I love bananas, but I'm a bit strange. For me, the best time to enjoy the fruit is a little after it's past the green stage. The texture is perfect, and I love topping an open-faced peanut butter sandwich with thin slices of the fruit, drizzling it with organic honey, and toasting it in the oven. Each delicious bite takes me back to my youth and afternoon snacks at my nana's house.
     The darker the skin on the banana, the more I'm repulsed. I don't like the smell, and I certainly don't like the slimy feel of the flesh.             Today, I remembered a bunch of bananas I'd bought at the store a few days earlier. Deadlines, edits, and errands has occupied my mind lately, and the fruit sat forgotten on my baker's rack. Now I wasn't happy with what I saw. The skin had more spots than a Dalmatian, and the flesh was soft, squishing easily in its enclosure. Great. The only option in my opinion was banana bread. 
     I love experimenting with different recipes, and I needed one that'd fulfill my family's sweet tooth and wasn't calorie heavy. I created a bite-sized, super-moist dessert that'll be bliss for any banana bread lover. To cut calories, I subbed half of the margarine with applesauce, and half the coconut palm sugar with Splenda™ brown sugar blend. These bites are great as a dessert, or as a perfect partner for a steaming cup of coffee.

Nutty Blueberry-Banana Bread Bites
Serves 18

¼ cup margarine, melted
¼ cup applesauce
1/3 cup coconut palm sugar
1/3 cup brown sugar Splenda™ blend
1 egg, beaten
1 tsp. vanilla
1 medium (very ripe) banana, mashed
½ cup chopped pecans, toasted
½ cup fresh blueberries
1 cup all-purpose flour
½ tsp. salt
½ baking soda
¼ tsp. baking powder
1 tsp. cinnamon

Preheat oven to 350°.

In a large bowl, stir together the margarine, applesauce, sugar, Splenda™, egg, vanilla, and banana. Mix until everything is well-combined and the mixture is smooth.

​Add the remaining ingredients and mix until everything is incorporated and no flour is visible.

Pour into a 13"x9" lightly greased baking dish (I use this type of pan). Bake for 25-30 minutes or until a toothpick inserted in the center comes out clean. Let cool completely, then cut into 18 squares and remove from the pan,
​

