Finding My Happy Place

By Ava Hope

If I had to sum up Friendship in one word, it would be Comfort.
~Terri Guillemets

I can hear the door slamming and curse words being yelled. I feel alone in my room with my pillow over my head. With tears running down my face, I swallow my sadness and try to find my happy place. But where is my happy place? It is hard being a teenager, but it is even more difficult being a teenager with a father who's an alcoholic.

Being in a position like mine, you have to find ways to cope with situations like this. I sometimes try talking to people who care. Andria has been my best friend since I was four. Now I'm fifteen, and I can't believe we've been friends for eleven years. There is one downside to talking to Andria. She lives 216 miles away. Somehow we manage to stay close. In fact, her move brought us closer than ever. When I talk to her about my dad, I just want to cry because I wish she could be there sitting next to me while I hide in the room from everything... my dad, the alcohol, my life.

The recent years have been especially rough. My dad is always drunk, arguing with everyone, blaming everyone else for his problems. Someone who was close to me passed away recently, and, of course, Andria moved away, making everything harder. Some days I wake up crying. I had to be taken out of class one day because I was crying too hard. None of my friends have an alcoholic parent, so when I attempt to vent, they don't respond as I wish they would. They don't understand; they don't know what I'm feeling.

I began to see a counselor. It helped me feel better and more confident for a while but then I began to feel like I didn't need that anymore, I needed something different. I needed to talk to someone who understood me, someone else just like me -- someone who also has an alcoholic parent. So my mom showed me something called Alateen. Alateen is for teenagers whose lives have been affected by someone else's drinking. When I go to Alateen meetings I don't feel lonely anymore. When I sit in that room with all those other kids, I know that I can be open with my feelings and I feel safe because I can trust them all. It is easier to talk to someone when they have been in your position at some point and time in their life. Alateen may be my happy place.

Sometimes I cope with my anger, frustration, and loneliness by writing. I like to write songs -- not too many people know that about me. I didn't even tell Andria. I also like to listen to music. It distracts me, just lets me listen to the beat and stop focusing on all my stress.

If you have an alcoholic parent, I'm sure you would sympathize with a lot of my experiences and feelings. It's really frustrating. I know that I cannot do anything about it. It is my dad's choice and he is the only one who can change it. All I can do is pray that my dad gets help, because if he doesn't he will lose his family. He will lose us. Family comes first... not alcohol.

I have realized that my happy place can be anywhere I want it to be. All I need is to be confident and positive. I will stand up for myself and my family, and I will learn from my dad's mistakes. I will not let alcohol take over my life and I will live life to the fullest. I know that there will be rough days, but all I can do is remind myself to take one day at a time.

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Summer Faith

By Tina Wagner Mattern

It was one of those dreary, cold rainy days in February that Portland, Oregon is famous for, and my mood was as miserable as the weather. Some people like rain. I am not one of those people. I had already gotten drenched once that day; taking my three-year-old daughter Summer to her Christian preschool, so the last thing I wanted to do was to go out in it again. But it was two o'clock and she needed to be picked up by two-thirty.

The traffic was terrible. When I finally pulled into the school parking lot, it was quarter to three. I knew Summer's teacher was not going to be happy.

I parked the car, pulled my coat collar tight and buttoned it, then reached for my umbrella, which wasn't under the front seat where it should have been. Someone (it couldn't have been me, of course) had left it in the garage that morning. I muttered a couple of words that likely made my Guardian Angel cringe, and hurried through the lake forming on the concrete.

Inside, Teacher Jennifer lifted an eyebrow at me, obviously annoyed with my tardiness, and pointed down the hallway. Summer was bent over a table, working to finish a painting.

"Hi Mommy," she chirped.

"Come on, honey," I called. "We're late. Teacher Jennifer wants to go home."

She held up her artwork. "Look! I drawed it for you!"

I took the paper and squinted impatiently at it. "Uh-huh. Good." I nodded and handed her coat to her. She put the picture down and folded her arms.

She wasn't going anywhere until I apologized. And it better be believable.

