Tonight I stumbled upon Aria, a trendy little wine bar in the West Village. I have passed this hot spot a number of times, and it is always jam-packed with a happy, care-free, thirty-something crowd. Or so it seems, as I think I don a few more grey hairs than the clientele sitting at the bar. They check their iPhones and straighten their Theory dresses. And I pass by longingly on my way home from work. But tonight, there were merely a few candles lit and a lovely young man in a beret at the door. He lured my beer-drinking husband and I in for some cicchetti (Venetian for tapas) and of course, some wine.
It seems that Sean and I have these regular New York moments wherein something memorable happens and we inevitably wish someone else could be there to experience it with us. Nonetheless, we sat at the white-tiled bar drooling over the choices of eggplant stuffed with goat cheese or shrimp wrapped with thinly sliced salami grilled to a hopeful perfection. That's when Massimo approached.
"Would-eh you like-eh to start-eh with some-eh thing-eh to drink-eh?
Ahhhh. My heart always skips a beat when I discover an opportunity to chew off an Italian's ear. Sean just might be a little worse. We hear the accent and we become leech-like, sucking every drop of informational blood from their memory. Tonight was no different. Oh we waited, like skilled predators, playing it cool, scouring the menu, watching our prey pace the floor in anticipation of an order from his only customers. And then...then we made our move.
"Are you from Italy?"
"Yes-eh. Torino."
"Ahh yes. Oh, how beautiful it is there."
"You've-eh been?"
"No. Next year. "
And so it began. Before the night was over, we learned that Massimo, having only been in New York for three months, has more passion for his homeland than perhaps an artist has for his canvas. Though he loves New York, it is " ehhhh differen-teh" he says. New Yorkers are "a mess and so are the Romans." He means this in a most loving and respectful way, as he reminded us repeatedly that he loves New York. It's just "ehhhh differen-teh." We learned about his long-haired twin who is an actor in Rome and his mother who was devastated when he moved her 30-year-old bambino so far away. Massimo has traveled the world bartending in Greece, Sweden and now New York. As for drinks? He could only say in his broken English that in New York, bartenders pour a lot of vodka and soda, because that's what their customers seem to want. But in Italy, bartending is an art with fruit (FRU-I-teh) and passion, mixing good-tasting drinks. Like the Negroni he made for us with wine instead of gin garnished with fresh cut strawberries and thin slices of orange. Delizioso. Grazie. Molte Bene.
He heads back to Torino in early September, and I will probably never see my kindred spirit again.
When you punch up "Massimo" in a web dictionary, such words and phrases as Roman Princely Family, Fabius, Leone, and Maria Gabriella all pop up, among many other lyrical Italian notes of importance. Impressive? Maybe. But as far as I am concerned, Massimo, the Italian wine bar bartender simply means "friend."
Monday, August 30, 2010
Saturday, August 28, 2010
A Top 10 List
The Top 20 Reasons Why I Love New York:
20. Bike Paths? Pedestrian Malls? C'mon. Who would have thunk?
19. New York introduced me to love, marriage, children and okay, it was pretty cool meeting Marilyn Manson. He had yellow eyes.
18. The sound of horse hooves on a cobble stone street: Doesn't it turn heads?
17. NYC Firefighters...they just might be bigger than life.
16. The Subway Series: It's peanuts vs. Cracker Jacks.
15. Governor's, Coney, City, Ellis, Riker's, Roosevelt, and Yes, Staten Island.
14. Where else can you ride a bike through the coolest neighborhoods in Red Hook to get to Ikea.
13. Seriously? Dumpster Pools?
12. Thank You Mayor Bloomberg and Kofi for my Key to the City.
11. When you order Chinese take-out, you hang up the phone and your doorbell rings.
10. St John the Devine, St. Francis Xavier, St Patrick's Cathedral? Have mercy!
9. My whole life is crammed into a closet.
8. I've had my purse stolen and then the homeless man who took it, called me to return my cell phone!
7. Kiss Me Kate in 3-D at the Film Forum.
6. You can watch tango in the Chelsea Market and bathing in the Washington Square Park fountain. It's
really very diverse!
5. New York City showed my family the "Chelsea Boys" sunbathing nude on the pier while we were on my
wedding reception boat ride.
4. I can drive from 101st and Columbus all the way to 14th and 9th without catching a single light.
3. One Life to Live hired me for extra work, even when I was PREGNANT.
2. I can go for coffee in my pajamas.
And the number one reason why I love New York?
21 years of memories.
(Okay, so there's probably more but.....You get the idea.)
20. Bike Paths? Pedestrian Malls? C'mon. Who would have thunk?
19. New York introduced me to love, marriage, children and okay, it was pretty cool meeting Marilyn Manson. He had yellow eyes.
18. The sound of horse hooves on a cobble stone street: Doesn't it turn heads?
17. NYC Firefighters...they just might be bigger than life.
16. The Subway Series: It's peanuts vs. Cracker Jacks.
15. Governor's, Coney, City, Ellis, Riker's, Roosevelt, and Yes, Staten Island.
14. Where else can you ride a bike through the coolest neighborhoods in Red Hook to get to Ikea.
13. Seriously? Dumpster Pools?
12. Thank You Mayor Bloomberg and Kofi for my Key to the City.
11. When you order Chinese take-out, you hang up the phone and your doorbell rings.
10. St John the Devine, St. Francis Xavier, St Patrick's Cathedral? Have mercy!
9. My whole life is crammed into a closet.
8. I've had my purse stolen and then the homeless man who took it, called me to return my cell phone!
7. Kiss Me Kate in 3-D at the Film Forum.
6. You can watch tango in the Chelsea Market and bathing in the Washington Square Park fountain. It's
really very diverse!
5. New York City showed my family the "Chelsea Boys" sunbathing nude on the pier while we were on my
wedding reception boat ride.
4. I can drive from 101st and Columbus all the way to 14th and 9th without catching a single light.
3. One Life to Live hired me for extra work, even when I was PREGNANT.
2. I can go for coffee in my pajamas.
And the number one reason why I love New York?
21 years of memories.
(Okay, so there's probably more but.....You get the idea.)
Thursday, August 26, 2010
Happy
With a little help from my better half and from God, I grew this person. Today he is big. Today he is a teenager. And today I forgive him for his hormonal door-slamming outbursts. Today I love him even more than I did when he flew out of me like a rocket, all wrinkly and red. Today he is 160 lbs. of muscle and he pummels his opponents on the football field right before reaching out a hand to help them up. Today he waves and says hello to all of our neighbors in that deep resonant voice of his, the same voice that called me a hypocrite and then apologized profusely because he didn't mean it. Today, he is preparing for a new journey in a new school with a new posse. Today he wears his father's cologne, and the smell of my man-boy makes me feel old.
At one time he toted a license plate on his tricycle that read, "Happy Guy." I watched him scurry his chubby little legs down the block petting dogs, squealing with delight from his dad's tickle tortures. He would talk to anyone who listened, and they all listened; the construction workers around the corner, Calvin, our super, and Judith, the ever-present manager at D'Agostinos. He rarely cried unless he was truly hurting like when we hastily bought a dog and then heartlessly returned it the next day. My happy guy cried for weeks and I wondered when I would forgive myself for it. At one time he sheepishly stepped in wet cement with his brand new Reebox. He was four, and he was embarrassed. At one time he ate pizza with his teacher and played Monopoly with his grandpa. I combed his little boy hair all wispy and blonde and marveled at his huge, sapphire eyes.
My mother says, "When you dwell on the past, it becomes the present." She is a wise and wonderful woman. Well, Mom, I don't dwell where my not so little man is concerned because the present is quite good. He listens, he errs on the side of caution and does his best to do his best. When it's bad, it's just bad, not terrible. And when it's good, it's really good.
So today, I am reminiscent. I am thankful. I am happy.
Dear Girl...It's Called, "Acting."
There is really nothing wrong with giving something your best shot. Pauline Pataky, a dear family friend, used to say, "Dream Big." Those were strong and empowering words for a young impressionable woman to hear. So after being called to audition for Star Search and after the mention in the New York Times for my performance in Hair ("For musical highlights, note her perfectly sung "Frank Mills,"...yeah, I memorized it!) I made the plunge to give up a full time job, a lease and access to financial stability to move my bony Italian arse to New York City on those strong and empowering Pauline Pataky words.
It is quite possibly the reason I chose not to travel and delayed any trips to other side of the Atlantic. I sort of veered my life's journey off the path for a bit. A bit of ten years. That was a choice I made with life-altering consequences, some not so great, others undeniably pivotal.
In my first Upper West Side apartment, I shacked up with "Hakim," the ridiculously smart man who foolishly owed Uncle Sam, and "Amanda", the wonderfully obsessive actress who inspired me to get out there and be seen. My bed was in a living room behind a curtain for a $650 2-month summer sublet. I remember dancing around the Lincoln Center fountain in a pair of blue print Anne Taylor pants thinking I was all that and a glass of milk. No one in my family had ever made such a move. It was bold. It was gutsy.
I lived in three other apartments in diverse neighborhoods. One was close to a church that I never attended, but I chose the apartment because it was close to a church. One sported bullet holes in the entryway. And one smelled of the decomposing mouse that my superintendent Benny discovered electrocuted behind the stove. Auditioning and budgeting and temping and dreaming never really got me on my feet long enough to hold steady. So I toppled over through heartaches and disappointments with few good roles thrown in for good measure. The Rocky Horror Stage Production was a crazy blast of a show, and I still can't believe I spent three months prancing around a stage in a bra and panties singing the songs Susan Sarandon made famous. "Persistence pays," Pauline would say, so I would continue, often temping way more than entertaining, attempting to get out of the church basement, each attempt leading me to choices I needed to make.
