The eerie calm
A peaceful dead silence
A hint of dawn to the east
A trail of night to the west
No stars, no moon
No stirring in the trees
No rustling of the wind
No sounds of life
Caught between
A review of yesterday
Demands of today
Only briefly in this moment
Relishing the silence
With no distractions
To pull me from my thoughts
Or challenge my mood
Hold back the dawn
Embrace this time
While the world sleeps
I am truly alone in my thoughts
Saturday, October 20, 2012
Thursday, January 19, 2012
artichoke: a tall Mediterranean composite herb resembling a thistle with coarse pinnately incised leaves; also: its edible immature flower head which is cooked as a vegetable
............................................
I grew up eating stuffed artichokes that my grandmother lovingly prepared several times a year. Many of you are familiar with the artichoke hearts found in cans or jars and used in dips or in casseroles. And some of you may even enjoy eating a simple steamed/boiled artichoke whose leaves are dipped in butter and lemon juice. Fewer people are familiar with my grandmother’s method. She took the steamed artichoke one step further and stuffed it with simple yummy ingredients and then baked it in the oven.
It was a delicacy that none of my peers understood. Most of them were “grossed out” at the thought of eating a giant thistle. At age seven I was skilled in the technique. Plucking a petal from the green thistle, I’d tightly place it between my teeth, fleshy side down and pull through to remove the soft meaty delicious portion of the petal. Once I got to the heart,
it became a little tricky. Using a spoon, grandma taught me to gently but firmly scoop out the fuzzy choke from the center of the artichoke.
Let’s start with some very basic ingredients.- a few artichokes of course
- Romano cheese, grated or cut into small chunks
- chopped fresh garlic cloves
- bread crumbs
- salt and pepper
Cut the stems from the artichoke. With kitchen scissors, trim the prickly tips from each leaf. Wash and prepare them for boiling in a large pot of water. Or if you prefer, they can be steamed or even prepared in a pressure cooker. No matter which way be sure to add to the water, a hefty shot of olive oil and a few cloves of garlic. Steam or boil for 25-35 minutes, or until the petals can easily be pulled from the globe. Don’t over-boil or they get mushy and they still have baking to do which will soften them as well.
Once the artichokes are boiled, strain them upside down for several minutes, allowing all the water to drip from between the petals. Generously load each choke with chunks of garlic and Romano cheese stuffing between as many petals as you can. Transfer into a casserole dish. Sprinkle bread crumbs between the petals. Drizzle olive oil over the tops and sides. sprinkle a little salt and grind fresh pepper over each globe. Cover and bake in a 375 degree oven for about 30-40 minutes.
The artichoke easily pulls apart when it is well done. The cheese melts into the baked garlic and bread crumbs. The combination is so wonderfully Italian!
I introduced my kids to my grandmother’s creation when they were just toddlers. I’ve also impressed many dinner guests with her stuffed artichokes. Occasionally I see them on a restaurant menu, but they rarely meet my expectations. MANGIA!
Friday, January 13, 2012
Tiramisu (and time with Nelly!) - Tuscan Corner
Another installment in Jane Adam's Tuscan Corner series. I love this one and especially like the side story about Nelly. Jane has a Nelly and I have a Nellie. Both create havoc in our lives, but as you will see in this story....Jane wins this round!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Mmmmm Tiramisu. Just looking at it breaks two of my new year resolutions! It’s delicious layers oozing with marscarpone cheese, coffee liquor, and intimidation! As much as I enjoy this rich and decadent dessert, I had never attempted to make it until recently because it seemed like so much work. But I promised Jodi a blog, even if it is two weeks late!
It’s truly not difficult to create this dessert that will impress your friends and family. Moreso it’s time consuming and requires some organization because there are a few steps involved, especially if you bake your own Lady Fingers. The day I made tiramisu, I was frazzled, distracted and my kitchen looked like a batter bomb had exploded. Our very intuitive Chihuahua, Nelly realized I was deeply engrossed in this project and took that opportunity to misbehave... which ties in nicely with my Italian theme. You’ve heard of dogs that hunt for truffles? Sneaking into my bedroom closet she found several chocolate truffle bars I had been saving for stocking stuffers. Mid tiramisu mission, I began noticing her odd behavior (she rejected her dinner) as she was most likely suffering from indigestion and a serious caffeine buzz. She had consumed three four ounce bars and was hoarding a fourth for later when we discovered the empty wrappers. (Worried, I stayed up with her until 3:00 a.m. and the dog didn’t even vomit.) However considering she totally misunderstood the difference between truffle the fungi and truffle the chocolate, I don’t believe The Truffle Institute of Tuscany* will be calling her to lead any truffle hunting excursions in Italy.
The wrappers: evidence of Nelly's truffle caper
But I digress.... Pay close attention to my next words of advice: There are shortcuts one can take to make this dessert a manageable task besides securing your chocolate bars from small truffle sniffing dogs. Making Lady Fingers from scratch IS NOT necessary! I clearly had been hit on the head by a circa 1950 Betty Crocker cookbook when I fell victim to these words: “Lady Fingers: These little sponge cakes are the building blocks of tiramisu. Practice your piping skills and make them at home!” Forget it! Buy them! Preferably from Cascio’s! Nobody will know the difference and it will save you much time, aggravation and mess.