    
      The air in my mother’s attic smelled of mothballs and dusty clothing.  Boxes decorated the floors like forgotten building blocks, while spiders’ webbing, substituting for lace, hanged above dingy windows. It was a far cry from the airy wonderland where I spent rainy afternoons during my childhood. The visit wasn’t planned, not really. Mama’s health was declining. On a whim, she invited me one weekend to take what I wanted of my childhood memories before the remaining loot was donated or thrown away.
    “So tell me again, what we are looking for?” my son Jonathan asked. “Dang it!” Dancing like a cricket on a hot skillet, he fought with a cobweb that decorated his head and fell backward into a dressmaker’s dummy. In seconds, he’d made it from the stairs to where I stood, several yards away. “What the heck was that?” he shrieked. 
      I fought the smile that was tickling the corners of my mouth. “Um… that would be Chelle.”
   Jonathan stared at my face incredulously, looking for answers. “And that’s who? The chick ain’t got no head.” 
     “It’s your granny’s dressmaker’s dummy.”
     My son nodded, frowning as he surveyed the rest of the attic. “Um-hmm.” He pointed to a frizzy-headed, one-eyed, doll hanging from a hook on the wall. “So it’s not some freakish experiment like that.”
       “No, that’s my Rub-a-Dub Dolly. I used to get too excited while bathing her and accidentally rubbed one of her eyes out.
      “Well,” Jonathan huffed. “I’m glad you got outta that phase before I was born.”
       I laughed and flicked a dust ball at him. “Smart-alec. Just make sure you watch where you step. Rotten boards are over the kitchen, and I don’t think Granny would want anything other than creamer in her coffee.”
       “Again, what are we looking for?” Jonathan shuddered and glanced at a dark crawlspace nearby. “This feels like a scene in a horror movie. Any moment, Freddy Kruger will appear and take me to some weird alternate universe.” 
       “Don’t worry, old Fred would bring you back after an hour.” 
        A large box secluded in the shadows had captured my attention. Carefully, I maneuvered my way around containers of forgotten Christmas ornaments and trunks of clothes from days gone by. I don’t remember this box being here. Reverently, I blew the dust off the top and smiled at childish scribbling on the lid: “DO NOT OPEN OR ELSE.” 
      “’Or else’ what?” an older woman’s voice, roughened by years of exposure to crop dust and weather, asked inside my mind.
       “’Or else’ I’ll dye your hair pink Granny!” a teen giggled, also in my mind.
       “Now Debbie, that’s not ladylike. How ‘bout ‘or else’ I’ll tickle you,” my grandmother responded. 
       The conversation had been followed by waves of giggles from both parties. I smiled at the memory, so fresh in my mind as if it’d happened just the day before instead of twenty years earlier. I leaned forward, closed my eyes, and sniffed the box. The faint scent of gingerbread and donuts wound its way through my nasal passages and to my heart. Still smells like your house, Granny. 
       I eased the top off the box. Nestled between two high school letter jackets was my one and only “first place” barrel racing trophy. I held it against my face, enjoying the coolness of the metal against my cheek before laying it aside. Digging deeper, my fingers brushed against something flat and hard.
        A lump formed in my throat as I gazed at the old hymnbook in my hands. It’d been my grandmother’s. I could almost feel her hands over mine as I caressed the cover, enjoying the feel of it in my grasp and the memories that came with it.
        After my father’s death, I was angry and reclusive. No one knew how to penetrate the wall of resentment encasing my heart, and not many dared to try.
      I was surprised, when during a visit to Granny’s house, she dropped the book in my lap. “And what am I supposed to do with this?” I held the book like it was a soiled diaper.
     Granny raised an eyebrow. “What anyone else would do—sing of course.”
     “If you haven’t realized it, I have nothing to sing about.” I ignored the look of hurt in my grandmother’s eyes.
       She sat on the sofa beside me and took my hand in hers. “My child,” she began. "When you sing, your brain concentrates on the lyrics and the melody. Your heart is filled with love of life, and the shared memories of loved ones, past and present.”
      She pressed the book back into my hands. “You’ll feel better, I promise. Now, let’s raise the roof!”
      That afternoon, and for many years afterward, we made it a point to join our hearts in song and “raise the roof.” And my burdens were lightened each time. 
       Our sessions became less frequent after my grandmother was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s’. The lyrics and melody became difficult for her to remember, and as a result she would become uncharacteristically agitated. After one visit, my grandmother, with tears in her eyes, handed me the book. There was a finality I understood, but didn’t want to accept. 
        “I want you to keep singing, for me,” she’d insisted. “And when you do, raise the roof with your heart and voice, and remember me.”
        Now, I held the cherished book to my heart, as if hoping to absorb the memories it represented. I opened the book, selected a hymn, and in a voice weak from lack of practice, began to “raise the roof,” just as my grandmother would want me to.

        

     Unlike me (who's not afraid to scarf down a dump truck's weight in sushi), my children are picky eaters. Throughout their childhood, I've found petrified slices of tomatoes hidden in the pages of magazines and Lima beans in shorts' pockets. Yeah, I just loved cleaning snot-colored goop off of clean clothes. And a bean stain (discovered by a well-meaning co-worker) is hard tos explain when found on the seat of white pants.
      So, in order to keep my sanity and get my children to eat veggies, I have to be sneaky...umm...creative. I've passed off cauliflower as fake mashed potatoes, and used eggplant as the base for a pizza crust. But recently I've hit their hearts and tummies even harder by slipping the dreaded veggie into desserts.
     Just recently, I made a recipe for oatmeal chocolate chip cookies using zucchini. I subbed coconut palm sugar for dark brown sugar. Same great, sweet taste but a few more nutrients and minerals added. The zucchini added a moistness that made the texture wonderful,and that allowed me to cut back on the amount of butter. Even better, my older son swore he couldn't taste the zucchini. Score! Here's the recipe for Zomfa's Mystery Cookies.  Enjoy!