Sir Lawrence Olivier mythically judged Dustin Hoffman for his method approach to a role by saying, "Dear boy, it's called acting." I had heard of the drastic measures actors were known to take for the sake of their craft. Maureen Moore as the poor Mrs. Johnstone, allegedly scrubbed the stairwell with Lestoil before her cue in Blood Brothers. I told myself I wasn't sophisticated enough for that kind of preparation and slowly my dream defaulted enough times until I dimmed the lights on that stage for good.
I really, really pride myself on the attempts I made as a young actress. I can never wonder what my life would have been like if I had taken that risk twenty something years ago. Each fork in the road challenged me to a risk I willfully took and there are, consequently, no regrets. Along my journey I have relished in experiences that nestle in the fondest memories of my life. The current chapter, the one entitled, "Keep it Together" leaves me with a different kind of pride, one that makes a difference in the lives of other people besides me.
Dear girl...It's called living.
It is quite possibly the reason I chose not to travel and delayed any trips to other side of the Atlantic. I sort of veered my life's journey off the path for a bit. A bit of ten years. That was a choice I made with life-altering consequences, some not so great, others undeniably pivotal.
In my first Upper West Side apartment, I shacked up with "Hakim," the ridiculously smart man who foolishly owed Uncle Sam, and "Amanda", the wonderfully obsessive actress who inspired me to get out there and be seen. My bed was in a living room behind a curtain for a $650 2-month summer sublet. I remember dancing around the Lincoln Center fountain in a pair of blue print Anne Taylor pants thinking I was all that and a glass of milk. No one in my family had ever made such a move. It was bold. It was gutsy.
I lived in three other apartments in diverse neighborhoods. One was close to a church that I never attended, but I chose the apartment because it was close to a church. One sported bullet holes in the entryway. And one smelled of the decomposing mouse that my superintendent Benny discovered electrocuted behind the stove. Auditioning and budgeting and temping and dreaming never really got me on my feet long enough to hold steady. So I toppled over through heartaches and disappointments with few good roles thrown in for good measure. The Rocky Horror Stage Production was a crazy blast of a show, and I still can't believe I spent three months prancing around a stage in a bra and panties singing the songs Susan Sarandon made famous. "Persistence pays," Pauline would say, so I would continue, often temping way more than entertaining, attempting to get out of the church basement, each attempt leading me to choices I needed to make.
Sir Lawrence Olivier mythically judged Dustin Hoffman for his method approach to a role by saying, "Dear boy, it's called acting." I had heard of the drastic measures actors were known to take for the sake of their craft. Maureen Moore as the poor Mrs. Johnstone, allegedly scrubbed the stairwell with Lestoil before her cue in Blood Brothers. I told myself I wasn't sophisticated enough for that kind of preparation and slowly my dream defaulted enough times until I dimmed the lights on that stage for good.
I really, really pride myself on the attempts I made as a young actress. I can never wonder what my life would have been like if I had taken that risk twenty something years ago. Each fork in the road challenged me to a risk I willfully took and there are, consequently, no regrets. Along my journey I have relished in experiences that nestle in the fondest memories of my life. The current chapter, the one entitled, "Keep it Together" leaves me with a different kind of pride, one that makes a difference in the lives of other people besides me.
Dear girl...It's called living.
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
Rain
There's something about the rain, the way it holds your hand and safely walks you back to a certain time or place in your life. The way it smells, fresh and clean. The way it naturally bathes the earth of the dust and urine. The way it lulls you to your third nap of the day. The way it pairs so peacefully with a cup of chamomile. And the way it gives you a well-deserved excuse to sleep in or to stay in your pajamas all day and research your trip to Italy, the one that is still a year off.
Sorry Karen Carpenter. Rainy days and Mondays or Wednesdays or any days have never gotten me down.
We were stranded in Crate and Barrel the other day while mother nature dumped the first of many days of this rain, the rain that is inspiring my love of writing today, and the same rain that began New York City's cooling trend. So dozens of shoppers, runners, skate boarders, tourists, church goers, children, even a man with wet tatoos and a dog ran into the store taking refuge from the summer happenstance while the security guard passed out umbrella bags.
Have you ever watched the movements and facial expressions of wet people? You should try it sometime. They tense up their shoulders as high as their earlobes and squinchel their faces in distress. They shake their hands and arms and wipe their noses. And then as if needing some reprieve, they seek out eye contact in anyone who will connect, shake their head, and exclaim, "Whoo!" Some, particularly the unprepared, simply look as if it were the worst experience, possibly worse than death. So their "Whoo!" is more of a four-letter expletive.
I have to admit, I'm not usually a fan of that torturous drip pelting my bare arms and shoulder blades on hot summer days. I don't like to be cold, and so it can be somewhat of an annoyance. But when I think back to my fondest memories of rain, well, suddenly mother nature is more of an old friend than a foe. Kara Brady and I used to walk home from Stratfield School together. We were in the third grade. She was my best friend and my leader. And no, our parents didn't walk with us. Times were different then. We were safe. So one day, we left school for the short walk home to her little cape on Ridgeview Avenue and decided to take the long way. It would be more fun while the rain showered us from the skies and pummelled the roads. Deep puddles soon began to form, and clogged drain pipes purged their waterfalls. We tipped our heads back, stuck out our tongues and tasted every clean drop, our eyes blinking for protection and our hair dripping down our backs. I don't remember if it was Kara's or my suggestion that we roll in the puddles and shower under the drain pipes. But we both agreed. Why not? We'll dry. We're eight.
Her mother's reaction wasn't exactly what we expected. I don't think we really thought about it. "Oh honestly, girls," she cried out. "What in the world....." Mrs. Brady never became truly angry about anything, however. She was filled with too much love for that. So our clothes went into the dryer, hot chocolate bubbled on the stove, and we played school in Kara's sweatpants and t-shirts until it was time for me to go home in my once again dry clothes.
Rain translates a little differently for each of us. Whether it offers an excuse, a nuisance or a nuance of nostalgia, it certainly adds a little something to the day. Today, I plan on staying in my soft pink robe, eating leftover macaroni from last night's dinner, finishing my book and listening to the rain.
Sorry Karen Carpenter. Rainy days and Mondays or Wednesdays or any days have never gotten me down.
We were stranded in Crate and Barrel the other day while mother nature dumped the first of many days of this rain, the rain that is inspiring my love of writing today, and the same rain that began New York City's cooling trend. So dozens of shoppers, runners, skate boarders, tourists, church goers, children, even a man with wet tatoos and a dog ran into the store taking refuge from the summer happenstance while the security guard passed out umbrella bags.
Have you ever watched the movements and facial expressions of wet people? You should try it sometime. They tense up their shoulders as high as their earlobes and squinchel their faces in distress. They shake their hands and arms and wipe their noses. And then as if needing some reprieve, they seek out eye contact in anyone who will connect, shake their head, and exclaim, "Whoo!" Some, particularly the unprepared, simply look as if it were the worst experience, possibly worse than death. So their "Whoo!" is more of a four-letter expletive.
I have to admit, I'm not usually a fan of that torturous drip pelting my bare arms and shoulder blades on hot summer days. I don't like to be cold, and so it can be somewhat of an annoyance. But when I think back to my fondest memories of rain, well, suddenly mother nature is more of an old friend than a foe. Kara Brady and I used to walk home from Stratfield School together. We were in the third grade. She was my best friend and my leader. And no, our parents didn't walk with us. Times were different then. We were safe. So one day, we left school for the short walk home to her little cape on Ridgeview Avenue and decided to take the long way. It would be more fun while the rain showered us from the skies and pummelled the roads. Deep puddles soon began to form, and clogged drain pipes purged their waterfalls. We tipped our heads back, stuck out our tongues and tasted every clean drop, our eyes blinking for protection and our hair dripping down our backs. I don't remember if it was Kara's or my suggestion that we roll in the puddles and shower under the drain pipes. But we both agreed. Why not? We'll dry. We're eight.
Her mother's reaction wasn't exactly what we expected. I don't think we really thought about it. "Oh honestly, girls," she cried out. "What in the world....." Mrs. Brady never became truly angry about anything, however. She was filled with too much love for that. So our clothes went into the dryer, hot chocolate bubbled on the stove, and we played school in Kara's sweatpants and t-shirts until it was time for me to go home in my once again dry clothes.
Rain translates a little differently for each of us. Whether it offers an excuse, a nuisance or a nuance of nostalgia, it certainly adds a little something to the day. Today, I plan on staying in my soft pink robe, eating leftover macaroni from last night's dinner, finishing my book and listening to the rain.
Tuesday, August 24, 2010
The Sunday Feeling
It's the end of summer and for some, that means the party is over. The beach house gets locked up, fall sales accost us, and it's time to get our heads back into school. Time for alarm clocks to sound, for fighting over the shower, for lining up the lunch bags by the door. Time first to scramble eggs and then scramble for our keys. Time to discover we've forgotten our phone or our glasses when we're half way down the stairs and already late. Time for homework, papers, conferences. For most students, parents and teachers, it is plainly and simply, time.
