SPEECH

As a toddler, Daughter finger-painted herself blue so she could match the sky. Days ago, she stepped off the stage at Kleinhan's Music Hall, into a future where the sky is the limit.

The Graduation atmosphere was dynamic. Joyful.

The speeches were filled with advice. Admonitions. Make a difference in your world. Work as hard as you play. Prepare for failure because it will find you. Believe in yourself and rise above the many adversities that await.

I listened to the student speakers, wondering, "Why are these teenagers so jaded?"

I listened, wondering, "Do these kids even begin to comprehend how fortunate they've been, and how fortunate most of them will continue to be?"

No doubt today's 24/7 Bad-News-Bombardment makes us feel like we are inhabitants of an increasingly dangerous and frightening world: a globe marred by melting glaciers, warring nations, and Jerry Sanduskies.

No doubt the graduates of 2012 will come of age in a world replete with daunting problems.

But they will also be privy to unimaginable opportunity. With vision, luck, a whole lot of hard work and old-fashioned optimism, they will flourish in an age where technology can (hopefully) be utilized to make us smarter and wiser.  

Days ago, I listened to half-a-dozen graduation speeches, hoping to hear one or two profound pearls of wisdom wrapped with a big hug and a "Woo-hoo!" send-off;  rather than a Fire-House-Alarm, "Prepare for battle/danger/disappointment!" kick out the door.

Graduates of 2012, I wish someone would have told you:

A world of wisdom awaits. You'll learn from professors, textbooks, and Shakespearean plays. From scientific journals, economic forecasts, and technologies that change as swiftly as you breathe. But understand that wisdom is best discovered in people who have lived. Endured. Loved. Lost. Seek out your 'elders';  parents, grandparents, neighbors, colleagues, teachers and friends.  Listen to the statistics, poetry and stories of their lives. Internalize the wisdom of their experience, as it will enrich your life.

Pay attention. To faces. Expressions. Tone of voice. Reading people will always lead to more success and happiness than reading books, computers, and smart phones.

Embrace coincidence. Opportunity often arrives - and disappears - unnoticed.

Surround yourself in stillness. Creativity there lurks.

Don't expect that anyone else will do it, see it, feel it like you do. Expectation and disappointment come shrink-wrapped and prettily packaged. Buyer beware.

Be silly. Be spontaneous. Again and again. And again.

Ask for help and accept help, as often as you offer to help. 

Study the night sky. Listen to the rain. Feel sunlight and breeze. All are nature's gentle reassurance that life is spectacular and "This too shall pass."

Give others a break. Give yourself a break, too. Compassion is the ultimate game-changer.

Forget perfection. Strive for best effort. 

Try, and try again. Love, and love some more.  

Graduates, you are stepping into a future where the sky is the limit.

Don't worry.  Be excited!

QUING Hereby Decrees: CONGRATULATIONS Graduates of 2012!

SUMMER

Last week of school. Finals and yearbooks. Stifling classrooms. Halls littered with pencil stubs, loose-leaf paper piles, and goodbyes.

Outside, summer looms; a promise of lazy mornings, picnics and pools, novels devoured long past bedtime, swarms of friends - and fireflies - Capturing the Flag.

And Strawberry Jam.

Long before Black Friday ever dreamed of piggybacking on Thanksgiving, Strawberry Picking Day chased the Last Day of School.

Beneath a blazing sun - or a sky rimmed with thunderheads – mom, siblings, and I would trek far out into the strawberry fields, step-skipping over vines and hoses to the rows where red outshone green and brown. 

Strawberries. Sun-kissed sweet and juicy. One mouth-watering berry after another. Not to be denied. 

Decision after decision. Deposit this ruby ripe beauty into the faded green quart beside my knee, or yank the stem and pop it into my mouth?

Fact: Sunshine tastes like a warm, ripe strawberry gently pulled off a vine, suckled and swallowed.

Fact: Brewing strawberry jam is the process by which we spread that sumptuousness and sunshine across seasons.

Across generations.  

From mother to daughters and sons.  

Empty glass jars line countertops. Bowls overloaded with fruit and discarded stems vie for space on the table. Kettles filled with water, lids, and crushed berry-sugar-pectin puree simmer on the stovetop. The air tastes/smells/feels sticky sweet. 

