Chick Wit Archives – Page 3 of 3

Column Classic: Perking Up

April 6, 2025

By Lisa Scottoline

Mommy has a new wish.

Besides Bradley Cooper.

We’re talking coffee.

And I’m on a quest.

I know, some people climb Everest.

Others cure cancer.

But all I want is a delicious cup of coffee that I can make myself, at home.

Is that so much to ask?

Evidently.

Right out front, I have to confess that I love Dunkin’ Donuts coffee.

Sometimes I’ll have Starbucks and other times Wawa, but my coffee soulmate is Dunkin’.

We’ve been together longer than either of my marriages combined.

Daughter Francesca likes to tell the story of the time we were watching television and a Dunkin’ Donuts commercial came on, and I whispered, “I love you, Dunkin’ Donuts.”

Okay, that’s embarrassing enough.

But then Francesca tweeted that to Dunkin’ Donuts, and Dunkin’ Donuts tweeted back:

“We love you too, Lisa!”

OMG!!!!!

Anyway, you get the idea.

So I stop by Dunkin’ Donuts whenever I can and I also pick up a lottery ticket. When I lose the lottery, at least I’ve had a great cup of coffee, which makes me almost as happy.

You’re supposed to be able to make Dunkin’ Donuts at home, and I have a Keurig coffeemaker, so I bought the Dunkin’ Donuts K-Cups and did the whole Keurig thing, but it wasn’t the same as the real thing.

And unfortunately, I developed almost a superstitious belief that a cup of great coffee is essential to my writing process. I’m not the first writer to believe that a beverage is essential to great fiction. Ernest Hemingway had booze, but I have caffeine. And when my good luck charm is on shaky ground, I fear my books will start to suck, and Mrs. Bradley Cooper can’t have that.

So I decided that I would give up on making Dunkin’ Donuts at home and try different types of coffee. I understand this is called being flexible, but it’s not something that comes easily to me.

Nor should it.

One of the great things about being single is that you never have to compromise anything, and I wasn’t looking forward to compromising my one and only vice.

Nevertheless, I decided I should go back to basics, namely percolated coffee. I admit this was probably nostalgia-driven, because I remember the days when Mother Mary perked coffee on the stovetop, brewing Maxwell House from a can, but I couldn’t find a stovetop percolator and had to settle for a plug-in, and I thought I could beat Maxwell House, so I got myself to the grocery store, where I stood before a dizzying array of types of coffee, coming from everywhere around the globe, including Africa, Arabia, and the Pacific.

This was coffee with frequent-flier mileage.

Likewise there were different kinds of roasts – light, dark, French, Italian, and Extra Dark French, which sounded vaguely racist.

I went with medium Italian, because that’s basically what I am.

Then I had to choose the “body” of the coffee, which evidently meant “the weight of the coffee on your tongue.”

Everywhere you look, body issues.

Again I chose the light-to-medium bodied, ground it at the store, brought it home, perked it, and it sucked. I persevered for another week, but I couldn’t do it. I decided to throw out the baby with the coffee water and went back further to my roots to buy a little Italian Bialetti espresso maker, perked on the stovetop. But that meant I had to go back to the grocery store and start all over again, since the new coffeemaker required the moka grind, which is not even a word.

I brought the coffee home, perked it, and took a sip.

It sucked, too.

Or maybe I suck at flexibility.

So now I don’t know what to do.

I’m taking any and all suggestions.

And I have a novel to finish.

Tell me how to make a great cup of coffee.

The future of literature depends upon it.

Also my job. I’ll split the Powerball with you.

Column Classic: Sniff Test

March 30, 2025

by Francesca Serritella

Here is a Column Classic by Francesca. You can find Francesca on Facebook @FrancescaSerritellaauthor or on Instagram @fserritella.

My passion for perfume started long before it became the inspiration for my new novel FULL BLOOM, out August 5th and available for preorder now! Consider this Classic Column “Sniff Test” a certificate of authenticity for my fragrance obsession. Maybe some of you can relate…or I hope it makes you laugh!

Every woman has one department at the shopping mall that calls to them, nay, sings to them, like a choir of angels, radiating a warm, golden light from the top of the escalator.

For me, it’s fragrance.

I’m hypnotized by those glittering little bottles on glass countertops, each one with a secret inside, winking at me from across the room.

I’ve always loved perfume, ever since I was a little girl, when the crystal bottles on my mother’s dresser seemed like magical potions.

And whenever I smelled them on her, I knew she was going somewhere glamorous, mysterious, and as-yet-off-limits to me.

Douleur exquise!

