life

Seven years ago we planted a tree in our old yard. It was a Japanese maple, Michael’s favorite. Our marriage had hit a crisis point, and while we did the necessary work to put our relationship back on track, that tree served as a symbol of our love and strength. As Michael patted the soil around the base of the tree, beads of sweat slowly slipping from his forehead to his shoulders, he said “if this tree survives, then so will we”.

When I planned my move from the old apartment, I couldn’t imagine leaving that Japanese maple prey to a new owner’s like or dislikes. What if they decided to re-do the garden and toss the tree? My friend tracked down this organization that would find the tree a new home for a modest donation. Our Japanese maple was supposed to spend its days nestled among one of the city’s community gardens. They were going to tell us where exactly, so the girls and I could go visit it. See, having had him cremated (his wishes), we have no place to escape to, where we can deposit some of our feelings of loss. Not that it ever leaves you, it’s just that having a resting place allows loved ones to stop, reflect, yet remove themselves a little with each visit from the feeling of loss, if that makes any sense.

Right now, his ashes sit in a box next to my desk, a post-it note tacked to it that reads “JP don’t forget me”. Across the street from my current apartment, there’s a large pot with a little Japanese maple like the fledgling one we planted, and it sends a pang to my heart. Every time I see a Japanese maple like the one that used to enjoy a shady corner in my old backyard, my loss feels heightened. Is my tree thriving, or is struggling to survive? When the tree was first removed by the New York Restoration Project in the winter of  2012 it was placed in a greenhouse because they said spring was a better time to plant it. Last time I checked in, I was told the tree was moved to a community garden, and they would get back to us with the exact location. Follow up phone calls and emails went unanswered. I’m sure to them it’s just a tree, but to me it was so much more.

That Japanese maple was a symbol of our love, of our commitment to each other and the life we built together. I’m starting to come to peace with having lost track of the tree. It’s out there somewhere. I just can’t touch it, or feel it.

I can’t see it.

But its roots are buried deep within my heart forever.

Music Pairing: Roadmovies by Bettie Serveert

I’m not really sure where to start. See, this is my inherent problem. A million things always seem to be whirling in my mind, and I can’t keep up with them, let alone prioritize which ones to focus on. A couple of things suddenly became quite clear in the last 12 hours.

The less serious, and kind of funny one, was the realization that I was actually correct is saying “c’est fin” in my last post. As I made my way up the Metro stairs in search of caramels, a conversation Isabella and I had at dinner one night popped into my head. Saying “je suis fin” is the incorrect way of saying “I’m done”—that actually means you’re dead. “C’est fin” is akin to saying “that’s it”. It can be used interchangeably, depending on the inflection in your voice at the end of the sentence—either saying it with a period at the end, or with a questioning tone, as a waiter will often ask when he sees you’ve finished eating.

I know, this doesn’t seem significant. I mean, who hasn’t stumbled in a foreign language? For me, this was a bit of a revelation. One of those lightbulb moments, where you say “aha!” to yourself. I knew all along the correct phrase to say, and doubted myself the rest of the day, feeling foolish, as if I’d made some colossal mistake. I profess that mistakes are a part of life, both to my children, and to the crowds of people that came out to support me the last six weeks. Like many others, though, I’m good at doling out wisdom, but not always capable of applying it to my own situation. Continue reading »

My mind is constantly racing with things I want, and need, to do. Giving birth to a book is more exhausting than actual childbirth in some ways. This book in particular has picked at the scab that slowly began forming over my wounds. I’ve found my heart and mind throbbing with an ache, wondering if I will ever feel emotionally safe and secure again.

I worry that I will die before I see my girls grow into women—happy women, not completely stunted in their own emotional growth by the premature death of their father. I worry that my time here will end before I get to see the rest of my own dreams come to fruition. I worry that everyone I love will go before I’m ready to say goodbye, or more importantly, have a chance to say goodbye.

I guess, at the heart of it all, I just worry way more than I ever did. Before I was carefree in my understanding of the reality that everything living will die. I suppose this is a natural reaction when death occurs outside of the natural order of things. Continue reading »

From the get-go, I knew promoting a book would be more challenging than writing one. That theory is proving to be true. It’s not to say that publicity is more work, it’s just that it’s a different kind of work, and one with which I’m trying to find a comfort-level. I’m incredibly shy, and don’t like talking about myself, which I realize sounds odd to say for someone who has shared so much of her life in a public manner. Sitting behind a screen, clacking away at a keyboard, it is easy to feel anonymous, when the reality is so far from that. Continue reading »

The moment I walked out of my therapist’s office and felt the sun glistening on my face, I knew I was in trouble. My needs are simple, yet they often feel complicated. A day spent meandering, somewhat aimlessly, with the sun’s glow warming me, is my idea of a perfect one. It’s also akin to mental quicksand, distracting me from the planned goals at hand. Such is the quandary I found myself in this morning. I wandered into Washington Square Park, intending to just cut through on my way to Soho. The stillness of the park, combined with a clear, blue day were too potent. I found myself gravitating to a park bench, and settled into a phone call with a friend. Continue reading »

I’m staring at the screen, and not even sure where to begin. There are so many things on my To Do list that I’m supposed to be sharing with you all. There’s updates about the book publicity, a very fun kids’ contest I mentioned in my last post, and a recipe for French toast waffles that I just wrote for Relish.

