Category: chocolate

Impress-Your-Guests Chocolate Bundt Cake

This easy breezy chocolate cake is a total hit. Every time. Everywhere. With everyone.

I first sampled this delectable happiness when a friend made it for bookclub. She, in turn, says, “I got the recipe from my Aunt. She makes it for special occasions. It is probably a cake doctor recipe from 10 years ago. It’s always a hit with chocolate fans!”


1- Devil’s food cake mix (make sure it does not already have pudding in the mix)
1- 5.9 oz pkg chocolate pudding (if you can only find the 3.9 oz, that’s fine, just reduce the bake time 5 minutes)
4 eggs
1/2 cup vegetable oil
1 cup regular or light sour cream
12 oz semi-sweet mini morsel chocolate chips (you can use regular chips but the minis distribute a bit more evenly)

Mix the first five ingredients together. Stir in the chips and mix another minute or so. Pour batter into a greased bundt pan. Bake at 350 degrees for 50-60 minutes. Cool at least 15 minutes in the pan before inverting and removing the cake from the pan. Sprinkle with powdered sugar if desired. Ooh and ahh. 

Saying the word “bundt” brings to mind this vignette from “My Big Fat Greek Wedding”: 

$1.33 Holiday Brownies

I just moved to Texas four days ago, and while the natives are kind, I’m somewhat limited in baking and cooking due to ALL my furniture and 90% of my belongings remaining in a moving truck that is well,  not here.

Practicing gratitude and sleeping on the floor and feeling thankful for the little things that go right is healthy and all that, but sometimes everyone needs a spirit lifter. Here’s an easy, cheap perk for a cold, drizzly night.

To make Holiday Brownies: Buy 1 candy cane for .33 cents and one package classic brownie mix for .99 cents at the Dollar General Store. Pound candy cane into smithereens using available utensils – a cast iron pan on the counter for me. Mix brownies according to directions and add candy cane chips. If you have peppermint schnapps or peppermint extract, toss a drop or two in. Bake, cool for approximately 30 seconds and then eat half the pan. I recommend washing them down with plastic cups of a $6 liter bottle of Merlot.

Happy cheap, holiday eats!

10 Gifts for that Hard-to-Shop-for Man in Your Life

It’s the time of the year when I take stock of who’s on my holiday list: who gets a gift, a gift and a card, just a card, or merely a passing wish for a warm holiday season. Which brings me to the task of shopping, and the hardest folks to shop for – men. Ya gotta balance  interesting, playful, practical, humorous — things that speak to their inner geek or a treat they wouldn’t get themselves.

Women, we’re easy. There’s a standard repertoire of gifts that make us happy: champagne, a spa pedicure, dinner out where we can dress up a bit, new bubble bath, smelly candles, nice picture frames with photos of loved ones included, gourmet cheeses and dark chocolate, a relaxing massage, a hand-written letter, a clean house, tickets to a show or movie we like…you know the drill.

These 10 gift ideas are aimed more at the Brother-Spouse-Significant other audience than Grandpa Joe, but to each family, their own. I present 10 unique finds to get you started shopping:

1. Bacon Necktie: $19 from Amazon. The world of bacon accessories is astounding: bacon bandaids, bacon candy, pork books, bacon cuff links. You name your bacon product and you can find it. For the men in your life who wear ties with some disdain, this  noose, er, necktie, may lift their spirits.

2. Hans Solo Frozen in Carbonite iphone Case: $17 on Etsy. C’mon, this is classic Star Wars. How cool is it to have Harrison Ford’s face of pain on the back of your phone?! This will get you bonus points. If your guy is into Star Wars, this lightsaber corncob holder is pretty kick-ass too.

3. Mustache Bandaids: $10 on Bezerk. It is Movember after all, when men grow out their facial hair to raise funds  that support prostate cancer and testicular cancer initiatives. If you’re nixing the facial hair, there’s always the option of a beard hat. Especially if you live somewhere really, really cold.

