It was one of those blazing hot Saturdays in the summer of 1999. The church picnic was in full swing, and Lisa, nine months pregnant, looked like she’d rather be anywhere else than roasting in the 100°F heat. Her spaghetti-strap sundress clung to her as she fanned herself under a big oak tree.
“Want me to get you something to drink?” I asked, noticing the sheen of sweat on her forehead.
“Oh, yes, please!” she sighed, brightening up a bit. “An iced tea would be amazing.”
I returned with her drink, and she eagerly took a sip, closing her eyes with a relieved smile. “You’re my hero,” she said, only half-joking. Then she added, “Would you mind grabbing me a little snack? I’m having these cravings, and I think my blood sugar’s low.”
“Of course!” I said, ready to play the role of catering service for my friend. “What are you in the mood for?”
She thought about it, her eyes drifting over to the food table. “Hmm, how about some coleslaw, macaroni salad, a couple of rolls, and maybe a small piece of fried chicken—the tiniest piece you can find. Oh, and some potato salad. Gotta have the potato salad with fried chicken. It reminds me of my grandma’s picnics when we’d take road trips.”
Armed with her requests, I made my way to the food table, dodging all the darting and screaming kids playing tag, and returned with a heaping plate of her favorites. She laughed as I handed it over, her eyes widening at the carbs.
“Oh no, I’m really in trouble now,” she said, patting her belly. “I’m not supposed to be loading up on all these carbs. But here we are!”
We settled under the shade of the tree, Lisa picking at her chicken and savoring every bite of potato salad and macaroni. Church friends stopped by to wish her well, ask how far along she was, and whether she’d picked a name for the baby.
“Not yet,” she’d answer with a smile. “Maybe I’ll know when I see her.”
The rest of the day passed peacefully under that tree. A breeze would drift by now and then, just enough to give a little relief from the heat.
As the picnic wrapped up, I hugged Lisa goodbye. “Take care of yourself and that little one,” I said as I patted her belly.
“You know it,” she replied, waving as I headed to my car. I drove home, did a little cleaning, and had just finished folding laundry when my phone rang. It was Leah, our friend from the picnic.
Her voice was tense. “Lisa’s in the hospital. They’re saying food poisoning. And…it’s serious. She might lose the baby.”
My stomach dropped. “I just saw her! She seemed fine. What happened?”
“They’re not sure yet, but they’re doing everything they can. Keep praying, and I’ll let you know as soon as I hear more.”
The hours dragged by as we called family and friends, asking for prayers and support. It was the next afternoon before Leah called back with better news.
“The baby’s here,” she said, sounding exhausted but relieved. “She came early, but she’s okay. Lisa’s stable too. It was touch and go, but they made it.”
I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. “Thank goodness. What caused it?”
“The doctors said it was food poisoning.” Leah paused. “And everyone’s blaming the macaroni salad. They think it sat out in the sun too long with all that mayo.”
Within days, the church was buzzing with theories. People were quick to point fingers at the family who had brought the macaroni salad, loaded with mayonnaise, and then left it out on the table for hours.
“Who in their right mind leaves mayonnaise in the heat?” someone muttered.
“It’s just irresponsible,” another chimed in.
But a couple of weeks later, the test results came back, and the doctors gathered us to clarify the culprit. It wasn’t the macaroni salad, they said—it was the potato salad. Most people thought mayonnaise was the typical food-poisoning suspect, but the doctors explained otherwise.
“It’s actually the potatoes,” the doctor told us. “Cooked potatoes can harbor *Clostridium botulinum*, which thrives in low-oxygen environments. If the potatoes aren’t cooled properly after cooking, they’re a risk.”
“So it wasn’t the mayonnaise at all?” one church member asked, looking around at the group, surprised.
“No,” the doctor assured us. “In fact, mayonnaise gets a bad rap. Most cases of foodborne illness are due to improper handling of cooked potatoes. If they sit out too long, especially in warm temperatures, they can produce dangerous toxins. It’s something many people don’t know.”