Click to read the full column on Francesca’s Website

Mayor Barney

March 23, 2025

By Lisa Scottoline

I have sad news to report, in the passing of our beloved barn cat, Barney.

He was a beautiful chunky tabbycat with bright green eyes, who wandered onto my backyard one day and decided to stay for ten years, until he passed away.

He died suddenly of kidney failure, and all of us are in heart failure.

I say us because I live on a horse farm, and I don’t run it myself. I have a wonderful assistant, Nan, and a wonderful barn manager, Katie, and all of us loved Barney. Daughter Francesca loved him, too, giving him extra hugs whenever she came home, and my friend Laura adored him and so did my friend Franca, who brought over her grandkids and even they loved him.

I love cats, and amazingly, I still have Vivi, my house cat who is now eighteen years old and going strong, thank God.

The loss of any cat, or any pet, is heartbreaking.

But Barney’s passing made me realize that there’s something unique about a barn cat.

I don’t know how much time you spend in barns or around horses, but the way it sometimes goes is that there’s a random cat that sticks around to catch mice, or maybe he doesn’t stick around but drops in from time to time. And sometimes he’s given a name and sometimes he isn’t. He’s a cat with a job, which is to catch mice, and more often than not, he’s nobody’s cat.

But Barney was everybody’s cat.

That sentiment was expressed by Katie’s husband Sean, and he was exactly right.

Barney got his name because he lived in the barn, but he had a personality as big as any barn. He was unbelievably affectionate, purring on contact, greeting everybody who came over, then following all of us around, including any plumber, electrician, or carpenter.

We had to tell contractors to close the windows and doors on their trucks because Barney would inevitably find his way in, pilfer their lunch or make himself comfy.

He wasn’t a cat, he was a mayor.

We lived and worked in his city.

The only rules he followed were his own.

He hung with the horses and drank from their buckets.

He curled up on their backs and they didn’t even mind.

He caught mice and arranged them like a serial killer.

He left pawprints on all our cars.

He had 243 nicknames and came to all of them.

He was a total character and of course he was a rescue who rescued us.

It was Nan who spotted him first in the yard, and she went to him immediately, noticing that he had infected abscesses around his neck. He wore no tag or identification, but she took him to the vet that day, and we got him antibiotics and plenty of canned food.

He healed in two weeks and never left.

He was always free to roam but never did.

We heated the tack room so he’d be warm year ‘round, and made him a cat door, so in no time it was his palace. He had all the wet food he wanted, plenty of treats, and lots and lots of love.

He faced down any neighboring cats who trespassed on his property.

All of the dogs here were afraid of him, even though they’re bigger.

He protected the farm, us, and democracy in general.

Because he was so much a part of all of our lives, we all feel a hole in our hearts at his loss.

We can still see him walk across the pasture.

We can still hear him purr in our ear.

We can feel him making biscuits on our laps.

We know his meow, strong and insistent, or chirpy and cheery.

Barney was much more than a barn cat.

He was an everywhere everything everybody’s cat.

And we all loved him very very much.

Rest in peace, Barnstable.

Dirty Laundry

March 16, 2025

By Lisa Scottoline

I think I need to do my laundry more often.

Let me explain.

As you may know, I live alone.

As in, I’m celibate.

But I digress.

Since it’s just me, I don’t generate a lot of laundry.

I barely sweat.

Did I mention I’m celibate?

And also, in winter, who sweats?

Usually, I’m bundled up in fleece tops and sweatpants and from time to time, I even sleep in them.

TMI?

Get ready.

I’m about to air my dirty laundry.

Literally.

In any event, I don’t have a lot of laundry.

And when I do, I just throw it in the washing machine, which I use as a hamper.

When it’s full, then I run it off.

I don’t do it more often because I have a job.

Also, I’m trying to be ecologically sound.

Okay, I’m lazy.

I’m probably doing laundry every two weeks.

So the other day I decided to throw something in the laundry and run off a load, but inside the machine was a visitor.

A mouse.

He looked back up at me, and his expression said, “Took you a while.”

I replied, “EEEK!”

Worse, he was sitting among mouse droppings scattered over my laundry like chocolate jimmies.

Please tell me you know that’s the sprinkles they put on ice cream.

Now you’ll never eat them again.

Anyway, the mouse was alive, but barely.

I got over the initial shock, then I realized I had to get him out of there, so I got a saucepan and put it inside the machine, and trapped him. Then I put the lid on, ran him outside, and set him down in my backyard at the edge of the woods.

There’s a stream back there, too, in case he got thirsty.

And has GPS.

Anyway he scampered away.

