sunday evening thoughts

I have this habit of curling up with Virginia at bedtime. I’ve been trying to wean her off the ritual, but the truth is that most nights I cherish those few special minutes. As we were curled up tonight, I looked at her profile, thumb in her mouth, the cute little bump of her nose in the dark, and her strong brow bone casting a shadow on the wall from the night light’s glow. She used to suck her thumb constantly, and while strangers felt compelled to tell her to stop, the dentist said she showed no signs of it affecting her teeth.

I’ve noticed she only sucks it at bedtime now. She made the observation a few weeks ago that she used to do it in her old school, but doesn’t feel the need to do it at her new one. Perhaps it’s just her natural development, or maybe it’s the nurturing environment. Regardless, it’s another reminder of the fleeting nature of childhood.

Now you see it, now you don’t.

One of the things I’m most thankful for with our recent move is the regeneration of my patience. I’ve been fresh out it for years, and the stresses of living in Brooklyn left me with an even greater deficit. Life here has given me the chance to slow down a bit, and while we spend a good portion of our time together shuttling back and forth to school in the car, or running errands, the quality of that time has been quite enriching. I’m an NPR junkie, hence the way the girls came up with our cat Ms. Paula Poundstone’s name.

Sometimes I worry about them hearing stuff that’s beyond their age or grasp, but I think it’s important for kids to have that exposure to the world as a larger place. When Scotland was preparing to vote on independence a few weeks ago, they listened intently for days on the drive to school. We talked about how it related to our own country, and got to talking about the Civil War. They were riveted by it all, and later that week when Paula Poundstone admitted on air that she was unclear as to what countries were part of the UK, they chuckled about it. I think this is part of the reason both our girls have such a rich vocabulary.

Recently, our car time has been occupied with listening to To Kill a Mockingbird. I began reading it over the summer, but finding the right time wasn’t always easy. I felt it was too heavy subject matter for before bedtime. We’d try to carve out time during the day, but then school started. I found out Sissy Spacek narrates the audio version, so we made the switch last week. The second we get into the car, before I’ve even had a chance to start the engine, Virginia chimes in “mommy, start the book.” They’re enthralled with the story, and we’re coming up to Tom Robinson’s trial soon, which has prompted me to prepare them for what comes next without ruining the book for them. It may be fiction, but it has stirred some real life conversations about our country’s history, and rather uncomfortable issues such as the crime that Robinson is accused of committing. I realize it may seem odd to broach such subjects with a six year old and eleven year old, but there is a way to discuss these things from a factual perspective without frightening them. And, it’s important that they feel they can talk to me about everything and anything. I’m never really sure that I’m always doing this single parenting thing right, but I know I’m at least doing it in the most honest, human, and respectful way I know how.

all in the family

Yes, I know, it’s been a while. I knew time was passing faster than I could keep up. My silence here inspired a few of you to send notes or leave comments wondering if everything is okay. The truth is that I decided to pull back a little at the end of August, just so the girls and I could enjoy our Cape vacation. I needed to disconnect a little, though I stayed tethered a bit to Instagram. Perhaps tethered is the wrong word; that sounds burdensome. I love seeing other people’s lives, and sharing my own, through photos, so you can always check in there if you don’t hear from me over here for a while.

Well, we came back from North Truro on August 30th, and then school started a few days later. After a relatively leisurely summer of waking when we wanted, eating when we were hungry, and going to bed at no particular time at all, well, it’s an understatement to say adjusting to school was a shock (more so for me, than the kids, I think). The girls seemed to settle in as well as could be expected, considering we moved just a few months, their friends are all back in Brooklyn, and they’re now in a new school up here. I’m sure as time passes, we’ll settle into new routines, find new friends, and feel more like we belong, and less like we’re outsiders. If only time was an ingredient we could buy, preferably a “just add water” item. We’d miss the journey, though, and experience has taught me that even the tougher parts of the path make it worthwhile. Continue reading »

catching up…

I’ve written dozens of lines on this screen, and deleted them all, not knowing how to describe what I’m feeling. Being a tightrope walker sums it up a bit, at least the last few weeks. Don’t look down, that’s the key, right? Keep my eyes focused on the path ahead, and getting across to the other side.

But what is the other side of grief?

