Don’t Bail on Beach Party Barbie

This piece was originally written July 12, 2009, just after my daughter’s second birthday.

I just know that if Beach Party Barbie were alive, she wouldn’t be my friend. Even before I took her out of her pink-bedecked box with the plastic window in front, I admit I detested her perfect body, her long, silken blonde hair, her unrealistically shaped body. If you ask me, every woman secretly hates Barbie, at least a little bit. Doesn’t she represent an unattainable goal, born of an era when women were judged by their looks rather than their brains and hearts.

Today, I attempted to make a Barbie cake. I remember seeing these cakes in bakery windows, Barbie’s arms reaching out, as if to greet her adoring fans, as she stood on a paper doily, cloaked in rich buttercream frosting, a strapless gown artfully piped onto her body by the baker’s steady hand. I wanted one so badly, but birthday cakes in my childhood home tended toward the practical rectangle or round variety, decorated with homemade frosting and candles.

For my daughter’s second birthday, I knew I was destined to make her a Barbie cake. But like I said, Barbie and I don’t get along. I think she may have been sneering at me behind those thick, glossy lips of hers. The cake baking was a near disaster, with the batter nearly spilling out over the edge of the cake pans: then, the cakes came out the wrong size, and when I inserted Barbie through the middle of the cakes, her chocolate “skirt” only reached mid-thigh. Then there was the frosting, which I carefully whipped and cooked in my double boiler, meticulously setting my kitchen timer so that my “seven minute frosting” was authentically cooked for seven minutes. I tried to do everything right, but it came out all wrong. As I was globbing on the lumpy frosting, watching it drip sadly down the side of Barbie’s bundt skirt, I had to bite my lip from bursting into tears. My Barbie Princess cake was more like a Barbie-Floating-in-a-Toxic-Cloud-of-Misshaped-Pink-Asbestos cake. This would never do.

I think my husband’s exact words were, “Don’t bail on Barbie!” He knew I was ready to give up. I had given it my best shot, but Barbie won. Her glassy eyes stared at me in a victorious glare, and I knew she had defeated me. Even inside the clump of chocolate mess I had attempted to create, she still looked magnificent, long blonde hair billowing defiantly over my asymmetrical mess of a cake. I started thinking things like, “There’s always next year. Next year, I’ll get a better Barbie.”

My husband can do many things. He knows how to build things, how to fix things, and how to deconstruct and rebuild things. But watching him work magic with pink whipped frosting positively makes my heart go pitter-pat. Like a sculpture, he took Barbie, set her straight, fashioned a bedazzling stage for her out of a cardboard box and some foil, and he made all my Barbie cake dreams come true. And as I watched him, I realized that in some ridiculous way, this Barbie cake represents all my shortcomings, and why, for some unexplicable reason, I was lucky enough to have married the one person in the world who knows just when to step in, smooth out my imperfections and add a few sprinkles on top, just to add sweetness.

My daughter’s birthday cake was not a disaster after all. She loved it. She shouted, “PRETTY!!!” when she saw it. But you and I know that the Barbie cake wasn’t for her; it was for me. I had my childhood dream fulfilled today. I thought I could do it myself, but I needed some help from my very own Prince Charming.

Happy birthday, sweet daughter. Next year’s cake can be just for you.

Putting Down Roots: Not for the Timid

My husband and I both enjoy gardening, but we typically don’t garden at the same time. Our styles and techniques couldn’t be more polar opposite. I’m a timid gardener: I don’t often trust my own intuition about what plants need, and I usually have an uneasy feeling that a neighbor or passerby will see me in the garden and click their tongue at the inept way I’m doing whatever it is I’m doing. The only time I really hit my stride is when attacking a sworn weed-enemy (I’m looking at you, creeping Charlie!). Once I get going, I love removing weeds. Maybe it’s because weeding is a lot like my day job as an editor—there’s something satisfying about taking the excess (words or weeds) and removing their chokehold on the beautiful, colorful bouquet in the center, whether that bouquet is made of flowers or paragraphs.

By comparison, my husband is a confident gardener. When he looks at our garden, he sees a better version of it in his head, then he somehow knows how to make it happen. His laser focus identifies hostas and grasses that have expanded to thick clumps so that he can divide them up into more manageable plant babies. He digs deep beneath the roots, pulls them out, sticks them in a wheelbarrow, then plants them in their new home in a different corner of the garden. 

