In the beginning, it felt weird to be sitting in front of my computer with my pajamas on, doing actual work. It almost felt like working from home wasn鈥檛 enough.

Have you wondered if you accomplished enough during the pandemic?

Maybe in the past year or so you鈥檝e been too consumed by what鈥檚 going on in the world to think about such things. That鈥檚 OK. Maybe, like me, you鈥檝e worried you haven鈥檛 done enough. That鈥檚 OK, too.

The past year has been strange and scary, and although bad things have happened, we have a lot to look forward to.

I am here to tell you that you don鈥檛 have to worry anymore. The past year has been strange and scary, and although bad things have happened, we have a lot to look forward to.

I look forward to more baking.

I sat in front of my screens and not even once did I attempt chair yoga, to learn a new language or acquire a new hobby. I did not create a video that went viral.

I wanted to do something useful or inspiring or meaningful.

So I baked.

My first pandemic loaf was an Irish soda bread, studded with raisins and toasty oats. I accessorized the whole outfit with Irish butter, and it was trending for a short time in my house.

Baking has never let me down. If I follow the instructions and pay attention to the timing and the science, I am rewarded with carbohydrated yumminess. If something goes wrong along the way, it鈥檚 not baking鈥檚 fault, it鈥檚 my own.

Sometimes, though, even if everything goes right, maybe it wasn鈥檛 meant to be.

I was craving bagels. Fresh, chewy bagels. I had made them once before, and they had been a disaster. Primed and giddy from my soda bread experience, I tried again.

They came out better than I had expected, better than a bagel shop鈥檚, dare I say. But I wouldn鈥檛 recommend trying this at home. They were labor intensive. Aside from the dough, there鈥檚 the proving/proofing, the shaping, and then the dunking into acidulated water for no more than two minutes. And then, finally, the egg wash and baking process. And the whole time, you wonder if the four hours you spent is going to result in goodness or something not so good.

Making bagels was hard. It got me out of my comfort zone, though, and reminded me what a comfort zone was for. Why would I want to go from my comfort zone into my uncomfortable zone?

You know what else is comforting? Cookies. I had acquired some chocolate chips (along with several bags of chips of another species 鈥� I blame internet ordering) and decided it would be prudent to turn them into cookies. I happened to have extra butter and flour, so why not? By throwing a few ingredients together and creating something, I feel like I am improving 鈥� at least temporarily 鈥� my small corner of the world.

My family enjoyed my baked goods during the pandemic, but they may not have understood the therapeutic value behind them.

It was hard for me to dwell on the increasingly grim news from the outside world when my inside world smelled like vanilla and cinnamon.

But now, as we head back to campus, I look forward to sharing my heightened baking expertise with my colleagues. In the past, whenever I brought in homemade banana bread and left it in our communal kitchen, it would quickly disappear.

Banana bread will still be in the rotation, but I have expanded my playlist. My department, pre-pandemic, was famous for our holiday potlucks. I hope we can safely continue this tradition; I imagine some of my colleagues are also eager to show off their new skills honed by the past 16 months.

I also hope one of them brings some bagels.

Camille Dolan is the communications specialist for the 麻豆原创鈥檚 College of Health Professions and Sciences. She can be reached at camille.dolan@ucf.edu.

Few people cared about the stranger playing classical compositions. There is a video of the violinist, and it shows people walking past him with barely a glance. A child, accompanied by his mother, tried to stop to listen, but his mother hurried him along.

I have been fascinated with this story ever since it was published. How was it possible that more people didn鈥檛 notice those brilliant tones? The sound of a violin can reach decibel levels of 100 dB, which is as loud as a jackhammer or four times as loud as a vacuum cleaner.

I think the people who ignored the violinist were simply caught up in their own lives and not paying attention to their own tiny voices, with a dB level under 10.

How many things in my own life have I ignored? What have I missed that my tiny voice has tried to tell me?

How many things in my own life have I ignored? What have I missed that my tiny voice has tried to tell me?

