I'm Jon Marc McDonald and I bake

NOTE: JON MARC MCDONALD HAS A NEW WEBSITE. PLEASE GO TO WWW.BakeItTilYouMakeIt.com for more

The before video for my Panna Cotta Layer Cake.

The finished product of my Panna Cotta Layer Cake.

I'm Jon Marc McDonald and I bake!

Merry New York Christmas!

Too funny!

Here’s the reason why you shouldn’t order a custom cake from Wal-Mart:

Some people that work here had a going away party the other day for a woman that is leaving.
One of the supervisors called a Walmart and ordered the cake. he told them to write: “best wishes Suzanne” and underneath that write “we will miss you”. here’s the cake that was delivered.

Story here

"The fierce urgency of now..."

Don't count him out yet

Camera Shy

Trotter, hiding from the pup-arazzi

Loft Transformation, day three

Loft transformation, day two

Trotter is about to have a heart attack due to the chaos in the loft

The beginning of the loft transformation

Tune in a few days from now to see the end result

A Perfect Day with Friends

Our friends Jen and Roy invited us, along with several others, to spend the day on their house boat. Here are pictures from the day along the Hudson.

Sing it, Pink!

Leave them both alone...

In order to appreciate the second video you must watch the first.

Remember. Always remember

Last night, returning to our apartment building, we saw this. It is a memorial by an artist that lives in our building. It sits in the hall with a candle at the base.

From the rooftop she screams

Photo by Amanda Friedman for Newsweek

From Newsweek:

By Loraine Barr

Sept. 3, 2007 issue - I was born at a time when to have romantic feelings for another woman was known as "the love that dare not speak its name." I first read Radclyffe Hall's "The Well of Loneliness" around 1938, in my impressionable teens. The book was a heartfelt cry for understanding and acceptance of the "invert." Now we say "gay" and "lesbian," and nobody faints, although we still lack the same rights as other citizens. In how many ways have attitudes changed? And how have they not?

When I went to college in the 1940s, the sex books were kept under lock and key in the UCLA library. I was too embarrassed to ask for permission to borrow those books.

Seeking enlightenment, I looked at young women walking around the campus engrossed in one another, and I thought, "Well, at least they have each other.

"
I did not realize that even I was judging them, while perhaps envying them. I was dating men regularly and enjoyed being thought popular. Nevertheless, when I came home after each date, said "Goodnight" and closed the door, I usually breathed a sigh of relief.

One eligible young man said, on leaving, "We'll get together soon." I said, "All right, but be sure to warn me."

"Warn you!" he exploded, slamming the door as he left.

And then I met a woman: a teacher on campus, who helped me see beauty in the whole world. At 28, for the first time, I was loved and knew love, for myself, for the person I really was.
But while glorying in my never-before-experienced happiness, I knew it had to be hidden. She was married. Often, the only way to see her was with her husband. I was also dating her brother, and we all would sometimes go dancing.

That relationship ended after a few years, when my loved one's husband intervened. I didn't see her until years later, when I stood in line at her book signing at USC. She was alone, cordial; she asked about my mother. But no, she couldn't join me for coffee afterward.

Now I write this after living for 44 years with the most loved and loving, giving, understanding and delightful partner imaginable. For all our time together, we were "in the closet."

For so long, if you were a known homosexual you could lose your job. We kept our relationship from our families—or at least we thought we did. After my partner died, her son told me that her family knew about us, but kept our secret because they believed our relationship was our own business.

But our silence for all those years was also partially a self-induced caution. Looking back, I think it's possible that as the world changed, we didn't change fast enough.

We knew a few other lesbian couples, and we were comfortable around them. But most of our friends were straight, so we had separate bedrooms to make it seem as though we were just roommates. On one occasion, when my partner and I were with cherished, straight friends, just the four of us after a satisfying dinner, sitting quietly in our living room, I thought how liberating it would be for us to tell our friends of our relationship. They must have seen it coming, for they quickly changed the subject. We four remained warmhearted friends, but we two never again tried to enlighten them or any others.