Tiramisu
Filling
• 1 1/2 cups espresso or triple-strength regular coffee at room temperature
• 1/2 cup sugar
• 1/4 cup brandy (I substituted coffee liqueur and it was delicious)
• 2 egg yolks,
• 1 pound mascarpone cheese
• One 8 ounce package ladyfingers (see even the recipe says BUY them)
• 4 ounces semisweet chocolate, shaved. (Keep this away from small dogs) (Jodi's warning: Nelly)
The Icing
• 1 cup fresh whipping cream
• 1/4 teaspoon vanilla
• 2 tablespoons confectioners' sugar
Preparation:
Stir the espresso, sugar, and brandy (or coffee liqueur) together in a mixing bowl until the sugar dissolves. Remove 1/3 cup of the coffee mixture to another bowl and set the remainder aside. Whisk the egg yolks into the 1/3 cup of coffee. Add the marscarpone and whisk together just until smooth. Do not over-mix or it will separate.
Line the inside of a 91/2 x 51/2 inch loaf pan with a large sheet of wax paper. Tuck the wax paper into the corners of the pan - being careful not to tear it.
Dip the ladyfingers one at a time into the reserved coffee mixture and begin to place them crosswise in the lined pan. The lady fingers should be soaked with coffee and will expand a little. This will only take a few seconds; be sure not to soak them so long that they fall apart. Continue with more ladyfingers, lining the bottom of the pan lengthwise with them. Trim if they don't fit exactly.
Spread on half the cheese mixture. Sprinkle with 2 ounces of the shaved chocolate.
Layer again in the same manner with 7 more ladyfingers, the remaining cheese mixture and the remaining chocolate. Top the loaf pan off with the remaining soaked ladyfingers. Fold the wax paper up around the top of the pan and cover tightly with plastic wrap and refrigerate for 6 hours (I've refrigerated it overnight with fine results.)
Invert the chilled loaf pan onto a serving platter and tap the bottom of the pan to remove the loaf. Remove the wax paper.
Whisk the cream, vanilla and confectioner's sugar until stiff. Spread this icing over the cake and top it off with a dusting of cocoa powder and shaved chocolate.
For those of you who like to make things from scratch and enjoy the extra mess, I have included a simple recipe for the Lady Fingers. But don’t say I didn’t warn you!
Ingredients
• 4 eggs, separated
• 2/3 cup white sugar
• 7/8 cup all-purpose flour
• 1/2 teaspoon baking powder
•
Directions
1. Preheat oven to 400 degrees F (205 degrees C). Line two 17 x 12 inch baking sheets with baking parchment. Fit large pastry bag with a plain 1/2 inch round tube.
2. Place egg whites in bowl and beat on high until soft peaks start to form. Slowly add 2 tablespoons of the sugar and continue beating until stiff and glossy. In another bowl beat egg yolks and remaining sugar. Whip until thick and very pale in color.
3. Sift flour and baking powder together on a sheet of wax paper. Fold half the egg whites into the egg yolk mixture. Fold in flour, and then add the remaining egg whites. Transfer mixture to pastry bag and pipe out onto prepared baking sheet. Bake 8 minutes.
*Totally fabricated institute!
Thursday, December 1, 2011
Guest blogging....
Jodi Brougher of Cascio's Fruit Market in my home town of Somerset has asked me to write a weekly guest blog. We call it the Tuscan Corner and each week I try to create a Tuscan inspired meal complete with the recipe, pictures and a little humor. Since I've not posted here in awhile, I thought you might enjoy reading my latest installment:
__________________________________________
By Sunday with our Thanksgiving travels complete, black Friday insanity behind us, and blog space to fill, it was time to go back out into the shopping world....grocery shopping that is. I salivated over several Tuscan recipes, made a list and checked it twice! It’s hard to think about food when you’ve over-indulged all weekend, but the refrigerator was bare and I could no longer fake it without at least the essentials.
Typically I am less than enthusiastic about a trip to Giant Eagle. My husband had offered to take on this task for me, but I wasn’t going to produce a blog piece or any Tuscan magic with a pound of bologna, American cheese and a case of Coke, so I’d still have to venture out there. I’m not being cruel at his expense because this is my “thing” and I’m a control freak. It can be intimidating for anyone to be sent off with MY list of expectations. Ladies, see if you recognize this scenario...
Initially, my list would not be clear to him so there would be a few phone calls to clarify. By the third call he’d hear the frustration in my tone and he would then quit calling out of fear. (That was in the old days, he now just "forgets" his phone in the car). He would then return home to my heavy sighs and mumbling criticisms where a small “discussion” would take place. He’d then retreat to the man cave and I’d still be forced to make the trip when a key ingredient failed to make it home. But I digress....besides grocery shopping with a buddy is less daunting and much easier than carrying all those bags into the house on your own. He’s always a good sport until he sees the total at the register. This is where I dutifully remind him of all the “fuel perks” we’ve earned and the color returns to his face.
I needed a distraction tactic when purchasing Parmigiano-Reggiano at $18.99 a pound. He’d never enjoy it as much if he realized the cost per bite. So I sent him off in search of two pounds of butter. He returned empty handed. “Did you want salted or unsalted butter?” he asked sheepishly. “Surprise me” came to mind as my knee jerk answer. But I went with the politically correct response, “how about one of each?” as I hurried off to purchase what he’d consider ridiculously over-priced shrimp, a key ingredient in today’s recipe.
Ricotta Mousse with Giant Shrimp
2 medium zucchini, chopped coarsely
1 shallot, chopped coarsely
3 T extra virgin olive oil
1.5 C of ricotta (about 10.5 oz)
3 egg whites
Salt and freshly ground pepper
15 small cherry tomatoes
9 large red shrimp or scampi
1 sliced tomato (for garnish)
Preheat the oven to 350 degrees.
