I'm not even going to attempt to explain away the weeks since my last post. There are no good excuses. Instead, I'm going to spin a tale about my own trip to Ireland a couple of years ago and how it evolved into Luke O'Brien deciding to open a pub in The Summer Garden.

Ever since my dad convinced my cousin and I to start digging into our genealogical roots some fifteen or so years ago, I'd been longing to go to Ireland where at least some of our history began. Maeve Binchy's books only added to the allure. I had visions of small villages, not unlike my fictional Chesapeake Shores, warm fires and cozy pubs. So, the second Aer Lingus launched non-stop service from Washington to Dublin, I was on the phone to my cousin.

"Let's do it," I said, and that's all it took. Sandy is always ready for an adventure.

So while I diligently researched hotels and a few essential sights for our weeklong stay, Sandy did what she does best. She pinpointed every single pub in the nearby neighborhoods, plus a few beyond. I have to say that my contribution to the itinerary was pretty dull by comparison. I did offer up one pub, based solely on its name -- O'Neill's. Two of my dearest friends from childhood were O'Neills and the guidebook made it sound like a Dublin landmark. Truthfully, as it turned out, not so much a landmark, but a deserted dinosaur of a place. It did, however, have window boxes overflowing with colorful blooms outside. The charm ended there.

Overall, though, we made it our mission to find good Irish music and classic pubs. By our last night, we'd blazed quite a path, but wanted one more pub before heading home. The concierge at our hotel tried to be helpful. He named the two pubs down the block.

"Been there," we informed him.

"And the Arlington Hotel. They have lovely song and dance. It's just across the river."

"Been there."

He tried a few more. We'd been to each of them.

"Now there's another lovely place. It's a ways from here, up in the hills. Johnny Fox's. Very old. Very traditional."

"Been there."

At that point I'm sure he though we must have spent our entire trip to Dublin getting well and truly sloshed. Not so. It was all "research" for Luke O'Brien and the pub he creates to bring a little taste of Ireland to Chesapeake Shores. Just as he wants O'Brien's to be an integral part of the community, a place for more than food, drink and music, that's what we discovered so many of these Irish pubs to be.

And if we didn't come home with even one new addition to our family tree, well, it hardly mattered. It was an excellent adventure!

No, I am not suggesting you go back and read a classic novel in the midst of your holiday preparations. Rather I'm alerting you to the dangers of building up those holiday expectations.

It's something we all do, I think, especially those of us who not only love the Christmas season, but make a business of fantasizing about the perfect holiday. In my fictional worlds and in my life, I always imagine a Christmas season filled with joyful family gatherings, a landscape covered with snow, the sound of carols, and the scents of freshly-cut Christmas trees, sugar cookies baking and giant mugs of hot cocoa. Let me tell you, I can count on the fingers of one hand the number of times in my relatively long life that all of those elements have come together in the way they do in books...even mine.

Of course, living in South Florida at this time of year, I can pretty much forget about snow. And I stopped baking cookies around the time I started writing fulltime and no longer had office mates to gobble them up so I wouldn't. But even with the guaranteed absence of those elements, my expectations start to climb around mid-November, then sink like a rock right about now when reality sets in.

Just the other day I was talking to an old friend from my college days who knows me pretty darn well. I was bemoaning some disappointment that threatened to sap all the holiday spirit right out of me despite countless hours of listening to carols on the radio and watching Christmas movies on the Hallmark Channel. He pointed out something that should be obvious, but often isn't.

"The key is to forget about expectations and focus on enjoying what is!" That is, of course, the key to joyous living, isn't it? Live in the moment. Don't whine about what's missing, but cherish what's here. Seize every single second of fun. And remember that giving is absolutely better than receiving. I think that's why so many people have gotten caught up in the spirit of giving this season. Those so-called lay-away angels receive something just as precious as the gifts they're helping others to buy. There's true joy in knowing that their act of generosity made Christmas better for others.

So, with Christmas only days away, I encourage you to take a moment to savor whatever IS in your life. And, if you want to be truly blessed this season, find some simple, random act of kindness you can perform. It doesn't have to be as grand as paying for someone's lay-away purchases. Tell the clerk at the fast-food drive-through you'd like to buy the meal or drink for the person behind you and wish them a merry Christmas. Or offer to drive an elderly neighbor to church on Christmas eve. Or take a plate of cookies to someone on your block who doesn't have many holiday visitors.