But this is only one perspective. For some, back to school symbolizes new beginnings and life lessons. The new class, the new teacher, the new planner, new clothes, the newness of a fresh start. It is a time of great anticipation and wonder; Who will my teacher be? Will I like him? Her? What will my new class be like? What new challenges await? It is a time to share our stories from the summer and learn something new in the fall. And it's a time for maybe a new friend and a hope that success lies ahead.
Today I woke up with what my daughter refers to as "the Sunday feeling." She gets it on Sunday nights when she is scuttling through her homework, when we have a usual Sunday supper of some sort of comfort food like a stew or a pasta or a piece of salmon from our favorite market. She gets it when she has to "go back," often it when it is cold and rainy, and then she begs me not to prepare any of those foods as they only "make it worse." Today I will head back to school. It is raining. And I will begin the scuttle.
I used to get the Sunday feeling as a little girl. It was often sparked by attending mass, going to Grandma's house and watching the ABC Sunday Night Movie. But never was it caused by school. I loved school. I loved my teachers. There was Miss Peck, my second grade teacher who put masking tape on my mouth. I forgave her because she was blonde and pretty and otherwise nice. There was Miss Vishiola, who let us put on the third grade play, Wiggle Worm's Surprise. I got to accompany the cast on the piano. Secretly I wanted to be Wiggle Worm, but playing the piano was an honor just the same, and it made my dad and mom proud. And who could forget fourth grade Mrs.Hughes? She never let me forget my lunch. (I lived across the street and thought it was no big deal run back to get my lunch when I forgot it three times a week, until one day she wouldn't let me run back to get it. I sat through lunch at my empty desk watching everyone else eat. I forgave her, however, because she taught me a valuable lesson.) But it was my most beloved teacher, Mrs. Palmer, whom I'll likely never forget. She treated me like a daughter and let me swim in her pool. She was the teacher who brought in her pumpkin bread on Thanksgiving, and who reminded me of my grandmother. She was the teacher I recently visited in a nursing home. She hadn't forgotten me, and let me talk her ear off for hours. When it was time for me leave, I think she really wanted me to stay.
I wonder how much of me, if any, my students will remember. Will it be a story I told or a lesson I fumbled through? Will it be a spark I ignited in them during writing, or a time when I mistakenly hurt their feelings? Will it be a batch of cookies I brought in or a song I butchered on the guitar? Being a parent and an educator are two of the greatest challenges one can take on. Doing either of them well is commendable. If there can be one positive impact that we can have on this earth, let it be for the benefit of a child at least once. I'm navigating both on a day to day basis hoping that, like roulette, my color or number will come up. Maybe it already has. Maybe it will again.
I have the Sunday feeling today, even though it's Tuesday. And I can't wait to begin again.
But this is only one perspective. For some, back to school symbolizes new beginnings and life lessons. The new class, the new teacher, the new planner, new clothes, the newness of a fresh start. It is a time of great anticipation and wonder; Who will my teacher be? Will I like him? Her? What will my new class be like? What new challenges await? It is a time to share our stories from the summer and learn something new in the fall. And it's a time for maybe a new friend and a hope that success lies ahead.
Today I woke up with what my daughter refers to as "the Sunday feeling." She gets it on Sunday nights when she is scuttling through her homework, when we have a usual Sunday supper of some sort of comfort food like a stew or a pasta or a piece of salmon from our favorite market. She gets it when she has to "go back," often it when it is cold and rainy, and then she begs me not to prepare any of those foods as they only "make it worse." Today I will head back to school. It is raining. And I will begin the scuttle.
I used to get the Sunday feeling as a little girl. It was often sparked by attending mass, going to Grandma's house and watching the ABC Sunday Night Movie. But never was it caused by school. I loved school. I loved my teachers. There was Miss Peck, my second grade teacher who put masking tape on my mouth. I forgave her because she was blonde and pretty and otherwise nice. There was Miss Vishiola, who let us put on the third grade play, Wiggle Worm's Surprise. I got to accompany the cast on the piano. Secretly I wanted to be Wiggle Worm, but playing the piano was an honor just the same, and it made my dad and mom proud. And who could forget fourth grade Mrs.Hughes? She never let me forget my lunch. (I lived across the street and thought it was no big deal run back to get my lunch when I forgot it three times a week, until one day she wouldn't let me run back to get it. I sat through lunch at my empty desk watching everyone else eat. I forgave her, however, because she taught me a valuable lesson.) But it was my most beloved teacher, Mrs. Palmer, whom I'll likely never forget. She treated me like a daughter and let me swim in her pool. She was the teacher who brought in her pumpkin bread on Thanksgiving, and who reminded me of my grandmother. She was the teacher I recently visited in a nursing home. She hadn't forgotten me, and let me talk her ear off for hours. When it was time for me leave, I think she really wanted me to stay.
I wonder how much of me, if any, my students will remember. Will it be a story I told or a lesson I fumbled through? Will it be a spark I ignited in them during writing, or a time when I mistakenly hurt their feelings? Will it be a batch of cookies I brought in or a song I butchered on the guitar? Being a parent and an educator are two of the greatest challenges one can take on. Doing either of them well is commendable. If there can be one positive impact that we can have on this earth, let it be for the benefit of a child at least once. I'm navigating both on a day to day basis hoping that, like roulette, my color or number will come up. Maybe it already has. Maybe it will again.
I have the Sunday feeling today, even though it's Tuesday. And I can't wait to begin again.
Thursday, August 19, 2010
Hot Dog Stew
Seventeen long years of trial and error. Burnt pots and pans, melted tea kettles and failed attempts. Such have given way to a smattering of successes ultimately leading to some pretty darn good meals. I would venture to say now that Sean and I are well-versed in the kitchen; not ready for Gordon Ramsey's Master Chef competition, but we can hold our own at the stove. Some of our food is even musical, a harmony of instrumental ingredients blending together to complete the perfect melody of flavors. We share in responsibility, shop together, make mutual decisions, touch upon a bunch of nationalities, and compromise when we don't agree. We like to see to it that our testy little taste buds are all satisfied with sweet and salty, sour and spicy, rich with textures and tenderness. Even the kids have grown accustomed to our varieties of seafood, meats and veggie entrees, and as a result, there are very few menu disputes among the four of us.
Now when Saint Sean and I were new parents, he took on the "Mr. Mom" role, staying home with our kids, taking them to school, playing with them at the park, and having dinner ready for me when I came home. One could believe that it was during these formative years that I developed a strain of acid reflux. Not the kind you read about that is brought on by chocolate, coffee and fatty foods. No. Mine was brought on by the horrendous smell of freeze dried parsley, the kind that came in a gallon-sized jug from the .99 cents store. The kind that makes you,well, gag! He used it in everything until I put the kibosh on that one, throwing it out when he wasn't looking. And I'm sure he has a few dirty little secrets about my culinary mishaps along the way as well. It's inevitable.
So one day, Sean decided to make something from his unchristened Irish cookbook, the one that my mom lovingly bought him, the one that he used to read like the bible and never quite put into prayer. On this night, he thought, maybe a stew would be a start. Yeah, because this Italian tomato he's married to would love to come home to a new variety of potatoes seasoned to perfection and chased with a Guinness! Why not? I'm easy. I can compromise.
Poor Sean. Poor Us.
That day, he went out and purchased everything on the list of ingredients: chicken broth, celery, carrots, potatoes, and the seasonings we didn't have. He purchased everything except for the sausage because there were, what appeared to be, a couple of good-sized links in the freezer wrapped in foil. (At that time, my mom visited us once-a-month and stocked our kitchen with everything from cereal and canned soups, to meats and frozen store-brand spinach. Always looking to save us a few bucks. Thanks Rose.) So Sean took out the foiled items and let them defrost on the counter.
Upon cutting up all the veggies, peeling and dicing the potatoes, pouring the College Inn, and seasoning up the casserole in the white Corelle baking dish, Sean finally decided to unwrap the foil thereby discovering that it was not, in fact, the good Italian sausage from Sorrento's, but four rubbery hot dogs from Shop Rite. Given our financial situation, Sean figured, I'm sure, that it would be a shame to discard this food, so he proceeded as planned to make the Irish stew, hot dogs and all.
It would have made a great episode for Candid Camera. Our expressions alone were award-winning. As Sean, brought the bowls to the table, with his green plaid dish towel draped over his forearm, we each looked at one another, Sam at me, Liam at Sam, our eyes shifting from the bowls to each another. I could read Sam's mind. I could hear her plea. "Good God, don't make me eat this!" And Liam, well, he just looked confused. "What are those little rubbery red things, Mommy, the ones cut up into pieces? They look like penises." Okay, he didn't say that, but I did.
For a while there was whole lot of clink, clink, clanging of cutlery hitting the sides of the bowls. It takes a village. At the drop of his fork, and the shake of his head, Sean thankfully confessed, "I can't eat this."
Here's my take on that day, and on the days and years that followed. Perfection doesn't lead to growth. Rather, it is in the risks we take and the challenges we conquer that we find our success. Sean's Hot Dog Stew was far from edible, but it remains symbolic in the deep cuts of our memories. The first of many reasons why our marriage of flavors has led to a recipe for love.
Now when Saint Sean and I were new parents, he took on the "Mr. Mom" role, staying home with our kids, taking them to school, playing with them at the park, and having dinner ready for me when I came home. One could believe that it was during these formative years that I developed a strain of acid reflux. Not the kind you read about that is brought on by chocolate, coffee and fatty foods. No. Mine was brought on by the horrendous smell of freeze dried parsley, the kind that came in a gallon-sized jug from the .99 cents store. The kind that makes you,well, gag! He used it in everything until I put the kibosh on that one, throwing it out when he wasn't looking. And I'm sure he has a few dirty little secrets about my culinary mishaps along the way as well. It's inevitable.