Saute the zucchini and shallot in 2 T of olive oil for about 10 minutes, until they begin to soften and brown. Remove from heat. Beat the ricotta and egg whites together in a food processor for about five minutes. Remove to a bowl and add salt and pepper. Mix in the sauteed zucchini. Butter a round baking dish that will allow the mixture to rise (it will immediately fall again, so not to worry) and pour in the ricotta mixture. (I used a quiche dish). Bake for about 30-45 minutes depending on your oven*, or until the top begins to golden and the mixture is firm.
Quarter the cherry tomatoes and cook them quickly in the remaining olive oil. Squash them gently with a fork, and allow them to sit.
Peel the shell of each shrimp, leaving the tail. Steam for about 3-4 minutes until they are just cooked. Place the baked mousse in its baking dish on a serving platter. Top with the cooked tomato sauce and surround with shrimp. Serve warm
*A few notes: I had to bake the mousse for a good 45 minutes in my oven and finished with the last five minutes under the broiler to brown and bubble the top. It never really rose and fell like a souffle as the recipe indicated it would. I followed directions to the tee so I’m not sure if my oven was the culprit. But it still turned out well.
If you prefer a firmer, more quiche like texture I’d suggest that you add one or two more egg whites. This was a simple dish, with a mild taste. The tomato sauce topper made a lovely, more acidic contrast. You may also substitute spinach or any vegetable of your choice for the zucchini. I combined this with a butternut squash soup and small salad as a light dinner but it would also make a terrific brunch item.
__________________________________________
By Sunday with our Thanksgiving travels complete, black Friday insanity behind us, and blog space to fill, it was time to go back out into the shopping world....grocery shopping that is. I salivated over several Tuscan recipes, made a list and checked it twice! It’s hard to think about food when you’ve over-indulged all weekend, but the refrigerator was bare and I could no longer fake it without at least the essentials.
Typically I am less than enthusiastic about a trip to Giant Eagle. My husband had offered to take on this task for me, but I wasn’t going to produce a blog piece or any Tuscan magic with a pound of bologna, American cheese and a case of Coke, so I’d still have to venture out there. I’m not being cruel at his expense because this is my “thing” and I’m a control freak. It can be intimidating for anyone to be sent off with MY list of expectations. Ladies, see if you recognize this scenario...
Initially, my list would not be clear to him so there would be a few phone calls to clarify. By the third call he’d hear the frustration in my tone and he would then quit calling out of fear. (That was in the old days, he now just "forgets" his phone in the car). He would then return home to my heavy sighs and mumbling criticisms where a small “discussion” would take place. He’d then retreat to the man cave and I’d still be forced to make the trip when a key ingredient failed to make it home. But I digress....besides grocery shopping with a buddy is less daunting and much easier than carrying all those bags into the house on your own. He’s always a good sport until he sees the total at the register. This is where I dutifully remind him of all the “fuel perks” we’ve earned and the color returns to his face.
I needed a distraction tactic when purchasing Parmigiano-Reggiano at $18.99 a pound. He’d never enjoy it as much if he realized the cost per bite. So I sent him off in search of two pounds of butter. He returned empty handed. “Did you want salted or unsalted butter?” he asked sheepishly. “Surprise me” came to mind as my knee jerk answer. But I went with the politically correct response, “how about one of each?” as I hurried off to purchase what he’d consider ridiculously over-priced shrimp, a key ingredient in today’s recipe.
Ricotta Mousse with Giant Shrimp
2 medium zucchini, chopped coarsely
1 shallot, chopped coarsely
3 T extra virgin olive oil
1.5 C of ricotta (about 10.5 oz)
3 egg whites
Salt and freshly ground pepper
15 small cherry tomatoes
9 large red shrimp or scampi
1 sliced tomato (for garnish)
Preheat the oven to 350 degrees.
Saute the zucchini and shallot in 2 T of olive oil for about 10 minutes, until they begin to soften and brown. Remove from heat. Beat the ricotta and egg whites together in a food processor for about five minutes. Remove to a bowl and add salt and pepper. Mix in the sauteed zucchini. Butter a round baking dish that will allow the mixture to rise (it will immediately fall again, so not to worry) and pour in the ricotta mixture. (I used a quiche dish). Bake for about 30-45 minutes depending on your oven*, or until the top begins to golden and the mixture is firm.
Quarter the cherry tomatoes and cook them quickly in the remaining olive oil. Squash them gently with a fork, and allow them to sit.
Peel the shell of each shrimp, leaving the tail. Steam for about 3-4 minutes until they are just cooked. Place the baked mousse in its baking dish on a serving platter. Top with the cooked tomato sauce and surround with shrimp. Serve warm
*A few notes: I had to bake the mousse for a good 45 minutes in my oven and finished with the last five minutes under the broiler to brown and bubble the top. It never really rose and fell like a souffle as the recipe indicated it would. I followed directions to the tee so I’m not sure if my oven was the culprit. But it still turned out well.
If you prefer a firmer, more quiche like texture I’d suggest that you add one or two more egg whites. This was a simple dish, with a mild taste. The tomato sauce topper made a lovely, more acidic contrast. You may also substitute spinach or any vegetable of your choice for the zucchini. I combined this with a butternut squash soup and small salad as a light dinner but it would also make a terrific brunch item.
Thursday, October 27, 2011
The Devil Does Indeed Wear Prada!
