Mikey

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 »

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 »

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 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 »

Every time I think I’ve moved a few steps forward, life sends me a reality check. My mind has been restless, probably because of the million things on my To Do list. I’m sure the key lies in surrendering to the chaos a little, and not worrying so much about the future. It’s hard when you’re a perfectionist to accept that the world itself is an imperfect place. Just writing ever so briefly about the clutter in my head helps me feel a little less encumbered by it all.

There’s good news for all the busyness, though. I mentioned last time that I was writing for Relish Magazine again. Shifting my focus a little in my writing, not having every word flecked with memories of Michael, is important. It’s good to get out of my own head, and necessary if I’m going to really sustain and nurture a life without him. Of course, he’s always in my writing, even if I don’t mention him with a specific reference. As I was developing my recent recipe for Relish—chocolate malted waffles, all I could imagine was his reaction to waking up to them on Valentine’s Day. He had this way of closing his eyes when he took the first bite of a new recipe, and a wave of calm delight would wash over his face when it was a winner. 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 »

There are few things in life that are perfect. This is something I keep trying to remind myself, but my inner Martha Stewart often battles with the realities of life. A little chaos never threw me for a loop, but lately reigning control over some variables in my life offers incredible solace. Being able to make what I consider to be the perfect roasted potato is one of those variables. I wrote about them last week for Relish Magazine. I’m so happy to share the news that I’ve started writing for them again twice a month.

I’ve got some video to go along with the recipe too. You were all amazing in your response to the pizza video a couple of weeks ago. Adding more video to the site is something I’ve been mulling over for a few months now. I’d hide behind widow humor, though, and sarcastically joke that my producer/camera man/editor is gone. Then one day, it all clicked. There’s enough perfect, glossy, produced content out there. That holds true for food, fashion, parenting magazines, etc. What we don’t have enough of is real life. I’m talking about an honest glimpse of being in the kitchen. That is what I hope to capture in the videos I’ll be sharing from now on. My hair isn’t perfect, my Brooklyn accent is so thick, even a Ginsu couldn’t cut through it, and I now realize I say “okay” and “um” a lot. Continue reading »