Apparently, the list is lengthy; I鈥檓 surprised my tiny voice hasn鈥檛 thrown in the tiny towel. On a daily basis, I overlook my messy desk. I blame a lack of space, but that excuse rings hollow, even to me. Do I really need five lip balms and three different types of gum in my drawer?

Where is organizing consultant Marie Kondo when I need her? Author and lifestyle guru Kondo created a clean-up culture by inspiring messy people like me to throw out that which does not 鈥渟park鈥� joy.

My tiny voice and I so far have largely ignored Kondo鈥檚 screed, except possibly when it comes to the forgotten, liquefied vegetables in my refrigerator鈥檚 crisper.

I also have ignored friend requests on social media, whatever latest fashion is trending and the tiny voice that asks me if I really need that extra cup of coffee or if butter is good or bad for me this week.

The tiny voice also told me when I was in college that a 7 a.m. calculus class was probably not a good choice for me. I didn鈥檛 listen to that voice, and it turned out that it was right. I missed that class, but I don鈥檛 miss calculus.

As I鈥檝e gotten older, I have paid more attention to that tiny voice: Bring your umbrella. Wear a sweater. Don鈥檛 eat beets.

When I walked to my car one day recently, I had a pen and notepad, hoping to observe some wonderful thing I had previously ignored. I turned up the volume on my tiny voice.

What I noticed was not nearly so intriguing as Joshua Bell, the violinist who played for passersby near that busy D.C. subway station and who makes about $100,000 per concert.

I spied colonies of ants between the cracks in the sidewalk, furiously reconstructing their home despite the inevitability of the next ant apocalypse. They did not appear to notice me.

I wondered about the random, circular black blotches on the sidewalk. I suspect they were blobs of discarded, petrified gum but did not actually test them. I wondered if the people who disposed of the gum in such a way always ignore the societal rules of littering.

My tiny voice, which gets distracted sometimes, reminded me of a factoid associated with the gum blobs. Did you know that San Luis Obispo, California, is home to Bubblegum Alley, a 70-foot long alley whose walls are adorned with gobs of used bubblegum?

When my mind came back to my walk, I noticed there were no clouds in the sky and the temperature was about 70 degrees. This type of day is what no person visiting from out of town ignores when they decide to move to Florida.

I noted 鈥� with admiration and jealousy 鈥� how well-tended 麻豆原创鈥檚 green spaces are. I recalled that at certain times throughout the year, the green spaces on Memory Mall are fenced off and smell vaguely of farm. I think they call it 鈥渞ehabilitation.鈥� Trample on grass, rehabilitate grass, repeat ad infinitum 鈥� an industrious undertaking, not unlike the aforementioned ants.

I reckon the things I miss on a daily basis are things most people miss. Most people do miss things, even if it鈥檚 a superstar musician playing right in front of them.

About seven years after Bell played his violin in the subway, he returned to the scene of his impromptu concert where he had collected $32 in his violin case. During this free concert, the case was not open for tips. This time, however, nearly 1,000 people noticed.

What have you overlooked that will you notice today?

Camille Dolan is the communications coordinator for the 麻豆原创鈥檚 College of Health Professions and Sciences. She can be reached at camille.dolan@ucf.edu.

The thrill of sliding my colorful money under the board, as I鈥檇 seen Damian do countless times, was intoxicating. I got to pick my own token, but not the hat because that was Damian鈥檚. I settled for the racecar.

I didn鈥檛 know the meaning of the word 鈥渃apitalist鈥� then, but I learned the importance of spending money wisely and taking calculated risks. Monopoly and Damian also taught me that sometimes life throws curve balls and nothing is guaranteed.

Damian, of course, was always the banker. I revered Damian. I didn鈥檛 know it at the time, but he is the smartest person I鈥檝e ever met. Even in middle school, he had an astounding breadth of knowledge and endless curiosity.

It鈥檚 almost as if Monopoly prepared him for a life of responsibility and hard work.

He collected soda bottles and redeemed them for a nickel apiece. He used proceeds from his hunting and gathering to fund his comic book hobby. He also was a young numismatist and philatelist (and taught me what those words meant). He also had one of the largest newspaper routes as a junior high student 鈥� more than 100 customers, to whom he delivered each afternoon, and from whom he collected payment. It鈥檚 almost as if Monopoly prepared him for a life of responsibility and hard work.