So one day, Sean decided to make something from his unchristened Irish cookbook, the one that my mom lovingly bought him, the one that he used to read like the bible and never quite put into prayer. On this night, he thought, maybe a stew would be a start. Yeah, because this Italian tomato he's married to would love to come home to a new variety of potatoes seasoned to perfection and chased with a Guinness! Why not? I'm easy. I can compromise.
Poor Sean. Poor Us.
That day, he went out and purchased everything on the list of ingredients: chicken broth, celery, carrots, potatoes, and the seasonings we didn't have. He purchased everything except for the sausage because there were, what appeared to be, a couple of good-sized links in the freezer wrapped in foil. (At that time, my mom visited us once-a-month and stocked our kitchen with everything from cereal and canned soups, to meats and frozen store-brand spinach. Always looking to save us a few bucks. Thanks Rose.) So Sean took out the foiled items and let them defrost on the counter.
Upon cutting up all the veggies, peeling and dicing the potatoes, pouring the College Inn, and seasoning up the casserole in the white Corelle baking dish, Sean finally decided to unwrap the foil thereby discovering that it was not, in fact, the good Italian sausage from Sorrento's, but four rubbery hot dogs from Shop Rite. Given our financial situation, Sean figured, I'm sure, that it would be a shame to discard this food, so he proceeded as planned to make the Irish stew, hot dogs and all.
It would have made a great episode for Candid Camera. Our expressions alone were award-winning. As Sean, brought the bowls to the table, with his green plaid dish towel draped over his forearm, we each looked at one another, Sam at me, Liam at Sam, our eyes shifting from the bowls to each another. I could read Sam's mind. I could hear her plea. "Good God, don't make me eat this!" And Liam, well, he just looked confused. "What are those little rubbery red things, Mommy, the ones cut up into pieces? They look like penises." Okay, he didn't say that, but I did.
For a while there was whole lot of clink, clink, clanging of cutlery hitting the sides of the bowls. It takes a village. At the drop of his fork, and the shake of his head, Sean thankfully confessed, "I can't eat this."
Here's my take on that day, and on the days and years that followed. Perfection doesn't lead to growth. Rather, it is in the risks we take and the challenges we conquer that we find our success. Sean's Hot Dog Stew was far from edible, but it remains symbolic in the deep cuts of our memories. The first of many reasons why our marriage of flavors has led to a recipe for love.
Tuesday, August 17, 2010
Italian Wine Guy
A stout, young man, sporting slick glasses and worn jeans owns a store in
Greenwich Village.
He is my teacher, smooth in expertise, and through his wine tastings I learn.
I want to learn.
His descriptions invoke freedom, so I can describe and feel whatever I want.
Sweet, dry, appealing, appalling, oaky, cozy, rose-scented like my grandmother’s
underwear drawer.
He admits working countless hours and studies his grapes with ardor and humility.
Italian Wine Guy is convivial, un amica stretta , but only because of our common love.
I leave with eager hands cradling my Barolo like a baby.
Only then,
Do I taste the wine in his words and smell the vineyard soil from where the grapes were
once picked.
And I am led home.
Greenwich Village.
He is my teacher, smooth in expertise, and through his wine tastings I learn.
I want to learn.
His descriptions invoke freedom, so I can describe and feel whatever I want.
Sweet, dry, appealing, appalling, oaky, cozy, rose-scented like my grandmother’s
underwear drawer.
He admits working countless hours and studies his grapes with ardor and humility.
Italian Wine Guy is convivial, un amica stretta , but only because of our common love.
I leave with eager hands cradling my Barolo like a baby.
Only then,
Do I taste the wine in his words and smell the vineyard soil from where the grapes were
once picked.
And I am led home.
On Becoming a Grown-up.
There couldn’t be a more fitting time to realize my own adulthood than now. A time when my children are approaching their attempts at adulthood, grappling with their loss of innocence while longing for freedom. As I navigate the middle years of my life, I remember too clearly images of those adults who impacted my future. The older people from my childhood, as I remember them, wore grown-up clothes and had grown- up hair. They spoke with grown-up voices and ate grown-up food. They rarely listened to me as they convened weekly around our dining room table to vent frustration or laugh at jokes I never understood. They pinched my cheeks as only grown-ups did and often forgot my name though they seemed to have no trouble remembering the names of the other grown-ups in the room. They lived in grown- up houses and watched grown-up movies until their grown-up bedtimes. And the invisibility I sometimes felt was quickly remedied by my mother’s loving, grown-up hug, something I once yearned for and now value with all my heart.
Obvious milestones such as turning eighteen and transitioning into college life never really met my expectations of adulthood. After all, once at college, I ventured home every weekend to wash clothes and eat something besides Rice- A-Roni and frozen corn. And the independence of moving into my own apartment offered me little more than a new zip code, as my new front stoop was merely a short drive to the other side of town. Even my final escape to New York City in pursuit of a career in front of the camera proved to be more of a risky opportunity than an adult-worthy pursuit of a dream only my mom and dad believed possible. It hardly measured up since I visited home twice a month by train to seek advice from my ever-present parents and borrow their car.
And though I cried real tears on my wedding night, they weren’t the tears that sometimes stem from finishing the final chapter of childhood and launching a new attempt at maturity. It was all hormones. Pregnancy hormones. Though I had so happily married the man I loved, I had also feared a loss; A loss of myself. Nancy, the girl who once pushed her way through lines at NYC auditions, would soon push a stroller weighed down by three bags of groceries dangling from the handles, and she would carry them up three flights of stairs. It haunted me as my belly grew first like a melon, then a basketball, and then a house.
But as that something inside me continued to grow and grow, I didn’t know that an auspicious future was changing me from within. I didn’t know that I, the woman who made a living as a temp and who had money crumpled up in the back pocket of her Levi’s, was about to encounter an alteration of her child-like perspective on life.
I was 29 when I realized I had become a grown-up. It was a crisp night in November, the night when Samantha, my now 16-year-old daughter, wailed out her first of many tears before being comforted by my belly. She was swaddled in a pink and blue striped hospital blanket waiting for me to love her. The thing of it is, I was always so loved. I was loved by all the grown-ups in my life; my parents, my grandparents, my older cousins, my teachers, my neighbors, and though I loved them all with every fiber of my being, this love was different, even better. For the child, innocently bathed in my tears, was about to be handed the baton of life and learn by my example how to be loved and then how to love. And I was the one who, by virtue of this event, had been chosen as her teacher.
It has been a rough time in recent days. I've been fired as my daughter's teacher. I don't quite know how to fix it. I don't even know that I want to. It's easier to hide in my blog. It's easier to plan a trip to Italy and reminisce on my Italian roots. Aren't grown ups suppose to know how to fix these things? I'm supposed to think this and feel that and react this way and blah, blah, blah. But really, I just want to sit in my mom's lap and feel her love and find inspiration from her unending wisdom.
I’ve heard it said that growing up is a rite of passage, that with every wrinkle, grey hair and new responsibility, we earn that rite. I don’t remember ever wanting to grow up. I didn’t dream of a career or traveling the world or marriage or children. I was really very happy playing in my room with my toys, listening to my Peter and the Wolf record and anticipating upcoming barbecues or sleepovers. I was perfectly content being embraced by all the growing up that was happening around me. My only wish for the future was that love could be present. The rest, I later learned, would fall into place. It is only now that I am learning how to cultivate my own grown-up wisdom.
Obvious milestones such as turning eighteen and transitioning into college life never really met my expectations of adulthood. After all, once at college, I ventured home every weekend to wash clothes and eat something besides Rice- A-Roni and frozen corn. And the independence of moving into my own apartment offered me little more than a new zip code, as my new front stoop was merely a short drive to the other side of town. Even my final escape to New York City in pursuit of a career in front of the camera proved to be more of a risky opportunity than an adult-worthy pursuit of a dream only my mom and dad believed possible. It hardly measured up since I visited home twice a month by train to seek advice from my ever-present parents and borrow their car.
And though I cried real tears on my wedding night, they weren’t the tears that sometimes stem from finishing the final chapter of childhood and launching a new attempt at maturity. It was all hormones. Pregnancy hormones. Though I had so happily married the man I loved, I had also feared a loss; A loss of myself. Nancy, the girl who once pushed her way through lines at NYC auditions, would soon push a stroller weighed down by three bags of groceries dangling from the handles, and she would carry them up three flights of stairs. It haunted me as my belly grew first like a melon, then a basketball, and then a house.
But as that something inside me continued to grow and grow, I didn’t know that an auspicious future was changing me from within. I didn’t know that I, the woman who made a living as a temp and who had money crumpled up in the back pocket of her Levi’s, was about to encounter an alteration of her child-like perspective on life.
I was 29 when I realized I had become a grown-up. It was a crisp night in November, the night when Samantha, my now 16-year-old daughter, wailed out her first of many tears before being comforted by my belly. She was swaddled in a pink and blue striped hospital blanket waiting for me to love her. The thing of it is, I was always so loved. I was loved by all the grown-ups in my life; my parents, my grandparents, my older cousins, my teachers, my neighbors, and though I loved them all with every fiber of my being, this love was different, even better. For the child, innocently bathed in my tears, was about to be handed the baton of life and learn by my example how to be loved and then how to love. And I was the one who, by virtue of this event, had been chosen as her teacher.