It is so hard to shed the cloak of being a widow. It’s a double-edged sword, not wanting to be identified as the girl who’s husband died, our story being interrupted so abruptly. And yet, when people start to see me as I am today, on my own, it saddens me. I have to remind myself they’ve not forgotten him; it’s just the natural progression of things. I’m just becoming comfortable with being seen as a single mother, even though that isn’t exactly how I feel. Yes, I do the daily job of parenting alone, but he is always in my heart, guiding me in the decisions I make for our family.

I am alone, but not really.

Until the memories start to fade…

and the sound of his laughter becomes a distant echo I struggle to remember.

It’s almost two years since that moment, and I’m still standing. I looked down at my boots the other day and realized they’ve strolled the streets of Paris, walked the beaches of Normandy strewn with razor clam shells and a thick layer of snow, and clocked many miles making my way up a mountain in Morocco.

Two years almost down; the rest of my life to go.

Continue reading »

thoughts on day 641

I’ve spent a lot of time talking lately about the nourishing power of cooking. I’m often on the giving end of that relationship, and it’s a role I cherish. Every now and then, though, it’s nice to step out from my usual position behind the stove, and simply be on the receiving end of a homemade meal. After six weeks of traveling to do publicity for the book, things winded down yesterday as I made my way home from Toronto. What an incredible bookend to what started here in NYC at the beginning of April.

Vittoria made her famous rice balls for my arrival in Canada. Nick contributed homemade dried sausage, as well as red and white wine—both homemade, to our dinner. Mary made the most perfect crostata with a jammy plum filling, and a crust that will haunt me until I have time to get into the kitchen and replicate it myself. Marisa made the main course, and what better way to make me feel welcome than with pizza? I felt so at home being with Marisa and her family, that I sat on the kitchen counter mere minutes after meeting her mom, Vittoria, so I could position myself just right to snap some shots of the incredible spread they had all prepared. Continue reading »

the homestretch

My eyelids are refusing to cooperate this morning, as I find myself fighting to keep them open. Changing the clocks ahead one little hour this weekend is proving to be more challenging than the six hour time difference I so often encounter when I go to France. I figure you’re all feeling sort of sluggish and sleepy today too, and what better way to jolt you than with some fun news surrounding the release of Homemade with Love. If you’ve preordered the book, then you likely got the same email I did on Sunday—it’s shipping earlier than expected. As in you may have it as soon as the weekend depending on the shipping method you chose!

The love, security and sense of self I derive from being in the kitchen are feelings I hope to spark in all of you once Homemade with Love becomes a part of your lives. My reason for wanting to write a cookbook four years ago was simple. It wasn’t about vanity or dreams of fame. I wanted all of my positive experiences in the kitchen to become contagious. I wanted to show people in a very genuine way that cooking is about so much more than just eating. It is about feeding your soul, and enriching the lives of the people you love. Continue reading »

why i cook

My relationship with homemade ice cream is a love-hate one. Part of it has to do with the incessant hum of the ice cream machine. If you've never made it before, imagine a power drill going non-stop for 20 minutes.

Yet, here I sit, trying to concentrate and string words together as it whirs in the background. There weren't originally plans to make ice cream today, but you know what they say about drastic times. I was at the Time Warner Center staring at a shiny new refrigerator Vanessa Williams unveiled for Samsung when I saw I missed a call from Mikey.

Then came a text—his mother had fallen at home and he was rushing to catch the express bus to the Bronx. It felt like the worst case scenario we'd planning for, traveling in midday traffic to the Northeast Bronx. She'd apparently taken a fall while City Meals on Wheels was making their daily delivery. When EMS came she refused to go to the hospital. When the social worker tried calling, there was no answer. This went on for 20 minutes until they called Mikey, him being their only child and their emergency contact.

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if he could see me now

I'm on a train, rolling through the outskirts of Maryland, making my way home from D.C. This would have been the better option for my arrival too. Instead I took the bus, emerging looking as if I'd been on a fishing trip. My jeans tucked into forest green galoshes, and a navy slicker thrown over my arm since it was raining when I left New York.

Normally the planner, I hesitated making my travel arrangement to Eat, Write, Retreat. Something was gnawing at me every time I thought about getting to D.C.

I love flying, but in this case it wasn't the sensible choice. So that left me with two options—the bus or train. Neither appealed, so I just left my plans until the last minute.

Continue reading »