Whatever you do, may it fill your heart with the spirit of season. Merry Christmas, everyone!

When I noticed just how long it's been since I last posted, I tried to figure out where the time has gone. The past few weeks have flown by in a frenzy of Thanksgiving preparations, followed by a mad dash toward Christmas.

The other day I had one of those Christmas shopping miracles we all dream about. I drove to the far southwest side of Miami to start my day at Starbucks. Caffeine is vital for the kind of morning marathon I had in mind. From there I went to Barnes and Noble for gift cards and a couple of CDs. I was there when the doors opened at 9 a.m. In and out in twenty minutes.

From B&N, I headed further south and landed at Crate and Barrel and Williams-Sonoma precisely at ten, just in time for them to open. Bought a couple of presents, along with a gift a friend needed for his wife. Hightailed it out of there by 10:30 and headed back north.

Reached yet another mall, where I arrived just in time for Bath & Body Works to open at 11. Bought more gift cards along with little bottles of shower gel and body lotion to accompany them. Mission accomplished.

I was home on Key Biscayne by noon. Any of you who happen to know South Florida traffic will truly understand what a miracle of timing and efficiency this was. If only all of my shopping excursions had gone as smoothly. Alas, while the others were ultimately successful, they were also mired in the usual holiday frustration and chaos. It comes with the season.

But I am thrilled to announce, I am finished. Every gift has been wrapped and those destined for other states have been shipped. Every card had been addressed and mailed. Now, if only the temperature were somewhere below 80, I could settle back with a steaming cup of hot chocolate, put my favorite Christmas CDs on the stereo and sit back with some good holiday reading. The perfect way to get into the Christmas spirit. Instead, it feels a little like I should be blasting tunes by the Beach Boys!

How are your holiday plans progressing? Have you found the perfect gifts for everyone on your list? Baked your family's favorite cookies? I'd love to hear about your special traditions. Post right here or join the discussion on my Facebook fan page.

In the meantime, I wish you all a season of miracles and the joy of family!

Frequent readers of this blog probably know that I'm a huge fan of live theater, especially on Broadway. My earliest recollection was seeing Julie Andrews in The Boyfriend many, many, many years ago. I never miss an opportunity to see a play whenever I'm in New York.

However, my quest to see the smash hit Jersey Boys has taken some odd turns since it opened several years ago.

On my first try, a friend bought and had the tickets, but failed to note an earlier curtain time. Two of us waited and waited outside the theater, then gave up. Of course that was just enough to make me obsessed with getting to see it, so I scheduled another trip to NY, bought tickets and was literally about to walk out the door when the news came that a family member was dying. I headed for the hospital instead. Two strikes!

On my third attempt with yet another friend, I did manage to at least get inside the theater, but I was in the back row with a partially obscured view. Great music, but not exactly prime seating.

Sooo...when I planned to head for New York last week on business, a couple of cousins joined me. One of them, who'd missed that first Jersey Boys showing with me, really wanted to see it. Despite being thoroughly offended by the concept of "premium seating" -- a way for the theater to make the exorbitant amount on prime tickets that scalpers used to make -- I forked out the money for the third row orchestra. At last, in the theater where I could hear AND see!! When those Jersey guys sang my personal teen anthem, Sherry Baby, there's not a doubt in my mind they were singing straight to me. Worth every penny.

If you're of a certain age and the songs of Frankie Valli and the Four Seasons bring back memories, be sure to see this show if it comes to your town. It'll have you bouncing in your seat, if not dancing in the aisles. And these days we all need that kind of upbeat feeling -- it's priceless!

Out of all the tales I had to tell and pictures I had to share on my return from Paris, only one garnered the same stunned reaction, especially from men. It was the image of me, armed with a blowtorch!

Now keep in mind, this was a small kitchen blowtorch, designed for caramelizing the top of a creme brûlée, not some construction monstrosity, but apparently in my hands it stirred an element of concern. Maybe I'm perceived as more dangerous than I ever imagined. I kind of like that!