It has been a rough time in recent days. I've been fired as my daughter's teacher. I don't quite know how to fix it. I don't even know that I want to. It's easier to hide in my blog. It's easier to plan a trip to Italy and reminisce on my Italian roots. Aren't grown ups suppose to know how to fix these things? I'm supposed to think this and feel that and react this way and blah, blah, blah. But really, I just want to sit in my mom's lap and feel her love and find inspiration from her unending wisdom.
I’ve heard it said that growing up is a rite of passage, that with every wrinkle, grey hair and new responsibility, we earn that rite. I don’t remember ever wanting to grow up. I didn’t dream of a career or traveling the world or marriage or children. I was really very happy playing in my room with my toys, listening to my Peter and the Wolf record and anticipating upcoming barbecues or sleepovers. I was perfectly content being embraced by all the growing up that was happening around me. My only wish for the future was that love could be present. The rest, I later learned, would fall into place. It is only now that I am learning how to cultivate my own grown-up wisdom.
Sunday, August 15, 2010
Summer
During the lazy summers of the 1970's, my house was hot. Unlike our many wealthy neighbors with central cooling systems, the Leshenskis had one air conditioner, and it was bolted into Rose and Steve's bedroom window. We watched The Thorn Birds, ate Corn Flakes and blow-dried our hair taking comfort in that retreat when Rose and Steve weren't sleeping. Those dog days of summer, though not dreaded, could sometimes be dreadful.
For me and my siblings, relief came in many ways, some more creative than others. Lipton Iced Tea, the champion drink mix that came in a huge Costco-type container, was the mother load. We didn't have Costco, so who knows where my mother found that load. All I remember is that it quenched our thirst all summer long. We always kept a pitcher of iced tea in the fridge. Neighborhood children would knock on the backdoor and say, "Hi Mrs. L. Can I have some iced tea?" My brother Dave used to eat it by the spoonful, not bothering to make a glass or a pitcher of it. He'd prefer sweating and sucking that heaping tablespoon of dry tea mix all sugary and sour. (He also ate dry pasta and uncooked potatoes so he was an oddball foodie to begin with. I digress.)
And then there was Jennings Beach. Relief. We piled into the car nearly every weekend and often during the week, toting peanut butter sandwiches, fresh peaches, Ritz crackers and of course, iced tea. My mom brought the orange and white jug that would rattle from the ice cubes, and we would make our way to the perfect spot in the sand, close to the water, near the lifeguard, just down from the bathrooms. She had a knife to cut the peaches, and she sliced them at our request popping them into our mouths so we never worried about sandy peach pulp. There were always plenty of Dixie Cups, napkins, and even a transistor radio. Billy Don't Be a Hero entertained us while we waited exactly one hour to go back into the water.
But the best part of summer in the '70s was my dad's weekly unplanned but much awaited announcement: "Well," he'd groan while getting up from his chair. "Let's go out for ice cream." Oh, how I loved those seven words. For me, those words had so much meaning. They meant Friendly's: chocolate almond chip, maple walnut or butter pecan. They meant that if you dropped your cone by the curb it would be okay. You could get another one. Or if you ordered butter crunch by accident and then cried in disappointment, you could still get another one, and mom would eat yours. Those words meant family. For me, they defined the true, simple happiness of a child... of this child.
Today, gourmet ice cream, Caribbean vacations, and Snapple have taken the place of my fondest childhood memories. Sometimes I yearn for the unadorned roots from which I came. To get back to a time when long summer afternoons in the sprinkler were enough and when sitting under the massive oak tree in our back yard studying the heads on the acorns was enough.
Next summer I plan on just enjoying the simplicity of Italy. And although there is nothing simple about getting there, once I do, you can be sure sitting under a tree with a good loaf of bread, a hunk of salami, and any random bottle of wine will do just fine for me. I'll be perfectly content cooling off in the Mediterranean, or lapping up every drop of melted gelato from my wrist. In Eat Pray Love, Elizabeth Gilbert teaches her readers the Italian translation for this simple way of passing the time. I think the saying is something like "il bel far niente," which means the beauty of doing nothing.
For me and my siblings, relief came in many ways, some more creative than others. Lipton Iced Tea, the champion drink mix that came in a huge Costco-type container, was the mother load. We didn't have Costco, so who knows where my mother found that load. All I remember is that it quenched our thirst all summer long. We always kept a pitcher of iced tea in the fridge. Neighborhood children would knock on the backdoor and say, "Hi Mrs. L. Can I have some iced tea?" My brother Dave used to eat it by the spoonful, not bothering to make a glass or a pitcher of it. He'd prefer sweating and sucking that heaping tablespoon of dry tea mix all sugary and sour. (He also ate dry pasta and uncooked potatoes so he was an oddball foodie to begin with. I digress.)
And then there was Jennings Beach. Relief. We piled into the car nearly every weekend and often during the week, toting peanut butter sandwiches, fresh peaches, Ritz crackers and of course, iced tea. My mom brought the orange and white jug that would rattle from the ice cubes, and we would make our way to the perfect spot in the sand, close to the water, near the lifeguard, just down from the bathrooms. She had a knife to cut the peaches, and she sliced them at our request popping them into our mouths so we never worried about sandy peach pulp. There were always plenty of Dixie Cups, napkins, and even a transistor radio. Billy Don't Be a Hero entertained us while we waited exactly one hour to go back into the water.
But the best part of summer in the '70s was my dad's weekly unplanned but much awaited announcement: "Well," he'd groan while getting up from his chair. "Let's go out for ice cream." Oh, how I loved those seven words. For me, those words had so much meaning. They meant Friendly's: chocolate almond chip, maple walnut or butter pecan. They meant that if you dropped your cone by the curb it would be okay. You could get another one. Or if you ordered butter crunch by accident and then cried in disappointment, you could still get another one, and mom would eat yours. Those words meant family. For me, they defined the true, simple happiness of a child... of this child.
Today, gourmet ice cream, Caribbean vacations, and Snapple have taken the place of my fondest childhood memories. Sometimes I yearn for the unadorned roots from which I came. To get back to a time when long summer afternoons in the sprinkler were enough and when sitting under the massive oak tree in our back yard studying the heads on the acorns was enough.
Next summer I plan on just enjoying the simplicity of Italy. And although there is nothing simple about getting there, once I do, you can be sure sitting under a tree with a good loaf of bread, a hunk of salami, and any random bottle of wine will do just fine for me. I'll be perfectly content cooling off in the Mediterranean, or lapping up every drop of melted gelato from my wrist. In Eat Pray Love, Elizabeth Gilbert teaches her readers the Italian translation for this simple way of passing the time. I think the saying is something like "il bel far niente," which means the beauty of doing nothing.
Saturday, August 14, 2010
Antonio
My grandfather was a quintessential, old-school Italian from Strangolagalli, in the province of Frosinone. A staunch, traditional man, he remained thin in stature, eating and drinking only the essentials: wine, coffee, bread, soup, pasta and very small portions at that. Rather tall, or though it seemed that way to me, he wore the same sweater and baggy trousers and saw little need to comb his thinning, grey hair. His sunken cheekbones, wrinkled and weathered, rested beneath the bags under his eyes. Likely, he endured interrupted sleep on the cot which was strategically set up in another room, separate from my grandmother's. That "room," a narrow and dark hallway, always smelled like cigars, sweat, and age.
On Saturday, the day of our regular visit to Grandma's and Grandpa's, we would enter the three-family house up the back two flights of stairs, through the kitchen. I remember watching all the sheets billowing from the clotheslines and wondering how someone connected the lines from my grandmother's house to the house across the driveway. It seemed so far and near at the same time. I would then kiss my grandmother, who was always in the kitchen, and if it was winter, I would warm my hands with the pilot light flickering on the stove. Then I would meander down the hallway of the railroad apartment into the room where my grandfather could always be found. Sometimes he would be sleeping and then an hour or so later, I could hear his shuffle down the hall, one foot, then the other, rhythmic and deliberate. He would gently touch my chin between his thumb and index finger, say very little, for he knew very little English, and then head to the kitchen to sit in his chair, the torn one on the end with the beige, plastic cushion. This was when he ate his soup, drank his black coffee, and dipped Italian bread, perfectly sliced from Pacelli's bakery, into each.
It seemed strange to me that my grandfather would offer me a cup of coffee at that time, but even stranger was that he poured a shot of Anisette into the cup. I don't remember really liking coffee, nor did I have a taste for licorice liquor. I was eight. But I felt so grown-up being offered the grown-up drink that I never refused it. I sipped it slowly, allowing it to rest in my mouth and seep into my gums and tongue. I almost never finished the cup of coffee, but it didn't matter. No one cared. No one noticed.
I learned later that my grandfather was my grandmother's second husband. She loved the man she married in the early 1900's, and had one child with him, but he died during World War I. It was the Italian custom that should a husband die, his brother was told to marry the widow. Antonio, unwillingly but nonetheless, respecting the tradition, married Assunta, had four children with her and never showed anyone his warm, fuzzy side.
I didn't know my Italian grandfather very well. I don't think anyone in the United States really did. But I do know this: He loved me. In his own, hardened way, my grandfather loved me. I could see it in his eyes when he looked at me. I felt it in his fingers when he touched my chin. And I knew it in my heart when the Anisette found its way there. I hope he'll be watching over me next year when I try to find my way to Strangolagalli, an hour south of Rome.