4.  Of-the-Month ClubPrices vary – From Of the Month Club. There’s something for everyone: mustard, beer, hot sauce  wine, nuts, bagel, flowers, fruit…Not convinced? Here’s an interesting article on the rise of specialized of-the-month-clubs. The best part of these clubs is the joy of a package each month!

5.  Ninja Knife Magnets: $18 from Cool Material Shop. My family is big on stocking stuffers, and these would fit perfectly– both in the stocking and in the category of stocking stuffer.  They’re not big enough to wrap but area a little humorous something that makes for a conversation starter.

6.  Star Trek Pizza Cutter: $30 from Store. In elementary school my sister and I raced home from school to catch the 3.30 pm episodes of Star Trek: The Next Generation, followed by Duck Tales. With the return of Star Trek via lovely Chris Pine, a new generation (ha!) will come to appreciate the Enterprise. Okay, so maybe I just really want this.

7.  Gun and Target Alarm Clock$23 on Amazon. Few people enjoy being roused from their slumber. BUT, wouldn’t he find it a bit easier if getting up involved shooting a target? With settings from one shot to five (easy to hard), this could also improve his reflexes in case of a zombie apocalypse. Just sayin’ – we watch a lot of Walking Dead in my house.

8.  Craft Beer Home Brew Kit$50 from RedEnvelope. I actually bought a beer making kit for my dad, and he enjoyed making, tasting, and naming his brews. I enjoyed sampling. I’ve tasted beer brewed at home from guys aged 23-65 years old. My dad’s Knights of Columbus group has an annual taste off, and plenty of my peers pick it up as a hobby. Heck, DC Brau’s was started by two guys brewing in their basements and now it’s a thriving business!

9. A Book from GQ’s Best of List: Prices vary, list from GQ. Sometimes the men in my life enjoy the books I read, but usually our tastes for pleasure reading are quite different. Rather than giving them YOUR favorite book, take a tip from the GQ guys. Their Best of 2011 list published last December list includes 21 options, and I presume a 2012 edition will emerge soon.  You also can’t possibly go wrong with purchasing everyone you know a copy of  World War Z  by Max Brooks.

10.  Mini Guitar Cast Iron Skillet: $16 from Lodge.
A cast iron skillet is a gift for life. Why not spice up cornbread and muffins by adding a touch of the arts to his cooking? Forget Le Creuset; the Lodge has a variety of other skillet, cooking, baking and grilling items – including those in bright colors – and they’re less expensive.

Losing Weight Won’t Fill the Emptiness Inside. Only Cake Can Do That.

Last week I had the pleasure of tooling around Vienna, Austria; Budapest, Hungary; and Istanbul, Turkey with a dear friend. I ate Nutella by the spoonful, multiple times a day, sometimes on croissants and sometimes on my finger. We consumed a minimum of one bottle of wine each day, often preceded by cake for lunch and beers after dinner – before gelato. We tried expensive wine, girly fizzy drinks and cherry strudels covered in powder sugar. I consumed ketchup-cheese Cheetos, creamy tikka masala with butter-drenched naan, and enough goulash to say it’s not my favorite thing — but Viennese gnocchi sure is delish!

Not once did I make a meaningful effort to workout, though of course we walked a lot (she chuckles; we strolled between stores and restaurants, more precisely). I also made sure that the 2 pairs of jeans I packed were not ever put in the dryer because, ya know, they’re tight. I went to bed most nights with a belly so stuffed it ached.

Before I left I did a little shopping, including buying one of those pairs of stretchy jeans, and a couple of suit pieces in a size I did not expect — larger than  I’ve ever needed. My family isn’t petite; we like to say we’re made of  “good, peasant Polish stock” and “big boned.” But mostly we overeat and under-exercise. So I’m hopping back on the wagon of making better choices — because I want to feel good.  I didn’t say calorie counting or obsessive food journaling. I’m not gonna weigh myself twice a day.  I don’t really do well on diets; restriction makes me binge and tracking food minutiae makes me crazy and cranky. I’m shooting for healthy and realistic, acknowledging that I’m older than when I ran  5ks in 22 minutes and hopefully more balanced than when I made Rice Krispy Treats with margarine and Grape Nuts to reduce my guilt.