Because your words and thoughts
are not her words and thoughts
Because you are only a visitor
but I know this road
Because you live for the thrill
while I see the pitfalls
Because you think your pain,
is bigger than mine
Because you have been selfish
while I have been selfless
Because you have no boundaries
you do not see mine
Because while you have been rebellious
I have been vigilant
Because you are deceptive
and you've drawn me in
Because now I have exposed you
and you have no shame
Because you are a rebel
I lay down my arms
Because to destroy your evil grasp
I must surrender
are not her words and thoughts
Because you are only a visitor
but I know this road
Because you live for the thrill
while I see the pitfalls
Because you think your pain,
is bigger than mine
Because you have been selfish
while I have been selfless
Because you have no boundaries
you do not see mine
Because while you have been rebellious
I have been vigilant
Because you are deceptive
and you've drawn me in
Because now I have exposed you
and you have no shame
Because you are a rebel
I lay down my arms
Because to destroy your evil grasp
I must surrender
Friday, October 21, 2011
Channeling Maria Pellicione
It’s been two weeks since we have returned from Italy and I am fully recuperated; for certain! I had made the mistake of believing that after day four and then promptly hit the wall. During my return to "normal," I’ve been cooking Italian meals from scratch, sorting through all of the pictures and processing the question everyone has asked, “What was your favorite part of the trip?” There were some especially delightful places and things I’d consider “highlights” of course, but for me it was more about remembering moments with my late grandmother and a experiencing a connectivity to a country and its culture. I am after all, half Italian.
My grandma was a petite Italian woman who never met a soul with whom she couldn't have a pleasant conversation. She even considered Ralph, the guy who sold her a brand new 1966 Corvair as a friend. I suspect that's how he glad-handed her into buying such a sassy car! Her house had its own distinct scent of oregano, garlic and Jean Nate cologne. Her term of endearment for me was "poco chiacchierona" (little chatterbox) and when she gave me a directive, it was usually followed by "capisce?" (Do you understand?). My mother worked, so Grandma was my caregiver during the week. From as early as I can remember, we were a team and it seemed to me that she was always organized and had the right tools for the right occasions, including her faith.
We visited funeral homes while she paid her respects to old friends. A devout Catholic, she carried her rosary beads in a zippered leather pouch....always. She taught me funeral home etiquette so at a tender age, I actually felt comfortable expressing my condolences. It seemed we were always popping in on the priests at the rectory to deliver a baked good which was shared over coffee. She liked to keep the priests on her good side, just in case I suppose! Frequently in August she would randomly stop the car along a rural roadside because she instinctively knew where to find blackberry bushes. A berry basket lived in her trunk for such random adventures, along with a shovel, rubber boots, an umbrella and a collapsible lawn chair. And while she prepared buttered dittalini noodles with fresh Parmesan cheese, I'd turn raw tubular pasta into a noodle necklace.
She loved to visit. So I tagged along to see her numerous friends in the villages of Acosta, Gray and Jenners Township where they fed me pizzelle cookies and sugar coated almond candies. These were the homes of her immigrant friends, some living in former duplex style “company homes” that the mining company had once owned. Others in nearby single dwellings. A company store was once the lifeline of these villages. Here was what remained of what could be described as Somerset’s “Little Italy.” Cats lounging on porch railings. Windows wide open and laundry hanging on lines. Small dogs were treated as well as the guests. Soups and sauces simmering on the stove. They spoke very fast Italian. Conversations were in raised voices, alternating between staccato and legato with hands conducting and punctuating emotions, because a true Italian can not speak without using her hands. They were "la famiglia," not bound by blood, but culture, circumstances, and life experiences. They had nursed each others' babies if one of them fell ill. They had supported each other through the loss of children and protected one another from the hands of abusive husbands. I had been privy to the tail end of era now gone and I didn't understand it at that tender age. But the memories are strong and I can still smell the anise that permeated these modest homes.
So something felt welcoming and comfortable as I wandered through the colorful streets of small villages our first few days into the journey. How simply and intimately the Italians live. Windows and doors without screens are open to the world. Laundry is literally aired off of balconies and across alley ways, dotting the grey stone facades with bursts of color. In villages, children race through the piazzas while old men engage in heated banter on benches. Dogs are well behaved and welcome almost anywhere. Cats sit on ledges observing life around them. The aroma of Italian cooking wafting through the streets mingled with conversations through open doorways and windows. The emotion of fast talking Italians flailing their hands. At one point Dick even stated out loud that I seemed to “fit in” and I understood what he meant: simpatico! It isn't so much that I look Italian, but the innate way I express emotion and use my hands when I talk. And although my Italian was anything but fluent, the few words I managed to speak seemed to flow with the proper annunciation.
My grandmother's influence struck me. I had flown nine hours across the Atlantic. The architecture and terrain were foreign and sometimes even medieval, yet there was something familiar to me. Sometimes it was a smell that stirred a memory or a familiar phrase of Italian, but the sights, sounds and aromas of my childhood were all around me. I loved hearing the Italian language spoken the way I had heard it so frequently back then. And the simplicity with which the Italians live brought to mind how simply she lived. She could make magic with noodles, an event of a drive on a rural road, or a night on her couch a "teachable moment." Through my grandmother's eyes I saw myself. And though now gone for the better part of my life, she is my touchstone. The source of my passion, my love of cooking, and the reason I yearn to visit again and again.
My grandma was a petite Italian woman who never met a soul with whom she couldn't have a pleasant conversation. She even considered Ralph, the guy who sold her a brand new 1966 Corvair as a friend. I suspect that's how he glad-handed her into buying such a sassy car! Her house had its own distinct scent of oregano, garlic and Jean Nate cologne. Her term of endearment for me was "poco chiacchierona" (little chatterbox) and when she gave me a directive, it was usually followed by "capisce?" (Do you understand?). My mother worked, so Grandma was my caregiver during the week. From as early as I can remember, we were a team and it seemed to me that she was always organized and had the right tools for the right occasions, including her faith.