Instead, I continue to stare. Well, I guess now I’m typing and staring. I’ve been slipping into a malaise these last two weeks. It started with feeling “off” one day, and now the sadness is like a quicksand I’m struggling to get out of, in hopes of finding safer ground. I’m doubting myself as I share this painful truth, because how much is too much? I know it’s related to the book, and for that reason too, I worry that being honest about what I’m going through is not the wisest publicity decision.

But this place has always been about honesty. It is why I created In Jennie’s Kitchen, to express my voice. I look at this space as an heirloom I will pass along to my daughters one day. Unlike a necklace or ring, I don’t need to choose who gets to own this space when it is no longer mine to inhabit. The amazing gift of this virtual world I’ve created for myself is that they can each be privy to a side of their mother they are not yet able to fully comprehend.

I am a mother. I am a woman. I am a food writer. I am a daughter. I am a niece. I am a cook. I am a lover of life. I am a widow.

I am a person in deep grief, and hope with all my heart to one day feel whole again.

The smile people see isn’t always a reflection of what is going on in my mind and heart. I put it on carefully every day, part of my routine, the same way I apply my lipstick and cover the circles under my eyes. Something has to change to snap this mood, and frankly just writing about it lifts the weight a little. I need to stay focused for the book. I’ve worked so hard the last 15 years to get to this point in my life.

And that’s where the lightbulb goes off…we worked so hard to get here. But now the “we” has become a “me”, and some of the joy has been sucked from what should be one of the proudest moments of my life.

I wrote a book. This may not seem like a big a feat because people write books every day. Still, I think back to the 11 year old girl who was helping her mom empty liquor bottles after her father passed out drunk.

That girl grew up to learn that love didn’t have to hurt.

That girl met a man who made his dreams her own.

That girl grew into a woman with that man, and they built a home together, a life together.

That girl had her heart broken by a simple twist of fate 19 months ago. She has been working so hard to figure out who she is supposed to be without him now.

Music Pairing: Nightswimming by R.E.M.

My lips play a perpetual game of seesaw. One minute they curve upwards into a smile, capturing a moment of happiness, realizing that everything will be okay. The next minute, they droop so far down I doubt even a botox injection could help. Staying focused on the long term, and getting past that moment—all the moments in my life that have been cloaked in sadness, well, it often feels like I’ll never get off this life raft I’m so strongly clinging to.

Lately I’ve been thinking about life like a high-risk 401K. When the short term feels wrought with imminent despair, it’s important to reflect on one’s life as a whole. After numerous decades, the hope is that the sum yields more good memories than bad ones. This is what I’ve been trying to instill in my girls, especially Isabella. She has learned the harsh lesson that “nothing gold can stay”. That is just the reality of life. Continue reading »

The calendar rolling to March 1st feels so powerful. It means we’ve weathered another winter. The tulip leaves creeping up through the soil signal spring is on its way. Hope seems to replenish the nearly empty well deep within in my heart.

Days get longer, and the air gets warmer. Of course, just when it feels safe to to cloak myself in a lighter coat, Mother Nature reminds me who is really in control. Still, March brings the power of a Phoenix rising from the ashes buried beneath a heavy snowfall. This particular March also brings a lot of good news. The book—my cookbook, comes out in 24 days. Soon it will no longer be just mine. It will belong to all of you who let it grace your home. Continue reading »

The other day I dropped a box of kitchen matches down an opening I didn’t even know existed in the back corner of the windowsill. My heart jumped into my throat as I heard the whoosh as they slid down a crevice to which I was sure there’d be no rescue. In that split second, I told myself they were just matches, keep your cool woman.

Except they weren’t just matches. That box of matches above is older than the babysitter I interviewed today. That box of matches were his matches. The first time I saw them was in his apartment in Astoria where I cooked my first meal for him in June of 1995. Apparently we don’t didn’t use a lot of matches because that box of 250 matches moved from Astoria, Queens to Cobble Hill Brooklyn in 1997, and then a few blocks down to Carroll Gardens in 1999. Continue reading »

Tomorrow we should be celebrating. In my old life, right about now I’d be baking vanilla cake layers to adorn with chocolate buttercream and finish with a thin layer of chocolate ganache. The recipe was based on one from College Bakery, now long shuttered. The first time Mikey tasted that cake he fell in love with it. There was nothing fancy about it really just a basic cake, but they were always made fresh and were ridiculously inexpensive, something like $5 for a whole cake. Continue reading »