At any rate, after an endless amount of research on just the right cooking class for us -- one that didn't involve rabbit or escargots -- my friend Charlotte and I landed at Cook 'n with Class in the heart of the Montmarte neighborhood of Paris. One of its selling points was English-speaking instructors, though I'm not sure either of us were prepared for a very funny chef who grew up in Texas! Chef Alex is an amazingly tolerant, determinedly hands-on instructor who insisted that the five of us in the dessert class do a little of everything, from separating an endless number of eggs, weighing flour and sugar to whisking. There was a lot of whisking! And a lot of laughter as new skills were discovered...or determined to be out of reach.

During the three-hour class -- just right for non-serious cooks who wanted just a taste of
the French cooking experience -- we made a fabulous frozen grand marnier mousse, a delicious chocolate mousse, madeleine cookies, an apple tart and, best of all for me, a strawberry creme brûlée. I've never met a creme brûlée I didn't love and would have been perfectly content if we'd stopped right there, though I wouldn't have wanted to miss Frank from Boston flaming the apples for that tart, either. Surprisingly, they didn't let the rest of us near that particular fiery experience. Hmmm.

One of the best parts of these experiences is sampling the end result. Of course, not even on my best days can I eat that many sweets in a row. A taste or two of each was enough, except for -- you guessed it -- the creme brûlée. Oh my!!

This was the perfect introductory cooking class that actually made me feel at least a tiny bit like a pro in the kitchen. And with a Sweet Magnolias cookbook coming out next September, it actually boosted my confidence enough to assure that I'll be attempting all the incredible recipes created by Georgia chef Teddi Wohlford for that book.

If you're heading to Paris anytime in the near future, I highly recommend taking a cooking class as an introduction to the local foods. There's even a class that includes a trip to the market to learn how to select the freshest, best ingredients for the dishes you'll learn to make. It's a way to bring a little bit of France home with you and make it part of your next dinner party. Check out www.cooknwithclass.com to discover all the possibilities. And ask when Chef Alex is teaching. He might let you use the blowtorch!

For pictures and a recipe for that strawberry creme brûlée, go to my Facebook fan page. I'll have those posts up soon.

All beauty is in the eye of the beholder, which is one reason artists like Jackson Pollock and Claude Monet can both be considered masters, though not always by the same people. For instance, I will never grasp the wild splashes of Pollock's works, while I've always loved Monet's Impressionistic works.

When I first started planning this recent trip to Paris with my friend Charlotte, whom I've known since college, my only request was that we include a day trip to Giverny, where Monet painted for the second half of his life. It was where his famed water lily series was painted. His home was surrounded by incredible gardens.

Because our trip was schedule for the end of September, I feared the gardens would be less than spectacular. To my delight, I couldn't have been more wrong. They were still filled with color. It's easy to see how Monet created so many masterpieces in such incredible surroundings.

Our guide, a young and very handsome multi-lingual Frenchman worthy of hero status in any of my books, explained that as Monet's eyesight changed in later years his works moved more and more toward the abstract. He also told us that Monet was fascinated by the changing light and that no matter how often he painted the same scene, it was never quite the same. For someone like me, who dreams of painting but has never once recognized anything I put on paper, I was awed to see how that translated from reality to canvas. It was even evident in the photos I took of the waterlilies, where lighting changed in the mere seconds it took to click the shutter from one picture to the next.

The next day we went to L'Orangerie, which houses the stunning water lilies series, to see the paintings in person. It was the perfect way to finish up the Monet experience.

One of these days I'm going to get out the watercolors I received for Christmas two years ago and see if I can paint even one of those garden scenes so it's recognizable. I seriously doubt I'll discover I have any hidden artistic talent at this stage of my life, but recognizable would be a step in the right direction.

Though we visited a lot of amazing places in Paris, Giverny was definitely a highlight. And, for a bonus, we actually rode past Roland Garros, home of the French Open, en route. While I might not have been able to step on those red clay courts, just having a glimpse gave me goosebumps. What a day!!

Stay tuned for more from Paris. Next up the tale of Sherryl, a blowtorch and a strawberry creme brûlée!