"It's wonderful!" I gushed. "Best one you ever did!"

She finally nodded and obediently held out her arms for her jacket. Outside, the rain was now a freezing, nearly sideways sheet. Both of us were soaked by the time we got to the car.

"It's wainin," Summer observed from her car seat behind me.

"No kidding," I said, drying my dripping hair with a handful of Kleenex before starting the car. I was just pulling out when Summer yelled, "Wait! We gotta go back!"

I slammed on the brakes and turned around. "What are you talking about? Go back outside? Why?"

"My Care Bears mitten," she cried, waving a lonely right-hand Care Bear at me. "My mitten's gone. I musta leaved it in school."

"Oh for heavens... Wait a minute," I muttered, backing the car to the curb. Parking, I turned around to lean over the seat and undo her seatbelt. "Okay, look in your pockets."

"I did!" she wailed. "It's not there!" She turned both pockets inside out to demonstrate their mittenless-ness to me.

"Get up," I sighed. "Maybe you're sitting on it." She climbed out. No mitten. We checked around and under the seat and on the floorboards. No mitten.

"See!" Summer cried. "We haffa go back!"

"No! Maybe it's outside, next to the curb." I opened the door and stuck my head out. Niagara Falls poured over what was left of my hairstyle. No mitten.

"That's it!" I pronounced with finality. "You have three pairs of mittens at home, for crying out loud. Now, get back in your seat so I can buckle you in."

"I want my bestest Care Bear mitten!"

"Well, I want a week in Jamaica."

Thinking on that kept her quiet for a moment or two, allowing me to get the car headed for home.

But five minutes later, "I want my mitten!"

Looking at her distressed face in the rearview mirror, I said, "You've made that perfectly clear. Now give it a rest. Please."

Eyes narrowed, frown lines deep, she muttered something threatening under her breath.

"What did you say?"

"I say," she pouted, "I ask Jesus. Jesus will get me my mitten."

Rolling my eyes, I said, "Jesus is NOT going to get you your mitten. He's busy with more important things."

"He will too," she stated firmly.

Once we finally got home and parked in the garage, we went into the house. I told Summer, "I've got a lot to do before I get dinner ready. Go play in your room, honey."

I hung up our coats in the laundry room and headed to the kitchen to deal with the dishes in the sink when I remembered the mail had to be brought in -- from outside -- in the rain. Groaning, I put my coat back on and stomped down the hallway to the front door. Summer followed on my heels.

Opening the door, I looked hopefully up through the rain for any sign of blue sky. A clap of thunder echoed in the distance. "Oh hush up!" I muttered, and prepared to sprint to the mailbox.

Before I could take a step though, Summer squealed.

"What now?" I groaned, spinning around.

"I tode you!"

"Tode me what?"

She pointed out the door, grinning.

I turned, and following her finger with my eyes, looked down at the doorstep.

There, on the welcome mat, was a Care Bear mitten. A left-handed Care Bear mitten.

I blinked in disbelief, my mind scrambling to make sense of what I was seeing.

What? How? My common sense tried to reason that she must have dropped it on her way out this morning. But no, we hadn't been anywhere near the front porch. We'd gone out through the garage. In fact, she and I had not been out the front door in more than a week.

Stunned, I turned to look into Summer's shining face.

"I tode you Jesus would get it for me!" she beamed.

Gathering her into my arms, I whispered, "Yes, you did, little girl. You really did."

Holding her tightly, I was overwhelmed with awe at our God who would perform such a miracle for a little child, simply because she stood steadfast in her faith.

After a minute, Summer pulled away to say, "Thank you, Jesus!" Then she picked up her mitten and skipped off to her room.

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I looked up to heaven and whispered, "Amen to that, Lord."

The Rescue

By Jami Perona

Chains do not hold a marriage together. It is threads, hundreds of tiny threads which sew people together through the years.
~Simone Signoret

It had been one of those days. My three-month-old son, Tate, had not napped all day and now lay with his head on my shoulder, sobbing. Laundry waited by the washing machine, oatmeal was hardening in the breakfast bowls, and dirty diapers were emitting a smell from the trashcan. I surveyed my chaotic little world. Exhaustion washed over me, leaving me lightheaded. When would this day end?