I'll be sure to find someone there who knew him.
On Saturday, the day of our regular visit to Grandma's and Grandpa's, we would enter the three-family house up the back two flights of stairs, through the kitchen. I remember watching all the sheets billowing from the clotheslines and wondering how someone connected the lines from my grandmother's house to the house across the driveway. It seemed so far and near at the same time. I would then kiss my grandmother, who was always in the kitchen, and if it was winter, I would warm my hands with the pilot light flickering on the stove. Then I would meander down the hallway of the railroad apartment into the room where my grandfather could always be found. Sometimes he would be sleeping and then an hour or so later, I could hear his shuffle down the hall, one foot, then the other, rhythmic and deliberate. He would gently touch my chin between his thumb and index finger, say very little, for he knew very little English, and then head to the kitchen to sit in his chair, the torn one on the end with the beige, plastic cushion. This was when he ate his soup, drank his black coffee, and dipped Italian bread, perfectly sliced from Pacelli's bakery, into each.
It seemed strange to me that my grandfather would offer me a cup of coffee at that time, but even stranger was that he poured a shot of Anisette into the cup. I don't remember really liking coffee, nor did I have a taste for licorice liquor. I was eight. But I felt so grown-up being offered the grown-up drink that I never refused it. I sipped it slowly, allowing it to rest in my mouth and seep into my gums and tongue. I almost never finished the cup of coffee, but it didn't matter. No one cared. No one noticed.
I learned later that my grandfather was my grandmother's second husband. She loved the man she married in the early 1900's, and had one child with him, but he died during World War I. It was the Italian custom that should a husband die, his brother was told to marry the widow. Antonio, unwillingly but nonetheless, respecting the tradition, married Assunta, had four children with her and never showed anyone his warm, fuzzy side.
I didn't know my Italian grandfather very well. I don't think anyone in the United States really did. But I do know this: He loved me. In his own, hardened way, my grandfather loved me. I could see it in his eyes when he looked at me. I felt it in his fingers when he touched my chin. And I knew it in my heart when the Anisette found its way there. I hope he'll be watching over me next year when I try to find my way to Strangolagalli, an hour south of Rome.
I'll be sure to find someone there who knew him.
Thursday, August 12, 2010
Tourists
It's August. New York City entertains a plethora of tourists. They come from as far off as Sydney and as close to home as Stamford. Little girls with their cute dresses to match their American Girl dolls giggle up Fifth Avenue holding tight to their mommy's hands. Blonde boys support their favorite team in colorful soccer (or should I say "football") jerseys, and are surely way too cool for school. I watch them all on the Today Show in the mornings with their signs strewn over the barriers, waving feverishly at the camera while talking on their iPhones. "Al! Come to me. I want to be on TV!!!" "Hi Mom!" "Matt: It's Grandma's 85th Birthday!" And I pass by the ubiquitous busloads of Sex in the City fans waiting in endless pursuit for a Magnolia's treat. They wait. And they wait. A white cake with baby blue frosting and colorful sprinkles is worth 45 minutes in line. It will be their $2.50 out-of-body experience. In and out of the redundancy of Mark Jacobs, Juicy Couture and Ralph Lauren, the tanned Italians fumble with their seventeen shopping bags. Their Euro is well worth the dollars spent on this side of the Atlantic Ocean.
I am hard-pressed to remember many of the details from my first visit to Manhattan. It was dirty. It was scary. Broken windows adorned the Harlem streets, and I stared at them in wonder as our bus rattled down some avenue unbeknownst to me. We had come to see Evita on a school trip. I was not sophisticated enough for Evita. I didn't cry for her like the rest of Argentina. Rather, I squirmed in my seat longing for intermission so I could get a box of Rasinets.
In another visit to New York, my BFF Nina wanted to introduce me to her brother who stored their deceased father's paintings all around his Amsterdam Avenue apartment. Mammoth, creepy babies on canvas, dark and ethereal, stared at me like serial stalkers waiting for their next victim. But oh, how I wanted one of those paintings and how saddened I was that their father in his extraordinary pursuit of artistry was denied any notoriety until after his death.
And on another occasion, that same friend sparked my love for the boys of summer taking me to my first Yankee game. Dave Winfield was close enough for us to feel his sweat as he careened across the outfield. I didn't know Dave Winfield. It didn't matter. I screamed for him, throwing my body over the first base line, "Daaaavvvvve! Daaaavvvvve, over here!" Must have been the ball field beers loosening up my vocal chords and extracting some Bronx chutzpah.
So it was baseball, art and Broadway that brought me to the decision to make my home here in the Big Apple, the city that thousands of tourists dream of visiting at some point in their lives. To see Lady Liberty and the colorful lights of Times Square is their fantasy, and they shop and eat and look and walk and dream.
But my dream is still far off, a calendar year away, and thousands of miles far between. I'll be a tourist. Sean will wear shorts and button down shirts while I will pack only sun dresses and sandals, perfect for bike rides and Vespa runs through the hills of Tuscany. I'll stand in line for the best gelato, carrying my Salvatore Farragamo shopping bags. I'll marvel for hours at "David" and shake off the chills at the thought of being a Gladiator. And yes...after a few sips of a nice Chianti, Sean and I will hold hands and test our faith with a little CLIFF JUMPING off the coast of Cinque Terre. Liam will challenge a local to some football, both Roman and New York style and Samantha will get his phone number when they're through.
It's August. I hope Rome has started planning for our visit.
I am hard-pressed to remember many of the details from my first visit to Manhattan. It was dirty. It was scary. Broken windows adorned the Harlem streets, and I stared at them in wonder as our bus rattled down some avenue unbeknownst to me. We had come to see Evita on a school trip. I was not sophisticated enough for Evita. I didn't cry for her like the rest of Argentina. Rather, I squirmed in my seat longing for intermission so I could get a box of Rasinets.
In another visit to New York, my BFF Nina wanted to introduce me to her brother who stored their deceased father's paintings all around his Amsterdam Avenue apartment. Mammoth, creepy babies on canvas, dark and ethereal, stared at me like serial stalkers waiting for their next victim. But oh, how I wanted one of those paintings and how saddened I was that their father in his extraordinary pursuit of artistry was denied any notoriety until after his death.
And on another occasion, that same friend sparked my love for the boys of summer taking me to my first Yankee game. Dave Winfield was close enough for us to feel his sweat as he careened across the outfield. I didn't know Dave Winfield. It didn't matter. I screamed for him, throwing my body over the first base line, "Daaaavvvvve! Daaaavvvvve, over here!" Must have been the ball field beers loosening up my vocal chords and extracting some Bronx chutzpah.
So it was baseball, art and Broadway that brought me to the decision to make my home here in the Big Apple, the city that thousands of tourists dream of visiting at some point in their lives. To see Lady Liberty and the colorful lights of Times Square is their fantasy, and they shop and eat and look and walk and dream.
But my dream is still far off, a calendar year away, and thousands of miles far between. I'll be a tourist. Sean will wear shorts and button down shirts while I will pack only sun dresses and sandals, perfect for bike rides and Vespa runs through the hills of Tuscany. I'll stand in line for the best gelato, carrying my Salvatore Farragamo shopping bags. I'll marvel for hours at "David" and shake off the chills at the thought of being a Gladiator. And yes...after a few sips of a nice Chianti, Sean and I will hold hands and test our faith with a little CLIFF JUMPING off the coast of Cinque Terre. Liam will challenge a local to some football, both Roman and New York style and Samantha will get his phone number when they're through.
It's August. I hope Rome has started planning for our visit.
Tuesday, August 10, 2010
Oil and Water
I was recently reminded that my daughter and I are like oil and water; we don't mix. In another blog, on some other day, I just might address that. But the wounds from yesterday's battle are still open, raw and bloody. Still, I am struck by the idea that oil and water can't mix. Perhaps when you pour one into the other, they repel like mother and daughter. I have to wonder: doesn't every good chef use the water from the boiling macaroni to enhance the flavors of whatever might be sautéing in olive oil on the stove? Lidia does. Giada does. Nancy does. In my book (cookbook or otherwise) oil and water certainly do mix, match, unite, and sometimes separate and divorce. Nonetheless they MIX.
I've heard that olive oil is referred to as "liquid gold." Cleopatra used it to soften her hair and skin. And throughout the hills of Tuscany, the Italian Riviera, and other olive-producing lands, November is abuzz with harvesters.There, families well-equipped with years of experience and family secrets produce the richest tasting extra virgin, if you will; a fruit juice that has the power to roll your eyes permanently to the back of your head with just one perfect teaspoon. Without water, however, olive groves could not thrive.
I'd like to think that one complements the other, much like the tumultuous relationship I have with my daughter. That though we sometimes work together in our pan, simmering, nudging one another, finding our way to the best possible flavor and adding more or less of the needed ingredients, the pan can (and does) get too hot. That is when the intent is burned, and each must do her part to repair. Until then, we're stuck with a blackened pot.
I've heard that olive oil is referred to as "liquid gold." Cleopatra used it to soften her hair and skin. And throughout the hills of Tuscany, the Italian Riviera, and other olive-producing lands, November is abuzz with harvesters.There, families well-equipped with years of experience and family secrets produce the richest tasting extra virgin, if you will; a fruit juice that has the power to roll your eyes permanently to the back of your head with just one perfect teaspoon. Without water, however, olive groves could not thrive.
