Baking

Years ago, when Isabella was a wee little one, we had a neighbor who insisted on counting her son’s age in months up until he was three. Mikey and I laughed so hard at the idea of that. Imagine someone asking how old your kid is, and replying 32 months. It just sounds odd, right? I’m guessing that mom’s rationale was wanting to hold onto her son being a baby as long as possible. I get it. Oh man, do I get it, especially these days. In just two weeks, my babies will turn five and ten. I feel like I blinked and life tapped me on the shoulder, then screamed SURPRISE!

This whole way of counting has been weighing on my mind a lot lately. People often refer to Mikey having died a year and a half ago, or almost two years ago. Me? I refer to it as what it is—20 months ago. Unlike my old neighbor who wanted to cherish her babies early years, I’m trying to stay close to Mikey. The more time that passes since his death signifies the growing distance between my old life and my new one. Continue reading »

It is no surprise that I’ve been in a state of foggy consciousness for a while now. My body seems to float in and out of moments, a smile on my face, while my mind is a million miles away. Part of my mental listlessness is due to having taken too much time off after the book finally went to the printer. I was so drained mentally, emotionally and physically that I decided not to focus on work until the New Year. It was a decadent move, but one I felt I both needed and deserved.

I’m slowly getting back into the swing of things, sowing my seeds for the year ahead. For starters, I did my first interview for Homemade with Love. I’m no stranger to interviews, as I did quite a few of them back in the day when I had my personal chef business. Still, it’s been over a decade since that part of my life, and I was admittedly nervous. The moment I got on the phone with the editor at HGTV magazine, though, my nerves calmed. I realized all I had to do was be myself, so keep an eye out for the June issue.

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We made a grand entrance into Paris, as you can see from the photo below. Honestly, my breathe was taken away as our driver pulled up to our hotel and I saw the decorations reminiscent of a winter wonderland. It’s as though someone knew we needed to be showered with lightness and love as 2012 draws to a close.

I’m not sure I can capture all that has transpired this year in an eloquent fashion. A lot of it you already know. Frankly, as I read through posts from this past year in preparation for writing the second book, I wonder if I shared too much. Did I give away parts of myself that should’ve been kept private? Did I bare too much, and leave myself vulnerable?

Did I grieve the wrong way? Continue reading »

I looked in the mirror a few days ago and thought “holy shit” you’re going to turn 39 any day now. Then I glanced back, this time with a smile, and reminded myself I have survived 39 years on this planet. Sometimes the canvas of our lives seems like a Jackson Pollock painting. A spattering of events that require careful introspection so as to not miss the meaning in all those moments.

Yes, my 39 years thus far have had their share of doubt, uncertainty, and sadness. But, they have also been filled with more love than some people experience in a lifetime (and I’m counting on being here for at least 39 more, fingers crossed). The tough times etch their way into our souls like a branding iron fresh from the flames. At moments, I have felt tired and weary, quite sure I was ready to throw in the towel. The last 16 months have been particularly exhausting. It has felt like dog years in terms of my growing process, but I am still standing. I wake each morning with resolve, ready to do it all over again…ready to keep this promise to myself. Continue reading »

As a kid, I was partial to chewy cookies. I remember the warm oatmeal raisin ones my parents used to buy at a bakery somewhere near Little Italy. One of these days I’ll also remember to ask my mother where that bakery was exactly, though I imagine it is long shuttered by now.

My current cookie obsession has been baking thin crispy ones, the kind that benefit from a dunk in tea or coffee. I set out recently to create a new cookie of this—well, let’s call it genre. Everything was going well, at first. I used this recipe as a base for my proportions. Except I made some tweaks, because I can’t leave well enough alone. This is the best attribute a recipe developer can have—reckless abandon in the kitchen. Okay, so maybe deciding to brown the butter instead of simply melt it wasn’t a revolutionary or reckless idea (except for my waistline), but you get what I’m talking about. Setting out to create a new recipe comes with the understanding that failure is a distinct possibility. Continue reading »

A big part of being in a healthy relationship is learning to say two things: 1) I’m sorry and 2) I was wrong. They’re all but five words when combined, but the inherent feelings of inadequacy that are intertwined with admitting them makes them difficult to utter. In a good relationship, where trust and love is both solid and reciprocated, there is no fear in saying them.