For the last couple of weeks, I had managed to have the house cleaned and dinner well under way when my husband Jim got home from work at the end of the day. He worked all day and I got to stay home with the baby. It seemed like a fair trade. Jim had been very impressed, which made me very happy with myself.

This week, however, Tate was not his normal, happy self. He was getting his first tooth. Nothing seemed to relieve his pain for long.

Now Jim was on his way home during his short lunch break. I heated leftovers while holding my whining little guy. As Jim came in he surveyed the mess in the kitchen. "Not a good day?" When he turned to me he didn't need an answer. He could see I was still in the sweats I had slept in. When Tate let out an earsplitting cry, Jim picked him up. "I've got him. Take a break." I ran upstairs and cleaned up, got dressed, and did the minimum of my make-up routine so I felt more human.

Later that afternoon I managed to start the laundry and do some cleaning but then Tate started screaming again. Dinner would not be ready.

When Jim walked in, he took Tate from my arms, gave me a smile and threw his son playfully in the air. Tate squealed with delight. "Why don't you go up and take a break? Tate and I can handle things down here." He shooed me upstairs, telling me not to worry about anything. Lying on the bed, I briefly wondered what he was up to, but only for a minute. The next minute I was fast asleep.

I awoke two hours later. Jumping out of bed I ran downstairs. "Shhhhh." Jim pointed to Tate who was asleep. I walked into the kitchen and found that the love of my life had made one of my favorite meals. Coming from Italian roots, my husband knew how to create a very delicious spaghetti sauce. Before we met I had never been a huge spaghetti fan. But the combination of spices my husband used to make his sauce from scratch had me hooked from that first romantic meal he had made for me. It was all arranged -- the meal, the light smell of vanilla candles, the soft music in the background. The oven even boasted dessert yet to come. Peeking in, I realized my husband had somehow made a trip to Applebee's and bought my favorite dessert ever -- a Maple Butter Blondie.

"I thought you needed a night off." My husband smiled as he came into the kitchen. "You have been doing way too much around here. I can see you need a break." He escorted me to my seat and served me. We ate the savory spaghetti, tossed garden salad, mouthwatering, buttery garlic bread and enjoyed each other's company. As he served the blondie we grinned at each other. We shared it on one plate with two forks clinking together. And when Tate let out a loud cry from his crib upstairs, Jim said, "You stay right there. This will only take a moment and we will finish the rest of dessert."

The rest of the night consisted of foot rubs, long talks, and romance. Even to this day when we have spaghetti or blondies from Applebee's we always feel a little more romantic. My now six-year-old son knows when we have this meal we will act a little more "smooshy," as Tate puts it. And it always reminds me I am blessed to have such a thoughtful man who can turn a bad day into delicious perfection.

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Withstanding Winter's Woes

By Terri Elders

Don't worry about a thing, cause every little thing gonna be all right.
~Bob Marley

Though I've always seen myself as a "glass half full" person, this winter I've nearly changed my mind. I'm sad to say that I've temporarily set aside positive thinking, forgotten how to make an affirmation or a wish upon a star... and have even rubbed a cynical thumb across my unicorn key chain, which I usually stroke like a good luck charm.

Give me a crisis, and I can cope. But give me an avalanche of crises, and I get too smothered to function. For instance, this winter my son survived three rounds of layoffs at the metropolitan newspaper where he's a copy chief, but a fourth round is pending, and things look bleak. My husband, diagnosed with end-stage renal failure, held up well throughout the holidays, but his remaining energy seems to be dwindling more rapidly than either of us ever anticipated. And my own good health has suffered a series of small setbacks, colds and coughs that I can't shake, accompanied by vague aches and pains that interfere with solid sleep and managing housekeeping chores.

I just feel stuck. Spring can't come too soon, but even Punxsutawney Phil saw his shadow on Groundhog Day, guaranteeing six more weeks of gloom.