The doctor’s explanation put an end to the speculation and finger-pointing. Plus, we learned an important lesson about food safety—especially when it came to something as unassuming as potato salad. So it wasn’t the mayo. It was the potato salad and the next question was….who brought the potato salad!
Sending my son to kindergarten back in 2013 was a mix of excitement and nerves. He is my first – living and only child (more on that another day), but like many parents, I was caught between the joy of seeing him grow and the pang of letting go. I am not the type to cling, yet I wasn’t in a rush to have him “out of my hair” either.
When we found out that we’d be relocating to Delaware right before his first school year, the thought of Kindergarten in a whole new town made me even more nervous.
Once moved, I enrolled him in a special private school geared for gifted students, on the far side of town. It was a bit nerve-wracking—the area, being new in town, the unknowns of school—but a week in, we met Annie and her son, Jeffrey, and my worries eased. Annie was the kind of friend I hadn’t realized I’d been missing: quirky, fun, and refreshingly down-to-earth. The kids hit it off instantly, and so did we.
In the weeks that followed, we spent every school day together taking the boys to so many great places: the Children’s Museum, Hershey’s, the Science Museum, Herrs, Turkey Hill, Hagley, and Winterthur.
Because of Annie, our new town felt like a glorious adventure!
One afternoon, over some plump calzone in an urban edgy pizza joint that I loved, Annie leaned in and confided, “You’ll probably freak out when I tell you this…” She took a deep breath saying, my best friend was murdered a few months ago. It made national news. Maybe you saw it on TV. Her ex-husband, a well-respected eye doctor here, and his mother kidnapped her kids because of a custody battle a few years ago. They took them to Nicaragua and lived in a camper for two years. “
“They eventually got caught “, she continued. “During the trial, her ex-father-in-law showed up and shot her dead in the courthouse, beside the metal detector. Killed her along with one of the security guards. It was a huge, awful deal. She was the sweetest person, kindest friend, and a wonderful Mom but that family robbed her of all that”
“Oh no this is just terrible! I said with deep sincerity because I couldn’t imagine the pain she must be feeling in retelling the story.
She added, “The FBI got in touch with me recently to let me know that I’m on a hit list put out by my friend’s mother-in-law, the one who kidnapped the kids. They may have engaged in some murder-for-hire deals from jail and because I was a close friend of hers–these crazy people want all of her loved ones dead.
She glanced around the tiny pizza shop, as if suddenly aware of her surroundings. “Don’t worry, though. I keep an eye out. Always. Especially when the kids are around.”
It took me a moment to process what she’d just told me. I glanced around too, almost reflexively.
“Does this…bother you?” she asked quietly, a nervous smile hesitantly forming.
Did it bother me? I took a deep breath, thinking of our frequent outings, the carefree days we’d spent together with the kids these past few months. “Honestly? Maybe a little. But I can’t imagine hiding out at home all the time. We’ll just be careful,” I said, giving her a reassuring smile. She laughed, visibly relieved, and soon we were laughing together again, back to our usual selves. I wasn’t about to hole up at home missing out on the joy of this new friendship and how important our time was for the kids!
A few days later, my son came home with a wheezing cough and it quickly worsened. So scared, we ended up in the ER. They diagnosed him with severe Bronchitis and borderline pneumonia. He was confined to bedrest through that whole next week–the week of Jeffrey’s 6th birthday party.
Annie called to give me some details about Jeffrey’s upcoming birthday party. “Oh, I’m so sorry,” I said, explaining his illness. “He won’t make it. He’s been really sick and I haven’t had a chance to fill you in.”
There was a long pause on the line. “I see,” she said finally, her voice quiet and different from her usual upbeat tone. “Well… take care.” She hung up before I could say more.
While he was recovering, my son kept bringing up his frustrations with kindergarten. “We don’t have play centers or outside time,” he’d say, teary-eyed. “I have to be quiet all day.” I recalled all the daily stomach aches I had dismissed as nerves. Seeing how distraught and upset he was while telling us all of this, I knew it was more than mere jitters.