We visited funeral homes while she paid her respects to old friends. A devout Catholic, she carried her rosary beads in a zippered leather pouch....always. She taught me funeral home etiquette so at a tender age, I actually felt comfortable expressing my condolences. It seemed we were always popping in on the priests at the rectory to deliver a baked good which was shared over coffee. She liked to keep the priests on her good side, just in case I suppose! Frequently in August she would randomly stop the car along a rural roadside because she instinctively knew where to find blackberry bushes. A berry basket lived in her trunk for such random adventures, along with a shovel, rubber boots, an umbrella and a collapsible lawn chair. And while she prepared buttered dittalini noodles with fresh Parmesan cheese, I'd turn raw tubular pasta into a noodle necklace.
She loved to visit. So I tagged along to see her numerous friends in the villages of Acosta, Gray and Jenners Township where they fed me pizzelle cookies and sugar coated almond candies. These were the homes of her immigrant friends, some living in former duplex style “company homes” that the mining company had once owned. Others in nearby single dwellings. A company store was once the lifeline of these villages. Here was what remained of what could be described as Somerset’s “Little Italy.” Cats lounging on porch railings. Windows wide open and laundry hanging on lines. Small dogs were treated as well as the guests. Soups and sauces simmering on the stove. They spoke very fast Italian. Conversations were in raised voices, alternating between staccato and legato with hands conducting and punctuating emotions, because a true Italian can not speak without using her hands. They were "la famiglia," not bound by blood, but culture, circumstances, and life experiences. They had nursed each others' babies if one of them fell ill. They had supported each other through the loss of children and protected one another from the hands of abusive husbands. I had been privy to the tail end of era now gone and I didn't understand it at that tender age. But the memories are strong and I can still smell the anise that permeated these modest homes.
So something felt welcoming and comfortable as I wandered through the colorful streets of small villages our first few days into the journey. How simply and intimately the Italians live. Windows and doors without screens are open to the world. Laundry is literally aired off of balconies and across alley ways, dotting the grey stone facades with bursts of color. In villages, children race through the piazzas while old men engage in heated banter on benches. Dogs are well behaved and welcome almost anywhere. Cats sit on ledges observing life around them. The aroma of Italian cooking wafting through the streets mingled with conversations through open doorways and windows. The emotion of fast talking Italians flailing their hands. At one point Dick even stated out loud that I seemed to “fit in” and I understood what he meant: simpatico! It isn't so much that I look Italian, but the innate way I express emotion and use my hands when I talk. And although my Italian was anything but fluent, the few words I managed to speak seemed to flow with the proper annunciation.
My grandmother's influence struck me. I had flown nine hours across the Atlantic. The architecture and terrain were foreign and sometimes even medieval, yet there was something familiar to me. Sometimes it was a smell that stirred a memory or a familiar phrase of Italian, but the sights, sounds and aromas of my childhood were all around me. I loved hearing the Italian language spoken the way I had heard it so frequently back then. And the simplicity with which the Italians live brought to mind how simply she lived. She could make magic with noodles, an event of a drive on a rural road, or a night on her couch a "teachable moment." Through my grandmother's eyes I saw myself. And though now gone for the better part of my life, she is my touchstone. The source of my passion, my love of cooking, and the reason I yearn to visit again and again.
Thursday, September 8, 2011
The Apology Forum
I came upon it totally by accident while conducting a web search. It was a public apology forum, both odd and intriguing. Cathartic confessions left hanging in cyberspace, hoping that the intended recipients would find and read them someday. Morbidly curious, I scrolled through them. There were hundreds dating back to 2007. I began to feel like a voyeur. There was the giddiness of a teen stumbling upon her sister’s diary sometimes mixed with the discomfort of finding something rather shocking and unsettling in its content.
I was touched by the gesture of a now senior citizen regretful for standing up a blind date arranged by a fraternity brother back in 1967. His shallow youthful actions obviously haunted him for decades. He had "chickened out after catching a glimpse of her from a distance and determined she wasn’t attractive enough to be on his arm." He knows it wounded her deeply and he wishes he could now have coffee with her and explain. It’s sweet revenge to know he has carried this guilt with him, but comforting to know he had a conscience. Who hasn’t been that girl? But then, haven’t we all been that guy?
Some were funny and hinted of intoxication: “To the guy at the Bestival who was in front of me at the go team for the first night. I am so sorry for urinating. I thought I had my own little space and it would soak into the ground but I must have accidentally got your leg. I am so sorry, I couldn't get it out of my head all weekend, and I hope it didn't ruin your night or your weekend too much, sorry again.” I suspect this guy was still reeling from a hangover when he posted.
So many were written to ex lovers over bad break-ups, apologizing for indiscretions that happened “one too many times.” One cowardly lover confessed to living a lie: “I'm sorry for all the happiness you are sharing with me. I'm sorry that you love me, and I'm sorry that I love you. I'm sorry for loving someone behind your back. I'm sorry for lying to you, I just don't want to lose what we have. I'm sorry for knowing that I'll have to end it soon, someday. I'm sorry that you think I'm everything I'm not. I'm sorry I've made you believe I'm the one for you. I'm sorry that we're together. I'm sorry that we've ever met. I'm sorry. I love you.” Posted in 2007, I can’t help but wonder their current status. I feel the punch this may have delivered to some unsuspecting lover or spouse. How many of these couples walk amongst us?
There was an apology from a heartbroken grandfather who had fallen out of favor with his granddaughter. A touching and frustrating attempt at something he was unlikely to resolve. He wanted her to know that even if she didn't want any part of him, "all of the good memories were enough to let him die a happy man." I couldn't help but hope that whatever he did was forgivable and that a powerful force led her to this page.