So when I look out my kitchen window this morning, and spy Chico, a black ball of fluff silhouetted against the gray sky and snow-covered pastures, I am astonished. Once again she is perched on top of the birdhouse, scanning the sky.

Now, let me set the scene a little more clearly. It's early February here in Northeast Washington... which my California friends allude to as Southern Alaska. We've crept above freezing exactly three days this winter. There's still a two-foot chunk of ice on my roof. And I can't recall seeing a bird other than a wild turkey anywhere near the yard since last November.

But if Chico expects a tasty snack to fly down to her, maybe one will. I've learned a lot about Chico and her expectations. She's the only cat I've ever known who dedicates herself to the principles of the Law of Attraction. This means that if you believe good things are going to happen to you, then they simply will. And for Chico, they often do.

Chico, and her siblings, Groucho and Harpo, were a freebie litter at The Flour Mill, an animal equipment and supply store in town. I had gone to the shop looking for a kitten, but couldn't settle on just one. I leaned towards Groucho, the tuxedo cat, and then towards Harpo, the marmalade. Chico, wholly black with emerald eyes, just sat and stared at me as if I'd be crazy to leave her behind.

Billed by the Mill as "barn cats," the trio belied that tag, taking to our house, particularly to the quilt on our bed, like babes to toyland. But from the onset, Chico demonstrated her difference from her siblings, her independence and daring. While the others hop into my lap, seeking affection, Chico prefers to curl up to Natty, our shaggy Great Pyrenees mix. The others rarely venture out in winter. Chico races the dogs to the door. Always up for adventure, hunting mice and birds is her obsession.

This afternoon I glance out the kitchen window again. Chico's back atop the birdhouse, but this time she's no longer alone in the yard. Dozens of English sparrows cavort in the adjacent tree, nibbling on the seeds. Chico watches them closely, swatting out a lazy paw whenever one flies near. She nearly loses her balance once or twice, but always digs her claws into the birdhouse roof just in time.

A little later she hops up on the windowsill outside our dining room window and yowls for my attention. Apparently today was not the best of hunting days because when I let her in she heads for the bathroom where she settles for a tamer meal of kitty kibble from her lavender dish.

I return to my computer and check my e-mail... at least there's no bad news from my son. I hear my husband upstairs and it sounds as if he's getting up to come down for an afternoon visit, still well enough to manage the stairs. The ache in my hip has subsided enough that I think I'm up to mopping the kitchen and hallway.


Chico ambles in and nudges Natty, licking her whiskers, satisfied and content.

Her message gets through to me. Maybe good things don't have to happen every day. Maybe it's enough just to be content simply because bad things didn't happen either.

And then I remember. Sometimes lowering your expectations is a part of the Law of Attraction. It doesn't always have to be great expectations. Like Chico, I simply could expect something that is readily available.

Hmmm. Birds in the trees once again. Spring can't be too far off. I manage a smile and go upstairs to greet my husband, trailed by Chico. Even though it's afternoon, I greet him, singing the verse from Bob Marley's "Three Little Birds" -- "Rise up this mornin', smiled with the risin' sun."

My husband sits on the edge of the bed, smiling back. Chico jumps up next to him, waiting for a pat. She gets it.

So do I.

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Learning How to Love

By Julia Valentine

Let no one who loves be unhappy... even love unreturned has its rainbow.
~James Matthew Barrie

At age sixteen it is hard to see past your first love. It can be all consuming, it can be great, and it can also turn out to be the worst heartbreak you have ever experienced.

His name was Evan, and he was a friend first. His sister was my best friend all through elementary school, and I always thought that her brother was the coolest guy. They lived just down the hill from me. Sure, Evan would tease us, but when he invited us to hang out with him and his friends we really felt like we were part of the cool kids. His basement, where we would all hang out, had dirty carpet and posters of rock and reggae musicians. Everyone wanted to be around him -- he just had this personality that drew people to him. Everyone wanted to be his friend because he was so smart and always had something interesting or funny to say. He knew everything from dumb movie quotes to philosophy.