I stumbled on this piece today, and it struck a chord:

Losing Weight Won’t Fill the Emptiness Inside. Only Cake Can Do That.

Growing up, I spent a lot of time on diets. At first, it was just something I did to make my parents happy; I didn’t really care too much, I had other shit to do—underwater headstands, amassing an enormous Garbage Pail Kids collection, reading about the color of Jessica and Elizabeth Wakefield’s eyes (Pacific Ocean Blue, btw). However, as I got older and saw how much importance was placed on a woman’s looks, particularly in terms of weight, I become more invested in the thought that, with enough hard work and determination, I too could one day be Long Legs Louise.

I poured over diet books, back issues of Cooking Light magazine, and studied Lifetime movies about anorexia like I was a 10-year-old sociologist from Fatlandia, sent to observe the Skinny people and learn their tiny ways. My parents sent me to and enrolled me in every diet program available—Weight Watchers, Jenny Craig, Overeaters Anonymous, doctors, psychiatrists—you name it. However, no matter what I did, I couldn’t shake the weight. The only result of my endless starvation (and the relentless bullying of middle school) was the forgotten enjoyment of all the things my body could do (skip, hopscotch, read) and a budding disappointment in my own faulty size.

Jami Attenberg, the author of the The Middlesteins, a new novel with a central character who is a compulsive overeater, had a similar childhood. After reading My History of Being Fat over at The Hairpin, I’m guessing that her main character’s association with food is — at least — partially informed by Attenberg’s own troubled relationship with the good stuff. She was a fat kid and now she’s a socially acceptable sized adult, and it’s apparent that the scars from childhood trauma cut her deep, too.

One incident strikes me as particularly rough:

In junior high school, in the advanced English class, our teacher engaged us in a verbal exercise. She wanted us to learn about the powers of description. So she had us all stand up in a circle, and everyone had to go around the room and say one word to describe the person standing. Funny, smart, etc. And when it was my turn to stand, a boy named Mark said, “Thunder thighs.” Mark, you idiot, that’s two words.

OMG, fire that teacher immediately and often. Middle school is hard enough as it is (playgrounds overrun with hormonal sociopaths just looking to fight, cop a feel, or get out of running the mile) without having the target on your back that extra pounds seem to earn. I remember, it was near the beginning of my seventh grade year and I was new in school; My entire math class was milling around the classroom door, waiting for our late teacher to arrive. I naturally gravitated toward the other fat girl, I think maybe subconsciously hoping that by standing next to her, I’d appear smaller. Not the case, it was as if our individual fat multiplied by 100 to make one MEGA FAT. We immediately attracted the attention of a group of guys, who began sizing us up and loudly proclaiming what was wrong with both of our bodies. I was too round, whereas she was too square. I don’t know, kids are weird and have terrible snaps, but I still think about the shame and embarrassment I felt that day. All I wanted to do was cry forever, and also firestart the whole school.

So yeah, being picked on as a kid is the fucking worst.

Attenberg carries this self-hate into her adult relationships. She writes:

It is the year 2000, and I weigh around 200 pounds, a fact of which I am unaware because I never get on a scale. (Although I find it out a few weeks later in the bathroom at my brother’s house, finally too curious to resist.) I am sleeping with a man who is not a very nice man, and perhaps not even particularly attractive, but he is quick-witted and sort of cool, and this covers up the not-nice part of him, at least for a period of time. Also, we are always fucked up in one way or another when we are together, either on booze or drugs, and I am still insistent on proving my own attractiveness to myself by having sex as regularly as possible, even if it is with terrible people. We are lying naked on his couch in his shitty Lower East Side basement apartment, and for some reason he is talking about other women he’s seeing, and I’m starting to feel terrible about myself. It’s this feeling that’s creeping slowly up my spine, an unfolding self-disgust, and then he says to me, “But you know, there’s something about a big girl,” and, after a pause, he pats my ass, and all of a sudden I realize he’s talking about me, I am that big girl.

