Thinking about what I would say in this post, I realized that I write more about the people Sophie bonds with than the ones Annabelle does — maybe because Sophie is so direct in her declarations, maybe because Annabelle doesn’t give her heart quite as easily. But tonight I find myself thinking about Annabelle and Michele.

I wish I could show you a picture of Michele. She’s take-your-breath-away beautiful. I worked with her for 10 years, but I’d still bump into her in the hallway and be stunned all over again by how lovely she is. Inside and out. You’ll have to take my word for it, because Michele doesn’t show her face. Not since she took the job as New Times‘ food critic about five years ago.

Before that she held several other jobs at the paper, including music editor, where she wrote one of my all-time favorite pieces ever, about how Robert Smith from The Cure changed her life.

Two weeks ago tomorrow, Michele gave her two week notice. So tomorrow, her office will be empty.

I will miss Michele for so many reasons, not all having to do with work. She is one of the best listeners I know, and she gives the best gifts. If you think me shallow for the latter, you have never received one of Michele’s incredibly thoughtful presents, always with a card in her beautiful script.

The first gift I remember getting from Michele was a tiny Winnie the Pooh onesie for Annabelle, who was born a few months after Michele arrived at the paper. Over the years, the two didn’t see one another terribly often, but when they did, it became clear that Michele has a Mini Me. Truly, if I hadn’t been in that delivery room myself, I’d say that this was her own kid.

More than once, Annabelle’s startled Michele by showing an interest in (and talent for) something she loves: fashion design, drawing, stickers, handwriting, all things Japanese. The culinary arts. I haven’t played The Cure for her yet, but I should.

Annabelle overheard me on the phone with her a few days ago. “Michele who is leaving?” she asked.

“Michele Laudig.”

Annabelle got a funny look on her face. A little while later, she presented me with the item pictured above: a “plate” of sushi crafted out of felt. “That’s the napkin,” she said, pointing to the white piece of felt next to the green roll. “It’s for Michele.”

The perfect gift.

There’s no way to adequately thank Michele for the countless lunches, the dozens of hand-me-down magazines, the empathy, the hard work, the cheerful knock on my door even when I knew she was grumpy herself. I hope a felt sushi roll from her favorite 9-year-old comes close.

Please don’t tell anyone. But the truth is, I’m not a huge fan of pie. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not saying I won’t eat it, but given the choice I’ll take ice cream or a handful of M&Ms. Even — if we’re being really honest here — a cupcake.

But after last weekend, I love pie.

The idea to throw a pie social in downtown Phoenix was born across town in Tempe, literally in the middle of the street. One day last spring, my dear friend Cindy Dach and I had just spent an entire lunch trying to figure out what sort of food event we could throw together. I’d been given a mandate at New Times to come up with some community events for our food blog, Chow Bella, to co-host. Cindy basically runs this town (between managing the indie bookstore, Changing Hands, and helping to run the group that makes First Friday art walks — and much more — happen downtown) so it was a no-brainer.

But that day we’d wracked our brains, and nothing. Walking back from lunch (okay, yes, we jaywalked) I stopped in the middle of McClintock Road and said, “Pie.”

If Cindy was involved, it had to be pie. She’d proclaimed it the new cupcake months (years?) before and had begun showing up at dinner parties with these amazing pies she’d baked from scratch.

And so we had a pie social. I really can’t take any credit for it beyond that — Cindy masterminded the thing the way only she can, modeling Pie Social after a successful event that’s gone on for years in Brooklyn, and making it Phoenix’s own. It wasn’t easy. I did a lot of the marketing, which isn’t something I know how to do, and even at the last minute we were worried about permitting with the county. After all, we were asking hundreds of people to make pies in their kitchens and share them. That’s not very 2010, when it comes to health regulations.

But the whole thing went off without a hitch (okay, we were short a few knives, and one of the “celebrity” pie chefs we brought in got a little snobby) and in the end, literally hundreds of people gathered to eat pie on a sunny November afternoon.

Some of my favorite people in the world were there, including my dear friend Estelle, who is very wise.

She pulled me aside and said, “Look at what you did! Look at what you created! You came up with an idea, and all these people came and they are enjoying!”

I quickly pointed out that it was Cindy’s idea, not mine, but still, what Estelle said warmed my heart. As I look back over 2010, I realize I haven’t been so creative, not it the way that typically warms my heart. I haven’t written a single story for New Times, I’ve even fallen behind on Girl in a Party Hat. I’ve been too busy running events, managing pay sheets, editing food blog posts and cursing that new four-letter word in the journalism world, BLOG. (Not the same in my work world as it is here, not by a long shot.)

But Estelle was right. There are all different ways of creating, if you open your mind to the notion. I got misty, watching people line up with their pies. Even Cindy (far more stoic than I) admitted she almost got teary, looking at the slideshow after the event, and she’s already started talking about dates for next year. And we got a chuckle out of the pie story in the New York Times this week.

Maybe next year Cindy will have time to bake, on top of everything else. Since I, unlike Cindy, have no qualms about cheating when it comes to pie, I short-cutted for the Pie Social. Here’s the recipe for my salted peanut caramel pie. I’m not sure how it went over with the masses, but I didn’t think it was bad for a novice effort. Maybe I’ll even make one for Thanksgiving.

Salted Peaunt Caramel Pie

Thoroughly thaw 1 box of Trader Joe’s pre-made pie crust. (Overnight in the fridge and then some; I had to put mine in the microwave for 30 seconds.)