He told me that he had never had a girlfriend before, although he was very popular. He just didn't think that girls liked him. But he was so wrong. He was the most attractive person in the world to me. I felt like his personality and mine went so well together. I knew already that I was in love.

We were all hanging out in his basement one night when he took me aside and told me that he had feelings for me. I was ecstatic, and after that we were inseparable. Since it was summer, we spent every moment together for three months. We had so much fun, having sleepover parties with his sister, watching The History Channel, and just talking and laughing all night. Whenever I looked at him I would get this feeling... I knew this wasn't just puppy love. It was real love, and he was my first.

When we finally said that we loved each other, I took it to heart. Then school started back up and our relationship changed. We didn't get to see each other as much, and it killed me. For him, seeing all his friends made him want to spend more time with them and less time with me. I knew I was being too clingy but I couldn't help it. I was still so in love with him and I didn't know how to handle my feelings.

Everything seemed to be spiraling out of control. All I could do was cry. I hated fighting with him and I could not see the light at the end of the tunnel. I couldn't eat or sleep. My parents were so worried about my depression that they checked me into the hospital. They put me in a smock that was pretty much like a burlap sack, gave me a book and a bed, and locked the door. I couldn't use the phone. I wanted to know if Evan and I were breaking up or not. We had fought but there was no resolution.

When I got back, my mom told me that he had been trying to call. She said that he had asked me to come over, and it gave me some hope. I was there in a heartbeat. When I got to his house, he told me he had feelings for another girl. He broke it to me so coldly. I was so angry with him for having feelings for this new girl. How could he leave me for someone else? I felt totally betrayed.

Two weeks after our break-up, I was finally starting to heal when my whole life was flipped upside down. I was watching TV in my living room when I heard the wail of sirens. I saw a parade of police cars going down the hill. I didn't think much about it at first, but when ambulances started coming I really took notice and I retreated to my room to avoid the noise.

A few minutes later my mother came and knocked on my door. She had a very solemn look on her face. "It's about Evan," she told me in a quiet voice.

"I don't want to talk about him, Mom!" I hollered back. I was still so hurt about our break-up. I knew if she brought him up I would start to cry. I had no idea how right I was.

She wouldn't take no for an answer. Then she broke it to me as gently as possible. "He passed away. He passed in his sleep. They think it might have been a brain aneurism."

I was so confused... I didn't know what to think. I was still mad at him for breaking up with me, but the process of forgiveness started right there. How could I be mad when the person I loved had just passed away? I was heartbroken all over again but I began to appreciate all of the things he had done for me. He taught me how to love, and he gave me love in return. A first love is such a huge milestone in someone's life and to have shared that with such an amazing person was a blessing.

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Passages in Stone

By Laudizen King

Little children, headache; big children, heartache.
~Italian Proverb

When couples hike in all kinds of weather and terrain they develop a special intimacy built on those experiences. They learn about each other in an environment far removed from normal domestic life. There is not a lot of veneer on a person when he or she is wet and cold and struggling to continue on a long trail. They learn each other's quirks related to preparation, and each other's facility to recuperate from pain, as well as the strength they pull up from deep inside when the trail is hardest and the going most difficult.

Shirley and I hiked together for six wonderful years in many diverse locations in the West. We were older when we met; she was a grandmother and I was in my fifties. We forged a relationship built on weekend hiking trips that gave us plenty of satisfaction and also showed us a lot of fine country that we never would have seen otherwise. It also grew in us that special intimacy borne of hard hours on the trail.

On every trip Shirley would collect a couple of stones. These were not stones of any geologic value, but rather rocks with interesting shapes and swirls or those with varied colors or patterns. When we would reach the summit, or were halfway, or even when taking a needed rest, she would peruse the ground looking for stones of interest. She would pick one up and run it through her fingers, turning it over and around on her palm to inspect it in detail. If the stone met the standards of some ineffable criteria, she deposited it in her daypack for transport back home.

Two fates awaited these stones on our return. A stone could be deposited in the great urn by the fireplace that held other stones from other trips, or, if it was special enough, it was set aside for Chad, the younger of her two grandsons by her son Danny. When Chad was six or seven he started to enjoy looking at rocks with Grandma, whether it was at a family outing at the beach or in the mountains.