My husband and I exchanged concerned looks. He’s just turned five, we thought. This was too much stress for a little boy. So, I arranged a meeting with the school to discuss it. Their classical education model was impressive, sure, but with so much structure and no room for play, it just didn’t seem right. When they brushed off my concerns, I made up my mind: we were pulling him out. It was right at the holidays, a perfect time to transition. We will find a more age-appropriate school.
I tried to call Annie afterward, wanting to explain in person so she’d understand how important this shift was. Not getting an answer, I texted her to share our decision to leave the school.
She never responded—not a word, not even a quick text. In fact, she hadn’t even texted to check on how my son was doing with the Pneumonia. It would have been nice to have a friend to share all this stress with-to commiserate.
She ignored my messages and I never heard from her again. She couldn’t see what was really happening assuming the worst and blindly leaving what could have been an abiding friendship.
As for that evil eye doctor, David Matoosawitz, and his family–they haven’t faired too well. I’m glad to say that justice was served and he is in jail serving a life sentence along with his sister. The scheming, manipulative mother, Lenore Matoosawitz, has since died.
Google them. You won’t be disappointed.
Annie called to give me some details about Jeffrey’s upcoming birthday party. “Oh, I’m so sorry,” I said, explaining his illness. “He won’t make it. He’s been really sick and I haven’t had a chance to fill you in.”
There was a long pause on the line. “I see,” she said finally, her voice quiet and different from her usual upbeat tone. “Well… take care.” She hung up before I could say more.
While he was recovering, my son kept bringing up his frustrations with kindergarten. “We don’t have play centers or outside time,” he’d say, teary-eyed. “I have to be quiet all day.” I recalled all the daily stomach aches I had dismissed as nerves. Seeing how distraught and upset he was while telling us all of this, I knew it was more than mere jitters.
My husband and I exchanged concerned looks. He’s only five, we thought. This was too much stress for a little boy. So, I arranged a meeting with the school to discuss it. Their classical education model was impressive, sure, but with so much structure and no room for play, it just didn’t seem right. When they brushed off my concerns, I made up my mind: we were pulling him out. It was right at the holidays, a perfect time to transition. We’ll homeschool or find a more age appropriate school.
I tried to call Annie afterward, wanting to explain in person so she’d understand how important this shift was. Not getting an answer, I texted her to share our decision to leave the school.
She never responded—not a word, not even a quick text. In fact, she hadn’t even texted to check on how my son was doing with the Pneumonia. It would have been nice to have a friend to share all this stress with-to commiserate.
She ignored my messages and I never heard from her again.
Months later, I heard through mutual friends that Annie thought I’d cut her off because of the “danger” surrounding her. She thought I’d pulled away out of fear for my son’s safety. The truth was, I never really thought about the risks after that day in the pizza shop. I’d dismissed it, happy to have found a friend and a bit of fun during our family’s transition.
Still, it hurt to think that she’d assumed fear was what drove me away. She and Jeffrey were my first friends in a strange new town, and without them, my son and I might never have had that joyful, whirlwind first semester.
What bothers me the most? This could have been resolved with one simple conversation.
Annie would have found out immediately that I had not cooled on the friendship and that I was clearly interested in our kids growing close. Had I known, I could have eased her fears by demonstrating my care and loyalty.
She wasn’t as good a friend as I’d thought. And that was most disappointing. It forced me to face that my instincts were off.
Then I realized I was not a good friend to her. I lacked a necessary sensitivity! I should have chased her down to explain but instead, I faded off into the shadows with my feelings hurt. Annie had been dealing with trauma! I missed that. She was like a fragile bird– brokenhearted and traumatized.
I’d have loved the opportunity to help her recover from such a loss but it was not meant to be.
It took me a long time to see this clearly.
Friendship requires communication but it also requires a depth of perception and empathy.
As for that evil eye doctor and his family, well they haven’t faired to well. I’m glad to say that justice was served and he is in jail serving a life sentence along with his sister. The scheming, manipulative mother, Lenore, has since died.
There is another major mistake floating the internet and it is the recipe for do-it-yourself Dawn PowerWash, a product I mocked initially but have come to rely on and love.