World, go away. Can’t you see that we are on a mission?

Capturing a harvest. Preserving a peak. Preparing perfection from precision.

Hours after we have reached for the first berry in the field, steaming preserves are ladled into jars - lidded, capped, boiled.  

Treasured.

The Jam and the Jamming. A transcendent tradition.

We pick and chat, peel and recollect, mash and gossip, stir and sing.

Mom and me. For decades.

Grammy, the kids and me -for all the precious years of their young lives.

Saturday morning will soon arrive. Younger Daughter will don cap and gown, walk across a stage and off to her future.

Last night, on the eve of The Last Day of School, Daughter gifted me.

Watching her grandmother balance hot jars of strawberry jam as she walked slowly toward her car in the darkness, Daughter reached for my hand and exclaimed, “I love the way the house smells when we make jam!”

“Me, too,” I agreed.

“Promise, Mama,” she urged, “promise that when I have kids you’ll come to my house to pick strawberries and make jam. I’ll do all the stuff that you do to make the jam, and you can do what Grammi does. Together, we can teach my kids how to capture summer.”

Long ago, my amazing mom taught me how to capture summer.   

Color me ecstatic if my kids – and their kids - make certain that Strawberry Picking Day chases the Last Day of School - for generations to come.

QUING Hereby Decrees:  Memories can fade like berry stains on fingertips. Best to make them, again and again.

mtdivencenzo@gmail.com

mtdivencenzo@gmail.com

QUING Parties at the Palace with LEMON SQUARES

"Heard you make awesome lemon bars. Bring some to the party, K?"

I am always surprised when someone asks me to make lemon bars - because lemon is not my go-to flavor.  

Last night, I was determined to find out if my Lemon Squares are worthy of such praise. I set a platter filled with bars on a party table that overflowed with sweets. I moved away from the table and watched as guests non-chalantly grabbed and gulped each one of those sweet treats,  throughout  the dinner hour. By the time dessert officially began - 45 minutes later - all that remained of the Lemon Squares was a couple dozen powdered sugar trails on the dark blue tablecloth.

Welcome, Summer 2012!   

Kindly bring us lots of sunshine. Lazy days. Lemonade and lemon squares. 

Lemon, methinks I love you.  GUSTARE!

LEMON SQUARES

(from the Kitchen of Master Baker Susan Esposito)

CRUST:

2 cups flour

1/2 cup confectionary sugar

1/2 teaspoon salt

1 cup melted butter

Mix all ingredients and press into a 9x13" jelly roll pan.  Bake at 350 degrees until light golden brown - 20-25 minutes.

LEMON TOPPING:

4 eggs, slightly beaten

2 cups sugar

4 tablespoons flour

4 tablespoons lemon juice

Zest of 2 lemons

Mix all ingredients together as crust bakes. Pour over baked crust as soon as you remove it from the oven. Return to oven and bake for 20-25 minutes until lemon is set and crust is browned.   Sprinkle with confectionary sugar while still warm. Cool completely and cut into bars.

APOCALYPSE

Who says government is bloated, dysfunctional, useless?

Just two weeks ago - following a rash of bizarre, cannibalistic incidents - the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention publicly declared that there is no evidence of a coming Zombie Apocalypse, stating: "The CDC does not know of a virus or condition that would reanimate the dead (or one that would present zombie-like symptoms.)"

Well, that's a relief.

Because it's late. It's dark. I am alone in my office - I mean castle.

The windows are open. The boisterous breeze occasionally feels more sticky-warm than cool.

Like Zombie Breath - filtering through the screens.

'Tis true. I've been a little on edge the past two weeks. Soon after the first "My-Neighbor-is-My- Friend-is-My-Lunch" incident was reported, I discovered a rash on my leg.

Rash spread. Bubbled. Munched. Maddened.

Tortured me with threatening voices that obscured all thought and sanity: "Scratch! Scratch harder! The less skin you have, the less surface I'll have to spread my toxins across!"

Fear not, dear reader. All Rulers hear voices. Great Rulers can differentiate between the naughty and nice voices.

So I accepted the nice voice - and the steroid cream - of the doctor who diagnosed my ailment using code words like "Contact Dermatitis and Other Exema due to Other Specified Agent."

Other Specified Agent code word for ZOMBIE.