Zomfa's Mystery Cookies


1 cup all-purpose flour
1 1/2 tsp. ground cinnamon
1 tsp. baking soda
1/2 tsp. salt
4 Tbsp. salted butter, softened
1/2 cup coconut palm sugar
1/4 cup sugar
1 large egg, slightly beaten
1 tsp. vanilla
1 cup shredded zucchini
2 cups old-fashioned oat
1/2 cup sweetened shredded coconut
1 cup semi-sweet chocolate chips
    
Preheat the oven to 350 degrees Fahrenheit. Lightly spray a baking sheet with cooking spray and set aside.


In a large bowl, combine all the dry ingredients and set aside. 


In medium bowl, combine the butter, sugars, egg, vanilla, and mix until smooth. Add the zucchini and stir until everything is combined.


Add the zucchini mixture to the flour mixture and stir until no dry ingredients are visible. Add the oats, coconut, chocolate chips, and stir until everything is thoroughly mixed together.


*Drop by tablespoons onto the cookie sheet, 2 inches apart,  and bake at 350F for 10-12 minutes until the edges of the cookies are golden. Remove to a wire cookie rack and cool thoroughly.


Makes 16


*I use a 2 tablespoon size cookie scoop.

              Nana lived just down the road from my house. The trees, stood beside the gravel road like watchful guardians, and offered a canopy of shade and a spark to my childish imagination as I walked along, pretending I was on a jungle expedition. The journey from my house to Nana’s was just right—long enough for adventure, but short enough so I wasn’t too tired for all the treats and treasures just for me.
     I wasn’t spoiled, but my grandmother believed that grandchildren were a joy and a blessing, and she treated me as such. Bare feet on the couch was never taboo, cookie jars (crammed with snacks) populated her pantry shelves, and there was always my favorite on hand in the fridge: a container of mashed bananas mixed with peanut butter.
     And spending the night at Nana's house after church on Sunday, especially during the summer, was magical. After the last dish was washed and put away, my grandmother always made a production of placing the folded cloth on the faucet, then carefully checking her tiny herb garden in her kitchen windowsill. Just when I thought my heart would explode from anticipation, Nana would smile and say, "Now, let's see what God and the garden has for us." 
     The setting sun would cast a glow on my grandmother's face, almost making her appear angelic as we made our way to her tiny garden. The coolness of the grass created a delicious shiver beginning at my bare toes and worked its way up my body, creating an unheard song in my soul. Anxious, I'd skip ahead like a wild foal, dancing to the beat of my own internal music, and Nana's laughter, a few yards behind me. She never tired of telling me the names of the plants, chalking up my inattention to just being excited. “When you're working with people, especially family, always give them the same amount of patience I'm giving you. People learn at different speeds," she'd say.
     Nana always made sure that the huge tub she had in her spare bedroom was filled with the latest children's books, best crayons, and spiral notebooks. She preferred those to coloring books. "Why rely on other people's imaginations? Make your own pictures," she'd reason. Nana always praised every one of my drawings, assuring me that I'd be an illustrator.
    "You don't understand child," she'd say "You have more fire and passion in you than some people will ever have in their lifetime. Use it. Embrace it. But always remember where you came from, and treat people the way you want to be treated."
     As I got older, I began to think my grandmother was full of crap. To me, my pictures were nothing more than scribbles. I never knew how much each creation meant to Nana until after her death in 2000. There, among her mementos, were albums, filled with my drawings, each captioned with the date, and my age. I erupted into tears when I found a yellowed paper, decorated with lopsided roses on the last page. Debbie thinks she's awful. What can I do to convince her otherwise, was the entry beneath the picture? The drawing hangs in a frame in my office, offering inspiration when I need it.
     I still visit Nana's house when I visit my childhood home. The path is now a little more overgrown, and the house, once ringing with laughter, sits silent and dark. But from it I still hear my grandmother's wisdom, and pass that along to my own children--gifts from Nana's house. 