But a few posts later, I was haunted by a man who apologized for the “horrible thing” he did when he was young to a “much younger” child. It was important that the victim know that this never happened again. While I felt the weight of his tremendous guilt, I am hesitant to feel compassion or empathy. I suspect his victim is as well and perhaps this one is simply better left alone.
Drawn into these apologies which were feeling more like confessions, I began searching for and hoping that there might be something for me in this forum. Something that would help me stop picking the scabs of old wounds. How sappy, poetic and optimistic of me. Would I even recognize it if there were one? Would I leave a response?
A woman's pain is palpable and I related all too well. If only someone had the appropriate blend of words and deeds to bring her back into the fold: "Your illness became mine while I slowly sunk into a depression from all the attacks. My anger became a weapon; a weapon you were then able to use against me. I am sorry I wasn't better trained in this warfare. I allowed your illness to manipulate me and cost me a healthy relationship with our family. I had no idea how far you would go to cover your illness until I was left standing with my heart in my hands, on the outside looking in."
So I crafted soothing words to the woman above, words I'd want to hear: "My lies became the truth. My pain became your pain. By dividing and conquering I ostracized you. I made you question and doubt my and my family's love for you. I painted you as unstable and untrustworthy, so that your motives and integrity would always be in question. If I turned my family against you, you could never share with them the ugly truths you knew about me and the painful things I said and did to you. I used you as a scapegoat to hide my demons. By making you appear weak and stupid, I looked strong and competent when indeed I was a mess."
Maybe she will read them, feel less burdened and begin to heal. It doesn't matter who wrote them. It matters that someone understood. Oh the power of a sincere apology!
I was touched by the gesture of a now senior citizen regretful for standing up a blind date arranged by a fraternity brother back in 1967. His shallow youthful actions obviously haunted him for decades. He had "chickened out after catching a glimpse of her from a distance and determined she wasn’t attractive enough to be on his arm." He knows it wounded her deeply and he wishes he could now have coffee with her and explain. It’s sweet revenge to know he has carried this guilt with him, but comforting to know he had a conscience. Who hasn’t been that girl? But then, haven’t we all been that guy?
Some were funny and hinted of intoxication: “To the guy at the Bestival who was in front of me at the go team for the first night. I am so sorry for urinating. I thought I had my own little space and it would soak into the ground but I must have accidentally got your leg. I am so sorry, I couldn't get it out of my head all weekend, and I hope it didn't ruin your night or your weekend too much, sorry again.” I suspect this guy was still reeling from a hangover when he posted.
So many were written to ex lovers over bad break-ups, apologizing for indiscretions that happened “one too many times.” One cowardly lover confessed to living a lie: “I'm sorry for all the happiness you are sharing with me. I'm sorry that you love me, and I'm sorry that I love you. I'm sorry for loving someone behind your back. I'm sorry for lying to you, I just don't want to lose what we have. I'm sorry for knowing that I'll have to end it soon, someday. I'm sorry that you think I'm everything I'm not. I'm sorry I've made you believe I'm the one for you. I'm sorry that we're together. I'm sorry that we've ever met. I'm sorry. I love you.” Posted in 2007, I can’t help but wonder their current status. I feel the punch this may have delivered to some unsuspecting lover or spouse. How many of these couples walk amongst us?
There was an apology from a heartbroken grandfather who had fallen out of favor with his granddaughter. A touching and frustrating attempt at something he was unlikely to resolve. He wanted her to know that even if she didn't want any part of him, "all of the good memories were enough to let him die a happy man." I couldn't help but hope that whatever he did was forgivable and that a powerful force led her to this page.
But a few posts later, I was haunted by a man who apologized for the “horrible thing” he did when he was young to a “much younger” child. It was important that the victim know that this never happened again. While I felt the weight of his tremendous guilt, I am hesitant to feel compassion or empathy. I suspect his victim is as well and perhaps this one is simply better left alone.
Drawn into these apologies which were feeling more like confessions, I began searching for and hoping that there might be something for me in this forum. Something that would help me stop picking the scabs of old wounds. How sappy, poetic and optimistic of me. Would I even recognize it if there were one? Would I leave a response?
A woman's pain is palpable and I related all too well. If only someone had the appropriate blend of words and deeds to bring her back into the fold: "Your illness became mine while I slowly sunk into a depression from all the attacks. My anger became a weapon; a weapon you were then able to use against me. I am sorry I wasn't better trained in this warfare. I allowed your illness to manipulate me and cost me a healthy relationship with our family. I had no idea how far you would go to cover your illness until I was left standing with my heart in my hands, on the outside looking in."
So I crafted soothing words to the woman above, words I'd want to hear: "My lies became the truth. My pain became your pain. By dividing and conquering I ostracized you. I made you question and doubt my and my family's love for you. I painted you as unstable and untrustworthy, so that your motives and integrity would always be in question. If I turned my family against you, you could never share with them the ugly truths you knew about me and the painful things I said and did to you. I used you as a scapegoat to hide my demons. By making you appear weak and stupid, I looked strong and competent when indeed I was a mess."
Maybe she will read them, feel less burdened and begin to heal. It doesn't matter who wrote them. It matters that someone understood. Oh the power of a sincere apology!
Wednesday, August 10, 2011
Acceptance
I am a control freak out of control. The irony is not lost on me; I can’t even control being a control freak. I can’t remember how it feels to be at peace with things out of my control. Maybe it’s because I’ve rarely been at peace. I mean true peace without regrets, realizing that I had done the best I could. Releasing the guilt and blame to someone else and being done. I have a hard time letting it go and walking away. Sometimes the only option is acceptance.