So it was that Shirley shared these stones with Chad. They held them and inspected them and Shirley would relate the story of their origin in detail. She would describe where the stone was from and what the weather was like, what the trip had entailed. Chad enjoyed this and it gave his grandma a chance to interact with him and to look inside the boy as he grew. It also allowed Chad a look inside his grandmother, whether or not he knew or appreciated it at the time.

The stone collection also kept the connection between Shirley and Chad intact as Chad grew up. Shirley never felt she had enough time with her grandsons, so when the opportunity presented itself, Shirley would use the stones to connect to Chad.

And so they appeared, stone after stone. Small rough stones came from the high passes of Yosemite, and rounded stones came from its watercourses and waterfalls. From Death Valley came samples from the low salt flats of Badwater to the high trails in the Panamint Mountains, and from the craters of Ubehebe. We gathered them from every area of the Pinnacles National Monument; from beaches at Morro Bay to the coast at Malibu, from the Los Padres to the San Gabriel Mountains came small pieces of wonder to hold and describe. She gathered them where we hiked in Southern California: in the Cuyamaca and Laguna mountains, the wonderful Anza-Borrego Desert, and in Palm Springs.

One hot summer day we were on a hiking trail above Donner Canyon on Mount Diablo east of San Francisco. It was dry and dusty and we were pushing a real sweat as we trudged our way higher up the slope with Shirley out in front. She stopped at a turn on the trail and looked down at something in front of her. She bent over and picked up a small dark stone with three bands across it. She first ran her fingers over it and then studied it as it lay in the palm of her hand. Then, with a look of sadness that she tried to conceal from me, she slowly tossed it off to the side of the trail.

Things change, and time moves on. Chad was now almost a teenager, and the wonder over his grandmother's stones and the stories of where they came from was now of little interest to him. He had crossed a threshold leading to adulthood and the door of that threshold was closed forever; gone with it was the portal that had connected Chad and Shirley in such an illuminating way these last six years.

The look on Shirley's face was one of pain and resignation. I walked up the trail to her side and there in the sun-drenched day we embraced. For everyone, feelings of anguish come to us like this throughout our lives. We need to see these passages for what they are, appreciate them for what they were, and then let them go. There is beauty in what is brief, and for those formative years that were so important to Shirley, those stones gave her special access to the young man growing up before her.

We stood there for a second on the trail sharing the moment. We turned and, lifting our faces from the stones at our feet, gazed over the canyon spreading out below us as the peaks and ridges rose up into the blue sky above. Then we continued up the trail to whatever awaited us there.

At home, the urn of stones sits by the fireplace.

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Cereal Killer

By Rebecca Hill

There is no sincerer love than the love of food.
~George Bernard Shaw

My friend Dominique and I are innkeepers at Channel Road Inn. Working at a bed and breakfast hotel is fun! We take reservations, help guests with their dinner plans and we bake homemade cookies, breakfast cakes and goodies from scratch every day for our guests.

Dominique and I have been friends for a while now. We've shared secrets, lots of laughs and even a few tears, but lately something has come between us... it's her granola recipe. She won't tell me (or anyone!) how it's made.

Dominique's granola is the best thing I've ever tasted. Sure I love the homemade banana bread and blueberry cakes we bake at the Inn. Our scones, egg soufflés and French toast are amazing and our homemade chocolate chip cookies are to die for but nothing -- NOTHING! -- can top Dominique's granola.

When you ask Dominique what's in the granola she pretends to tell you. "Oh, it's simple -- just your basic granola but I add in some fruit and I sweeten it with coconut and honey," she says (while not looking you in the eye). But she must be leaving something out of her description because I have never tasted granola (or anything) that tastes as good as this. I cannot even hear, much less talk, when I'm eating this granola. The whole world stops moving and all I can hear is the crunching of the granola in my mouth. I can't hear the phones or the doorbell ring and even when people talk to me, I can see their lips moving but their voices sound like they are in slow motion. In that sense, Dominique's granola is an occupational hazard for me, so I try to eat it only after my shift has ended.

