disneyland, I came to an overpass that had a left-turn lane near the top; one car was already sitting in it, waiting at the red arrow.

To the right of that lane were three or four lanes of traffic, all with a green light staring back at us. I was in the first lane to the right of that left-turn lane when I realized that the car ahead of me had suddenly come to a quick stop. His signal was on, and he had created his own left-turn lane next to the other car. My horn got a workout.

The guy either thought he was in a legitimate left-turn lane, or just figured people would go around him and that he’d do whatever he wanted — but I almost hit him. The Happiest Place on Earth was about to become the backdrop for my death.

I was able to quickly go around and avoid other cars that were also dutifully obeying the green light and coming up fast. The driver realized his error — or finally just decided it wasn’t worth being rear-ended while blatantly making up his own lanes — and ended up following the rest of us up the overpass.

I’ve heard it said that most accidents happen within a few miles from your home, because apparently that’s when you’re most comfortable and familiar with the streets; your guard is down. I live three miles from Disneyland, and this almost came true for me tonight. Fortunately (for once) I have a lead foot and had enough distance between me and the pack of cars behind me that, while nerve-wracking to have to jump into someone else’s lane to keep from hitting someone in my own, I am thankful for my dad’s patience so many years ago when he taught me to drive. I am thankful for my fellow motorists who teach me the importance of defensive driving on a near-daily basis, and for my little guardian angel who made sure that — even though I was exhausted from a long day that began at the dealership early this morning — I wasn’t so exhausted that I wouldn’t be able to make it home in one piece.

I ride the protein train for most of the day.
In the morning, I’m a fan of egg whites, sometimes lentils (don’t judge), cottage cheese, yogurt and/or milk. Lunch is chicken along with some sort of wedge a la Laughing Cow, and usually a veggie or two.

I know that my rough patches happen in the late afternoon and evenings, so to stave off hunger and any nausea or light-headedness, I travel with tuna.

I used to go for a bag of baked chips, a co-worker’s chocolate stash or an afternoon coffee beverage, but those liked to wreak havoc on my blood sugar, on my stability. A small can of tuna is able to make things right with the world for at least a few hours, and it’s my trusty little go-to when the going gets rough. All that said, a particular can of tuna has traveled 200 miles this week alone — all without being feasted upon. I packed it on Monday, and denied it later that day. Tuesday it was packed again, but I once again ignored when the hunger pangs visited me. Tuna just wasn’t what I had a hankering for.

Wednesday? Yep — tuna cast aside, once again. In its place I consumed a co-worker’s mini Kit-Kat bar. OK, two. But, I say again, they were mini. But even “mini” adds up when you’re counting your Weight Watchers points.

I didn’t pop the can open on Thursday, and tonight when I arrived home, I took it out of my lunch bag and set it on the counter. I could feel its cold little can scowling at me. The tuna’s disappointment was palpable.

So I fed it to the cat.

Hey, if not me, someone’s going to enjoy it. Or something. Meow.

Tonight I am thankful for knowing my edible rights from wrongs and, even though I didn’t enjoy my little canned, formerly-finned wonder, I am glad the cat did.

Confession: I made a gin and tonic when I got home, and my dinner was a spoonful of frosting. OK, two spoonfuls. And 1/3 of a cup of leftover Spanish Rice-a-Roni.
It’ll never go down as one of my finer meals, and I can’t decide if it would’ve been better or worse to eat at Del Taco [again]. But in terms of pure enjoyment? Through the roof. From Morton’s to mediocre leftovers, I have a fairly broad spectrum when it comes to a collection of vittles that I can enjoy.

Tonight’s alternatives were many. Turkey tacos. Veggie tacos. Chicken, stir-fry, cranberry-almond quinoa or curried lentils with shallots. Most options put my spoonfuls of frosting to shame, but it required no more prep than merely removing the lid — plus was far more entertaining. Paired with a cocktail, the entertainment value skyrockets.

More entertainment came in the form of Chopped on Food Network, and wedding shows that showcase entirely too much food at during cocktail hours that could double as a Vegas buffet. Bleh.

I’ve mentioned it before in this blog, but it feels like a good night to revisit things again: it often depresses me how much food we have in this country and how it’s entertainment for us — when many here in the US go without, not to mention millions more around the world. Don’t get me wrong — my idea of watching a good drama on TV is seeing whether an Iron Chef challenger can deliver five courses in 60 minutes. And my idea of a tear-jerker is a cooking show filled with onions o’plenty.

Entertainment and mountains of food aside — and global haves, have-nots and needs aside, tonight I am thankful for never knowing want when it comes to food. I am thankful that food can not only be nourishment but also a go-to for celebrations and entertainment, a time-filler, a time-waster, something we mark on our calendars, plan shopping lists around and look forward to when the holiday season begins. How fortunate and blessed we all are.

Time is everywhere. Always.

It’s in our conversation when we talk about how it flies. We speak of its motion, and how it marches on. Some of us give young ones a time-out; sometimes we wish we could do the same to some older people. We speak of Father Time, of how we wish we could stop time, and we sing of it when it’s Time to Say Goodbye.

We pass it by being alone, with friends or loved ones, and we pass it at work, at play and while sleeping. Time sees our worries, our joys, our excitement, our depressions, our tears and our anger. It passes whether we are being productive or complacent.

Each morning, I bake a chicken breast for that day’s lunch. I usually have a few minutes of down-time while I wait for the oven to come to temperature, and the other morning I fell into a fixed stare on nothing in particular. My ears picked up the rhythmic tick-tock of the clock on the wall, and it seemed as though the seconds were passing by twice as fast. I thought nothing of it, figured my clock was on the fritz and then the oven beeped. It was ready for my chicken.

I placed the pan cón pollo inside, set a digital timer and realized that the speedy wall clock wasn’t so speedy. It was actual; it was right on. Time was hauling ass, and I was still in my jammies. And for the first time in my life, I felt like the end was just around the corner.

OK, not really. But I was legitimately shocked that I’d apparently never appreciated the speed of time before. And if ever there was a time to, wasn’t it right then and there? Some say better late than never. And even if we don’t know when our last day will be, I’m a big believer that even just one day spent maximizing every second is better than a lackadaisical lifetime. Tonight I am thankful for the passing of time and its reminders — second after second — that it stops for nobody. Certain things, people, consequences and ramifications will always be able to move us to action. But what better to get us in motion than the thing that always is? Here’s to maximizing seconds, minutes and days for as many of them as each of us has left.