In Jennie's Kitchen

and then there was soup...{day 179}

All I wanted to do at 7:51 pm on Wednesday was crawl under the dining room table and curl up in a ball. Yet another dinner alone with the girls. It was a lovely meal, complete with spinach & cheese ravioli with brown butter, creamy, fresh mozzarella, tomato salad, eggplant dip and a crusty baguette.

Can you guess what my kids ate? Yep, bread and butter. The morsel of ravioli Virginia nibbled at didn't count. The three pieces Isabella forced down her throat meant nothing either. We'd just come off a major tantrum over her not wanting to do homework. She would've eaten a slab of cement to gain my approval at that moment.

The scene that played out perfectly sums up my answer to an exercise we did in group therapy this week. We had to write down a parenting challenge and parenting strength on slips of construction paper. I didn't get to share mine with the group, as it's pretty big and some people there are talkers.

On that pink slip of paper—I wonder did they purposely choose pink, as in pink slips, I wrote down "I hate being a single parent". That is my biggest parenting challenge. I hate walking this path alone, and not just because there's no one to help steer the ship in moments of unrest and tantrums. I miss someone to share my meals with, to share in the little victories and joys.

I miss someone to look me in the eye, and reassure me that I'm not doing a horrible job.

I miss my husband, and the ache is settlng in deeper, as each day passes.

The picture above is a sneak peek from City Girl, Country Kitchen. It's an Italian soup from Tuscany, called a ribollita. Bryan and I slurped it up for lunch today, steaming bowlfuls, and damn it was good. Isabella surely would've turned her nose up to it, kale being her arch nemesis these days. But as I ladled the soup into bowls for me and Bryan to taste, all I imagined is how much Mikey would've love this soup. Beans, vegetables, in a thick, flavorful broth, that hearty slices of country bread seemed to just melt into.

This soup is something I would've been proud to serve Mikey. And somewhere, I really do believe he's looking down wishing he was here to share in it all too.

things i like {winter 2012}

First of all, thanks for the kind words and encouragement for the week ahead. I'm still undecided about the whole birthday cake thing, and know I just need to see how I feel once the day approaches. Maybe I'll be in a cake-making mood, maybe I won't. What I will do is follow my instincts at the moment, and go with the flow.

Before you all begin thinking life is filled with nothing but gloom around here, though, rest assured I have many moments throughout the day that bring a smile to my face. I try to hold those moments close, and wish I could capture them in a bottle to save for a rainy day. In fact, sometimes I really can preserve the moments—thanks for the inspiration Heidi. So, I thought I'd share some of my favorite things of late with you all. Putting this little list together was a welcome distraction for me, and it's always nice to share a good find with a friend.

• Citrus Salts from 101 Cookbooks. It's no secret that I love everything Heidi cooks. Sometimes I even imagine what it would be like to be her neighbor, and have the chance to hang in the kitchen together. Take a peek at her recipe for preserving citrus zest to see why. I gave them a go this weekend, and took it a step further by adding some fresh chopped herbs to mine (the photo above is oregano citrus salt).

• I can't say enough how much I love my new bread boards from Our Vintage Home Love. Diane introduced me to them a few weks ago, and I immediately ordered a set. The kids adore having their own individual boards at night. They've also become spoiled with their own ramekins of seasoned olive oil for dipping. Dorm life is going to be a rude awakening.

• It's funny how it's been months since Olga and I have seen each other, insane actually, because we only live 10 blocks from each other! Alas, life gets in the way of face-to-face time, but our minds were both on the same thing a few weeks ago: parsnips. You'll have to wait until the second book comes out for my recipe (sorry), but go give her parsnip leek soup a try until then. Her recipes never disappoint.

• I have a handbag obsession, and once you see this one I've fallen for from Pietro Alessandro, you'll understand why. The leather is so soft and subtle, and they're made right here in NYC. I bought mine at a local shop here in Cobble Hill, but they also sell them online—I have this brownish-grey one which pretty much goes with anything.

