Good Friday

Tomorrow is Good Friday. One poignant memory of my mother is that she sang what I only know as the “Good Friday” song every Good Friday. A song she sang to my sisters and me every year of our life. This was a song she sang in Italian. When we were little, my sisters and I would giggle when she sang this song. My mother was perfect in nearly everything she did but she wasn’t much of a singer. As adults, she’d call us and sing the song over the phone on Good Friday. I’m embarrassed and ashamed that don’t know the words or the melody. How I wish I paid more attention to the song so that I could sing it to my girls. How I wish I could just pick up the phone and talk to her.

This is our first Easter without her. Easter was a holiday that my mother spent the majority of Holy week baking ricotta pies. Lot’s of ricotta pies. I took it upon myself to carry on the tradition. So Last week, I went to her house to find her recipe. I found her recipe book. In her scrawled hand-writing, she had all her favorite recipes. Reading her handwriting made me miss her more than ever. And feeling a little guilty about “borrowing” her recipes, I went to the cemetery to tell her what I was up to. In the end, I think she would be happy that I want to try to bake her favorite dessert.

Now, my mother was a far better cook and then a baker. But the few things she baked were delicious. And no one in this world could bake a ricotta pie that matches hers. As I looked through her little recipe book, I found that she had about 6 recipes for ricotta pie and 3 different crust recipes. All written in Italian. I had my work cut out for me. I managed to translate her recipes and made a decision on which recipe was the “one”. I baked a damn good pie. It wasn’t as good as hers but it was close.

Tomorrow, I’ll spend Good Friday trying to find the words to the “Good Friday song”, delivering ricotta pies and thinking of my mother.

2 boxes

I can fit the contents of my desk, 2 file cabinet drawers and a storage unit into 2 medium-sized corrugated boxes. I know this because last week, I had to pack the contents of my desk, 2 file cabinet drawers and a storage unit into 2 medium-sized corrugated boxes. This is the sober chore done by one who has been laid off. The last 10 years of my career. All packed away and fit nicely into 2 boxes. It’s a sad reminder how no one is safe and no position is recession-proof.

I was laid off. I am not bitter. I’m panicked. How am I going to pay my mortgage, feed and clothe my family without a job? I loved to work and felt that my career was partially what defined me. (The other part of course is being a mother and wife). So loosing my job not only hurts my economic stability but bruises my ego a little. I admit that I’m feeling somewhat lost.

After nearly 10 years of working at the same place, I amassed quite a collection of crap. Old photos, can-opener, coffee mugs, pen holder and least I forget the handsome desk-clock that I was awarded after 6 years of service. The 2 boxes sit in my 3-season porch. I haven’t looked at them since they landed there last week. The contents are trivial. Aside from the desk clock, which I elected to leave behind, there is really nothing of value. Nor is there anything that pertains to my present lifestyle in those 2 boxes. What’s the point really? I mean it’s not like I’m going to need a squishy stress-toy anytime soon. So it is likely that I’ll probably just bring the 2 boxes to the dump and end that chapter.

It’s time to start a new chapter. Stay tuned.

biscotti

Mine and my mother’s favorite cookie is the Almond Biscotti.  I have made at least a hundred batches of this cookie in my life.

Every time I baked a batch, I brought some to my mother to taste.  She always said, “Oh. These are delicious”.  She even said this for batches that weren’t so “delicious”.  It was no secret in my family that I was on a quest to bake the perfect biscotti.  It’s become a bit of an obsession I must admit.  This obsession was something that my mother and I shared as a team.  I baked them, she critiqued them and together we enjoyed them.  My cookies always came out good.  Yet, I always think that they could be better and bake another batch tweaking a recipe or using an entirely different recipe.  Over the years I’ve collected dozens of Biscotti recipes.

My mother, eager to taste every batch was loyal but a very biased critic.  God bless her.

Yesterday I made a fresh batch. I hadn’t baked Almond Biscotti since a month before she died.  I made this batch knowing I will not be able to bring her some and I am sent onto a new plane of grief.  I miss her so and baking biscotti makes me feel close to her.  I like to think that she’s in my kitchen with me.  Having a cup of tea and guiding me along.  I methodically take out the ingredients and start.

Eggs, flour, almonds, vanilla, baking powder, salt, light brown & granulated sugars, orange (for zest) and cinnamon.

Measuring.  Blending.  Kneading.  Baking.

Soon my house smells wonderful and I put on a caffetiere of espresso while I wait for the loaves to bake.

When the loaves turn a warm shade of brown and start to crack on the surface, I take them out to cool.  Once cooled, the loaves are sliced and the slices of biscotti are put back in oven for the “second” bake.   I pour myself a cup of espresso and read the sympathy cards that are piled on my kitchen table for the hundredth time.  I put them away.  I can’t believe she is not here.

I pour another cup of espresso and sampled a biscotti.  Indeed she would have said this batch was delicious.  In fact, she would have said that and really meant it.  They are my best batch yet.  She would have loved them.

I credit Susan at FoodBlogga for the worlds best Almond Biscotti recipe:

http://foodblogga.blogspot.com/2008/12/how-to-make-traditional-italian-almond.html

They are pleasantly crisp, not rock hard.  The flavor was a balance of fresh almonds and orange zest. The cookie to almond ratio is perfection.   After eating a second and third, I declared, Yep.  These are the best Almond Biscotti that I have ever made.  And then I broke down and cried.

out and about

Today we brought the girls to the Museum of Science.  Because the company where I am employed is a partner, 2 adults had free admission.  We only had to pay for 1 child ticket.  Hows that for economical.  We spent the morning viewing exhibits and had lunch.  Marisa loved it.  Here are some pictures of my girls.