I'd like to think that one complements the other, much like the tumultuous relationship I have with my daughter. That though we sometimes work together in our pan, simmering, nudging one another, finding our way to the best possible flavor and adding more or less of the needed ingredients, the pan can (and does) get too hot. That is when the intent is burned, and each must do her part to repair. Until then, we're stuck with a blackened pot.
Monday, August 9, 2010
To Yell or Not to Yell?
When my daughter speaks in Italian, her voice is just a few decibels louder. She is three years into learning the language, one year from being our personal translator in Rome. But already she has begun to expose her inevitable gene. And so when I ask her to say something in Italian, she gets louder through the pauses, "ehhhhh...Mia Mamma... ehhhhh (the voice gets louder)....e una brava....ehhhhhhh cuoca." And by then she is shouting her response an octave higher. Not AT me, but nonetheless it's a definite shout.
So I ask her, "Sam? Why do you shout when you speak in Italian?"
"I dunno! It just happens. I can't help it." Oh, dio mia!
This got me wondering. Do all Italians yell? My mother did. My neighbors did. My family certainly did - does! Besides, a soft-spoken Italian just doesn't feel right. It's kind of an oxymoron. I certainly don't mean to offend anyone. I love, with all my heart, the people and the beauty of their romantic language. It's just that in my personal experience, whispering Italians don't exist.
Here's a story: Pasquale*, one of my many Italian relatives was visiting the house years ago. For much of my childhood, I couldn't for the life of me remember how we were related. In fact, it was a practice for many of us: "Wait, HOW are we related? Your mom and my father's mom are half sisters, and my tia is married to your tio's nephew?" Yadda. Yadda. Alright, so that's not exactly how it went but you can get the gist of it. Every time we got together we'd ponder over the mystery of how we were related, we would find the answer, and fuggedaboutit until the next holiday or funeral, whichever came first. I digress. So Pasquale was at our house once, visiting and trying out his new homemade wine on my mom. Oh what a delectably potent wine it was. The mere aroma of an opened bottle could put you in a trance. When I walked in the front door of the house, I heard yelling and carrying on. Concerned, I peeked into the kitchen to investigate: There they were, my lovely family, laughing, drinking and yes, yelling!
That's what we do.
So I ask her, "Sam? Why do you shout when you speak in Italian?"
"I dunno! It just happens. I can't help it." Oh, dio mia!
This got me wondering. Do all Italians yell? My mother did. My neighbors did. My family certainly did - does! Besides, a soft-spoken Italian just doesn't feel right. It's kind of an oxymoron. I certainly don't mean to offend anyone. I love, with all my heart, the people and the beauty of their romantic language. It's just that in my personal experience, whispering Italians don't exist.
Here's a story: Pasquale*, one of my many Italian relatives was visiting the house years ago. For much of my childhood, I couldn't for the life of me remember how we were related. In fact, it was a practice for many of us: "Wait, HOW are we related? Your mom and my father's mom are half sisters, and my tia is married to your tio's nephew?" Yadda. Yadda. Alright, so that's not exactly how it went but you can get the gist of it. Every time we got together we'd ponder over the mystery of how we were related, we would find the answer, and fuggedaboutit until the next holiday or funeral, whichever came first. I digress. So Pasquale was at our house once, visiting and trying out his new homemade wine on my mom. Oh what a delectably potent wine it was. The mere aroma of an opened bottle could put you in a trance. When I walked in the front door of the house, I heard yelling and carrying on. Concerned, I peeked into the kitchen to investigate: There they were, my lovely family, laughing, drinking and yes, yelling!
That's what we do.
Sunday, August 8, 2010
Sunday
This morning I attended mass with my better half. We were once part of a foursome fed with weekly inspiration at Xavier, a parish where all are welcome and hundreds take to heart. But football and work have veered my children off the path today. In fact, there are many days as of late with many excuses for their absence, and so today there's plenty of room in the already empty pews at a less popular church. We crashed the 9:00 mass there because it was a block from the meeting place to where my football-playing, muscle-building 14-year-old has been called. The other teen in my house ran out the door at 6:50 for a 7:00 am call to the cafe a half an hour away. There, Sunday worshipers will have their prayer over a cup of coffee and the New York Times looking out at the Hudson River, their dogs in tow.
This is not how I spent my Sunday mornings on Melville Avenue. Instead there was French toast sizzling over the gas stove thereby smoking up our house. It would wreak in that kitchen for two days. (French toast was Mom's least favorite breakfast to prepare, but her family loved her all the more when she gave in to their pleas.) After a whole loaf of Home Pride, two sticks of butter, a dozen eggs, a half a gallon of frozen store-brand orange juice and pound of Oscar Meyer bacon, we were ready to fight over the one bathroom that served the six of us and then dress for Sunday mass.
That beautiful, old church, dark and mysterious, packed with catholics was not the choice for Rose and Steve and their four kids. Instead, we left our car often on the street to avoid the mobs of cars that jammed the parking lot. We went to the parish hall across from the church for the 11:00 mass. That was where Ms. Benson led the community in the 1970's Billboard top 10 Christian hits at Father Dennis' folk mass. "Open your ears oh christian people...open your ears and hear the news...." It was home for me. That sense of community and comfort. I saw my friends there. We met our neighbors there. We had barbecues with families there. We attended the yearly summer picnic with rides and cotton candy there. It was an effortless Sunday ritual that I have not yet found a way to establish in my family, in my church, in my city. But the memory of it keeps me connected in my adult life, and with or without my kids, I return weekly for that inspiration hoping that they, too, will have enough to carry them over into the next chapter of their lives. Hoping that despite their occasional break from the one-hour-a-week that is asked, they will find their way back someday with both feet in.
When I think of churches in Italy, I think of a painted canvas with no white space showing. That the artist has created a piece rich with divine color and beauty. I imagine that churches are everywhere. And stained glass blinds you like the sun. The holiness of the buildings embraces you and you are left breathless. I don't know if that's true, and I hope that when I get there I am not praying to find a catholic church. Somehow I doubt that will happen. Somehow I imagine they're like Starbucks, found on every corner. Or something like that. In fact, I think that it won't be too difficult to return home 4,000 miles away. For me, home is where faith abounds. Where people relish in tradition rather than run from it. Where families pray together. Where Sunday rituals still exist for people like me. And where I can feel safe with my whole family at my side.
This is not how I spent my Sunday mornings on Melville Avenue. Instead there was French toast sizzling over the gas stove thereby smoking up our house. It would wreak in that kitchen for two days. (French toast was Mom's least favorite breakfast to prepare, but her family loved her all the more when she gave in to their pleas.) After a whole loaf of Home Pride, two sticks of butter, a dozen eggs, a half a gallon of frozen store-brand orange juice and pound of Oscar Meyer bacon, we were ready to fight over the one bathroom that served the six of us and then dress for Sunday mass.
That beautiful, old church, dark and mysterious, packed with catholics was not the choice for Rose and Steve and their four kids. Instead, we left our car often on the street to avoid the mobs of cars that jammed the parking lot. We went to the parish hall across from the church for the 11:00 mass. That was where Ms. Benson led the community in the 1970's Billboard top 10 Christian hits at Father Dennis' folk mass. "Open your ears oh christian people...open your ears and hear the news...." It was home for me. That sense of community and comfort. I saw my friends there. We met our neighbors there. We had barbecues with families there. We attended the yearly summer picnic with rides and cotton candy there. It was an effortless Sunday ritual that I have not yet found a way to establish in my family, in my church, in my city. But the memory of it keeps me connected in my adult life, and with or without my kids, I return weekly for that inspiration hoping that they, too, will have enough to carry them over into the next chapter of their lives. Hoping that despite their occasional break from the one-hour-a-week that is asked, they will find their way back someday with both feet in.
When I think of churches in Italy, I think of a painted canvas with no white space showing. That the artist has created a piece rich with divine color and beauty. I imagine that churches are everywhere. And stained glass blinds you like the sun. The holiness of the buildings embraces you and you are left breathless. I don't know if that's true, and I hope that when I get there I am not praying to find a catholic church. Somehow I doubt that will happen. Somehow I imagine they're like Starbucks, found on every corner. Or something like that. In fact, I think that it won't be too difficult to return home 4,000 miles away. For me, home is where faith abounds. Where people relish in tradition rather than run from it. Where families pray together. Where Sunday rituals still exist for people like me. And where I can feel safe with my whole family at my side.
Friday, August 6, 2010
Food
As the daughter of an Italian immigrant, I never went hungry. It must be genetic. Italians know how to eat. They know how to shop for the best ingredients, how to cook everyone in the neighborhood to shame, how to get creative with food and marry flavors one wouldn't dream of even introducing, how to talk their way through a meal, (or in my house, yell their way through it!) how to squeeze the hell out of good Italian tomatoes right into the pot after cranking out 40 meatballs for Christmas Eve gravy. (Yes, we called it gravy, not sauce!) The Italians in my family know food. In fact, I feel like I'm somewhat of a food snob. I really don't mean to be, it's just that my palate was trained to know the difference between a good peccorino Romano and a cheese food in a can on a shelf down aisle 7! It's not to say that I don't turn to mush over a creamy, coconut ginger soup, or a near perfect paella. Nor would I turn a cheek on simmering bouillabaisse or send back a plate of buttery pierogies. These are international foods that in my life, in both childhood and adulthood, had a fiesta with my taste buds, and I wouldn't pass up an invite to that party any day of the week.
