I’ve been sufficiently whelmed since Tom died to bare blog. And yet, my to-do list is longer than it’s ever been, what with taking Ghostwriter Certification Training into Cal State Long Beach, creating new classes for aspiring authors, producing Ghostwriters Unite!  next May, writing new manuals and the 5th edition of This Business of Books, and a few gazillion other things.

Not to mention the baking.

Okay, here’s the deal. Before Tom died, I baked every November and December. I made congo bars, fudge, toffee squares, bourbon and rum balls, cinnamon sugar cookies, and, of course, peanut-butter and chocolate-chip cookies. Not to mention cakes for my birth daughter and acquired son, whose celebrations are all of two days apart.

Then I stopped. I couldn’t seem to mix flour with sugar and eggs from the vantage point of widowhood. I just could not go there.

And now, for no good discernible reason, I can. So if you drive by my place in the next several weeks, inhale with care as you pass, because the calories in these goodies waft out to the atmosphere on wings of their aromas. I wouldn’t want to be responsible for anyone gaining weight just because they sniffed around my yard!