• Breville gets my vote for the best hand mixer ever. While testing for the cookbook I wanted to use a hand mixer, since I know not everyone has a zippy 800-watt stand mixer. This little 200-watt powerhouse beat the socks off two other top brands. I love that the beaters are sturdy, not flimsy wire whisks like most other hand mixers nowadays. Making a batch of chocolate chip cookies took less than 10 minutes. For the record, this wasn't a freebie—I paid for this baby out of pocket, and it's well-worth the $80.

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it's all happening...{day 155}

I look at this photo of us, sharing a kiss during a Cape Cod sunset, and it reassures me he was happy. People have a way of losing themselves in parenthood. It's a constant juggle, and often one half of the couple is left feeling they have more than their fair share of balls to keep in the air.

We were no exception.

But the way his eyes are closed in this picture, the way his lids rest gently on his lower lashes, they tell me he found peace with me. The same deep brown eyes that, when open, spoke volumes when not a single word was being uttered—they do the same thing in this moment captured, but they are closed.

Months after Michael and I started dating, I remember snuggling my head in his chest, and saying it was my favorite place in the world. I continued to tell him that as days turned into years, and the other night I found myself burrowing my head into his pillow, in search of the warmth that crook of his chest gave me for 16 years.

A few days after this past Thanksgiving, an email came from my literary agent. The subject was simple, with just two words—"an offer". My breath stopped momentarily. Then a tingling sensation spread to my fingertips. I happened to be in our old apartment at the time, working while the sitter was at our new home with the girls.

It felt very fitting, and surreal to call Stacey back and talk about the offer. That kitchen was where it all started, the seedlings of an idea nurtured, Michael's words always encouraging me to dream big. Now, I have the chance to move forward on my terms.

For the next two years, as I write two books for Running Press, there will be an invisible tether between my two lives—the one with Mikey, and the one without. I think these two amazing projects will allow me to weave a bridge with words to eventually feel like a whole person again.

I've been working on the cookbook proposal for two years. It is a part of the life we shared together. Mikey is even the one who came up with the title City Girl, Country Kitchen. I racked my brains for countless hours, and then in one five minute conversation I explained my goal for the book to him and the words City Girl, Country Kitchen rolled off tongue with such ease, I was envious.

Mikey, this is what I would've had waiting for you when you walked in the door as a toast to this very big dream we both shared. I love you baby.

The Celebration

serves one

I've been on a non-alcholic cocktail spree for a week now. I love how a drink can be complex, and filled with layers of flavors but nary a drop of liquor. Go for "top shelf" ingredients here, as you would if making a boozy elixir.

Freshly squeezed juice of 1 blood orange

1/2 teaspoon good quality maple syrup

2 dashes of orange bitters

Seltzer, to top off the glass

Burnt orange peel, for garnish

Fill a cocktail shaker with ice. Add the juice, syrup and bitters. Seal the top and shake vigorously until beads of sweat form on the outside of the shaker. Pour into an old fashioned cocktail or martini glass, garnish with the burnt orange peel to serve.

 

How to make a burnt orange

Just before serving the cocktail, light a match, or use a lighter, to release the essential oils from the orange peel. Do this by holding the peel with the white, pith side up, and waving the flame underneath over the outer skin of the orange peel.

what lies ahead {day 144}

It seems fitting to talk about pizza on this very last post of 2011, for it's how I started 2011 when it dawned almost a year ago. Pizza is something we take very seriously here. Years ago, I started the tradition of Pizza Fridays. It seemed we always ordered on Fridays, and as cooking from scratch became an obession, it just made sense to start making it myself too. It was never about taking a break from cooking, it was about creating more family time.

Our usual routine was to curl up on the couch, pies strewn across the coffee table as we settled in for a movie. In the last year, Mikey often came home from work as the movie was winding down, but his first bite of pizza always elicited the same reaction. He'd close his eyes, take a deep breath, then sink his teeth into the crispy crust. Next came an exhale, then he'd open his ebony eyes and say "damn, how do you do it!".

I miss him more than I can ever convey with mere words.

