Oh, wait. Did you think I had the answer? I was hoping you had the answer. Thanksgiving is next week. Next week! As my list of things to do gets longer, my mind, body and spirit are urging me to slow down. And how is that possible? Perhaps it’s just learning to let go and be in whatever it is I’m doing.

Follow me into my kitchen last November, where I’m attempting to make my great-grandmother’s chocolate pie. It was passed down from my Aunt Betty, who had written the recipe on a note card:

Mom recites the instructions over the phone and throws in words of warning. “When you’re cooking the chocolate, don’t leave the stove. Keep stirring. If you don’t, it will burn.”

I write it all down and follow the instructions. But as I stir the chocolate, I notice white globs of something beginning to form. What is that? I wonder as I pour the thickened mixture into the pie crust. I taste it. If you’re a cook, you already know.

Egg. Little bits of scrambled egg. Yuck. The recipe didn’t tell me to temper the eggs. Hello? Small detail.

“You know those old recipes. They assume you already know these things,” Mom says.

As I stand over the stove and stir the chocolate for the second time, I can hear my Aunt Betty, my “Mema” and great-grandma Madge laughing at me from above. It’s good-natured—I imagine them poking fun at me in a “bless your heart” kind of way.

Now, it’s time to make the meringue. And when I pull the pie out of the oven, this is how it looks:

Not exactly what I’m going for. This link illustrating how to make meringue helps me as, for the third time, I attempt my great-grandma’s pie. And ta-da!– this is how it turns out:

It’s a very humid Charleston day, and later, the finished product melts just a little bit. But I’m certain I can hear Aunt Betty, Mema and Grandma Madge saying, “You did good, baby.” I think so, too.

As I attempted my grandmother’s pie not one, two, but three times, I was empowered by the determination I felt rising up inside. I noted what went wrong and saw how I could make it better. And I still had time to give it another try. In that moment, it was important to me to do the very best job I was capable of. That pie was a tribute to my maternal angels.

A lot of truth bubbled to the surface as I stirred those pots of boiling chocolate. And for that, I am truly grateful.

Happy Thanksgiving, everyone. See you back here on the 28th. 

You guys and gals know how to rally. After Wednesday’s post, you responded with energy, enthusiasm and encouragement. So I kept my end of the deal:

Stop and let that sink in.

And if you need reinforcments, the Bad Mamma Jamma playlist is here. The playlist, at first glance, is random. But like the words stuck to the walls of my office, it tells a story. I added your songs in the order they came in. Except for the first and last songs. Those were carefully selected…

The playlist begins like this:

Happiness hit her like a train on a track…

and ends like this…

…the closer I am to fine. 

Because that’s exactly where I am in my own story right now. Thank you for your part in that.

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Today’s post is dedicated to Jennie. If it weren’t for her, this day would have blown by with hardly a glance. And that would be a darn shame.

I remember my bachelorette party. No strippers. No (oh, what’s that word?) paraphernalia hanging from my person. Just a beautiful handmade headband adorned with tulle and daisies. All my girls in a circle, dancing to that song, in front of the band at Trio Club.

And I remember the night I had dinner at a restaurant, and it flowed from the speakers. My friend said, “This song makes me want to dance.” And she got up and did just that. The lady at the next table dropped her fork, stood up and danced, too.

Because, really, how can you not?

Especially when something as simple as a song reminds us love is changing the minds of pretenders, and we can feel our hearts ringing, in the key that our souls are singing.

Say do you remember?

Friends, I hope you all have a beautiful 21st night of September.

This photo was taken two Christmases ago, in my grandmother’s back yard. Aside from my grandfather who passed away many years ago, everyone is here: My grandmother and her children, and their children and their children.

Friday morning, I got the call. We knew it was coming, but I’m not sure that makes it easier. My grandmother had lost a son. My dad and my aunt lost a brother. Another aunt lost a husband. My cousins lost a father, and a grandfather.