Damian, who is an anesthesiologist, nearly died as a baby from bacterial meningitis. He had brain surgery and spent 100 days in the hospital; physicians told my parents he would probably have some brain damage because of his prolonged illness.

In kintsugi, the Japanese art of repairing broken pottery, cracks are seamed together using lacquer dusted with gold or other precious metals. The technique highlights, rather than hides, imperfections. Sometimes I wonder if Damian鈥檚 brain was somehow 鈥渞epaired鈥� using a similar technique.

Damian makes the best artisan bread and cinnamon rolls I have ever tasted. He used to take homemade goodies to the nurses at the hospital where he was completing his residency; one of those nurses is now his wife.

There might be a method to his madness.

In Monopoly, as in life, Damian always played by the rules. There was no money in the middle of the board to collect when one landed on Free Parking. He understood there was a finite number of houses and hotels upon which to make money; the goal of the game was to have one rich person at the end, not to spread the wealth.

In his real life, Damian has an eye for stray coins in parking lots, and will occasionally risk oncoming traffic to dart in and scoop up a quarter. He also collects aluminum cans, much to his wife鈥檚 chagrin. In one year, this hobby netted him $350.

If Monopoly did mirror life, then the average person goes to jail about six times a year, earns $200 a week, pays a tiered rate for income tax and occasionally wins $10 placing second in a beauty contest.

If Monopoly did mirror life, then the average person goes to jail about six times a year, earns $200 a week, pays a tiered rate for income tax and occasionally wins $10 placing second in a beauty contest.

The Monopoly jail didn鈥檛 bother my brother. He figured that one of his three rolls was bound to be doubles, and that saved him from forking over $50 to the bank. He knew it was important to save his money so he could invest in real estate.

Let others have Boardwalk and Park Place, Damian was happy with the less-costly properties of light blue and orange. He also liked owning all four railroads; a trip or two around the board was profitable for him, near-fatal for his competitors.

His obsession with the game continued through high school, when he drew a picture of the board (color-coded, even) on the inside of his binder. He and his like-minded friends would spend their free time in the library playing the game. All of them had the prices of the deeds memorized and the number of spaces to move with each roll of the dice was calculated instantaneously.

I have one triumphant memory. Damian must have taught me the game too well; it became apparent, as he mortgaged property after property, that I was winning. The final blow was when he landed on my hotels on Boardwalk and Park Place. I may have smirked. As he assessed his holdings, he realized he was ruined. He unceremoniously flipped the board over. My little racecar was sent flying.

Monopoly did not teach either of us to be gracious in victory or failure.

And though neither Damian nor I were cool kids in high school, Monopoly also taught both of us to not be the iron or thimble 鈥� or any other token that was introduced and quickly phased out due to lack of popularity.

I also learned to savor my small victories 鈥� like beating my older, smarter brother 鈥� or finally getting to use the hat as an adult.

Camille Dolan is the communications coordinator for the 麻豆原创鈥檚 College of Health Professions and Sciences. She can be reached at camille.dolan@ucf.edu.

The 麻豆原创 Forum is a weekly series of opinion columns presented by 麻豆原创 Communications & Marketing. A new column is posted each Wednesday at http://today.ucf.edu and then broadcast between 7:50 and 8 a.m. Sunday on W麻豆原创-FM (89.9). The columns are the opinions of the writers, who serve on the 麻豆原创 Forum panel of faculty members, staffers and students for a year.

Brigitte was my childhood cat, but truth be told, she was actually my brother鈥檚 cat. She was so much his cat that one time she chose his bed (upon which he was sleeping at the time) to birth her kittens. My mother 鈥� who had grown up on a farm in Iowa 鈥� was familiar with animal husbandry and did not seem put off. I grew up thinking it was perfectly normal for cats to give birth on a bed while someone was sleeping there.