Hold the phone. Maybe Attenberg is “that big girl,” but the the main lesson here, to me, is that the boyfriend was a fucking asshole for talking about other women he’s sexing, as well as fetishizing/generalizing “big girls.” But when someone talks to you like this when you’re fat, you’re supposed to shut up and take it because it’s your fault—why don’t you lose the weight, heifer? Attenberg does acknowledge that he’s not a good dude, but doesn’t really make the leap that the problem isn’t that she’s big, but that he’s a douche. She may in fact be big. He’s still a douche. That’s the problem. Ultimately, this dude’s uncouth (uncouth, I say!) behavior and her sort-of acceptance of it is not so much a reflection on her weight as it is on her self-esteem.

As I grew into adulthood (process ongoing, please check back), I headed down a similar path of destructive behavior. But I got lucky, and was able to hop off that bullshitmobile before it got me into real trouble. I was already battling feelings of inadequacy, self-loathing, and just general sadness at the fact that I was such a different person than I was before I started dieting. Also, I was just really hungry.

I began gravitating toward a change when I moved to San Francisco and started meeting women who were just more comfortable with themselves than I was. Sure, they thought about their bodies, but more in terms of what they could do for them, not about how they looked in a short skirt. Also, I learned that all kinds of legs can look damn good in a short skirt, that clothes didn’t necessarily fit them “worse” — just different.

The more time I spent with these women, the more time I was bummed by my singular obsession of being skinny in skinny jeans, a goal I’d never attain, and one that was just so damn draining. Society taught me to diet, but it also taught me to be okay with myself — that there are different ways to be okay, healthy, happy, and attractive. While these ladies brunched, I was compulsively kicking at Billy Blank’s god-forsaken Tae Bo-loving face; and when they were getting late-night pizza, I was enjoying a nice glass of ice water. It was no fun, I wasn’t happy, and I think my inner-fat kid was just like, “Fuck. This. When’s Dinner.”

Bizarrely enough, I had this revelation at fucking Weight Watchers.

There I was, sitting in a weekly meeting (that took place after my Jazzercise class, which I still love and participate in because fit is it, my friends!), gnawing my way through one of their disgusting Aspartame-flavored diet gummy candies, and my “leader” was going on and on about the fact that sure, she didn’t really love eating air-popped Molly McButter-drenched popcorn-like-food, and that she’d rather have a bowl of popcorn tossed in real butter, but she needed to maintain goal weight. A light just went off in my fat-deprived head and I was like, holy fuck, what the fuck am I doing here talking about goal weight with 60 year old women who are trying to lose the last ten pounds? I don’t to be doing this and I don’t want Molly McButter either. Furthermore, carob can suck my dick. I want a fucking candy bar. I don’t want 50 candy bars, but fuck if I’m gonna eat a fruit-juice sweetened cookie-like product called a Frookie ™ again. I’m out.

And this is when my path takes a distinct turn in the fat girl road and I made straight for Attempting Body Acceptance Lane. Attenburg, on the other hand, took the fork in the road toward Salad Town, Population: Extreme Self Control. She lost the weight, she says, almost by accident. She had the good fortune to move into a cabin in the woods to write a book of short stories. As she poured more and more of herself into her work, she poured less and less bacon grease into her waffle batter. She was filling the hole, you guys.

She doesn’t own a scale, which I think is a good call in general, so she weighs herself at a café (?) near her house.

I was at 156 with my clothes on but my shoes off, probably because I ate an entire personal pizza the night before because I found out a certain publication wasn’t going to review my book. (What is it about eating an entire thing, I wonder? Is there a sense of accomplishment? Or perhaps it’s that there’s nothing left behind to remind you of what you just did.)