  

     The minute a parent cradles their newborn close to their heart, they begin to dream. The child will one day make the winning score in the final minutes of a game, clinching the state championship, they'll be the next Mozart, or perhaps even a great political leader.
     I was no exception. When my younger son Joseph was born, I looked at his long legs, big feet, and hoped that unlike me, this poor child would possess enough grace to be able to walk and chew gum at the same. And like other parents, I had dreams of his greatness--it never crossed my mind that Joseph would (two years later) be diagnosed with autism.
     The next few months where a blur, filled with finding therapies needed  and battling with insurance companies. And my mind was preoccupied with one nagging thought, What did I do to cause this curse, this affliction on my child. Surely there was something.
      I felt physically ill when remembering bits and pieces of my conversation with the specialist on "Terrible Thursday"; the day my dreams for Joseph died. The phrases "lack of fine/gross motor skills" and "completely non-verbal" were tossed at my as easily as a kitten playing with paper. There was a look of complete remorse and compassion in the physician's eyes. But at that moment, in the state of mind I was in, I'd doubted her sincerity. 
    Through the passing of time  answers became clear after gaining resources at conferences, talking with friends on the similar journey, and searching my own heart. Autism is a mystery. No one knows the cause, but this is certain...there is nothing  the parents do that causes this neurological disorder, nor nothing they could have done to have prevented it.
     And I've learned that no matter how many times you explain your child's disorder, there will always be some people that either don't understand, or are unwilling to understand. And that's okay. What's important is be a voice for your child, be an advocate. Don't dwell on what "could have been". Instead, focus on the abilities your child has now, and reformat the dreams.
     Above all, don't give up...ever. 


Debbie Roppolo is an award-winning humorist, children's author, the co-founder of Central Texas Autism Network, and the mother two talented young men, the younger having autism.

Before you go...check out the revised version of He's My Brother, and the newly released Wealth.

     The diagnosis of autism devastates every member of a family, sometimes impacting siblings the hardest. Twelve year-old Jonathan Roper is no exception. Forced to move away from everything that he's familiar so that his younger brother Cameron can get better services, Jonathan feels alone and forgotten.

     Can he overcome his feelings of resentment and sadness, or will Cameron's autism drive a wedge between the brothers that can't be overcome?
     
      This book also contains answers to frequently asked questions, a resource page, and more.

      Wealth is in the eye of the beholder. --Unknown

      Expensive gaming systems, designer clothes, unlimited cash
and jewelry-coveted treasures that often demonstrate the wealth of a person. But wealth has another meaning, one that includes something more precious than the rarest gem: compassion, faith, friendship, love for the family and community.
    
      In this collection of heart-warming short stories, meet Rachel, who is haunted by a dark secret, or take a journey into compassion with Beatrice, both who learn the true meaning of Wealth.

      Thought-provoking questions are at the of every tale, designed to assist the reader in their own journey of self-discovery and fulfillment.