You think I'm nuts. But google Zombie-rash Outbreak in Florida - 6/1/2012, and discover that the crusty red oozing bubbles and rash I've been sporting for two weeks have been caused by something other than the overachieving Toxicodendron radicans hiding beneath my peonies.  

Just two weeks ago, I might have been lulled into believing my doctor, my government, or my husband - who has the scars to prove he's been victim of far more poisonous plants than I.

But this rash coincided with a rash of bizarre, zombie-like behavior throughout the United States. And a quick trip back to high school that convinced me that life remains High School; full of highs and lows, accomplishments and failures, best friends who build you up, and toxic people who'll quite happily eviscerate you with a simple word or glance.

Setting: Post-Prom Party at the High School.

Characters: Parents. Soon-to-Graduate Seniors. Woman I am not expecting to see.

Tidbit:  Woman I am not expecting to see has quite effectively participated in the dismantling of marriages, relationships, and families. Could be her own Special Forces Unit. Or Reality TV Show.

Plot: Yours truly is crossing the crowded gym floor. Locks eyes with Woman. Woman sneers, then marches on.

Question: Have you ever been the recipient of a sneer?

Answer: No?  Lucky you.

Because now that I have experienced such an unparalleled pleasure, let me assure you, dear Reader, the word fits the expression - perfectly.

I am stunned. Silenced. For hours - days - I imagine responses that I should have uttered instantly - with great feeling and bravado. Expressions like, "Karma is a bibiddy-bobbidy-blank" or "You sneering at me? I'm sneering at you!"

Instead, I continued on my way, thinking, "I feel like I'm in high school."

Plot Device: Irony.

I've been toxicized by plant - and person - in one short week.

What's next?

A moth is hurling itself at my window screen - tapping dits, dots and dashes.

Morse code.  For Zombie Apocalypse.

Unlike my recent jaunt through the high school gym, I shall be prepared for this next drama.

Because an Assistant Surgeon General at the CDC has recently penned and published, "Preparedness 101: Zombie Apocalypse."

I need an emergency kit. Water, food, and other supplies to get me through the first couple of days before I can locate a zombie-free refugee camp. I need medications (steroid cream,) duct tape, a battery-powered radio, clothes, copies of important documents and first aid supplies. I need an emergency plan that includes where I'll go and who I'll call if zombies start appearing outside my doorstep.

Beyond my window screen.

In the high school gym.

Best to pack along a sneer, and a few good retorts. 

Ready for the enemy, baby!

QUING Hereby Decrees:  Snarky Sporadically Soothes.

WONDER WOMAN

I was longing for the Huntsman.

But fate sent me Wonder Woman.

Scene. The basement. 33 hours before: Pre-Prom pix and appetizers -at our house. Post-Prom set-up -at high school. Post-Prom -at high school. Post-Prom sleepover/breakfast - at our house.

No need to remind me, dear Reader, that I am over-the-top, delusional, or unable to utter the word "no." Truth is, we have a party house. And it's not my fault that my soon-to-be-grad decided to have four years worth of high school parties in one night.  

Back to the basement. The concrete floor is covered with gorgeous  brown-paper murals - scenes from The Wizard of Oz. Avoiding breakfast, Youngest Child dashes downstairs to see what Big Sis painted as he slept.

The first shriek is thrilling: "It's the wizard!" 

The second shriek is chilling: "What's that noise?"

That noise is the sound of a creek rushing. A fountain spurting. A waterfall gushing.

A pipe bursting.

The third shriek is the shout of a crazed woman, "Get towels!  Get buckets! Get this scenery OUT OF HERE!"  

Septic. Systems. Stink. Literally and figuratively.

And who buys a house in the country, anyway?

Rewind to Wonder Woman.

I admit it. I have, at times, fancied myself to be a Wonder woman.

For instance, people often whisper behind my back, "I wonder why that woman never sits down?"

And I often whisper, wonder, mutter, cry-out, "Why does the universe hate me?" Or, better yet, "Who owns my voodoo doll doppelganger, and why does he/she keep sticking it with hat pins?"

Which brings us back to one of the most peaceful, lyrical, mesmerizing sounds on earth. Unless it's in your basement.

Sir Plumber eventually arrives, assesses the hole atop the copper pipe and the gurgling water. "Call septic services," he dictates. "I'll replace the pipe once you get the rest of this figured out."