His physical, visceral attack on the daisies, the brown-eyed Susans, and the coneflowers comes across as almost violent to me. How can you take a shovel, disrupt the earth beneath these delicate flowers, and rip them from their home? How do they tolerate the shock of leaving the cool, damp earth, only to have their roots exposed to the unforgiving sun? Then, after a bumpy wheelbarrow ride, how can they possibly endure having their roots squashed back into a gaping hole before being assaulted by frigid water rushing from the garden hose? I shudder to think of it. I rarely stay to watch. I, the timid gardener, can’t take the spectacle.

Is it much different when we humans pack up our belongings and move to a new home, a new city, a new job? We feel exposed and tender and a little bruised, and there are moments when we may feel the shift is too much to bear. But slowly, gradually, our roots repair themselves and start reaching down deep toward the center of the earth, while simultaneously spreading our arms out, to embrace our new environment. We discover that the corner of the world where we were planted might have been good for a while, but there are so many other beautiful places to establish new roots. We discover we’re hardier than we think: delicate in appearance, but strong and sinewy where it matters.

It never fails. My husband, the violent gardener, knows what he’s doing. He knows that sometimes the most delicate beings are oftentimes the strongest; who are we to underestimate them? Before long, the daisies, the brown-eyed Susans, and the coneflowers are dancing whimsically in the breeze in their new spot. They stand tall, rising to the occasion of being dressed in sweet-smelling mulch contained by crisp, sharp edging. Heads are faced upwards. Faces are open and smiling. Ready to face this new world.

Originally published July 1, 2021 on My Huntley News

I’ve Heard How This Story Ends

Recently, I was listening to an episode of NPR’s “Fresh Air,” in which book reviewer Maureen Corrigan proclaimed a recent book by the British author Kazuo Ishiguro, Klara and the Sun, to be a “masterpiece.” My ears perked up, because I recognized the author’s name: in fact, I had just picked up one of his previous books and was about four chapters deep.

Without warning, the reviewer compared the new novel to a previous work by the same author—the very book that I had on my nightstand! And then, without warning, the reviewer blurted out a spoiler!

Nooooooooooo.

I mean, the novel, Never Let Me Go, was written in 2005, so maybe it’s my own fault for taking so long to read it.

But.

My initial instinct was to throw up my hands: what was the use? Now I knew the mystery that I had been trying to figure out throughout the first four chapters. I would have to abandon the book. The ending was ruined.

But the more I thought about it, the more curious I became: I already knew what happened at the beginning of the story. Now I knew something about the ending, too. But how did the story get from point A to point B? What happened in the middle?

Nicholas Christenfeld, a psychology professor from University of California San Diego researched this very phenomenon: If people read a story, but the ending was “accidentally” revealed to them, they actually enjoyed the story more. So in a way, spoilers don’t ruin the story; they actually enhance them. Christenfeld likened it to driving on the scenic Highway 1 along the coast of California: if you’re already familiar with the road and know what it feels like to drive it, you will actually be able to appreciate the scenery more. I can say that about certain famous paintings like Van Gogh’s “A Starry Night,” or Monet’s Water Lily paintings, too: each time I see them, my familiarity grows; I seem to notice more details each time I look at them.

That night, I picked up Ishiguro’s book again. I read and read and read until my eyes grew heavy and I began dozing off. When I awoke the next morning, I voraciously read more chapters before I even had my coffee. 

Now I am working toward the end, the dangling carrot the book reviewer had so tantalizingly set before me. I can’t wait to unravel the story.

Photo by Zetong Li on Unsplash

Originally published April 5, 2021 on MyHuntleyNews.

Hunkering Down

Matthew Henry – Unsplash

Years ago, toward the end of each one of my pregnancies, I’d get the strong, uncontrollable urge to “nest”: I’d clean drawers, bake casseroles to keep in the freezer, wash bedding, fold blankets. Despite my bulging belly and aching back, it was an instinct to do these things. I don’t think I could’ve stopped if I tried. Something deep in my DNA was demanding that I prepare, as if my brain and my body comprehended on a cellular level how I could get ready now to help out my future self, who would be both exhausted and lovestruck with a new precious baby. These things had to happen before I headed to the hospital. Now.

This week I decided to make bone broth—chop up onion, carrot, and celery, and garlic, then boil the bones until all the flavor and marrow are extracted. Out of my stockpot came a rich, golden liquid, which I then poured into jars. I’m not sure if it was the dreamy smell or the way the afternoon sunlight made those jars glow a warm amber color, but I felt that same nesting instinct I’d felt all those years ago before the babies were born. At that moment, I felt like I was born to make bone broth. I decided right there and then that I would make more bone broth with the ardent fervor of a Prohibition-era bootlegger. I can’t help but wonder: what is the street value of bone broth sold out of the trunk of my car?