Today my heart is heavy for those closest to my uncle, and those who will grieve the hardest over his loss. I will remember this weekend and how we all came together, to comfort one another and say goodbye. Today, I’m appreciating my family just a little bit more. I’d like to think I don’t take them for granted, but sometimes, I do.

I’ve closed the comments on today’s post. Not because I don’t want to hear from you. I can already imagine the heartfelt thoughts and perspectives you would offer. Instead, as I conclude this entry, I will take a moment to reflect — on my blessings and those I miss the most. I’ll offer thanks.

I want to pause and do my best to be intentional about this day. To be thoughtful in my words and in my actions. Perhaps you’ll do the same?

I won’t spend a lot of time or energy venting about how my blog got hacked. If you’ve ever had your home or car broken into (I have), or your place of business, perhaps you already understand. When I announced the news last week in my Facebook status, my friend, Kelly Love Johnson, expressed it best:

Dislike! May the hackers feel the wrath of karma in a timely fashion. Or have their video game consoles disappear from the basements in which they reside. May their moms refuse to cut off the crusts.

Thanks to my one-man support team, Don Richardson, peace has been restored in the online land of Angie Mizzell. We are now free to frolic through the meadow once again. I’ll admit, I had a bit of fun wearing my Sherlock Holmes hat, spouting out theories about how the hack happened in the first place. Without going into a ton of detail about exactly what the hackers did, I’ll say this: If you’re ever clicking around my site and find yourself on a (fake) Paypal page, do yourself a favor and don’t log in!

Do you remember in the 1970s and early 80s when people put steel bars over their windows and doors? Since this whole thing happened, that infomercial for Protecto-Guard (or whatever it was called) has been running through my head. Stopping short of ordering Protecto-Guard, here are some things I did to help lock down the fort and hopefully prevent future attacks:

• Ran multiple virus scans on my computer. Don did the same.
• Uninstalled out-of-date plugins. I’m usually pretty careful about this, but some of the plugins I was using, like the cool feature that displayed the names of frequent visitors, the Facebook “like” button and the “Share This” button, had to go. If you use self-hosted WordPress, always make sure any plugin you install has been tested on your version of WordPress. I knew this, but I got careless. I’m a sucker for a cool plugin.
• And, of course, I changed my password.

Don did a lot of work behind-the-scenes that surpasses my ability to understand, much less try to explain. I’m glad I wasn’t swimming in that evil sea all alone.

I only lost the last 3 posts when we restored the blog. Yay backups! I published those posts again, but unfortunately the comments are gone. Your comments are like gold to me, so that was tough to accept. But it could have been a whole lot worse.

I know the hackers may try to get back in. They’re like Gremlins, I suppose. Too bad I can’t stick them in a blender.

My grandparents owned a ranch-style house, and when friends came to visit, they knew not to walk up the front steps and ring the doorbell. The sound of a ringing doorbell meant one thing — you were trying to sell a vacuum cleaner.

My grandparent’s real friends entered through the garage (which was always wide open) and knocked on the back door. I can still hear the rap-rap-rap on the screen door and the sound of it slamming shut. That was a happy sound.

Today, at my own house, guests are welcome to enter through any door they’d like (although I have been caught by more than one door-to-door salesman. People still do that?) But the back door is reserved mostly for my son and the pack of neighborhood kids who burst inside, requesting a reprieve from the summer heat.

Their entrance usually sends a shot of anxiety through my body– not because the children aren’t welcome inside– but because, until this weekend, the garage was filthy. The house sat vacant for two years before we moved in, and there was a thick layer of dirt covering the floor.

Saturday, my husband scrubbed our garage floor. And as I watched him, I kept seeing flashes of my grandfather doing the same thing. My grandparent’s garage was set up like a patio, and they took pride in keeping the floor clean. So clean, you could walk on it with bare feet.

My grandparents never had a lot of money. Even as a child, I was keenly aware of financial lack and the intense emotions that surface from feeling like there was never enough. And yet, their home was immaculate. They took pride in their possessions and spent their free time returning their dwelling to a polished, vacuumed and manicured state.