If you're reading carefully, you'll note that I mentioned the concrete basement floor. It used to be carpeted. Before I knew that I had to call the septic truck once a year.

Who buys a house in the country, anyway?

No need to doubt me, dear Reader. In the five years post our Basement-Rug-Torch-and-Burn, Septic Service Dude has arrived with his coiled, sludged, stinking hose - exactly one year after the date of his previous visit. May 28th, 2011, he accepted my $300 check and said, "You don't need to do this every year. Your tank is big enough to make it a couple years. Happy to take the cash, though."

Say it, dear Reader! Remind me that I am a trusting, dopey, fool!  A trusting, dopey, desperate fool - who fate sent Wonder Woman.

She arrived in an enormous truck, and backed expertly down our circular driveway. I glimpsed her blonde hair and gorgeous face as she tucked her bangs into a barrette and hopped off the truck.  

Of course I was thinking, "What is that woman doing in that truck?" Of course I was thinking, "Phew. Now I have an excuse to cancel the prom parties, because that woman will never figure this out!"

I'm not proud of such bias. But I am capable of it - especially when elaborate, filthy, about-to-explode-septic systems need to be fixed. In ten minutes. By a girl who looks like she might have been Queen of the High School Prom - last year.

As you know, I like stories. I wanted to know hers. So as Wonder Woman digs and pulls and drains, I ask how she came upon this line of work.

"It's my boyfriend's company," she says. "He was super busy, and one day he painted my name on the office door. The next thing I know, I'm driving a truck."

We chat about my predicament: guests soon to arrive, cookies to bake, groceries to buy, flowers to plant, floors to scrub, punch bowls to sparkle, paintings to blow-dry. She takes the shovel from me and tells me to go flush. Twice.

I dash upstairs, downstairs, then return hopefully to the tank - and a concerned Wonder Woman. The righteous sound of rushing water is nowhere to be heard.

"There's a clog," she says gently. "Take me to your basement."

I do not cry. Because I am in awe.

Stepping over paint, sponges, glitter and glue, I lead Wonder Woman to Disaster Point. Silently, she makes mental notes of pipes, pitch, drainage. "Call the plumber," she says. She takes the phone, insisting that Sir Plumber return to our house to snake the pipes. I eavesdrop, hear snippets like, "they need water...guests.... inflow...sewage pouring on the floor."

Plumber is too busy. He tells me to call Roto-Rooter Man. Roto-Rooter Men will try to stop by over the weekend. Wonder Woman eavesdrops, looks me in the eye, and says, "Tell your husband to rent an electric snake. He can fix this in a minute."

She knows. She has figured me out. She understands that I have never even heard of an electric snake.

"Please!" I plead with her. "Wait ten minutes till I get the snake, and then you can show me how, where, why..."

"Sure," she agrees. "It is the prom, after all. I don't want you to cancel your party."

I arrive home in fifteen minutes, with a piece of machinery that should be called an electric anaconda. I hurry back to the tank, and find Wonder Woman wiggling a garden hose out of a drain pipe.

"You're all set," she says. "I jimmied it for a while, and the clog broke free. Have a great time at the party."

Mechanic. Engineer. Innovator. Angel. A brilliant, insightful, ingenious, cool, considerate, Marvel of a Lady gets it done.  Makes it happen.  Kindly and competently.

 

If I wasn't old enough to be her mom, I'd want to grow up and be just like Wonder Woman.

Heck, I bet she likes wine and beer.

I wonder if she'd like to come hang out at our house. Be the left brain to my right brain.  Help me fix stuff, understand stuff - spackle, grout and shine stuff.  

Who needs a Huntsman? I want Wonder Woman.

Someone find her and tell her I painted her name on my front door.

QUING Hereby Decrees: When your Help Wanted sign goes up in a hurry, an angel never fails to answer the call.

HUNTSMAN

Rained. All weekend.

Thank you, sweet, merciful clouds!

I took the kids to see Snow White and the Huntsman.

So I could see the Huntsman.

Because I would very much like to be his bait.

Or tackle.

I know that he is a god; I mean Thor. I mean not human. Or real.

I understand that the man who portrays him is young enough to be my son - had I been a teenage mama.