But what about the solitary relationship we share with ourselves? There is no one to hug us when we admit them, or to make a joke and break the tension of the moment. It is so easy to intellectualize how I need to be easier, more gentle to myself, yet so hard to actually implement it in the moment.

I’m exacting, precise, determined—perhaps this is why baking is something I love. I respect the rigidness of the variables involved in making a cake. Yet, I’m forgiving of my foibles in the kitchen, and harsh of the others that happen in my every day life. Go figure.

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I’m staring at the screen not knowing what I want to write, yet here I am letting the words free fall from my mind to the page. Something happended on day 313, actually it’s been slowly unfolding and today it came full circle.

I don’t look for signs, yet they seem to find me when I least expect them. Last Thursday morning, I went downstairs to the kitchen and watched the sunrise over the buildings in the backyard. It feels like I’ve found my groove again, at least in my morning routines. Before Mikey passed away I’d rise before the sun and go for a run, do some meditation and get a jump on my workday. He’d often joke that I got more accomplished before he woke than he could get done in a whole day.

I loved the feeling of cool air stroking my face as I ran with Arcade Fire carrying my feet faster with every step. For that ever so brief run, usually two miles, the freeing feeling of running and not being tied to any label—mother, wife, writer, was akin to wiping the slate clean each day. An energizing rebirth of my mind and body.

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The weather in NYC has been abysmal the last few weeks. Not good for someone who often jokes she operates on solar energy. When I woke up to sunshine streaming in through the crack in the curtains I knew it would be a farmers’ market day. Wednesdays and Saturdays are my favorites for going to Union Square because it’s bursting with the most farm stands.

I had no business going today with my manuscript due the end of next week, but it’s where my heart needed to be. Eating is a common way to cope with deep sadness, but whenever I feel out of sorts I find more comfort in ingredients. As I crossed over Union Square West and found myself in the center of the market, I began sprinting, scanning stands to see what I wanted. Then I stopped and realized it was the equivalent to gobbling my food up too fast.

After the dreary weather, this time at the market needed to be savored. It needed to nourish my mind so I could get back to the real work at hand, which at this moment is finishing the last of the recipe development and writing headnotes. I took a deep breath, closed my eyes and slowed down my pace. After collecting my bounty, I headed to the subway.

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Yesterday was group therapy, which means it was time for a feelings check in. In reality, we should all do these check ins on a daily basis, regardless of suffering a traumatic loss. Understanding how you feel forces you to confront why you feel that way. It sounds simple, but how often do you find yourself juggling so many responsibilities that you ignore the symptoms?

A deep ache is settling in. Today is seven months since Mikey died. Seven months. The reality of what this means scares the hell out me. In so many ways day seven was easier than week seven. And week seven was no doubt easier than month seven. He is not coming back, and even worse is the life I was living just seven months ago seems so foreign. I watch that video of him dancing with Virginia, yet I feel numb, as if it was all a dream.

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My first attempt at making madeleines was only recently, just before Mikey passed away actually. I relied on a trusted source to guide me, and while the batter tasted amazing, and the finished product was quite good too, my madeleines looked like they’d been through a war. I broke a sweat trying to pry them from the pans with my offset spatula. Figuring I didn’t use enough butter or flour to coat the pans, I immediately started a second batch. Mikey looked at me like I was nuts, but he knew my drive for perfection was ceaseless and I wouldn’t give up that easily.

Then my second batch came out of the oven.

They seemed to stick to the pan, again.

So I did what anyone insane baker would do, and moved onto batch three immediately. This is where you’d add the explicatives because, yes, those little bastards still stuck to the pan. I went to bed tired, annoyed and feeling defeated.

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