This instinct to hunker down and nest makes perfect sense. As the pandemic still rages across the country, we are being told to stay home. We are asked to forego our usual family gatherings at the holidays to curb further spread of the virus. I’m approaching the coming months with trepidation. Our traditions may have to be put on pause this year; or at least adapted.

I’m going to require a plan heading into these next few months. I need new ways to keep my spirits up and make these dark, cold months feel warm and special. But other than bone broth, I don’t have further tricks up my sleeve. I decided to ask my friends how they were preparing for this season of “hunkering down.”

The responses I got were wonderful.

Kendra has already washed her flannel sheets, and moved her cold-weather clothes to the top drawers where they are easier to reach.

Jennifer is planning outdoor adventures like visiting a tree farm and taking in light shows at the arboretum and the zoo. She’s also treated herself to some new festive pillows to create a cozy “hot cocoa zone” on her front porch.

Dulce’s family is getting matching raccoon onesies to wear, a lighthearted tradition that can continue this year, since it’s all about staying home and being cozy.

Catherine and her friends are ordering takeout food so they can all enjoy the same meal remotely. Karen is finding “Escape Rooms in a Box” that can be done at home in place of their traditional family Escape Room activity.

A few friends are using the extra time they’ll have to better themselves. Jayne and Terri are both learning Spanish. Heidi is going to focus on her mental health with medication, therapy, and joyful movement.

Ellen already has a fragrant rosemary bush at her place, decorated with tiny lights and decorations. She says it will get her through the tough days.

Liz says she’ll miss being with extended family, but she won’t miss “having to peel and mash ten pounds of potatoes.”

Terri is reminiscing about her late mother-in-law and she upcycles costume jewelry into family keepsake ornaments. Liz is sorting and organizing old pictures. When she texts a photo to a relative, they swap stories and memories, proving to be a good way to stay connected remotely.

These ideas from my dear friends give me hope. Sure, 2020 isn’t the year we bargained for, but we can prepare, get a few tricks up our sleeve to make even this season a joyful one to remember. We need light, warmth, coziness, shared memories, and definitely some fun and laughter.

Hunker down, folks. Stay cozy. Make some new memories.

Originally published November 24 on MyHuntleyNews.com

IKEA Builds Character

Photo by Alexander Isreb from Pexels

The Swedish store Ikea might be known for its assemble-your-own furniture, but in my house, each project turns into what could only be classified as “Assemble-Your-Own Rollercoaster of Emotions.”

Since our family downsized to a modest 2-bedroom home five years ago, Ikea and its compact line of furniture with a minimalist mindset has been a crucial ingredient in our ongoing quest to live life in a smaller space. I have to admit that I love the way Ikea items come in compact boxes with just a booklet of illustrated instructions, an Allen wrench, and a variety of bolts, brackets, and pegs. Such a vote of confidence! It’s as if to say, We believe in you. We know you can build this!

Until recently, our four children haven’t had the luxury of their own room. But now that our oldest two are adults living in their own apartments, our two youngest, ages 13 and 16, are gleefully spreading out, one claiming a small but sunny bedroom on the main floor, the other setting up an impressive “man cave” down in our partially finished basement.

Reese is 16. His basement man cave consists of a favorite Van Gogh print, a record player for his impressive vinyl collection, a bean bag chair, and a video game system. All it lacked, it seemed, was a bed. He’d graduated from the bunk bed that served him well until a growth spurt catapulted him into the stratosphere. It was time for a real bed, replete with built-in drawers and shelves.

This was a job for IKEA — and Reese, who would have to assemble his own bed.

My son started the task with a certain expression of excitement, hope, and determination on his face. He tore into the boxes, quickly opened the instruction booklet, and set to work.

“Do you need any help?” I asked.

“No Mom, I’ve got this,” said Reese. “This is my challenge for the day.”

Two hours later: “Need any help?”

“Nope! This is going to take longer than I thought, but I’m fine!”

By lunch time, I hadn’t seen him emerge from the man cave. From the top of the stairs, I could hear muffled muttering. I tiptoed down the stairs. Did I just hear a curse word?? I wasn’t going to press the issue. I recognized the flush of frustration in my son’s face as his eyes darted back and forth between the partially assembled bed, the instructions, then back to the bed. His shoulders sagged.