I’m guessing he was looking for a lady who has sex.

So, happy ending.

I’m a good person, but a bad housekeeper.

I went upstairs and threw away the laundry that had been in the washing machine.

By the way, there’s a drainpipe that goes into the back of the washing machine and runs from outside the house, so I’m telling myself he got in from the outside.

That’s a better story than he was already in the house.

I can make up anything I want to.

I write fiction.

The whole thing grossed me out, but I consider myself and the mouse lucky.

I don’t want to think about what would’ve happened in the dryer.

All’s well that ends well.

And what’s my lesson?

I’m not doing my laundry more often.

But I’m gonna get a screen on that pipe.

Column Classic: City Slickers 3: The Legend of Bandana-Napkin

March 9, 2025

By Francesca Serritella

Here is a Column Classic by Francesca about an epic trip we took to the Grand Canyon! You can find Francesca on Facebook @FrancescaSerritellaauthor or on Instagram @fserritella

They say you don’t really know a person until you travel together, but is that true if the person is your mother?

I asked myself this on our recent trip to Arizona, our first mother-daughter vacation in almost ten years. We had an amazing time and got along great, but I noticed some new quirks, beginning as soon as our first flight.

“Can you open the window?” she asked.

“Sure.” I slid the shade up and squinted into the light. “Wow, you can see—”

“Nm-mm,” my mother grunted, and I noticed she was shielding her eyes.

“Sorry, too bright?”

“No, I don’t want to see how high we are, it scares me.”

Now I squinted at her. “You asked me to open it.”

“Yes, but I don’t want to see!”

Click to read the full column on Francesca’s Website

I know her, but do I understand her?

I wondered again by the pool in Scottsdale, when I lowered my sunglasses to see my mother approaching with what appeared to be a cloth napkin tied around her head.

“Perfect, huh?” She posed like a pirate beauty queen. “I went to the gift shop for something to cover my head, but then I realized, I could get this from the restaurant! It’s just like a bandana!”

“It’s even more like a napkin.” And I reminded her she had a ball cap in the bag.

“Nah, the brim blocks the sun.” She settled down on the chair next to me, readjusting her bandana-napkin.

I slid down behind my book.

Another of my mom’s quirks is that she loves to order drinks, or “dwinks” when she’s ready to party, but she hates the taste of alcohol. She always forgets this last part.

“Can I taste it?” She sipped my Sauvignon Blanc and grimaced. “So winey.”

The only wine sweet enough for her is Lambrusco, an unusual, sparkling red, and when she asks for it, she tricks waiters into thinking she’s a jaded oenophile. Most restaurants don’t have it, so the waiter will suggest other esoteric options, using words like “tannic” and “peaty.”

I wanted to tell him, she wants notes of “juice box,” do you have a juice box wine?

As the server left to bring a sample of a “jammy” Pinot Noir I knew she’d suffer through, I said, “You don’t have to order a drink.”

“Of course I do, we’re on vacation!”

She had a point.

I was getting the hang of Vacation Mom, when I anticipated a problem. If a peek out an airplane window was too much for her vertigo, how was she going to enjoy the Grand Canyon?

The irony was that she’d planned the trip. The Grand Canyon was entirely her idea; she had even booked a guide to take us hiking into it.

I sat her down. “I’m worried about you. You need to mentally prep that it’s going to be really, really huge and you might get freaked out by the height.”

She waved me off. “It’ll be great, I just won’t go on the high parts.”

“Mom, I think the whole thing is a high part.”

Cue the soundtrack to City Slickers.

But when the day came, my mom closed her eyes for much of the mountainous drive up (don’t worry, she was in the backseat) yet remained in good spirits!

We arrived at the Canyon, and the guide showed us to the top of the steep trail. Or at least he pointed to it from a safe distance, since my mom refused to get out of the car. I said I couldn’t leave her in there like a dog, but she insisted:

“You go, that’s why I hired him, I want you to have a good time.”

I was touched. And I realized how much of my mom’s behavior was to make me happy: a good view from the window seat, fun drinks at dinner—okay, the napkin thing was just weird, I got nothing for that—but she wouldn’t let her quirks keep us from having an unforgettable vacation.

In the end, I made it less than thirty minutes down into the Canyon before my own vertigo forced me to turn back. When I reemerged on the top, flat ground, there was no sweeter sight than my little mom, bravely out of the car, trying to take a photo with a shaky hand while gripping onto a signpost for dear life—a good ten yards from the gorge’s edge.

When she saw me, she broke into a grin, still clinging to the signpost like a koala. “How was it?”

I smiled. “Perfect.”

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