AN ENTIRE PERSONAL PIZZA!? Get a rope! Maybe she ate the whole thing because she was hungry from chronic dieting, but I am only projecting from my own days down on old diet gulch. When I dieted, it went one of two ways, either something extreme like: cabbage soup, cabbage soup, cabbage soup, all the tears, entire pizza, box of donuts, repeat. Or, I’d take a more reasonable stance, and cut calories down by a decent amount — this would always last longer, until my body would eventually revolt from the calorie deficit and start by eyeing the cat food and would only stop when I’d eaten all the carbs in the house, replaced them, and then eaten them again. So, yeah, dieting didn’t really work for me — well, at least not in an enjoyable way for any period longer than a few years.

Attenberg and I were on similar trajectories, but we ended up at pretty different places. One is not better than the other, they’re just different.

“…I like being responsible to myself. I like taking care of me, as much as I love food. So here I am. Alive,” she writes.

That is fair, and I honestly feel the same way; I am here and Alive too. And I’m fat. And although she issues the disclaimer of, “I realize this is not how it works for everyone, but this is how it worked for me,” it pains me that she correlates her thinner weight with her happiness. It’s natural, but it breaks my heart a little, I’m not gonna lie. “Taking control” of your life when said in regard to weight shouldn’t be synonymous with losing pounds. At least, I really don’t want it to be, because that burden is not healthy. But in every article like Attenberg’s that I’ve ever read, the one where the woman who triumphs over her hunger and emerges a svelte butterfly from her cocoon of lard, there are always tons of comments like, “Congratulations!” and, “You’re an inspiration!” I’m like, really? An inspiration? I think the fact that she writes and publishes novels is a fucking inspiration, but her weight? Nope.

I don’t blame Attenberg for this, or at least I really actively try not to, but it does make me sad.

I went through a lot of my life dealing with the aftermath of chronic dieting and childhood teasing, and it’s those things that attempted to make me feel less than whole, less than human. It wasn’t some mysterious “hole” inside of me that I was trying to stuff with Cheetos, it was put there by a society that’s unrelenting when it comes to women’s bodies. And it wasn’t something that I ever tried to cram with snack packs; if anything, it was something that I tried to dig out and make thinner, make smaller, make gone.

We can’t reframe the way society thinks and feels about weight overnight; there will always be cheering when a fat woman (or probably any woman who doesn’t suffer from visible anorexia) loses weight. But we can fight damn hard for the right to be comfortable in and with our own bodies, even if it’s really, really fucking hard.

I’m not telling you not to care about your body and to let go and eat your house; I know it’s normal to care, it’s beaten into us to care, and honestly, it’s probably healthy to care about what you look like to a certain extent or we’d all walk around with toilet paper hanging out of our butt cracks and wearing polka dots in public when we’re not Minnie Mouse. I just want you to know that you can get to a place where you’re okay with you, and maybe for Attenberg that place involves restricting a part of her, and that’s okay, ya know, but I don’t want that.

I want to acknowledge that shit is fucked re: weight in our society, and I want to invite myself to opt out as much as I possibly can, and if that’s not always, I want to fight back. And most importantly, I want to leave my remaining brain cells open for thinking about the things that are really important to me, including loving my friends, family, and yes, delicious food.

I Could Eat My Weight In…

As I sat at the dining room table, licking hummus off a spoon and pondering for the millionth time what an AMAZING food hummus is, it got me thinking: what would I be willing to eat day in and day out without complaint? What would I say to fill in the blank, “I could eat my weight in _________.