This past week, I've felt numb and in shock all over again. I stare at his pictures, desparately remininding myself that our life together wasn't a dream. How is it in just 144, he seems so far away. We spent more than 5,000 together, yet each one that passes since August 7th feels like someone is slowly taking an eraser to the blackboard of my life.

It's like a slow, painful shake of an etch a sketch, as I scramble, trying to cling to each moment of every memory, knowing they have to last a lifetime.

In my most desparate moments I retreat to the kitchen. It is the only place I feel normal and in control of my life.

On Christmas morning, I set my mind to making Mikey a cake. A glorious coffeecake flecked with bits of pear and adorned with an allspice pecan crumb topping.

This morning, I had a challenging day ahead of me, so I set out to make a breakfast Virginia and often enjoyed. Nothing fancy, just poached eggs, toast and apple slices. Okay, maybe the fresh squeezed blood orange juice upped the fancy ante, but anyone can make orange juice. The point is, this simple homemade breakfast nourished more than just my belly.

When Mikey was alive, he used to walk Isabella to school while Virginia and I got a slow start to our morning. We'd watch The Cat in the Hat while poking at the yolks on our poached eggs. She remembers those mornings vividly, and recalled them today as we sat at our new table and dipped toast into the pools of yolk.

Mikey is not here in the physical sense anymore, but we can continue to live many parts of our lives as we did before. The challenge is not to focus on the gaping hole in every memory.

I thought I had that under control until Hanukkah and Christmas came along. I know I will get back on the saddle come January, but right now I just want to stomp my feet like a toddler. I don't want to turn the page come 12:01 on January 1st.

I don't want to face a year in which he will have never lived.

Never laughed.

Never held me.

Never kissed me.

And yet I have to, so I move forward with a line from my favorite Christmas movie in my head:

"I believe, I believe, it's silly but I believe."

I made a commitment to dream big, so I'll float into 2012 with an open mind and hope my heart follows.

being thankful {day 102}

The last few days people near and far have reached out to wish me strength and peace as the Thanksgiving holiday approaches. It will be tough, no doubt, and if you want real honesty, I'm terrified of waking up that day.

Not because I'm afraid of the tears that will be inevitable.

Not because of the heartbreak I carry as if the Grand Canyon has settled in my chest.

I'm worried because I know I need to be strong to preserve the beauty and love that my girls have come to expect during what has always been one of my favorite seasons. Every year I watch the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade with them, and try as I might, there is no holding back the tears that slide down my face as Santa's sleigh pulls into Herald Square.

Silly for a grown woman to admit, I know.

I believe that kindness outweighs the misery in the world, and something about that dude in the red suit, tiny specs resting on his cherry-red nose fills me with comfort and calm. It renews my belief that we are all born good, it just depends on the chances we are given, and take, as the layers of our life unfold.

As we sit down to Thanksgiving dinner, instead of focusing on what we have lost, I will remind the girls of everything that enriches our lives. I will remind them to be thankful for the new warm blankets we just bought, for the apartment we now call home, for the love of friends and family.

And I will remind them that as cheated as we all feel, we must be thankful for having had Mikey in our lives, no matter how short the time felt. It will be hard for them to understand, I know. Heaven knows I don't "get-it" yet myself.

This year, as you plan your Thanksgiving meal, I'd like to ask everyone to take a moment and think about everything that you feel fortunate for in your life. Then, think about the millions of voids that will be on Thanksgiving tables around the country.

It may be someone like me, struggling with the loss of a husband or wife, but with the added worry of bills piling up. The Liz Logelin Foundation is there to help them.

Perhaps it's hope that someday, hopefully soon, a cure for pediatric cancer will be found. Join Gretchen and her family in honoring their son Liam's memory—the Glad company is matching donations up to $100,000, to Cookies for Kids' Cancer.*

And then, there are the empty plates that many families face because they cannot afford to feed themselves. For those men, women and children, I am very thankful that places like the Los Angeles Mission exist. I learned of it last year, when Diane and Todd created a moving video to highlight the work they are doing to help create more than just a meal—they are creating hope and a reason to keep on going each day. A donation of just $38.57 can help 19 people.