I never spoke about my sexual orientation with my mother, but she also must have known. When she died, the last thing she said to me was, "I never understood your way of life, but I do now." I didn't reply.

Finally, after almost nine years since my beloved partner's death, I am able to do what I could never have braved in earlier years: pre-sent myself herewith to the world as a lesbian, along with all the women who ask to be judged by the full facet of our characters.
Why am I now able to speak the unspoken? A friend at the retirement community where I live recently came out in the local and national newspapers. When I saw her do that, I thought, for heaven's sake, nobody can fire me, I'm 88 years old, my parents are gone.
Still, I was frightened. It took me several days to put this essay in the mailbox. I owe a lot of credit to people who are comfortable enough in their own skins to say, "This is who I am."
Shall I be haunted for trying to tell my story now, when many might still not wish to address it, or shall I, perhaps, be congratulated?

Flamer

At 3:30 this morning the alarms in our building began to blare. Ric went to check what was going on and quickly returned to say that we needed to get out of the building. Outside we noticed that a construction site next door was on fire and the flames reached at least a hundred feet in the air. There were eleven fire trucks, six police cars and countless firemen and policemen. I am thankful for those men who rushed to put out the flames. If weather conditions had been different and the wind was blowing, the fire could have taken out our entire neighborhood. This picture was taken by Ric on his phone.

Dig a little deeper senator

Which one of these is not like the other, which one of these doesn't belong?

Hat tip Good As You

Can she vote?

And she didn't win? What kind of world do we live in?

Great things for a great man!

Sometimes bad things happen to good people. Sometimes great things happen to bad people. Sometimes tragic things happen to great people. And sometimes great things happen to great people.

Yesterday a great thing happened in my husband’s life. I can’t get into the details quite yet but when the ink dries I will be sure to fill you all in. But nothing short of great happened to a great man.

The measurement of grace

As a child I would frequently spend the night at my grandparents’ house along with three of my cousins who were all are around my age. Every night after a day full of playing and surely some fighting my grandmother would give us all baths, dry us off and put us in pajamas. And the pajamas were of the super-hero variety.

They were not Batman or Superman or any of the others. They were my grandfather’s old shirts. And as she would pull them over my head I could smell my grandfather’s aftershave. There was always comfort in that smell. I was the biggest little boy in the world with his shirt on.

I always knew I was growing up simply by where the lower hem of his shirt reached my body. First down to the ankles, then down to the calves, then to the knees. I measured my growth as a boy by the consistency of his size.

And in the morning we would all assemble in the breakfast room where my grandmother would have put together a veritable feast (she always made us menus the night before and we each got to check off what we wanted. And it would always be made just the way we “ordered it. Every. Single. Time!) and there would be Granddaddy, in his chair, waiting for his grandkids. And when I would reach up to give him a morning hug I would notice just how strong my Granddaddy was. I measured my strength as a boy by the consistency of his embrace.

And on Sunday mornings when he would preach he would look into the congregation and find his family. And from the pulpit he would ask us to stand. As we stood I would well up with such pride. It was my Granddaddy taking time to say hello to me. To me! I measured my pride as a boy by the consistency of his acknowledgement.

And just after 9/11/01, I went to Texas for a three week visit. My grandfather asked if he could take me to lunch. He asked me to recount what that terrible day in September was like. He was the only member of my family to do so. And as I told him the horror he listened intently and said “You’re the only person I know who was there. That took a lot of courage son. You are a strong young man. I am so proud of you”. I measured my worth as a young man by the consistency of his love.

And somewhere in the not so distant future the memories will be all I have. And the day will come and he will leave. And the chains will loosen and he will be set free from the confines of his now frail body. And the man I adored all my life will be before the God for whom he lived his life. And the gates will be open, the angels will rejoice and my grandfather will enter…measured by the consistency of His grace.

A Text (and picture) from the husband

The text that accompanied this photo sent at 7:30 read: Groovin' to tunes on the choo choo

Tomorrow I will start a six part series dedicated to the six years Ric and I will have been together (August 12th)

The View From My Car Window

45th and Sixth Avenue at 6:45 AM on Saturday morning, after dropping Ric off at Grand Central