In no particular order, but with a grumbling hungry tummy, I present a few of the great foods in my life:

  • Hummus. You saw this one coming. I eat it plain, on quinoa, on crackers, on vegetables, on pasta, on sandwiches, on salads. Heck, I’ve even been known to eat it off my finger. Flavor preferences: smoked paprika, roasted red pepper and classic all do it for me – just keep the kalamata olives away.
  • Stacy’s Multigrain Pita Chips. I can’t keep these in the house because I simply devour them. I stand in the kitchen, paw in bag, minimal energy exertion moving from bag to mouth, bag to mouth, bag to mouth – pause – chew – repeat. Sometimes their sharp corners pierce the roof of my mouth, and they do take a fair amount of chewing. But they’re baked, not fried!
  • Tostido’s Hint of Lime Chips. While watching “Mr. Smith Goes to Washington” at DC’s Screen on the Green, I once consumed an entire bag of these, alone. I felt ill and had little chemical or salt burns in the corners of my mouth. It was not sexy.
  • Goat Cheese. You know the jingle, “Once you pop, you can’t stop?” That’s me on goat cheese. Once I smear, the end is near. That log of chevrie is going down, and my guts are about to be very, very unhappy. I tested this out about 2 weeks ago. Yep, still lactose intolerant. Damn it.
  • Ghirardelli’s Double Chocolate Brownies. Clearly I’m mostly a savory girl, but these moist, chewy box mix brownies with little melty chunks of dark chocolate hold me hostage. The pan usually disappears while I tell myself, I just need to straighten that edge a bit. Boom. A whole ‘nother row (or line) down. I would post a picture of the actual brownie, but they never last long enough, and a photo couldn’t do it justice anyway.
  • Cherry Tomatoes. They burst in the mouth like a bite of warm sunshine. So easy to carry around and toss ’em back. Those little containers rarely last more than 2 days. (You can put them with hummus or goat cheese or pita, people!)

  • Fresh bread. Not just any crappy bread, but a warm, crusty loaf of Italian or focaccia, dipped in olive oil swirled with salt and pepper. I’ve made focaccia, and that garlic-salty-rosemary topping is unforgettable. Plus, you get to poke holes in the top of the dough with your fingers. Basically, I will hog the bread basket at dinner.

What would YOU eat your weight in? 

Your Friend is Getting Divorced. 12 Helpful Things You Can Do

Update 8.13.12 – The Huffington Post published this piece!

I started drafting this during my divorce as a response to well-intentioned friends who kept asking what they could do for me. I was at a loss as how to reply (make me not hurt? speed up time? buy me a house far away?) and started jotting down moments when I felt loved or special or smiled – and the list grew. While no one can remove the pain, they can ease it.  Here are 12 things people did that actually helped:

1. Sent me flowers at the office – from the family dog.
Not only was this just the cutest idea, but the flowers were perky and colorful. And since they were from a dog I had a story to tell that didn’t involve me talking about the soon-to-be ex-hubby. Looking at them on my desk gave me a smile.

2. Included me in family traditions and meals.
Even if it was out of pity, I appreciated it. It made me feel wanted and like good company, and forced me to talk to people rather than (only) eat boxes of mac ‘n cheese on the floor. These outings often meant I didn’t have to cook for one. (Don’t underestimate how awful cooking alone becomes compared to the ritual of cooking with someone else).  This is one of the best gifts to give someone feeling lonely—the gift of inclusion.

3. Promised to introduce me to any eligible, worthy single men they knew.
This was important because I needed the hope. And a reason to wear eyeliner and care if I flossed. This led to some very interesting blind dates, as well as some lessons in love and even a few great guy friends. I didn’t always say yes to the offers, but I’m glad for the ones I did.

4. Cried with me.
Friends cried WITH me because I was sad. This was so unexpected and unexperienced that I was deeply touched. I remember sobbing in my friend’s driveway, then looking and seeing her eyes brimming with tears. Someone cared enough to hurt alongside me — which made me feel valuable at a time when I felt like utter shit. Kudos to those dear allies who held me, fed me and let me bawl on their couches, beds, floors, driveways, sidewalks, office chairs, shoulders, cars…

5. Let me give back to them.
It’s hard to feel needy and lonely and stuck in a dark cloud all the time. I wanted opportunities to give back to those who welcomed me while I was a mess. I did this by babysitting, making meals, volunteering to help set up parties, running interference at their uncomfortable family gatherings, recommending hair products or salons, listening, cat-sitting — anything that allowed me to offer a small gesture of gratitude in return for all the support I received.