        "You'll never use that arm again."
          I stared at the doctor, allowing his words to penetrate the thick fog that'd occupied my brain for the past week. My right arm lay by my side in the sterile hospital bed like a petrified log. I squinted my eyes and focused on my fingers, hoping by sheer willpower I could make them move. Nope, not even a smidgen.
          Just four days earlier I stood in my kinesiology class at St. Edward's University, hurling a softball (right-handed) across the gym to my partner, rejoicing in the sound of leather hitting skin, enjoying the power of my muscles. I could never throw that hard in high school—my strength-building were paying off. And I had a lot going for me: 4.0 GPA; member of the sorority, Alpha Sigma Lambda; a loving husband and child; three classes left until graduation. It was my life goal to pursue coaching for a few years and later (with more education) obtain a career as a physical therapist.
           A little over half of a week later, I had nothing—all taken away by an angry person who decided I was driving too slow (I was driving 5 miles over the speed limit), and decided to kill me. Over-dramatic? No, I don't think so. Any time a person rips around another car, cuts them off and slams on the brakes, they don't want to say "Howdy-do.” Yep, that's what it boils down to...they wanted me dead. At the time, I couldn't—and still can't—understand how someone could have such hatred for a person they didn't know.
          And so, for almost a week, I lay in a hospital bed, slipping in and out of consciousness. On the fourth day, I listened to this doctor, who—judging by the expression on his face and monotone voice—could care less. I was a waste of his time, just another body with a poor chance of complete recovery. He tossed words such as "massive nerve damage" as easily as a kitten playing with a ball of yarn. I was a number, nothing more.
          Tears gathered in my eyes as I realized my life was changing forever. Sure, I could probably still coach, but who would hire a therapist with the full use of only one hand? That dream was as dead as my arm.
          I still don't know what triggered it, but as “Dr. Personality” blathered on about how therapy “might be useless,” memories from my childhood flooded my mind and warmed my soul. Clips of my father praising my kindergarten artwork were replaced by segments of him comforting me through various trials in my young adult life. Each memory was accompanied by him saying "be strong", and "You can do anything, if you put your mind to it."
          My heart began hammering with anger and determination. Who was this person to tell me what I couldn’t do?  Daddy was right...I COULD do anything. I frowned and cleared my throat. "If you're through spewing verbal garbage, I'd like a turn to talk."
          Dr. Personality folded his arms and leaned back in his chair, obviously amused that this cripple, this moronic thing could put two thoughts together.
          "I think you're full of poop," I continued. "You carry on about what I can't do, but I'll beat this."
          The doctor stared deeply into my eyes, as if seeing me for the first time. A slow smile worked its way across his face. "You’re a little fireball, aren’t you? Know something, I think you can. You just might be the one to beat the odds," he said patting my knee. "Don't give up. And heaven help the person who tells you that you won’t succeed.”
          Giving up wasn’t an option.
          I won't waste your time making you believe my life evolved into a Pollyanna-type story. It didn't.
            The simple things, like tying my laces in the morning or making a peanut butter sandwich, would sometimes take up to fifteen minutes. I’d prided myself on my drawing abilities, now I couldn’t draw a circle. Occasionally, the goal of again having a “typical” life seemed as unrealistic as my son marrying a princess, and I’d fall into an abyss of self-pity.
          “Daddy, I can’t do this,” I’d cry out. From my heart, I’d hear his reply, “You can do anything, if you put your mind to it.”
          I had wonderful support from my loving husband and the rest of my family, but they could do little to heal the wounds on my heart.  I hated to see the effects my negativity had on them, so I slapped on a mask of happiness every time loved ones were around—it worked. They couldn't see what was beneath the surface, the triplets: anger, sorrow and resentment boiling in my soul.
          In addition to drawing, writing has always been my passion, and because of the unsteadiness of my left hand, I made the decision to embrace the latter. Writing helped me escape my anger, my weakness, and allowed me to focus on my strength—my imagination. At the time, I didn’t know how this decision would change my life.
          I wrote a story about my father, his bond with his dog Snowball, and submitted it to Chicken Soup for the Dog's Lover's Soul. Why not? Daddy said I could anything, just if I put my mind to it, right?
          Half a year later, I received a call from an editor at Chicken Soup. I remember, because I thought she was a phone solicitor and hung up. Thankfully, she called back, and my career as a published writer began. I have been published in a few more Chicken Soup books, in magazines, and in newspapers.
          Another dream was realized when Dancing With Bear Publishing took a chance on me and published my first children's book, Amelia Frump and her Peanut Butter Loving, Overactive Imagination. Also in the years following my accident, I’ve become an award-winning journalist, nine-time award-winning baker, and an award-winning children’s author.
         I can’t say all my decisions were good—hey, I’ll admit it, I’m not perfect. But the best decision I ever made was to follow my father’s advice: “You can do anything you want, if you put your mind to it.”
         And he’s right—I can.
 


 
 