Scarlet is my niece鈥檚 cat. She is the only cat I鈥檝e ever seen that can be cuddled for as long as you want. She doesn鈥檛 mind and doesn鈥檛 suddenly turn into a biting and clawing machine when she wants to get away.

My daughter has two lovely rescue cats: Gola and Phoenix. Gola is about half the size of Phoenix, who has never known a bad piece of kibble.

I mean no disrespect to cat lovers. Cats do have some traits in their favor. They cover their waste. Most of them don鈥檛 shed enough fur to construct a facsimile of themselves, unlike some dogs. They occasionally vibrate their laryngeal muscles, causing the not unpleasant sound of a purr.

They are soft and generally amenable to being stroked. I would, however, advise against petting any of the six (!) hairless breeds of cats. (I would also advise against Googling 鈥渉airless cats鈥� right before bedtime to prevent nightmares.)

The superiority of canines is also evident in the English language. One 鈥減uts on the dog鈥� when one wants to impress. One aspires to be a 鈥渢op dog.鈥�

I am not the only one who prefers dogs. The superiority of canines is also evident in the English language. One 鈥減uts on the dog鈥� when one wants to impress. One aspires to be a 鈥渢op dog.鈥� Who doesn鈥檛 enjoy a delicious hot dog from time to time? And what could be better on a 鈥渢hree-dog night鈥� than snuggling with some puppers?

Drilling down a bit further, if dogs are better than cats, then my dog, Nala, is the best one of all.

We acquired Nala from a shelter a few months after we said goodbye to Schatzi, our beloved German shepherd who had hip dysplasia and a degenerative spine condition.

Nala, a boxador (boxer and Labrador retriever mix) was sharing a kennel with a very vocal husky. She seemed submissive. Her information card indicated that her owners had surrendered her because she was rough with children. I melted, fearing that no one would adopt her with such a bad report.

When we brought her home, we understood what her owners had meant. She was bouncy and jumpy and knew no commands. She was an enthusiastic eater, which I aided and abetted because of her hungry eyes. Her frenetic activity was not caused by aggression, however, and after a little training, her friendly, goofy personality emerged.

Currently, Nala has approximately 37 rawhide bone fragments in her toy box, and who knows how many buried in the backyard. She also has the uncanny ability to detect old rawhide under heavy couches, barking at me impatiently until I retrieve her bone. Her relentlessness is part of her charm.

She has ruined my hairbrushes, two pairs of shoes and three pairs of sunglasses. Nala appears contrite when I discover her transgressions; I think a cat would pretend they never happened.

Nala has never met a stranger. Visitors to my house are viewed as potential back-scratchers and lick recipients. We take the same walking route every day, yet she stops to sniff the exact same locations from the day before. It is amusing, perhaps not playing-with-yarn amusing, but it is entertaining.

Recently, however, there has been a development that may cause me to rethink my position about dogs v. cats.

Despite Nala鈥檚 many chew toys, bones and an exorbitant amount of my personal attention throughout the day, she has begun to eat my house. I was intently hemming some pants and heard Nala chewing on a bone. A crunchy bone. Except it wasn鈥檛 a crunchy bone. Nala had somehow wrested a corner piece of molding from my living room wall. Bad dog. A very bad dog indeed.

Nala may be having her own reservations about her place in our home. Recent trips to the dog park have seen her approaching other dog鈥檚 owners, presenting her backside for a scritch. They happily oblige, and Nala follows them around the park, forgetting that her real family is waiting for her.

Eventually, though, Nala remembers that I am the almighty provider of food and comfort and comes barreling back to me at full speed.

A cat would probably just leave forever, or at least until she heard the unmistakable rattle of her cat-food box.

Camille Dolan is the communications coordinator for the 麻豆原创鈥檚 College of Health Professions and Sciences. She can be reached at camille.dolan@ucf.edu.

The 麻豆原创 Forum is a weekly series of opinion columns presented by 麻豆原创 Communications & Marketing. A new column is posted each Wednesday at /news/ and then broadcast between 7:50 and 8 a.m. Sunday on W麻豆原创-FM (89.9). The columns are the opinions of the writers, who serve on the 麻豆原创 Forum panel of faculty members, staffers and students for a year.