6. Ignored the ‘judgment’ button and pushed down the “human” button.
I may have turned pink when I shared my walk(s) of shame, but the truest friends didn’t tsk-tsk or lecture. They asked with a smirk, “Was it good?” and “Is that a new shirt?” It is MY life and I have responsibility for it. Support the sometimes questionable decisions, and also let us vent about the disappointments – even if you saw them coming. Now is not the time to opine on the scientific validity of psychotherapy when you know we’re going 3x a week.

7. Allowed me to NOT talk about the divorce.
On occasion I wanted to listen to other people’s lives to get out of my own head. Sometimes I needed to NOT talk about the dissolution of my marriage so I could pretend to feel normal, and not solely identified as “the friend going through a divorce.” Don’t worry about complaining about your life, stress, jobs, and amusing moments. I want to hear about your struggles and realize that your life isn’t perfect either. Just try not to one-up us on horrible divorce stories.

8. Complimented me.
One of the lasting pains of divorce is the feeling of utter rejection from someone who vowed to love me for life. Combating the pervasive question of “What is wrong with me that made them leave?” is not a simple or quick process. I made lists of nice things people said to me during the day just to focus on positive interactions. Here’s to Caribou coffee guy saying my nose stud was cute, and to jealous colleague sending me a nice email, and to the creepy video man saying my shoes and suit were nice, and to the old men at the bar saying that I looked like a movie star, and the drunk concert hipster who said my hair was awesome. There can never be too many compliments in the world, and since your friend is feeling particularly unloved, your words bolster them. Be the person they add to their list of ‘nice moments today.’

9. Took care of me when I was weary to the bone.
There is so much emotional effort involved in divorce and maintaining sanity. The transition from a twosome to a single is tiring. All the time. And suddenly we don’t have a person to make soup or bring us kleenex or lay our head on, which doubles the misery. When I got sick after drinking too much, a kind boy held my hair, cleaned me up, and texted my sis that I was fine. When I was grouchy at work, a girl dragged me to yoga and loaned me an outfit. When I was too tired to leave home, no one make fun of me. When I fell on the ice, a colleague bought me a bar of chocolate. When I called bawling from a restaurant, a darling lady told me to taxi over – and then fed me buttered toast while I sniffled on her couch, wrapped in a Snuggie. The thing is, your friend IS capable and independent and doesn’t need a man or a woman to complete them. But sometimes they forget.

10. Offered to beat up my ex.
I adored this offer. And I loved that it came mostly from boys – including my dad. (Okay, so maybe my dad drafted an entire assassination plan, which I only recently learned about…), but the point is this sentiment warmed my heart. It still does.

11. Accompanied me to difficult, divorce-related events.
The day my soon-to-be ex was moving out, I thought I could handle seeing him and his sister pack up “his” pile. When that delusion quickly vanished in a pool of tears I called a friend. We made pizza at her place while I waited for the “all finished” text. Then she asked if I wanted her to come inside and see the place together. I would never have thought to ask, but it was exactly what I wanted – a steady hand to see the condo for the first time stripped bare—just how my heart felt. I was terrified at what I’d find, and she bolstered my spirits by walking around with me.

12. Agreed to hare-brained ideas.
Look, I knew you didn’t want to go clubbing; you were tired, stressed, had a family/child/pet waiting for you and a mountain of dirty laundry to tackle. Yes, you gave up sake bombs years ago and certainly don’t have any flag football skills to speak of. But when I needed to try new activities, I had friends who said yes. They were game! They were willing to step outside their comfort zones to prioritize time with me while I spread my tender, new wings in the social and dating arenas.  Say yes when your divorcing friend asks you to try something. At the least, it’ll make for an entertaining story.

Let your humanity shine: listen, compliment, be thoughtful, respond sincerely to your friend’s needs and withhold judgment. And give chocolate, lots and lots of chocolate.