Copley

When I was on maternity leave with my eldest, Marisa, I saw my mother almost everyday.  She would baby sit for me every morning so that I could go for a run, or to the Dr., or to simply take a shower.  Then I would go to her house and we would go out.  Me, her and Marisa.  We usually went to the mall to window shop and grab lunch.  On the last week of my leave, as a token my appreciation for baby sitting every morning, I took her her favorite mall, the Copley.  We browsed her favorite stores; Gucci and Neiman Marcus.  Then we had a foo-foo lunch at Legal Seafood.  Years later, she still talked about how much fun she had when I was home on leave with Marisa and what a wonderful time she had at the Copley. 

This past fall, when I was on maternity leave with Christina, things were  different.  My mother was into her 4th round of chemo.  She was too tired to watch the baby and was not well enough to go to the mall.  Rather, Christina and I visited her often and we’d watch TV and talk.  Eventhough we weren’t as extravagant this time around, we did have a nice lunch in my mother’s kitchen with a few of her close friends before I went to back to work.  I know that she probably would have like to have gone back to the Copley but she knew she didn’t have the energy to do so.

Sometimes when we were alone, she’d say to me  “I wish I was better”

“me too.”

updated pictures

Here are some updated photos of my cuties.

detox

I feel like I have been thrown into a rehab and forced to detox.  I went from talking to mom 3 times a day to going cold turkey.  I am truly going threw withdrawls.  I pick up the phone and then put it back down.  I dial her number and talk to my dad.  I keep thinking that she’ll be home in a few days and then I remeber that she’s gone.

irony

Life is full of irony.

I buried my mother and christened my baby girl in the same weekend.  At the same church.  By the same priest.  With being consumed by my mother’s illness and then her wake and funeral, Christina’s baptism fell off my radar.  I contemplated postponing it, but my dad said that he needed a happy occasion.  In hind-sight it turned out to the best decision.  The flowers from my mother’s funeral were still in the church located in front of the altar.  My mother’s name was in the weekly church bulletin under recent deaths.  Also in the bulletin is my daughter’s name where newly baptized children are listed.  Irony.

Even though that she could not be there in body, I truly believe that she was there in spirit.  In her last days she was bed ridden, so had she still been alive, I know that she would not have been able to come.  This was the only way she could be there.

The closing prayer was the ‘Mother’s Prayer.’  My emotions are raw and just on the fringe.  I could not get through the prayer without weeping.  The one person that taught all about being a mother is gone from my life.  I miss her so very much.

my mother

My mother passed away on Feb 10, at 10pm.  She died peacefully and was surrounded by family and friends.  I will miss her so.

Over the last few days I’ve cried more than I ever have in my life and when I thought I couldn’t possibly cry anymore, I would find myself in a heap or tears.

I can’t believe that I will never see her again or hear her voice.  I can’t believe that my Dad is alone.  I’m so sad that my sisters and I lost our best friend and confidant.  I will miss her smile and her laugh.

In my heart, I know that she is a better place where she no longer suffers.  I just wish I had more time with her.

espresso

If you come to my house you’ll notice that I keep my espresso caffetiere either on my stove top, on the counter near my stove or drying in the dish rack.  Like many Italians, I am always prepared to make espresso at any moment. On the days that I want to de-clutter, I’ll assemble it and put it in the cabinet closest to the stove but I admit, I don’t ‘de-clutter’ often.

Growing up in an Italian (Sicilian) household, there are a few traditions that are just expected to be carried forward generation to generation.  1. The door is always open for family, friends and neighbors.  2.  Food is love. e.g. it is completely disrespectful to refuse any meal or snack offered to you by an elder.  3. There is always time to make and share an espresso.

The whole ritual of making espresso in a caffetiere is an art form and something that I was always fascinated with.  What could be better then fresh brewed espresso? Why, just the mere smell of the rich coffee sends me back to my childhood.

Since my mother’s illness has rendered her bed-ridden, her house has been full of guests and visitors all day, every day.  My mother does have a lovely group of friends who love her so.  They always arrive with enough food to feed an army.  Sandwiches, cold cuts, soups, sweets and bread. They arrive with their arms full of grocery bags and they commandeer my mother’s kitchen laying out an impressive spread of food and drinks.  One of her friends will go in the fridge and get the olives, bitters and mineral water while another unscrews the caffetiere and prepares the espresso.  She knows where everything is.  The caffetiere, the ground espresso, the demi-tasse cups and saucers and the little spoons.  She knows this because it’s exactly where she keeps these items in her own kitchen.  Send an Italian woman in another Italian woman’s kitchen and she’ll still be able to make espresso blind-folded.

Today I spent the day at my mother’s house.  During the week while I’m at work, my sisters handle a lion’s share of the care-giving.  I was happy to sit beside my mom and spend some time alone with her.  Although, one is truly never alone in an Italian household.  Throughout the day, my mother’s friends popped in and out, usually with yet more food.  Then my sisters arrive later with Sunday dinner.  Meat sauce. A meal is shared along with stories and gossip.  As the dishes are being washed, the sound of steam emitting from the caffetiere is heard.  By nightfall, the house is full of family and a steady collection of my mother’s closest friends. I am comforted to be surrounded by the many who love my mother and the smell of espresso.