“Why is this side a whole inch lower than the other side?” he asked me. The bed was unmistakably lopsided. We spent a few minutes comparing the structure to the line drawings in the booklet. We located an upside-down piece. Crisis averted. Sighing deeply, my son took up the Allen wrench and set to the task of disassembling a few pieces in order to fix the errant board. I decided to back away slowly. A few minutes later, I brought him some lunch and a cold drink. He was going to need nourishment for the afternoon ahead.

Thirty minutes later: “How’s it going?”

“Better, Mom! Thanks for lunch. I’m not going to let this bed win. I know I can do this!”

The afternoon progressed with occasional scuffling and banging noises coming from the man cave. On a bright note, I didn’t hear any more muttering or cursing.

This is the genius of Ikea. A humble item of furniture becomes so much more — it is transformed into an object of prey: Something that must be chased, wrangled, and dominated. My son went into the arena armed only with an Allen wrench and a firmly set jaw. He came out beaten, battered … but victorious.

Later that evening, I visited Reese in his man cave. He was surrounded by the trappings of his very own kingdom: the vinyl collection, the video games, and the beanbag chair. But there, as he proudly displayed the completely assembled bed, he looked different to me. His eyes were brighter, his shoulders broader. There was a swagger that hadn’t been there before.

He had assembled the rollercoaster of emotions, clung tightly during the twists and turns — and came out triumphant.

Originally published Aug. 20, 2020 on MyHuntleyNews.com

When you don’t have time for a break

Tips for Taking 10-Minute Mini Vacations

I saw a meme this week about making this a “No”vember—saying no to too much, therefore saying no to stress and overwhelm. Buying our small house was our way of saying “no” to a crippling mortgage bill, and our family has said “no” to overconsumption and keeping up with the Joneses. But, the idea of an actual “No” vember just doesn’t seem possible. The rhythm of our life as a Library Marketer, a High School Band Director, two active kids living at home and two more active adult children living nearby means that November is filled with play rehearsals, band rehearsals, performance after performance, on top of all our regular events and commitments. I mean, these are all things we enjoy doing. It’s just … there’s so much of it all at once.

And I’m just talking about November. I’m not letting myself think about December yet.

I figure this is as good a time as any to remind myself, and you, my dear readers, that it’s these times when you don’t have time to take a break that it’s most important to take a break!

Sure, you want to pack your bags and hop on the nearest plane and leave everything behind. But that’s going to have to wait until later, when things calm down. Right now, break your “vacation” into chunks. Ten minute chunks. You have ten minutes, don’t you?


1. Soak your feet
I have a bag of scented epsom salts in my linen closet. Use a clean tub big enough to fit both your feet and make the water as hot as you can stand it. The steam, combined with the luxurious warmth, plus the aroma of the scent (my favorite is peppermint, but lavender is lovely, too) can take your mind away from it all for a few moments. Don’t forget to have a fluffy towel and some lotion nearby!

2. Make a cup of tea
And don’t use just any cup, either. Put the tea in a proper china cup, or use your favorite mug. It should be pretty to look at and feel good in your hands. Hold the cup with both hands. Breathe deeply and sip slowly!

3. Do ONE THING, start to finish
This is something I struggle with—multitasking! I usually have something in the oven, a load in the washer, the vacuum out, and I’m trying to do everything at the same time. If I’m on my laptop, I routinely have 20 tabs open. Shake it up: pick ONE THING, then do it. Start it, then finish it, all in one sitting. I’m always surprised at how accomplished I feel when I do this, instead of my normal routine of starting 50 projects and finishing none of them.

4. Make a list. Use a good pen.
Do you love lists? I do! I make at least one every day. (I probably love them too much.) I’ve found making shorter lists get better results. Think about (maybe while you sip your tea?) three things that are a priority today. Write them down. Oh, and always use a good pen. I love gel pens, or Sharpie pens. I love my fountain pen the most, but not for lists. The fountain pen is for writing letters.

5. Write a letter
Or a note, or just a postcard. It feels good to let someone else know you’re thinking of them. It doesn’t even have to be their birthday.

6. Go for a walk
My dog makes sure I stick to this routine, but of course, you can take a walk alone, too. Skip the earbuds and listen to the sounds in your neighborhood. Take deep breaths, too. When I’m at work, I try at least once a day to walk through the building to hand deliver something or ask someone a question in person instead of sending an email. Gets the blood flowing, and gets you in touch with your surroundings!