I am known to get overly exuberant about certain things, so I took a sample of Dominique's granola to one of my girlfriends at Curves so she could tell me if she found it as amazing as I do. By the time I drove home, there was already an e-mail from my girlfriend saying, "Wow, you were not kidding! That stuff is addictive! Yum, yum, yum! I'm thinking Dominique should start small and go to farmers' markets, fairs, etc... and just sell locally... word will spread!"

And word has spread! Though Dominique has not had time to go to farmers' markets or fairs yet, we do have guests e-mailing and calling to ask for the recipe for Dominique's homemade granola. Over the past twenty-three years all of the innkeepers at Channel Road Inn have been open and generous with our recipes. We freely and willingly give them to our guests and we'll even let them watch us bake the cakes or prepare the egg soufflés and French toast so they can replicate them at home. Dominique's granola is the only recipe they cannot have. Their response is always the same. They laugh and say, "I always knew you innkeepers had a few tricks up your sleeves," and then they add, "No problem. But can I buy some of that granola? Could you mail it to me? I keep thinking about it."

I like these phone calls and e-mails because they reassure me that I have not lost my mind. This granola is that good! I think about it every day and always hope Dominique has had a chance to make it when I come into work. I've even been known to call down to the Inn on my days off just to see if, by chance, Domi has made any granola. I scour the freezer at the Inn looking for leftovers and hidden stashes, but I rarely find any because the guests eat it by the heaping spoonfuls. On the days Dominique's granola gets served, our homemade cakes are barely touched. People are nuts for this stuff.

My girlfriend from Curves asks me on a weekly basis how she can get more of Dominique's granola. Though she has an apartment nearby, she's considering booking a room at Channel Road Inn just so she can come to breakfast and eat granola. It's that bad -- this granola is ruining the lives of everyone who eats it. We all become addicts and start devoting our lives to finding out how and when we can get more granola.

And all the while, Dominique sits in the kitchen feigning surprise that everyone is rabidly searching for more granola. She's like the Master of the Universe -- the one who holds the key to our happiness. When she knows I'm having a hard week, she definitely makes granola. One time she even went out and bought coconut herself because the Inn was out of it and she knew I wanted and needed (yes, actually needed) her homemade granola that day.

We have a repeat guest at Channel Road Inn who has stayed at the Inn several times a year for the past ten years. She's crazy about Dominique's granola too! Like me, she has begged for the recipe and then finally settled for just eating a bowl of granola once she realized that Dominique's vague description of "fruit, coconut and honey" is just a dodge. We all adore this guest -- from her Missouri drawl to her darling grandchildren and impeccable manners, she is the most charming woman in the world.


Under normal circumstances, there's nothing I would deny this guest, but when she checked in last week and immediately asked if "Dominique had made any granola" I had to think fast. The technical answer was, "No, Domi has not had time to make granola today." But the underlying truth, the one that troubled my heart was, "Domi has not had time to make granola today... but she did give me a small bag of it last week. I have it hidden in the back of the freezer with my name on it and I have been rationing it out to myself half a cup at a time."

I stared at our loyal guest, wondering if I should share my secret stash with her. I love this guest... but I also love Dominique's granola. I adore this guest... but I also adore Dominique's granola. I should have shared my granola with this guest... but I didn't. I tried to ease my conscience by offering her a cup of tea and a slice of hot vanilla streusel cake, fresh out of the oven. She politely said, "No thank you" and as I watched her walk down the hall to her room, I felt slightly bad -- but not as bad as I would have felt had I given her the last of my granola.

Dominique shows her love for Channel Road Inn's guests -- and employees -- through her baking. She works on her recipes for weeks to perfect them and is truly delighted when the guests "ooh and ah" over her creations. She is generous with most of her recipes, except for one. And that's okay, because this granola is so good, I'm betting one day it will be available in stores, and then our charming guest from Missouri, my girlfriend from Curves, and I can all eat Domi's granola to our heart's content!

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