I also realize said actor is quite happily married (to a gorgeous woman who is too old to be my daughter) and he would therefore not even look twice at Jennifer Aniston.

Don't care. About any of it.

Because the Huntsman, whomever he is,  is scrumdillyicious; i.e. breathtaking; i.e. supremely smokin'.

And he can act!  Choose any movie he adorns, and you'll immediately recognize him as the actor playing the part of the wooden caricature.  

Not so in Snow White and the Huntsman. There's this poignant scene when Huntsman is telling a deceased Snow White about his deceased wife and how much he loved his wife and how much he misses his wife and how much Snow White reminds him of his wife. Dabbing at tears, I am watching Huntsman speak through his tears, and I am thinking, "Don't save her with love's true kiss! Save me! I can play dead and I'm a wife!"

Speaking of him speaking, shall we reflect on Huntsman's accent?

So gruff. So lyrical. So Aussie.

I wonder if he can sing.

In my ear.

I'll admit  it. It was a bit disconcerting to be seated in a Cineplex between my teenage daughters -  who were also quite clearly (and appropriately) smitten with the Huntsman, and my pre-teen and teen sons - who alarmingly found the Queen to be more enticing than Snow White. For 145 minutes, I pretended to be riveted by the suspense and action, one hand held firmly over my mouth. 

Truth is, I wasn't thinking about suspense or action. I was horrified I might murmur (or shout at the screen,) "Snow White is dull!  Pick me! I'm a grown-up! I'm a Queen, and I'm rarely evil!"

Truther truth is, my hand remained clamped over my mouth because I was afraid I might drool. 

And soggy popcorn is disgusting. 

Sigh. This is so unlike me. Mooning over some unattainable guy who oozes charm, gorgeousness, and youth. Quite certain I haven't done that since Brad became obsessed with  Angelina.

The hunky hulky Huntsman isn't even my type. At least, I don't think he's my type. Did I ever have a type? Do I even remember how to type? 

Upon 48 hours of introspection and contemplation, the only explanation I have for why I cannot stop thinking about the Huntsman is, dot dot dot,  drum roll, please.

I am having a mid-life crisis. 

My daughters are leaving me. They are off to get educated, and maybe meet huntsmen of their own. 

They are leaving me with Husband and two pre-Huntsmen who will drag me to baseball, basketball, volleyball games, track meets, and action movies, rather than dark, enchanted forests.

No skipping or frolicking for us. We will hike and fish, using words like 'bait' and 'tackle' to refer to worms and gear.

I can see it now. On a rocky riverbank I sit alone, camera in hand, watching my boys as they so hopefully cast lines and lures into deep, sparkling water. Occasionally I spin the camera lens to zoomiest, and search  the forest beyond the river for Huntsman - who just might be lurking.

Or acting on a movie set.

Hmmm. H-U-N-T-S-M-A-N and H-U-S-B-A-N-D share five letters.

Perhaps I should just ask Husband to start speaking in Aussie and  let his hair grow long enough to pull into a ponytail.  

That, or hope for rain every weekend.

QUING Hereby Decrees:  Life is short. Embrace your fairy tale.

QUING Parties at the Palace with APPLE CROSTATA

I should be thinking cherries. Berries. Peaches. Melons. But our three months of summer weather morphed into sweater weather this weekend. So I am thinking apples, and a favorite dessert that is yumalicious any time of the year! Apple Crostata is less sweet than apple pie, simpler to make, and a bit more sophisticated. It's perfect for kids or company. I add an extra Granny Smith apple, and serve it warm with a scoop of vanilla bean ice cream. 

Make it once, and it will become your go-to dessert.  Gustare!

 

Apple Crostata 

(from Ina Garten 's Barefoot Contessa Parties)

INGREDIENTS:

For the pastry:

1 cup all-purpose flour

2 tablespoons granulated or superfine sugar

1/4 teaspoon kosher salt

1/4 pound (1 stick) very cold unsalted butter, diced

2 tablespoons ice water

For the filling:

1 1/2 pounds McIntosh, Macoun, or Empire apples (3 large)

1/4 teaspoon grated orange zest

1/4 cup flour

1/4 cup granulated or superfine sugar

1/4 teaspoon kosher salt

1/4 teaspoon ground cinnamon

1/8 teaspoon ground allspice

4 tablespoons (1/2 stick) cold unsalted butter, diced

DIRECTIONS:

For the pastry, place the flour, sugar, and salt in the bowl of a food processor fitted with a steel blade. Pulse a few times to combine. Add the butter and pulse 12 to 15 times, or until the butter is the size of peas. With the motor running, add the ice water all at once through the feed tube. Keep hitting the pulse button to combine, but stop the machine just before the dough becomes a solid mass. Turn the dough onto a well-floured board and form into a disk. Wrap with plastic and refrigerate for at least 1 hour.

