dessert

It’s hard to believe that just a year ago we felt complete and normal. I’ve tried to find the words to start this post for a week now. Nothing flows freely from my fingertips, but I wanted to share this recipe for Easter Bread with you. I hadn’t realized how close we were to Easter until I went to the local pastry shop with Virginia last week. Lamb-shaped cakes and rounds of sweet bread filled with colored eggs adorned the counter tops.

Last year our house was overflowing with homemade Easter Bread, as I was testing it to be featured in the Washington Post. I read the old post I wrote back then, with tears dripping from the corners of my eyes. How was that my life just one year ago?

Then there’s this picture I have of Virginia kneading the dough with Mikey. People constantly tell me she’s too young to be as deeply affected by his death as Isabella, and it’s infuriating. She may be barely four years old, but she’s not stupid. One day she had the most loving, caring, involved daddy, and then he disappeared as quickly as flipping a light switch.

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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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My mind feels about as soft as the cookie dough I’ve been obsessed with the last two days. It is a swirl of activity, and some days focusing feels so out of reach.

January 25th, this Wednesday, marks 14 years since my father died. 1998—what an intense year it turned out to be. I hadn’t even thought of my real dreams until that fateful year. Nothing like your dad dying rather suddenly at the age of 49 to rock your core.

He was a Michael too, and all these years later the image of him taking his very last breath is still engraved in my memory.

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Mikey never guessed fatherhood was one of his destinies to be fulfilled. He was diagnosed with a medical condition in his early twenties, which required a form of chemotherapy treatment to help him heal. This was a decade before we met.

At the time, his doctor told him to put some of his "boys" on ice just in case he wanted to have kids one day. When I became pregnant, saying we were shocked is putting it mildly—I was on the pill too. You know that little disclaimer about using backup contraception if you're on antibiotics? Well, it wasn't there back in 2002.

And thank heavens it wasn't.

To think one simple sentence could've changed the course of our lives would've surprised me 130 days. Now, I know how one split-second can change a life forever.

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It's funny how I can feel so alone in a crowded room these days. This little place here in cyberspace, though—I never feel alone here. The sincere comments, emails and well-wishes over the last week have only reaffirmed what I've always believed—there are more good people in this world than we sometimes realize.

When I wrote a post asking friends to make a peanut butter pie to celebrate Mikey's life and the love for everyone in their own lives, I never expected the amazing domino effect that would follow. One woman wrote to tell me she has a peanut butter chocolate cupcake on the menu at her cafe in Buenos Aires in honor of Mikey, with the proceedings going to a charity that helps kids in need.

It reminded me of Eric Carle's story the The Tiny Seed, the way the love Mikey and I shared made it's way through the borders of Argentina into the heart of a woman neither of us knew. There are many more stories like this, and they make my heart swell with hope.

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I loved my mother's Tupperware containers growing up. I can still remember the tiny blue one she used to serve us ice cream in, and the tops that fit just perfectly always intrigued me. I don't know why, but I still love holding a sealed container upside down and marvel at how a simple lid stops gravity from doing its job.

The blue container had a pink companion piece, and the sight of those only meant good things, like ice cream, jello or a homemade cinnamon sugar butter mixture. In fancy culinary terms, we'd call it a compound butter. I doubt my mother knew that's what she was making, as she swirled the softened butter together with the fragrant spice and sweet sugar. The house smelled sinfully good, as a pat melted across a crisp slice of bread just after it popped from the toaster.

It's quite an easy concoction to make on your own, so I was curious when I heard Land O'Lakes had a new cinnamon sugar buttery spread on the market. Since it has been my butter of choice for baking for a long time, I raised my virtual hand a few weeks ago to take on a project to develop a recipe using the spread, along with a few other bloggers—we're all posting a recipe this week which will be featured on the Betty Crocker website, for which we're also being paid.

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By time you read this, Isabella will officially be a third grader. Right now though, as these words flow from my fingertips, she has 141 minutes left as a second grader.

The end of every school year feels like a wow moment. Lately, every moment feels like a "how the hell did my life land here" moment. Sometimes those moments are good, in fact most times they're amazing. The reality though is life is never as perfect as it seems on the outside.

There are cracks, and some days feel like they're all about shoring up the dam, so the river of memories don't come crashing in, sweeping me away with them.

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Eight years ago, around this time, I was in my 24th hour of labor. Nine hours later, I’d find myself screaming at the Mr., my mom and best friend “this kid is never going to come out”. Three hours later, Isabella Rose Perillo came into my life, and it was forever changed.

Five years ago, around this time I was already holding her sister, Virginia Rae. She was barely three hours old. The circumstances leading up to her birth were worlds apart. I felt more confident. More sure of myself.

I also had a birthday cake to finish frosting just before Virginia came along. My due date was May 7th, the same exact one I had with Isabella. Like her sister, Virginia decided to be fashionably late.

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I know, it's Monday. The day of the week we're supposed to start fresh. Get back on track, vow to eat better than last week. Maybe even get back into an exercise routine, if you fell off the wagon a few weeks ago. I may or may not be guilty of this last one.

For now, I'll plead the fifth, and share a carrot cupcake recipe with you. I think it's perfect for Mondays for a few reasons. It's dairy-free, so that means no butter. Good for the waistline and no fuss with waiting for it to soften. Instead I swapped in extra virgin olive oil.

I also used coconut milk. It adds an amazing lightness and moistness. I've been obsessed with using this in baking ever since going to a Thai Kitchen event a few weeks ago. I even used it in a smoothie recipe I developed for a back to school article out this September in Relish magazine.

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As I neared the corner, I looked both ways. Certain no one was in eyeshot on what was a hail-ridden evening, I decided to jump with all my might into a rather large puddle in the crosswalk. Water splashed up the sides of my rain boots, narrowingly missing the edges, thankfully keeping my feet safe and dry.

I glanced up to see a gentleman diagonally across the street chuckling in my direction. I'd been busted and gave him an "I couldn't help myself grin" with a wink of the eye and shrug of the shoulders.

Then I walked the few blocks home, a pint of Ben & Jerry's Late Night Snack hidden in my purse, stomping some more puddles along the way. It felt good to act impulsive outside the kitchen. At that moment I understood exactly why my girls need those puddle stomps too. What a release, almost as good as screaming out loud, except people won't think you're quite as crazy.

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