For those wishing they could help ease the heaviness in my heart this holiday season, please join me in making the world a better place. If you have a blog, write a post similar to this one, letting your readers, friends and family know how they can help make a difference.

Happy (early) Thanksgiving, and thank you for being such kind, caring people and joining me in my journey the last 102 days.

Disclosure: While I have no affiliation with Glad, I have been compensated by their parent company, Clorox, for my work as a spokesperson on the Love Your Veggies campaign.

100 Days

Moving forward, but not leaving you behind.

The life you possessed is captured in the lens with which I now see life.

The first day of school.

The first Halloween.

Revisiting some our very own firsts. Cafe Borgia, our first cappucino together. The Cable Building, our first kiss. Fanelli's—you had the crab cakes, I had a burger.

Matthew Sweet finally came back to town, 86 days too late.

You made your mark at Blue Smoke.

We made our mark in the sands of Cape Cod.

Gina's mom made us sugo—you would've loved, loved, loved it.

And I'm slowly coming out of my fog, cooking a little more each day.

100 days seems impossible and cruel.

I miss your laugh, your smile, your snoring, rubbing my fingers through your thick brown hair, your gnarly toe nails, the flecks of grey hair across your chest.

Yes, I miss every part of your being, yet you send me signs every day that you're watching. Perhaps waiting to accept this is all true too.

moving forward day

Today is 13 weeks since Mikey died. That's 91 days, or more than 2,000 hours. I still keep waiting to wake up, but as I've said before, I don't think that feeling will ever dissipate. I'm pretty sure it will become a dull ache, one day, but the place he holds in my heart will forever have a "reserved" sign engraved in it.

We're finally settled into our new home, just a few blocks from where Mikey and I first planted our roots together. The girls are in the same schools, and our dear friends are still close by. On all accounts, this move was the best of the both worlds. The proximity allows us to maintain our normal schedules and lives. This move was akin to a snake shedding its skin, the walls in which we lived are part of our old life. Those surroundings were holding us back from moving forward.

As I write, the girls are playing in their new sun-filled bedroom. The floors are covered with bright flowered rugs to bring some elements of the outdoors inside. My room has more light than I've had the privilege of enjoying in my home in 13 years. It's hard to not smile when you have this much light flowing through the windows.

As we head into a cold New York City winter, this sunlight will heal us. It will penetrate the heavy feeling in our hearts, and soothe our souls.

Our new space is smaller, but I like that feeling of coziness. I feel comforted being able to glance up from the kitchen counter as I mix pancake batter and see all my ducklings in a row. In this case smaller is better, much better. I've already made conscious decisions to free my life from a lot of the clutter and noise that existed in it before. I think many of us don't recognize how crowded our lives are with physical objects, or how your attention is pulled by this vast technologically driven world. Sometimes it takes a life-changing event to realize less is more—more fulfilling.

So, I've shed cluttered kitchen equipment—no microwave or toaster. I figure the extra few minutes it takes to melt butter on the stovetop for pancakes allows me to take an extra breath and reflect on the meal I'm about to make. Isabella loves toast, but I don't need a special appliance for that—my broiler does the job perfectly. These little things are helping me think more clearly, silly as they may seem.

I've also put myself on a technology diet too. I want to focus on the actual instead of the virtual right now. I'm so thankful for the deep, lasting friendships I've made from my blogging world, and want to spend more time cultivating them. I can only do this by making the deliberate decision to power down more often.

For now, I'm going to spend the rest of this quiet Sunday enjoying the sunshine with the girls. But first, I need to go clean up the dishes from this morning's breakfast you see up above. I hope everyone is finding time to enjoy the little moments, and hug those they love a little tighter, keep them a little closer.

the long way home

This is the view from the house we stay at in North Truro. I walked that path hundreds of times with Mikey, leading to the bay, and the view still takes my breath away. Walking out to low tide was always a special experience. Our feet buried in the sand, sweet bay-kissed air smacking our cheeks in the morning's wind rejuvenated our souls.