Preheat the oven to 450 degrees F.

Flour a rolling pin and roll the pastry into an 11-inch circle on a lightly floured surface. Transfer it to a baking sheet.

For the filling, peel, core, and cut the apples into 8ths. Cut each wedge into 3 chunks. Toss the chunks with the orange zest. Cover the tart dough with the apple chunks leaving a 1 1/2-inch border.

Combine the flour, sugar, salt, cinnamon, and allspice in the bowl of a food processor fitted with a steel blade. Add the butter and pulse until the mixture is crumbly. Pour into a bowl and rub it with your fingers until it starts holding together. Sprinkle evenly on the apples. Gently fold the border over the apples to enclose the dough, pleating it to make a circle.

Bake the crostata for 20 to 25 minutes, until the crust is golden and the apples are tender. Allow to cool. Serve warm or at room temperature.

JUSTICE

Thus far I've only suffered through half of the brutal and bloody Hatfields & McCoys, a History Channel mini-series that depicts the war between two families, and the vigilante justice that nearly destroys them.

But I’ve endured 48+ hours of The Aquittal of Dr. James Corasanti.

It's turned out to be far more disturbing. Because it's real.

Rewind to July 8, 2011. 11:20ish p.m. 18-year-old Alix Rice is riding her longboard home from a job at a pizzeria when she is struck and killed by a prominent physician driving home from his country club.

Dr. James Corasanti feels his 2010 BMW run over something on the road, but he does not brake or stop. He drives home and parks his car in the garage. When he checks the right front fender for damage, he discovers a crumpled hood, red spots that look like blood, and "a little piece of yellow tissue". 

Corasanti freaks. He calls his friend of thirty years, who happens to be an attorney.  Learning that a teenager has indeed been killed, Corasanti runs from his home in a panic. Concerned neighbors catch up to him and he tells them, "I had some drinks... I've ruined my life. I've ruined my career."

The doctor refuses to give blood to determine his blood-alcohol level. Law enforcement officials get a court order, and blood is drawn. The doctor's blood-alcohol content is 0.10 percent - nearly five hours after the accident. Prosecutors estimate it was between a 0.14 percent and 0.21 percent reading at the time he struck and killed Alix Rice.

Charging Corasanti with five felony counts, prosecutors argue that the doctor was drunk, speeding and texting before the accident. Over the course of five weeks, jurors listen to 42 witnesses, and deliberate for thirteen hours before acquitting Corasanti on all felony charges.

A city is collectively shocked and outraged.

Hatred and ignorance rattle across the airwaves. Online, in print, at the water cooler, and in the check-out line, the criminal justice system is trashed. Defense experts are reviled. Jurors are dismissed as ignorant, stupid, corrupt.

Talk show hosts and newspaper columnists fuel the indignation. Citizen commentators predict eternal damnation for all who twisted the truth or rejected justice for a vibrant young woman so violently killed, and horrifically left to die on the side of a road.

It would be riveting, if it wasn't so frightening.

And dangerous.

Disclaimer. The doctor was my mom's doctor/surgeon for over a decade. Due to many reconstructive surgeries, she was a difficult patient, and results of Corasanti's procedures ranged from successful to life-threatening.

Disclaimer. I know one of the defense attorneys and his family. I often heard about expert testimony presented during the trial that was rarely reported in the 'fair and unbiased' local newspaper reports I read each day.

Disclaimer: I have an eighteen year old daughter and a seventeen year old daughter. Reading the sickening details of Alix Rice's death, and considering the slew of horrible decisions made by a man who was intoxicated (and most likely distracted) when he struck and killed Alix affects me on a visceral level. I imagine the moments after a legally drunk, preoccupied person mows down my child with his car. I imagine my daughter alone in the darkness, dying so violently and senselessly. Insane with grief and fury, I snap, and kill the driver. But only after I torture him. For hours. With every torture-inducing tool I can get my hands on.