But it is $5 a bottle.
For this once spendy gal now turned cheapskate, there had to be a better way, because it only took a minute of mental math to realize this alone could prevent me from a proper and timely retirement.
So, I set out to make my own in a giant-sized jar.
Being the kind of person who must keep my regulars on hand like soap, oil, pantry staples, trash bags, Ziplocs, life’s essentials for quick grabbing, I couldn’t chance having to remake this anytime soon.
Truly, I cannot be trusted to stop what I’m doing at the moment to get more of whatever it is I need and will make do with some awful other option just to save time and effort.
For the sake of convenience, I am, above all else, a little lazy. I will always opt for the path of least resistance during the flurry of my life.
I mean heck, I have been known to order the digital version of a movie from the basement when I have it on DVD upstairs and cannot bear going all the way up there to then hunt it down.
I cannot lie, sometimes it’s laziness, and other times it is that I am mentally exhausted and cannot be bothered.
Don’t judge-LOL.
I do work hard and need a bit of ease in my life sometimes, and just had to make a boatload of this DIY power wash for future convenience. Luckily I’m not dumb and knew to make a small batch to test before I go full gusto into the half-gallon jar I plan to fill-with this kitchen gold.
First stop, Google! and I was not disappointed with over 2000 results. So naturally I picked the top listings and clicked away. I wanted to be sure and verify that this is indeed the correct recipe and so it seems, it was!
Over 30 pages touted the same exact formulation which gave me the utmost confidence in it.
The internet instructs you to use the following recipe when making the homemade-dollars-saving-power wash: four tablespoons of blue Dawn soap, two tablespoons of rubbing alcohol, then fill to the top of your original but empty bottle.
I whipped up my test batch and started using it everywhere, like I usually do. It’s such a great little cleaner. So versatile. So nice.
I went spritz, spritz, spritz all over my usual places but immediately knew it was all wrong. It created a gooey grime that left clouds of sticky residue all over my countertops.
I then spent an inordinate amount of time unfairly kicking myself as I so often do– flogging myself with phrases like:
Didn’t you double check it?
Did you read it wrong?
And oh no, the whole bottle is wasted!
Perfectionism is a beast. And, it had reared its ugly head in that moment. From there, I morphed into a master scoffer only to scapegoat my fellow man.
Asking myself, how can so many people blindly copy this formula without noticing the mistake?
How does this happen so quietly to this degree, without protest?
Are people in a coma?
Did they not test it?
I pondered the layers, the facets, and the fact that this doesn’t bode well for all of humanity.
This blind-leading-the-blind approach on such a large scale cannot spell success for our future as a people.
Who copies others’ info from the internet without attesting to its true quality?
It’s not the blind leading the blind. It was the dumb leading the dumb, I thought to myself, and I was done.
What a hassle! This crap was nowhere near the store-bought power wash. Now I had made a bottle’s worth of this useless sludge. Feeling pressured to use it up as not to be wasteful because I am, above all else, a careful person.
So I spent the whole next week delightfully spritzing my syrupy PowerWash wherever I could just to run the bottle down.
It wasn’t all a waste, though. I smartly used my spritzing time to contemplate the ideal properties of store bought power wash. Using my scientific powers of observation and deduction, I determined that rubbing alcohol provided the necessary evaporation and quick dry-time, Dawn soap provides ideal degreasing effects, and then water provides proper dilution.
Now I had a framework for success, and luckily the crappy internet recipe was a good starting point.
The rubbing alcohol must be 70% concentration because the 91% formulation evaporates too quickly to be effective. I decided to double the alcohol in the original internet formulation and cut back on the Dawn soap by a considerable bit because I knew it was contributing to the soap residue left behind. And because the dilution was close, I only needed a little more water in my version.
I tested it and voila! The new formulation is much closer to the commercial version than the internet’s version.
Try this recipe: three tablespoons of blue Dawn, three tablespoon of the 70% rubbing alcohol, and 16oz of water.
Stir.
Double it, triple it, or even quadruple it so you have plenty on hand when you need it.