For many years I was blessed to have dear friends living in various European cities. It made travel so easy. I might not have been able to communicate in German, Danish or other languages, but they could. Last week I made my first overseas trip in many years without that communications backup. Oh, my! My French is very, very rusty. And I am now aware of how tourists to our country feel when they encounter a blank stare when trying to get directions, ask a price or order a meal.

I took French in high school and college and even traveled to Paris shortly after and managed to communicate reasonably well, but that was a very long time ago. In the interim I moved to Miami and tried to add Spanish to my language repertoire. Now I merrily mix the two and wonder why people regard me very oddly.

I did okay in restaurants. When you love food as much as I do, that's a necessity. It's alao the only way to avoid eating something that is not meant for human consumption, except in an upscale French restaurant. There's not enough wine in the entire country to convince me we should be eating snails, for instance. Fortunately I know an escargot when I see it on tbe menu.

I managed fine at the hotel, with shopping and mostly at the tourist attractions, though it did befuddle me that many workers at tourist sites were not multi-lingual at least for basic information.

So, where did words fail me? With taxi drivers. I've never seen so many blank stares in my life. Add in a few little oddities like a driver who pulled off the expressway in rush hour traffic en route from the airport to race into a mini-mart restroom, and getting around was a challenge. Most of the drivers did try. Most even managed with a little coaching to get us where we intended to go. Some even smiled.

Then, though, just to wrap up the trip with an experience from hell, we had a driver going back to to airport who assumed every American flew on American Airlines. Nothing I said in any language could dissuade him. I repeated United Airlines. Of course, United hadn't helped matters by not including the terminal on the flight confirmation. So, there we were in terminal two, only to discover we belonged in terminal one, which is seemingly in another part of France!

"A short walk," we were told. So we hiked and hiked, then asked again. "Five minutes walk," we were then told, "and then downstairs to the train, past two parking garages and terminal three."

"Are you kidding me?" asked the weary, unhappy traveler.

"Sorry, no."

If I every get back to Paris and spot that taxi driver again, I'll have plenty to say...in French and English.

Stay tuned, though, because there were many, many wonderful things to see and do in Paris, including a dessert cooking class that was fabulous. And I'll be sharing recipes...in English!

It's been quite the week for natural disasters around here. First came the unexpected earthquake on Tuesday and now, as I write this, we're awaiting the arrival of Hurricane Irene, which is already slipping into the region with rain and breezes. What on earth is going on? I'm telling you now if there are signs of pestilence and plague, I'm making a run for it. The only question is where to go given the tornados that slammed other parts of the country earlier this summer.

After living in Florida all these years, I'm fairly calm and collected when it comes to hurricanes. I pay very close attention to the predicted track, the anticipated winds and amount of rain expected, then act accordingly. It was not always this way.

When the very first hurricane aimed at Florida after I moved there, I shuttered my home and went straight to the newspaper office where I worked, wanting to be surrounded by friends while the storm blew though. Even though I was the TV critic, not a general assignment reporter, they wanted me to go right back outside! I'm not that intrepid, which was why I'd run to the office in the first place. And I'd seen those TV reporters trying to stand upright while the wind tried to flatten them. I wasn't interested. I attached myself firmly to a phone to work the story from inside and vowed to ride out the next storm from home.

That storm also taught me not to let my panic peak too soon. I was at the office for hours before the first drops of rain fell. Now I've learned to pace myself.

As for earthquakes, I was in Los Angeles for a couple of huge ones. No anticipation. They just happen. Both of the ones I experienced hit in the middle of the night. They scared me at the time, but once the shaking stopped, they were done. The most disconcerting aspects were the aftershocks, which hit the radio station I was listening to a full sixty seconds before they rolled down to Redondo Beach where I was. Anticipating them was worse than experiencing them. I had to turn off the radio.

Here on Tuesday, it took me a good 30 seconds to figure out we were actually having an earthquake, even as the house swayed pretty dramatically. I'd never experienced one in Virginia. The shaking made no sense to me. My cousin who was visiting came running into the living room wondering what on earth was happening. Both of us immediately started checking news websites to see if it was indeed an earthquake. No damage here. Just a few framed pictures fell over on a table. None broke.