As I took that last stroll this morning, girls in tow, the reality of our situation resonated more so than the last 26 days. My husband is dead. He is not coming back. He will never take this walk with me, at least in a form I can recognize, with warm hands I can clasp.

I miss him. Terribly. More than anyone can imagine. What we shared for 16 years was real, raw, complicated, imperfect, and yet we managed to stay together through all of it because we were meant to be together. We worked for our love. It was tested at times, and we came prepared for battle, fighting to hold onto it.

It wasn't always with ease and the fairytale nature it may seem from what I've chosen to share here, but it was as real a love as you'll ever come across in any lifetime.

Walking back from that last low tide, I let the girls walk ahead. Then I crumbled to the ground, knees bent in the sand, much like the position Mikey was found in when he collapsed on that corner two blocks from our home in Brooklyn. I sobbed, asking why, then looked up to find Isabella coming to comfort me. We held each other and began to cry together.

And then we picked ourselves up, brushed the sand from our legs and made our way back to the cottage. I imagine we'll be picking ourselves up and brushing away the pain a lot over the next few days, months and years. I know somewhere Mikey is watching this all unfold, and wondering why the hell this happened too. We'll persevere because the Perillo Girls are made of strong stock, but we'll always carry the sadness of what could've been.

 And that's okay because we're only human.

wishing for a miracle

This is Edward Hopper's house. The one he used to escape city life during the summers with his wife Josephine. Mikey loved Hopper's work, and this was one of the reasons he was drawn to North Truro decades ago. The grand portrait glass window, which can't be seen in this photo, has a view of North Truro and Provincetown.  A landscape Hopper was often inspired by.

As with time, that landscape has changed. A horrid, contemporary-looking house has been constructed, obstructing the view Hopper once gazed upon. Mikey and I watched news of this closely, and I know it would've saddened him to see the building, as I did for the first time, yesterday.

Mikey's sudden death means there was no time for goodbyes. And if there had been, it wouldn't have felt like enough time anyway.

What we did have was one perfect last morning and afternoon that Sunday, August 7th. Both as husband and wife, friends and parents. Sundays were always my day to sleep in. I could tackle the busyness of Monday through Saturday, so long as I had one morning a week to be lazy. No alarms to rouse me, no lunches to pack or markets to visit. Just some extra sleep, and waking up to kisses was a fringe benefit too.

That last Sunday morning Mikey came into the room and rubbed every morsel of my skin. It's almost like he knew he needed to leave a lasting impression. I opened my sleepy eyes, and whispered for him to lock the bedroom door. The girls were watching cartoons.

We made love for the very last time. I didn't know it then. I had no idea he would be gone forever nine hours later. But what I did know is I was ready to say yes to something he'd been asking me. He'd been teasing about trying for "the boy". As he left the room to tend to the girls, leaving me with just a few more minutes of quiet peace, I decided to tell him that night that we should give it a try.

I've been hoping every day since he died that the condom broke. Wishing for a miracle, albeit it one that would send my world into overdrive. I was wishing for one last parting gift. A consolation prize, of sorts.

My period came, much to my sadness, and with it another flood of tears and reminder that the life I wanted is not available to me anymore.

Looking for You (I Was)

I'm trying to muster the energy to make a pot of beans.

A pot of beans people—this is something I used to do with my eyes closed. Today just has a silence echoing in my heart. I want to hear again, though I know the words I want whispered in my ear will never come.

So, for now I'll go rummage through the cupboard for some dry beans, and do the only thing I know to pass each minute my life is on pause.

The beans are just an excuse, procastination to do what I really need to—fill out the life insurance forms. Funny how it's called insurance, yet I feel no safety and security in my heart.

I read this poem at Mikey's funeral party. Yes, we had a party and it was grand. I danced with my girls, while surrounded with hundreds of people who loved us all. Yet, in a room filled with warm bodies, I still felt singularly alone.

Looking for you, I was Mikey.