I hate that friction feels familiar; even “normal”. Fighting to be understood, validated; trying to find that middle ground. Wanting to substantiate, explain and release this burden. Trying to create peace and calm creates such chaos, at least internally; my point lost in the noise. Why didn’t I stop while ahead? The moment is gone; futile attempt. Losing ground in a few short sentences. Intellectually aware but emotionally foolish. Locked in the same dance. Sometimes the only option is acceptance.
Being in control takes vigilance. My brain is always churning, thinking of new ways to control what I can’t control. Thinking is exhausting. There is a script that plays when I am alone with my thoughts. It runs in my car, in the shower, in my bed when the world is quiet. It’s what I would say if I had the chance to confront her again. What I should have said if I had been better prepared when he and I disagreed. It’s easy to be right and to be heard when only I am talking, when only I am listening. Sometimes the only option is acceptance.
I seek closure and I want all of my stories to have happy endings. But I am not the only character in these chapters. Unwritten endings may be wrought with anxiety but I believe there is always a chance until the last page is turned. Not every story ends well. Sometimes the only option is acceptance.
I hate that friction feels familiar; even “normal”. Fighting to be understood, validated; trying to find that middle ground. Wanting to substantiate, explain and release this burden. Trying to create peace and calm creates such chaos, at least internally; my point lost in the noise. Why didn’t I stop while ahead? The moment is gone; futile attempt. Losing ground in a few short sentences. Intellectually aware but emotionally foolish. Locked in the same dance. Sometimes the only option is acceptance.
Being in control takes vigilance. My brain is always churning, thinking of new ways to control what I can’t control. Thinking is exhausting. There is a script that plays when I am alone with my thoughts. It runs in my car, in the shower, in my bed when the world is quiet. It’s what I would say if I had the chance to confront her again. What I should have said if I had been better prepared when he and I disagreed. It’s easy to be right and to be heard when only I am talking, when only I am listening. Sometimes the only option is acceptance.
Friday, July 29, 2011
A Parent
hopes and dreams
the promise and anticipation
of something better than me
a clean slate
loving and guiding
nurturing and teaching
rarely perfect
frequently flawed
bothered by
mistakes I've made
but sometimes
I hit one out of the park
highs and lows
laugh and cry
the rhythm of
each and every day
too little attention
they slip into the cracks
too much structure
I only battle myself
the results are tallied
the bell has been rung
it’s not perfection
but it’s good enough
do they know it
do I show it
my shell can be hard
but my heart melts
reconciling this
it is what it is
let it go, let it be
wishing i had no regrets
preconceived ideas that
sometimes got in my way
it was after all a clean slate
it just wasn’t mine
the promise and anticipation
of something better than me
a clean slate
loving and guiding
nurturing and teaching
rarely perfect
frequently flawed
bothered by
mistakes I've made
but sometimes
I hit one out of the park
highs and lows
laugh and cry
the rhythm of
each and every day
too little attention
they slip into the cracks
too much structure
I only battle myself
the results are tallied
the bell has been rung
it’s not perfection
but it’s good enough
do they know it
do I show it
my shell can be hard
but my heart melts
reconciling this
it is what it is
let it go, let it be
wishing i had no regrets
preconceived ideas that
sometimes got in my way
it was after all a clean slate
it just wasn’t mine
Friday, May 13, 2011
Growing Up Catholic!
I am in the last few weeks of a 22 week Bible study about the life of King David. This is my first Bible study and it’s been a satisfying experience. I approached it from an intellectual standpoint; a kind of “book club” where we would dissect the Bible much like I had discussed best sellers with girlfriends. I wasn't comfortable with the Bible, never sought it out as a source of comfort and I had begun to question why. Was my family apathetic? Nobody in my family read the Bible but we attended mass. What I discovered is that I was raised as a Catholic in an era that didn’t encourage us to read the Bible. That was left to the priests and hierarchy to interpret and dispense. I found this out from other women in this new church who had also been raised Catholic. These comparisons and discussions have given me an opportunity to challenge and even appreciate my experiences of growing up Catholic. I have relived these moments through my kids that as a child were to me were somewhat daunting and intimidating.
Dick and I were both Catholic and we seemed destined to raise our children in the Catholic faith. I don’t even recall having a serious discussion about it. I felt good about the process and enjoyed “baptizing” both kids in familiar rituals which of course now made more sense to me. Later there were the other rituals like the weekly fights with our kids about attending CCD and fighting with Dick over whose turn it was to fight with the kids about attending CCD. Apparently arguing about attending CCD is something they got from my DNA. I hated it too!
One day a packet followed young Zach home from CCD regarding his First Holy Communion. Prayers that looked hauntingly familiar glared at me. I knew these prayers because I had spent months memorizing them at this age but they had changed a bit. This alone should tell you I was not really a strong and practicing Catholic. Included were forms regarding his First Reconciliation? Had they added a new sacrament in the last 30 years? Aha! This was a new word for Confession and the fact that I didn't readily know this confirms that I was a lousy Catholic. Confession....that moment when we tell our sins to the priest behind a curtain in the confessional (I recall making things up because at age six, I simply hadn't had much time to perfect my sinning). In return we are given “penance”, which are the prayers Catholics are told to recite by the priest as a form of repentance for these sins which we have just confessed. Zach had been raised in a football playing family so you can imagine his confusion over the “Hail Mary” as a form of atonement.
Jordan’s First Holy Communion was special as we chose to do it apart from the class during a Sunday mass which was pretty much (some things never change) all about her. We sat in the front row of the church where Father Duch directed his attention and kind remarks toward her during the service. For a visual which you will soon understand, I should note that the choir was seated in the front of the church, directly facing our family.