Somehow, all three of mine survived their childhood, I survived their awkward adolescent years and I thought all the scary things had passed.

Of course, I was wrong.

When my younger son was a sophomore in high school seven years ago, he was doing well. He had good grades and participated in football, wrestling, track and cross-country.

He also had perfect vision, which is why I instantly became alarmed when he came home after a day of cross-country practice and told me the vision was blurry in his right eye. Another runner had come up on his right side, and Tanner didn鈥檛 see him.

I don鈥檛 know if I didn鈥檛 believe him or if I was trying to figure out why his vision was blurry, but I looked in his eye, searching for the eyelash or twig that was causing his complaint.

1. If your kid tells you there鈥檚 something wrong with his eye, believe him.

Something wasn鈥檛 right, but I guess I didn鈥檛 want to admit that yet. I told him to take a shower; maybe that would help. I didn鈥檛 really believe that, but I was stalling for time and trying to calm my nerves.

By the time he was out of the shower, I figured I better take him to the hospital. He wasn鈥檛 in pain and didn鈥檛 feel dizzy, and the shower had not helped his vision.

2. Trust your gut. If you think you should take your child to the hospital, do it.

The days and months that followed were a jumble of tests, doctors鈥� offices and constant worry. I also brushed up on my ophthalmology 鈥渟kills鈥� and would randomly ask my son if he could see or read something. I would helpfully point in the direction of the thing I wanted him to see.

He told me to stop asking him.

3. Any complicated diagnosis is not going to be solved by one doctor. You will have to wait, just like everybody else. The second part to this is stay away from Dr. Google. He will only provide you with more anxiety.

When I took my son to Bascom Palmer Eye Institute in Miami, we learned that he had Leber鈥檚 hereditary optic neuropathy, a rare, non-life-threatening retinal degeneration that causes varying degrees of blindness. By this time, a few months after his cross-country practice, my son was legally blind.

LHON mostly affects males and there is no cure, but because of the various mutations of the disease, some people regain some eyesight.

Every day, I asked Tanner how he was doing. And every day, he continued to say it wasn鈥檛 a big deal that he had lost his sight, because 鈥渁 lot of people have it worse than I do.鈥� His main concern was if he would be able to participate in sports again. He just wanted to wrestle with his team.

4. Take your cues from your child. If he doesn鈥檛 think his illness is a big deal, neither should you. But if you must cry, don鈥檛 cry in front of your child.

His coach told him he would need a doctor鈥檚 note to wrestle, which we understood. The doctor told us he would not sign a release, because he was concerned that my son would get hurt.

鈥淭hen let him,鈥� I begged the doctor. The risk of my son getting hurt was less than his sadness at not being able to play his favorite sport. Unfortunately, the doctor wouldn鈥檛 budge. We found another doctor who agreed to sign a release to allow him to participate in sports again.

Through it all, my son kept his sense of humor: 鈥淒oes this mean I can get a dog?鈥�

My friends and co-workers were very supportive and concerned. As I walked down the halls at work, people would stop me to ask about my son. No, his eyesight hasn鈥檛 gotten better. No, there鈥檚 nothing we can do about it. Yes, he鈥檚 doing fine. We鈥檙e all doing fine. There were always tears. Usually mine. It started to weigh on me so I began to avoid interactions with people.

5. If you know someone who is going through something like this, ask them if they want to talk about it. Don鈥檛 give them advice 鈥� unless they ask. But maybe you could offer to bring them some lasagna.

We don鈥檛 know how or why, but my son began regaining some vision. A person with LHON generally has some useful vision, but with certain mutations, the mitochondria in the optic nerve begin working, somehow bringing partial vision back again. He is now able to read things up close but his eyesight is not correctable by glasses because his optic nerve is affected.

I鈥檓 still not sure exactly what it looks like through my son鈥檚 eyes, but he said this to me: 鈥淚 may have lost my sight, but I still have my vision.鈥�

Camille Dolan ’98 is the communications coordinator for the 麻豆原创鈥檚 College of Health Professions and Sciences. She can be reached at camille.dolan@ucf.edu.