Good thing we traded vigilante justice for courts, laws, judges and jurors centuries ago.  Because primitive, instinctual outrage, emotion, and thirst for justice cannot be unleashed into action.

Consider how such fury has turned a community upside down. Jurors, citizens who sacrificed five weeks of their lives - and plenty of their innocence - must now remain unidentified and secluded, fearful for their safety because they followed the law.

Defense attorneys - and their family members - are receiving death threats because they did their job.

Commentators and bloggers clamor about the unfairness of a justice system that hands out different justice for the poor and the rich:  Shame on us that a wealthy doctor can spend a fortune on counsel and experts, and walk away from all criminal charges when he killed a young woman in the prime of her life!

Fact: The prosecution also spent buckets of (tax payers') cash on this case.

Fact: Lawyers who coach witnesses, manipulate, and distort the truth to win a case before a jury work for both the defense and the prosecution. I'll never be selected as a juror because I've witnessed this first-hand.

Fact: The jurors who acquitted Corasanti on four felonies did not believe he was innocent. They believed that, according to the law and the evidence presented at trial, there was reasonable doubt that the doctor was guilty as charged.

We are learning more about what happened in the Corasanti case, and it appears we should not be shocked by the outcome. The very same thing happens every day in businesses, schools, politics and life.

Some people do their jobs better than others.

Jurors have stated that they found the defense's accident-reconstruction expert and mechanical expert to be more professional, careful, and credible than the experts for the prosecution. Which means that in the many weeks and months leading up to the trial, some people did their jobs better than others.

Prosecutors - who were obliged by law to provide evidence that would convince the jury of the truth of their charges  - did not have witnesses to detail the moment of deadly impact, or testify that the doctor acted or appeared impaired before and after the accident. Prosecutors supplied drama, supposition, and evidence that was either circumstantial, or less plausible than evidence presented by the defense.

According to the jury, the most credible evidence and testimony suggested that Alix Rice was riding her longboard at night, in a crouched position, without any reflective clothing.

The most credible evidence and testimony suggested that damage to Alix Rice's longboard proved she had swerved in front of the doctor's car, rather than being hit from behind as prosecution experts reasoned.

The most credible evidence and testimony suggested that Corasanti "was believable" when he said he couldn't see, feel, or hear the magnitude of the collision from where he sat inside his expensive car.

Charged with reviewing evidence to determine if Corasanti's intoxication or texting caused the accident and loss of life, jurors decided that Alix's actions "were probably as much to do with it, and probably more, than his." They acquitted the doctor on all counts, save a misdemeanor DWI.

Because some people did their jobs better than others.

Yes. Defense experts make lots of money. They have great credentials. They are educated. Well-trained. Compelling.

So are lots of craftsmen, teachers, laborers, business owners, and professionals who will never make millions.

The unfortunate truth is that one's hourly rate or salary does not always equate with one's level of competence, drive and dedication.  Just ask all the young, passionate, educated teachers who lost their jobs in this economy, even as some long-tenured teachers - who haven't inspired or motivated their students for years - continue to collect a hefty paycheck en route to retirement.

As we continue to consider the lessons of this trial, and grieve for Alix Rice and her family, we need to rethink our outrage.

Channel it to those of us who fail to demand excellence of ourselves, and do our jobs to the best of our ability -  regardless of how much we're being paid.

Channel it to those of us who get our wrists slapped with minor accidents or infractions, and continue our reckless behaviors.

Channel it to those of us who know when someone is intoxicated, and let him or her drive home, regardless.

Channel it to our kids who sometimes make decisions - and engage in behaviors - that can have disastrous and deadly consequences.

We will never know what actually transpired on that heartbreaking summer night when Alix Rice was killed on her longboard. But we know that her young, promising life was tragically wasted. We know that reckless behavior and poor decisions can kill.

I, for one, will conjure up Corasanti's brooding image every time I am driving, and am tempted to look down at my beeping or blinking phone.

And I will try to remember one of the most riveting images of beautiful Alix Rice: smiling and joyful, she has NO H8 stenciled across her cheeks.

May this image be seared into our collective consciousness, and reflected in our actions, so that Alix's life will continue to make a difference.