The big moment came when Jordan, along with our family was prompted to be the first to receive Communion with everyone as her witness. A tiny cutie in her white dress and pink patent leather mary janes, she approached the priest and held out her little hands to receive the host. “The body of Christ.” She responded with an appropriate and angelic “Amen.” and danced back to our pew. I followed shortly behind. As I began to kneel in prayer, I noticed Jordan also kneeling yet still holding and staring pensively at that host in her little hands. This had not escaped Father Duch either! I gave her a gentle nudge and reminded her to put the host in her mouth. “I don’t want to!” she replied. Only a few of us were witnessing the private little drama that now began to unfold. Communion had paused, the choir was simultaneously singing and chuckling at us in amusement. Father Duch, not so much. His eyes glued to her, he gave her a cue by lifting his chin and opening his mouth indicating that she should put the host in her mouth. She shook her head regretfully from side to side. His eyes widened and with a patient smile he cued her again, shaking his head up and down. Again she shook her head “no!”
Now panic was beginning to set in and I could feel my face turning red. It had been a good two minutes or so since this began and it was clear that Communion and the service would not proceed until this host was swallowed. The entire choir was now enjoying this private performance. A few of them were even tearing up with laughter. As amusing as it is in hindsight, I was feeling the pressure. I nudged her again and this time added a frantic and harsh whisper “Please swallow the host!” The priest obviously knew what I had said because he was nodding in agreement while smiling and motioning with his hands for her to get on with it! “But I don’t want to!” returned the tiny voice out loud. Finally in total despair I said to her in an almost threatening whisper “Jordan, it’s the body of Christ! Put it in your mouth NOW!” Nothing. Finally, her father on my other side intervened. He gave her a stern look and a quick command. And with that, he host disappeared into her mouth. Father Duch smiled and I could see him breathe a sigh of relief. Trust me, I was looking for it! Communion commenced and I felt the tension in my body release. As I rearranged myself in the pew, Jordan also sat back and looked up at me. The host clearly still in her mouth she mumbled, “Mommy, I don’t like it and I’m going to spit it out.”
Dick and I were both Catholic and we seemed destined to raise our children in the Catholic faith. I don’t even recall having a serious discussion about it. I felt good about the process and enjoyed “baptizing” both kids in familiar rituals which of course now made more sense to me. Later there were the other rituals like the weekly fights with our kids about attending CCD and fighting with Dick over whose turn it was to fight with the kids about attending CCD. Apparently arguing about attending CCD is something they got from my DNA. I hated it too!
One day a packet followed young Zach home from CCD regarding his First Holy Communion. Prayers that looked hauntingly familiar glared at me. I knew these prayers because I had spent months memorizing them at this age but they had changed a bit. This alone should tell you I was not really a strong and practicing Catholic. Included were forms regarding his First Reconciliation? Had they added a new sacrament in the last 30 years? Aha! This was a new word for Confession and the fact that I didn't readily know this confirms that I was a lousy Catholic. Confession....that moment when we tell our sins to the priest behind a curtain in the confessional (I recall making things up because at age six, I simply hadn't had much time to perfect my sinning). In return we are given “penance”, which are the prayers Catholics are told to recite by the priest as a form of repentance for these sins which we have just confessed. Zach had been raised in a football playing family so you can imagine his confusion over the “Hail Mary” as a form of atonement.
Jordan’s First Holy Communion was special as we chose to do it apart from the class during a Sunday mass which was pretty much (some things never change) all about her. We sat in the front row of the church where Father Duch directed his attention and kind remarks toward her during the service. For a visual which you will soon understand, I should note that the choir was seated in the front of the church, directly facing our family.
The big moment came when Jordan, along with our family was prompted to be the first to receive Communion with everyone as her witness. A tiny cutie in her white dress and pink patent leather mary janes, she approached the priest and held out her little hands to receive the host. “The body of Christ.” She responded with an appropriate and angelic “Amen.” and danced back to our pew. I followed shortly behind. As I began to kneel in prayer, I noticed Jordan also kneeling yet still holding and staring pensively at that host in her little hands. This had not escaped Father Duch either! I gave her a gentle nudge and reminded her to put the host in her mouth. “I don’t want to!” she replied. Only a few of us were witnessing the private little drama that now began to unfold. Communion had paused, the choir was simultaneously singing and chuckling at us in amusement. Father Duch, not so much. His eyes glued to her, he gave her a cue by lifting his chin and opening his mouth indicating that she should put the host in her mouth. She shook her head regretfully from side to side. His eyes widened and with a patient smile he cued her again, shaking his head up and down. Again she shook her head “no!”
Now panic was beginning to set in and I could feel my face turning red. It had been a good two minutes or so since this began and it was clear that Communion and the service would not proceed until this host was swallowed. The entire choir was now enjoying this private performance. A few of them were even tearing up with laughter. As amusing as it is in hindsight, I was feeling the pressure. I nudged her again and this time added a frantic and harsh whisper “Please swallow the host!” The priest obviously knew what I had said because he was nodding in agreement while smiling and motioning with his hands for her to get on with it! “But I don’t want to!” returned the tiny voice out loud. Finally in total despair I said to her in an almost threatening whisper “Jordan, it’s the body of Christ! Put it in your mouth NOW!” Nothing. Finally, her father on my other side intervened. He gave her a stern look and a quick command. And with that, he host disappeared into her mouth. Father Duch smiled and I could see him breathe a sigh of relief. Trust me, I was looking for it! Communion commenced and I felt the tension in my body release. As I rearranged myself in the pew, Jordan also sat back and looked up at me. The host clearly still in her mouth she mumbled, “Mommy, I don’t like it and I’m going to spit it out.”
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