When he told me about them, a rapturous kind of glaze came over his eyes and he told me they were the best brownies he had ever had.

As a scratch baker, that was also the moment he crushed my soul.

Heretofore, my specialty was saucepan brownies. I made them a few times a month. I thought they were pretty good, but my son鈥檚 reaction to box brownies gave me pause.

Brownies are probably like pizza: It鈥檚 hard to make a bad one, but I鈥檒l still eat it.

I became determined to find the best brownie 鈥� either bakery-made or scratch 鈥� although, truth be told, brownies are probably like pizza: It鈥檚 hard to make a bad one, but I鈥檒l still eat it.

This pursuit may not seem like a high priority to many in these sometimes divisive times, but to me brownies are the quintessential comfort food that could be the thing to bring us all together 鈥� especially on National Brownie Day, Dec. 8.

Brownies are classified as a bar cookie, but there is very little that is cookie about them. So what are they? I may not be able to define them, but I know them when I see them.

I have tried many recipes and methods to create the perfect brownie. There is always something wrong with the recipes I try, so I figured I would leave the object of my quest in the hands of the professionals. Bakeries (or bake sales) have become my supplier.

In the interest of science and to spare you unnecessary brownie sampling, I will tell you what makes a brownie bad: Overly fudgy brownies. Overly cakey brownies (because they are really chocolate cake posing as brownies). Nutty brownies. Brownies adulterated with weird fruity flavors (raspberry cheesecake brownies, I鈥檓 looking at you). Chewy brownies. Pre-packaged brownies that come wrapped in cellophane with no expiration date, and the frosting peels off in one piece. Brownies made with black beans. Brownies made with margarine. Brownie brittle, whatever that is. Brownies made with applesauce 鈥� can you imagine? The abomination known as blondies. And this might be sacrilegious, but edge brownies. And, of course, box brownies.

I know it鈥檚 out there, somewhere. The perfect brownie is an ethereal, elusive combination of butter, melted chocolate, real sugar and flour, eggs, a pinch of salt and a hefty splash of Madagascar vanilla. Perhaps some chocolate chips could be invited to the batter party. And frosting 鈥� preferably made with chocolate and cream cheese; but sometimes just a light dusting of confectioner鈥檚 sugar would also be acceptable.

The ultimate result would be midway between cakey and fudgey, about an inch thick and so satisfying that all I would need is one bite. The said brownie鈥檚 flavor and texture would also improve upon being chilled.

I have been deceived many times. Occasionally, I have ascertained that the brownie that was posing as scratch was probably made from a box. The giveaway is the artificial taste. Maybe it鈥檚 only noticeable if you鈥檝e never had a real brownie.

Even box brownies know they are at a disadvantage when a simple internet search shows how to improve your box brownies.

Is it possible, I wondered, that others have the same difficulty when making a brownie? Even box brownies know they are at a disadvantage when a simple internet search shows how to improve your box brownies.

In a way, I kind of feel sorry for box brownies. With a little more refinement of their ingredients of cocoa, flour and sugar, they could have gone on to become a good version of scratch brownies.

But somewhere along the way, they took a wrong turn and got involved with the wrong crowd: mono propylene glycol, distilled monoglycerides and artificial flavors. It鈥檚 not their fault.

Perhaps you鈥檙e like my misguided son who has been swayed by box brownies or any of the other aberrations I mentioned above. I won鈥檛 judge.

In this politically charged climate, I believe there is room for all dissenting opinions of the chocolate variety. I also believe that my perfect brownie is right around the corner (not the edge).

Camille Dolan is the communications coordinator for the 麻豆原创鈥檚 College of Health Professions and Sciences. She can be reached at camille.dolan@ucf.edu.

The 麻豆原创 Forum is a weekly series of opinion columns presented by 麻豆原创 Communications & Marketing. A new column is posted each Wednesday at /news/ and then broadcast between 7:50 and 8 a.m. Sunday on W麻豆原创-FM (89.9). The columns are the opinions of the writers, who serve on the 麻豆原创 Forum panel of faculty members, staffers and students for a year.