7. Set a timer and take a cat nap
I admit, sometimes my catnaps turn into mega-naps. Because, well, naps. I live for them! But even just putting your feet up, laying back and closing your eyes for 10 minutes can recharge you. Don’t use the time to worry or plan or check email. Just be. And if you find that hard to do, play some soothing music to keep your mind focused.

How do you treat yourself to a mini-vacation? Share in the comments!

We bought a little camper

“Money can’t buy happiness, but it can buy a camper,
which is kind of the same thing.”

Unknown

The fun started when we rented an RV for our family vacation this past summer: a 32-foot monstrosity with room enough for 8 to sleep. It was a bucket-list item that we wanted to try: load up the whole tribe, traverse the Midwest, and end up at Yellowstone National Park in Wyoming. For a week, we were all together with our four kids, ranging from age 12 to 23, plus our son’s girlfriend, seeing the sights, watching Old Faithful erupt, searching the scenery for bears, elk, and moose (our efforts were rewarded on all counts). There was so much laughter and singing. We hiked and climbed, oohed and aahed. Books and playlists were shared. There were so. many. chess games. It’s a trip we’ll remember for a long time.

We’ve done a lot of tent camping over the years. Taking babies and toddlers and young children to a campground is work, but it’s also magical. The outdoors is the perfect playground for kids. But as my husband likes to say, “As time goes on, the ground gets harder.” Our rented RV opened our eyes to the convenience of having a little place to come in from out of the rain, while not missing out on the campfires and simplicity of camping.

Here’s a photo of Mr. Band Director at the wheel of the rented RV. It’s a 32-foot monstrosity and he handled it like a pro!

Soon after returning from Yellowstone, we bought a camping trailer. Our little teardrop is more compact, more suited for weekend getaways. It sleeps 3.

Our “new-to-us” little camper!

Check out this photo of us on our maiden voyage. Next to us is our friend’s car. She slept in a specially fitted tent for her Prius, called a Habitent. It’s pretty awesome. It transformed her little car into a wilderness getaway. Plus, she added twinkly lights which gets my full approval.

So, I stand by the fact that the happiest times of my life are spent in small spaces: my small house (a.k.a. the Cozy Cottage); a college dorm room; cabins in Michigan; bedtime stories in my kids’ treehouse. We don’t need a lot of space to feel happy and peaceful: in fact, it’s my experience is that the smaller the space, the more expansive the joy.

I’m looking forward to big adventures in the beautiful world in our little house on wheels!

Worst Case Scenarios

Photo by rawpixel.com on Pexels.com

My hidden superpower is coming up with worst case scenarios. For any given situation, I’m pretty adept at imagining the most catastrophic outcome. Thousands of times a day in my mind’s eye, I see myself tripping, or having something dropped on me; getting into a car accident; being mugged; ending up with a black eye or broken limb; being publicly humiliated. (Funny, but the time I actually did fall on my face, I wasn’t thinking about a worst cast scenario at all–I was just walking my dog.)

This morning, my son, who is headed to college in a few weeks, needed to go to the campus to get a correction made on some paperwork. It required him to bring in his social security card and his drivers license. We agreed on a wake-up time, I checked how traffic would look that time of morning, and we went to sleep. Even in sleep, my mind took over and provided me with a horrifying alternative outcome:

My Dream:

We wake up to realize we overslept. Then we see that it’s snowing. My car won’t start, so we just barely catch a rickety bus out of town. The bus driver, running behind schedule, speeds up to make up for time, and the bus nearly tips over going around a curve in the slushy snow. Finally, we trudge our way to the college admissions office only to discover my son forgot his social security card at home. We catch the rickety/scary bus back home, retrieve the SS card, and just as we’re about to leave, our dog escapes. Wait–actually it’s two dogs, one I’ve ever seen before. (Have I forgotten that we’re petsitting?) Now it’s raining. We have to round up the two wet dogs and clean them up. Once that’s done, we remember our original mission: the paperwork! This time, thankfully, my car starts. Just as the sun is setting, we get to the admissions office and successfully finish our errand. *whew*

Reality:

  • We wake up. On time.
  • The sun is out. My son plays some Beatles’ tunes and we sing in the car.
  • The woman working at the admissions desk is friendly, warm, and helpful.
  • My son borrows a pen to fill out a form.
  • We get the paperwork corrected.
  • Done by 9:30 a.m.