Hopefully the hurricane will be equally benign as it rolls through tonight and tomorrow. I'm saying lots of prayers for those in the areas predicted to be hardest hit. If you're in the path of Irene, let me know how you fared. And let's hope the natural disasters are over everywhere for the year!

I've been on the road a lot lately, which has given me an excessive amount of time to think. Mostly I try to use this time to work out plot points for a new book, but all too often, instead, I drift into thoughts about all the things that drive me nuts.

I suspect this mental wandering could be fueled by my Starbucks iced mochas, which are the reason I'm on the road so blasted much in the first place. You see my nearest Starbucks is 45 minutes away, which is both a blessing and a curse. The curse, of course, is how far I have to drive to get that mocha -- and the dark chocolate covered Graham crackers to which I'm also recently addicted. The blessing is that it's NOT right around the corner, so I'm not dreaming up daily excuses to go there.

At the top of my current list of annoyances is the habit of way too many drivers who risk life and limb by pulling into 55 mph traffic from a side road, and then drive at a snail's pace. If they were in such a hurry to get on the highway, why on earth don't they drive the speed limit once they're out there?

Then there are the drivers who persist in driving in the passing lane and not budging...or passing. Or if they do eventually pull over, then speed up so it's all but impossible to pass them and move back to the right.

I'm also befuddled by managers at various stores who watch lines build up and do nothing to get additional cashiers in place. Or by managers who are late opening because at five minutes before opening time they've discovered their computers are down and have to figure out how to fix the problem before allowing customers in the door. And don't let me get started on the post office these days. Not the carriers, who are terrific, but the policies and management. Is it any wonder profits are down when they've made it all but impossible to figure out the ever-shrinking hours of operation?

However, lest you think I've entirely lost my sense of humor these days, I was greatly cheered today by a hotel sign that announced "friendly service for quality guest." I couldn't help wondering if a similar sign is what got the head of the IMF in big trouble at that fancy New York hotel!

So today what I wish for you is a reason to laugh no matter how many frustrations you face. A good chuckle really is good medicine!

Today's headlines are a roller coaster ride of good news, bad news, terrible news and tragedy, and all I seem to care about these days are angry birds! Nope, not the kind that attack innocent passersby or even the ones in Alfred Hitchcock's frightening movie, but those on my iPad screen.

You see I'm just back from my annual vacation in the Outer Banks with a houseful of kids who bring me up to date on the hot trends in current culture for the mostly pre-teen set, though I saw some evidence of adults getting involved with some of this stuff.

Last year I discovered the joy of silly bands as a fashion accessory, as well as the previously untapped frustration of the training exercises on my Wii system. This year it was the complete and utter determination to achieve every level of Angry Birds mastery.

Angry Birds is a game that is somehow tied to the movie, Rio. At least I think so, since there seems to be a promotion for the film included at the end of the game. Eight-year-old Donovan and six-year-old Carson introduced me to this, along with Apples to Apples (played with people, not a computer) and Fruit Ninja, which seems to have no discernible purpose other than proving that my eye-hand coordination is pretty lousy.

I'm not entirely sure if there's any lesson to be learned from Angry Birds, except that it has the power to drive a grown woman to want to throw her iPad in the Atlantic Ocean. The goal is to destroy animals in various habitats (these are cartoons, so please no protests that the game is training young minds not respect wildlife!) by using a slingshot to send angry birds after them. I suppose there are lessons to be had about arcs and angles and such, but the biggest lesson I learned is that I absolutely hate being mocked by a monkey I missed! The more often I missed, the more determined I was to finally get to level three in the final game and destroy everyone of those gloating little critters. I did it last night...with nary a kid around to witness the accomplishment. That's okay. I shouted loudly enough for all of us.

This year's trip also included plenty of games of Go Fish (I lost), lots of Scrabble (I lost) and Flash Scrabble (I was pitiful) and a couple of puzzles. One of those might have gone a little better had not someone somehow managed to stash a critical edge piece in his pocket. And, no, that was not a kid!

At any rate, thank you Donovan, Carson, Morgan, Jonathan, Austin and Adam for bringing me up to speed on the latest pop culture. Evan's not even two and already showing signs he'll be a force to be reckoned with in this crowd. And every one of them proves to me annually that kids today are smart as whips . . . And more fun than a barrel of those blasted monkeys!