It’s a busier world now. My husband, kids and I are always doing something or going somewhere. Making time for household chores often feels like, well, a chore. But what hasn’t changed is the satisfaction that comes from respecting the roof over our head and being grateful for it.

And, having friends who love and know us well enough to knock on the back door.

What improves your quality of life?

I’m a lucky duck and won myself a copy of Home -Ec 101: Skills for Everyday Living, written by local blogger and author, Heather Solos. Thanks to my friend, Vera Hannaford, who hosted the contest on her blog. Heather’s book is perfect for Generation Xers like me, who need a refresher course on the basic household skills that come naturally to our parents and grandparents. Click here to visit Heather’s blog, and here to get the book.

Last night, I enjoyed a lovely get-together with my writing partner. We spent two delightful hours, sitting in her living room and sharing stories and laughs. As I drove home, I turned up the volume and sang to the music spilling from the speakers. I opened the sun roof and breathed the thick summertime air.  And then, I realized something. A couple of miles back, I had passed the turn to my old house.

And I didn’t even think about it.

We’ve lived in the new house for two months and even though I love it, I’ve dealt with moments of homesickness. I guess, sometimes, it takes a while to build new memories and reach a level of comfort that makes a place feel like home. But last night, I crossed a threshold — a subtle moment when a lingering sense of sadness subsided. It exited quietly, unnoticed. And now, I’m glad I didn’t try too hard to fight that sadness. I just let it be, and it worked itself out. I’m grateful for the ability to live and love and feel my life — the good and the not-so-good — for all it’s worth.

Minutes away from home, I approached a terrible wreck. As far as I could tell, the victims were alive, but two cars were in the ditch. Another car, farther up the road, was mangled and facing oncoming traffic. I knew they collided just moments before, because the ambulance hadn’t arrived and police were pulling up to the scene.

Whether you chalk it up to chance or the work of a greater hand, I’m glad my friend and I lingered on the porch for a few extra minutes. That we didn’t rush our goodbyes.  And not solely because I avoided a wreck, but because it led to a surprise moment of happiness.

Can you recall a time when happiness caught you off guard? When a lingering sadness made a quiet exit?

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When I left my career in TV news eight years ago, I said yes to something important. I chose Charleston. I was admitting to myself that I didn’t want to move to a new city every few years to climb the proverbial ladder of success. That was a big decision for me, because that’s how most people (not all) “make it” in TV. You move up and you move on. But on my own personal journey, I realized I wanted to make my life here. In Charleston. The only place that’s ever felt like home to me.

And once I decided that, it became clear that even though I was choosing the comforts–and beauty– of home, it was time to pave a new way for myself. To step out of my comfort zone. To exit the maze and start living my life.

I attended a field trip with my son’s class this week. While the children were learning about barrier islands and sea turtles, I was admiring the view. Amazed that this is where I get to live. This is not a public relations piece for the CVB (but if you need a spokesperson, call me). This is actually a metaphor. Wait for it…

We were on station 13 of Sullivan’s Island. To many, 13 is an unlucky number. And on this particular stretch of beach, there’s some truth to that.

But can you see the hazy Charleston skyline? Can you see the Ravenel Bridge there on the right? It’s symbolic of how I choose to see the world. It’s how I aspire to live. I’m aware of the risks. I know how scary it is to fail. I know how it hurts to have my heart broken. I know it’s dangerous out there.

I see the rocks. I know they are there. But I also see what’s on the other side of that. It’s not out of reach. It’s within my grasp. I can touch it. I focus on all the things that are beautiful and good and right. Not always. But I try. Some may say I’m idealistic, and that’s fine.

One day, circumstances might lead me out of Charleston. It’s not the plan. But I’m not closed off to possibility. But this place will always mean something important to me, because when I took a leap of faith, it was my safety net. It was my safe place to fall.

Where’s your safe place to fall?

Have a great weekend, everyone.

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