Ingredients:

50 individually wrapped caramels (that’s the hardest part, unwrapping them!); 1/4 cup water ; 1/4 cup butter ; 3 large eggs; 3/4 cup granulated sugar; 1/2 teaspoon vanilla extract; 1/4 teaspoon salt; 1 cup salted peanuts (or chopped pecans if you’re more traditional).

Directions:

1. Preheat oven to 350 degrees.
2. Microwave the caramel candies, water and butter at 30 second intervals til well-melted.
3. In a medium bowl, combine eggs, sugar, vanilla, and salt; beat well.
4. Stir into the caramel mixture gradually; mix well. Add nuts then pour into unbaked pie shells. (I had enough caramel for two pies, though the recipe this is modified from said I’d just be able to make one.) Bake for 45 minutes.

Robrt Pela is a dear friend and longtime colleague. If you live in metro Phoenix, you might know him as the theater critic for Phoenix New Times and KJZZ, the local NPR affiliate. He writes about other things, too — he’s done a book about John Waters, and New Times stories about every art form you can imagine (and some you can’t). And he writes about his own life.

Robrt’s memoir writing is fan-freaking-tastic, and I am particularly fond of the work he’s done about his family. He doesn’t write about his kids — he doesn’t have any. Lately, he writes about his mother. It’s a particularly bittersweet task, I imagine, because she he has Alzheimer’s.

It’s not the same as writing about your kids, and yet in some important ways, I think, it’s not entirely different, either. Robrt was kind enough to take a break from his almost round-the-clock caregiving role to answer a few questions.

(You can hear his pieces and see a lovely photo of Robrt and his mom on KJZZ’s archives.)

Before this happened with your mom, how did you approach memoir writing?

Much more cautiously. I felt more strongly about protecting people when writing about them as secondary characters in my own story. I worry about that less, now that I’ve written about my mother as a disabled person— something she would not have approved of.

Did you have any rules for what you would/wouldn’t write for the public?

I suppose, unofficially, that I meant not to embarrass people who were close to me. So stories in which others behaved badly were off limits. This is less often true all the time.

How is this different when it comes to your mom, given her situation?

I had to abandon the idea of only writing about things my mother would have approved of, were she still in her right mind, because she was a very private person when it came to anything embarrassing, like an ailment. She wouldn’t have approved any of this, to be honest, and that’s where my personal concerns about exploitation and fairness come in. When we’re writing about someone close to us, we’re writing about ourselves, as well. I was always profoundly moved that my mother’s mother’s lifelong confinement in a mental hospital in the 1920s was such a deep, dark secret. I hated that. By not keeping secrets, I am making up for the ways in which my maternal grandmother (whom I never knew) became a secret. For me, if I’m telling all my stories, without shame, I’m compensating.

You have already put some work out into the world — any regrets once it was there? Lessons learned from it?

I was frankly surprised by the response to the first Mom essay, and I suppose the lesson I learned is that everyone has a mother, and mom storiesnreally resonate with people.

I have no regrets.

Why write memoir?

I like writing what I know, and I suppose I know nothing better than my own story and how I feel about it. Also, writing memoir is a more intimate way of doing what we do all day long: write. It’s like having a discussion with your reader in which you say, “See? We’re different enough that you’re informed or (hopefully) entertained by this story, but we’re also kind of alike; this is your story, too.”

Why write about your mom during this time? Why not just tell happy stories about her?

I find that I can do both, but one has to have reason to write about what a good cook or friendly person one’s mother is or was. The contrast between who she is now and who she was before, in my case, provides a tension and melancholy that I like to bring to my writing.

Both my girls are getting more interested in what I’m doing on the computer.

Well, Sophie just wants me off, so she can get on and watch Amy Sedaris’ Tooth Fairy appearance on Yo Gabba Gabba (which is so disturbing I will not embed the video EVEN THOUGH I CAN). But Annabelle has asked me recently just what I’m writing about, and when I tell her “you,” I get one of her signature raised eyebrows.

It’s only a matter of time ’til she actually reads this blog. I’m not sure how I feel about that. Or how she will.

The topic of The Implications of Writing About Your Kids (and otherwise depicting them) has long intrigued/befuddled me, so I think I’ll devote my next few posts to it.

First up: Check out this thoughtful piece by Dani Shapiro in the New York Times, on the topic of Larry Rivers’ work.

More soon. Meantime, what are your thoughts?

OK, yes, so in the Brave New World of Media as We Know It Today (but blink and it’ll change again), newspaper editors must take up event planning.

At least, I must. And so, if I must, let it be a Super Cool Event. (At least I hope it will — the fantastic Georganne of Frances and Smeeks fame is involved, so you know it’ll be great.)

If you’re in metro Phoenix next Friday, please join us. There’s still time to apply to be an Official Judge; you can get the details here.

Annabelle just received the sad news that she has her first cavity (damn, I hoped the girls had Ray’s teeth) so I suppose it will be an adult evening for me.

I hate to admit that motherhood (particularly, mothering Sophie) has changed how I approach telling other people’s stories, but it has. I don’t know that it made this story any better from the reader’s perspective, but it cut me to the quick, telling this one.

Niki Varlotta is quite a mom. As much as I asked her about her son Alex, in the two-plus years I followed her family, she wanted to know all about Sophie, too. She didn’t have to ask — she’s just that kind of person. She wanted to know. She really cares. We talked about other stuff, too. Books, music. About our “typical” kids and how having “special” siblings — so different and yet unified by their differentness — affects them, for both good and bad.

I’ll miss her. And yet, I’m terrified she’ll call — to share the next scary chapter of her family’s story. I hope I don’t hear from Niki, save a Christmas card or a book recommendation.

That family deserves a happy ending.