But when it comes to my family and the art form they called cooking, there are hardly the right words to describe the experience. Metaphorically speaking, I suppose you could say their food was the freshest bouquet of flowers, a perfect harvest moon, your favorite song from high school and the ultimate first date all swaddled in the most accessible corner of your brain or mouth or stomach. As a young girl, well, I'd take a dish of my mom's spaghetti over any meal any day of the week. It was comfort food at its finest. And on the holidays, just when I thought I couldn't fit another crumb into my stomach, just after the zuppe, the antipasto, and the dish of Auntie Marietta's homemade macaroni a la gravy simmering with meatballs, pork, and hunks of beef, just when I was ready to make my way to the couch, that's when the roast would come. I honestly thought someone had to have made a mistake. 'You mean THAT wasn't the dinner?"
So food, therefore, has become somewhat of an event for me; that is, talking about it, comparing it, researching it, preparing it, eating it, relishing in its aftermath. And at the mere thought of the culinary experience I am expecting to have in Italy next year, well, I simply shake my head in wonder. I hear the table wine is far better than any wine you've purchased here in the states. Can that be true? It has been described to me in ways that summon a breath of air on a hillside in Tuscany overlooking a valley, and it has even been described to me as the rose bouquet sashe, something like what's in my grandmother's underwear drawer. I prefer the former. Nonetheless, I want to believe some of these rumors are true. I want to believe that I will sit at a table and have food prepared and sent to my family and me, and that the woman (or man) in the kitchen believes the preparation is his or her art form, the reason for that party in my palate.
I don't want to go hungry in Italy, not unless it is the hunger for a return visit.
But when it comes to my family and the art form they called cooking, there are hardly the right words to describe the experience. Metaphorically speaking, I suppose you could say their food was the freshest bouquet of flowers, a perfect harvest moon, your favorite song from high school and the ultimate first date all swaddled in the most accessible corner of your brain or mouth or stomach. As a young girl, well, I'd take a dish of my mom's spaghetti over any meal any day of the week. It was comfort food at its finest. And on the holidays, just when I thought I couldn't fit another crumb into my stomach, just after the zuppe, the antipasto, and the dish of Auntie Marietta's homemade macaroni a la gravy simmering with meatballs, pork, and hunks of beef, just when I was ready to make my way to the couch, that's when the roast would come. I honestly thought someone had to have made a mistake. 'You mean THAT wasn't the dinner?"
So food, therefore, has become somewhat of an event for me; that is, talking about it, comparing it, researching it, preparing it, eating it, relishing in its aftermath. And at the mere thought of the culinary experience I am expecting to have in Italy next year, well, I simply shake my head in wonder. I hear the table wine is far better than any wine you've purchased here in the states. Can that be true? It has been described to me in ways that summon a breath of air on a hillside in Tuscany overlooking a valley, and it has even been described to me as the rose bouquet sashe, something like what's in my grandmother's underwear drawer. I prefer the former. Nonetheless, I want to believe some of these rumors are true. I want to believe that I will sit at a table and have food prepared and sent to my family and me, and that the woman (or man) in the kitchen believes the preparation is his or her art form, the reason for that party in my palate.
I don't want to go hungry in Italy, not unless it is the hunger for a return visit.
Wednesday, August 4, 2010
Nenzi or Nunzi?
Growing up with my loving, Italian-American family, I was provided with an abundance of Italian food, an unending supply of Catholic guilt and a network of dozens of Italian relatives who spoke only in Italian around me. This was, in a nutshell, how my 7-year-old ears understood my Grandmother, Assunta: "Eat-eh, Nenzi. Don-teh mak-eh me ea-teh by mysel-feh...." "Nenzi, Pu-teh the pasta fagio-leh in the frigidaire-eh..."Nenzi, wanna candy? How abou-teh sangwi-cheh?" "You'seh Grandfathe-reh and me, we was neve-reh fight...." Now, if this was, in fact, what my grandmother was saying, then so be it. But I often understood very little of what my mother and grandmother were saying, so on Saturday afternoons, resting between them in the front seat of our '73 Ford Country Squire, I turned my head from left to right as if watching a tennis match. And then, my grandmother would warm up the car with her endearing smile and say to my mother, "Rosina, Giss--eh Bella, di Nenziucha." Was that what she'd said? Who knows. It's what I heard.
As an adult, I have told these stories to both my children and students. Listening as intently as I always had, my most recent class heard the words differently. Nenzi morphed into "Nunzi." My students wrote notes to me addressed to Nunzi. Birthday cards written to Nunzi. Literary letters in their notebooks with the salutation, "Dear Nunzi." And so, I no sooner became affectionately known as "Nunzi" in our fifth grade domain.
Though there is no real Italian translation for either of the words, no Webster's definition for clarity, mine would look something like this: nun-zi (nun-zee) n. 1. a loving member of an Italian family nicknamed by her aging, broken-English-speaking grandmother. 2. a child who longed for the smell of Ivory soap on her grandmother's hands and who was forever reminded that she was "bella." nen-zi, nen-zi-u-chia,.
As an adult, I have told these stories to both my children and students. Listening as intently as I always had, my most recent class heard the words differently. Nenzi morphed into "Nunzi." My students wrote notes to me addressed to Nunzi. Birthday cards written to Nunzi. Literary letters in their notebooks with the salutation, "Dear Nunzi." And so, I no sooner became affectionately known as "Nunzi" in our fifth grade domain.
Though there is no real Italian translation for either of the words, no Webster's definition for clarity, mine would look something like this: nun-zi (nun-zee) n. 1. a loving member of an Italian family nicknamed by her aging, broken-English-speaking grandmother. 2. a child who longed for the smell of Ivory soap on her grandmother's hands and who was forever reminded that she was "bella." nen-zi, nen-zi-u-chia,.
Tuesday, August 3, 2010
The Wait Is Over.
I've always been the last to board the train, literally and figuratively. In the same manner that I dash to the doors, bells and announcements sounding, the train just seconds from leaving the station, I also board the train of life as the last to get cable, the last to own a cassette player, to purchase a car, learn to use a computer, carry a cell phone, an iPod, the list goes on and on. And now I am again the last in my circle of friends and family to embark on a new adventure: to travel overseas. Yes, Italy awaits.
Now some may say, "So?" "Who cares?" "What's the big deal?" "You've never been to Europe or out of the country?" "Why the hell not?" My response: "I care!" "It's a big deal for me." And, "No, I've never been out of the country other than to the Caribbean." There was a jaunt to Jost Van Dyke from St. John that last summer got me my first and only stamp on my passport. For many like me, that is a way of life. Travelling is expensive and out of reach in this economy. But where I live, everyone seems to travel. Many of my colleagues are on a plane several times a year, and though I too travel, it is once-a-year only, and my entire tax return pays for it. I don't know how people afford the trips they take. I have students who go away with their families for Christmas, February, April and summer break. It's crazy. People have so much money.
But a trip to Italy for my family of four will prove costly. And so it goes, that a year ago the seed was planted, and I began planning my first trip to Europe, the summer 2011 trip to Italy. My kids think I'm nuts. I have talked about this trip now as if it were around the corner, when in fact it is still a year out. But that's how we do things in my house. We leave no stone unturned. I have opened up a credit union account for the trip and have side jobs lined up for it. I have special folders on my computer for villas and places to see and research. My husband and I frequent Barnes and Noble to read up on the latest news for Italian travel. We have translation guides and cookbooks around the house to keep things interesting. We watch any films that may inspire us from "When in Rome" and "Under the Tuscan Sun" to "Cinema Paradiso" and "Il Postino." We even bought a pasta machine to experiment with homemade macaroni.
Yes, all is abuzz here as we make this, our trip of a lifetime, happen; the one so many before us have taken, and the trip many will take long after. It matters little to me that I am last in line to stamp my passport with a European country and board that train with everyone else I know, because good things come to those who wait. And at 46, I have waited long enough.
Now some may say, "So?" "Who cares?" "What's the big deal?" "You've never been to Europe or out of the country?" "Why the hell not?" My response: "I care!" "It's a big deal for me." And, "No, I've never been out of the country other than to the Caribbean." There was a jaunt to Jost Van Dyke from St. John that last summer got me my first and only stamp on my passport. For many like me, that is a way of life. Travelling is expensive and out of reach in this economy. But where I live, everyone seems to travel. Many of my colleagues are on a plane several times a year, and though I too travel, it is once-a-year only, and my entire tax return pays for it. I don't know how people afford the trips they take. I have students who go away with their families for Christmas, February, April and summer break. It's crazy. People have so much money.
But a trip to Italy for my family of four will prove costly. And so it goes, that a year ago the seed was planted, and I began planning my first trip to Europe, the summer 2011 trip to Italy. My kids think I'm nuts. I have talked about this trip now as if it were around the corner, when in fact it is still a year out. But that's how we do things in my house. We leave no stone unturned. I have opened up a credit union account for the trip and have side jobs lined up for it. I have special folders on my computer for villas and places to see and research. My husband and I frequent Barnes and Noble to read up on the latest news for Italian travel. We have translation guides and cookbooks around the house to keep things interesting. We watch any films that may inspire us from "When in Rome" and "Under the Tuscan Sun" to "Cinema Paradiso" and "Il Postino." We even bought a pasta machine to experiment with homemade macaroni.
Yes, all is abuzz here as we make this, our trip of a lifetime, happen; the one so many before us have taken, and the trip many will take long after. It matters little to me that I am last in line to stamp my passport with a European country and board that train with everyone else I know, because good things come to those who wait. And at 46, I have waited long enough.
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