The scenarios in my head rarely turn out to be anything like reality. I don’t know why my brain does that. I’m having a delightfully non-eventful day today. I’ve hung out some laundry to dry in the sun, I made a nice lunch with my daughter, and now I’m writing in my favorite spot with a cold drink beside me. I’m going to take a break from worst case scenarios for a little while–at least, as long as I’m awake. I hope you do the same.

xoxo,
Carol

Pie is our Family Crest

My sister made me this Michigan Blueberry pie … with our Great-Aunt Anna’s piecrust recipe, of course.

The story is legend in my family: My oldest son, Clark, was a teenager when I entered the kitchen and found him, mid-bite, eating a piece of the pie I had just finished making. The realization came over me slowly as I took in the scene: his fork slid slowly out of his mouth while he looked over and locked eyes with mine. Although his eyes remained fixed sideways on me, his body remained forward, leaning over the pie plate where his left arm was positioned like a protective sentinel against like-minded key lime enthusiasts. Looking down, I saw that this wasn’t his first bite.

“I accidentally ate half the pie, Mom.”

Actually, it sounded more like, “I akthidentally athe half thuh pie, Mom.” (His mouth was still full, after all.)

He didn’t necessarily mean it apologetically; he stated this as mere fact, offered up as a logical explanation for the scene before me.

It remains a question in our family to this day: Can one eat half a pie, accidentally?

If I had to choose a family crest–symbols to represent our family’s interest and priorities–there would be music notes. Probably books or a pen. And most definitely pie.

When I got married, my sister gave me a handful of recipe cards written in her confident handwriting. She’d married more than a decade earlier, so I trusted her to vet all the best recipes. Among them was “Tanta Anna’s No-Roll Pie Crust.” It remains today to be the only pie crust I’ve ever made. I may never venture into the world of pie crusts shaped with wooden rolling pins. Tanta Anna (my great-aunt), and her hand-shaped pie crusts have sustained me and my family for decades, long after she’s left this earth.

Birthday pies have replaced birthday cakes in our house. When I went on a no-sugar diet for several weeks, I just switched over to making pie crusts for quiche. With my very hungry husband and four hungry children, there have been countless pies I’ve baked that I never got a crumb of. These days, with two teenage boys plus a tween with bottomless stomachs, I abide by a two-pie rule. If you’re gonna make one, you might as well make a second so everyone can have some.

Tanta Anna’s pie crust recipe is still in my recipe box, on the same card hand-written by my sister. The card is stained and warped with years of use. Now, it rarely needs to come out: I’ve memorized the recipe. It’s become part of my DNA. Making a pie crust is a repetitive, meditative motion that has become ingrained in my mom muscle memory. Crimping the edge of the dough is like rocking a baby, or grabbing a child’s hand before crossing the street.

I can’t be mad if my kid “accidentally” eats half of a pie I baked. It’s all part of the circle of life. It’s a badge of honor, a return hug. It’s the wordless equivalent of saying, “Thanks, Mom.”

I mean, “Thankth, Mom.”

Do you Hygge?

The book I’ve been reading this week: The Little Book of Hygge: Danish Secrets to Happy Living by Meik Wiking. The strange-looking word (pronounced HOO-ga) is the idea of coziness: a Hygge kit would contain such things as a candle, a book, and a steaming cup of tea or hot cocoa. Hygge could be described as that feeling of gathering around a table of comfort foods with friends you’ve known for decades: all the pretenses have gone, and you can all sit together in pleasant conversation or complete silence and feel completely at ease.

Since reading the book, I’ve gone Hygge crazy. I’ve purchased a ridiculous amount of candles. The cocoa is flowing freely. I’m trying to set the table with a little more care, adding a tablecloth and some soothing music in the background. I find Hygge to be the next obvious development in my quest for minimalism.

Our cozy little house is perfectly adapted for Hygge, but our family’s schedule is not. We are on the run most days from morning until night. Making room in my life for Hygge-fication is my new religion. If I can find one unnecessary task to forego so I can accommodate a few moments of peace with a hot beverage staring out the window and taking in the sights and sounds of the world around me, then all the better.

Denmark, home of Hygge, consistently ranks as one of the happiest nations in the world. But why should that be? I mean, there are plenty of fuzzy sweaters, teapots, books, handknit blankets, and soft cushions to go around for everyone. Hygge is a choice. A commitment. A mantra.

Take a moment for Hygge-fication this week. Better yet, share the moment with a friend or loved one. Inflict a little Hygge on them, and spread a little happiness.