     When I was a child I entertained my mother with my antics and wild imagination. Okay, I’ll be honest—I tortured the poor woman. I had tea parties with chickens where Purina Chick-Starter™ was the food of choice for all involved. And I married in kindergarten to my (at the time) best guy friend. That lasted all of ten minutes when my grandmother caught us sealing the deal with a kiss in the bushes. I had to give the ring back (made of chewed gum and a pebble) and listen to Mama lecture about why little girls shouldn’t kiss boys. 
     When I was five, I told the ladies at church that Mama gave me cat food as a snack (it was really Cracklin’ Oat Bran™), brought a horse into her house ten years later, and a few years after that would ride the same horse across the pasture, no saddle or bridle. It’s no wonder why by the time I left home, Mama’s once perfect face was contorted into an expression of permanent alarm, and her jet-black hair was painted with gray streaks. She’d get her revenge by regaling my boyfriends with stories of my adventures. 
          “Wait and see,” she’d say as I laughed. “Parenting isn’t as simple as it seems. You’re gonna get back what you dish out.”
          I never understood what she meant, or thought for one moment it might be a parents’ curse until I had children of my own. Both put me through the parental wringer. As infants, both Jonathan and Joseph waited until we were in public to loudly pass gas. No one ever believed the baby did it. 
          Being a parent has been an educational experience. Thanks to my boys, I’ve learned that cell
phones don’t float in water, and a family Dalmatian can be the victim of dot-to-dot sessions, performed with a marker. There have been portraits on crumpled paper, created with my best makeup. And I’ve had to rescue my underwear off the family dog on more than one occasion, sometimes in front of company. But because of my precious boys, I’ve learned to enjoy the more simple things in life—the feel of a loved one’s embrace and the beat of their heart as you hold them close, sunsets, and of course, the smell of fresh-brewed coffee.
     I’m thrilled to share my parenting journey with you, my friends. It’s my wish that by reading this, you realize there is always laughter, sometimes mixed with tears, and the human spirit can persevere, no matter how great the odds. Always remember, La vita e bella (Life is beautiful).

Check out the awesome review of my book at Lisa's Writopia!

     Vegetables. Ask almost any child to draw a picture of that word and they'll produce an illustration of an angry, alien-looking object wielding a fork and running after a terrified child. And for some reason, the subject of the artwork is either a tomato, carrot, or a bunch of broccoli.
     It seems at times that no amount of coaxing and pleading will get our kids to try one bite of veggies. My own children have slipped so many carrots to our dogs that they've become addicted. Ever caught the family pooch trying to open the fridge and steal the bag of carrots? It's not a pretty sight.
     When I was a child, there wasn't an option. You ate everything (under the glaring stare of parents) on your plate and was grateful for every bite. But my boys ignore the "cross mama" look, so it's trickery I resort to.
     This past Sunday I came up with a delicious biscuit recipe that's super-moist thanks to the grated carrot. I used Bisquick™ for simplicity, and amped up the flavor with a touch of grated orange peel and ground cinnamon. If you're gluten-sensitive (like I am), you can use the gluten-free version of Bisquick™. Tell me what you think!

Hidden Goodness Biscuits
(Yields 12)

3½  cups Bisquick™  
1 Tablespoon grated orange peel
1/4 teaspoon salt
1 Tablespoon cinnamon
3 tablespoons cold butter, cubed
1 cup carrots (4 medium), finely shredded
3/4 to 1 cup milk (for tops)


Preheat oven to 450°.

In a food processor, pulse together the Bisquick™, orange peel, cinnamon and salt until the peel is no longer visible and everything is combined. Pour the dry mixture into a large mixing bowl.

Cut in butter until mixture resembles coarse crumbs. Add the carrots and milk until just combined.

Turn onto a lightly floured surface; knead 4-5 times. Pat or roll to ¾”. thickness. Cut with a floured 2-½”
biscuit cutter. Lightly brush the tops of the biscuits with 1 tablespoon of milk.

Place on a baking sheet coated with cooking spray, place in the oven and bake for 12-15 minutes or until the tops are brown.

 

  Okay, I confess, There's a secret affair that I've had a hard time getting rid of and ignoring. It's...pizza. 
  Pizza and I go way back-- during college and before marriage to my best friend (yep that's a long time ago). I'd sometimes slip away from a yawn-worthy lecture, and venture  to the local Mr. Gatti's where fresh pizza pie and The Little Rascals awaited me.
     Unfortunately, now my indulgence of choice isn't kind to my body. One slice can make my rump resemble a pair of half-rotten watermelons, so I've been experimenting with healthier alternatives. The picture above is of an original recipe of mine, White Pizza With Roasted Tomatoes (Pizza Bianca con Pomodori Arrostiti). Kids like it, and I'd like to place the recipe in my upcoming cookbook. But here's the problem, it serves 6, and has a whopping 503 calories a slice.
     So, I'm appealing to you. How would you make this healthier and keep it kid-friendly?
The recipe can be viewed here.