sunday scribblings: in the kitchen
Prompt #52: In the Kitchen
My childhood home had a front door, but only strangers ever used it.
To get into our house, it was common knowledge that you should come up the alley to the backyard, lift up the latch on the gate (which rubbed in such a way so as to announce your presence), walk up the mostly unbroken cement path (avoiding jumps of a hyper dog of which there was always at least one), clank up the seven metal steps onto the wooden porch (color changed from brick red to deep green to spring green to medium grey to light grey, repeat), and let yourself in the back door.
And there, in the kitchen, you’d find my grandmother. At the stove, at the sink, or at the table doing crosswords, plastic canvas, or some other craft, watching the Phillies, or, depending on the time of day, napping, her head propped up by her hand as if she was simply bored with your arrival.
You’d be greeted with dark wood everywhere, and, for quite some time, avocado green appliances; they were all the rage in the early 70’s you know. But it certainly wasn’t the decor that would keep your attention.
You’d be assaulted by the smells of coffee and cigarettes, and, if you were lucky, delicious wafts of something fresh off the stove or out of the oven. You’d do your best to speak over the television blaring in the background with either Harry Kalas or Emeril imparting baseball or cooking wisdom (respectively); her dedication to them was unfailing.
You’d be ordered to sit down and drink and eat (and eat and eat), and you would do so with pleasure. You’d probably sit in that very spot for hours talking about something or another, and why don’t you have another piece of cake? You look too thin!
In the kitchen was *the* place to be in our house, and, in fact, my grandmother spent all day, every day there in her sturdy wooden chair, resisting all invitations to the more comfortable spots in the living room. It was, quite simply, her place. Many a guest, family and friends, passed through that back door to find my grandmother in the kitchen waiting to entertain; Christmas or just an ordinary day, it was business as usual in the kitchen.
Only the volume of food changed.
I miss that kitchen terribly. So many memories, so much laughter, so much love, many ear-splitting arguments as well, but always life. Anyone who has ever been in it would tell you that.
I’ll never forget the first time I walked through the back door and into the kitchen after my grandmother’s death. It was dark and silent and disappointing, and so literally, unbearably empty.
And I remember thinking that next time, I really should go around and use the front door.
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[tags]sunday scribblings, kitchens, grandmothers’ kitchens, grandmothers[/tags]
a different kind of malocchio
I’ve written about the curse of malocchio, but yesterday at 4 a.m., I experienced a much different kind of “bad eye.” I woke up with a literal one that was tearing, burning, itching, and just being a big ole pain.
Needless to say, I couldn’t fall back asleep–did you notice that I posted at 5:30 a.m. yesterday? Yeah, you probably won’t be seeing that again unless the eye strikes back.
So after posting, I woke up P for work. He asked if I wanted to go down the mountain to the doctor. Nah, I said, we’ll see how it progresses.
I don’t like the doctor, but I really hate going here, where it can take hours of sitting among a bunch of sickies before I’m seen only to get news that I could’ve gotten at the pharmacy, where the pharmacist diagnoses you and sells you whatever he thinks you need. No thanks.
A few minutes after P left for work, he returned and told me that he had two different volunteers in the piazza that would take me to the doctor if I wanted. Again, no. Let’s just wait and see, I said.
So once I was sure the pharmacist had arrived in the village, I ventured out for some medical advice; he usually rolls in around 9:30, but to be safe I waited until 10. And wouldn’t you know? A line of people.
I, of course, kept my sunglasses on, so I got even more stares than I normally would, as oddly enough, young people don’t often hang out in the pharmacy in a village where the average age is somewhere around 65. After a few minutes and a gasp from the pharmacist at how bad my eye looked, I got some drops (the famous collirio for fellow expats) and was on my way.
And then more fun began.
First I ran into P’s sister-in-law who diagnosed me as having pink eye, which I had thought was a possibility as well, but she seemed particularly concerned because “My how your face is swollen! You look terrible!”
Then the clerk in the tobacco shop (needed to get tissues) seconded that emotion, and told me (in a speech that lasted no less than 15 minutes) that her two daughters had just gotten over pink eye.
Alrighty then. Moving on the grocery store, which is about a ten second walk down the street.
On the way, I was stopped by three different elderly women asking about my eye. I was wearing sunglasses, by the way, so they hadn’t actually seen a problem, but the word had clearly gotten out.
And then inside the grocery store, the clerk also diagnosed me with pink eye, although another customer thought I had just gotten something in it, like a mosquito, he said. I hadn’t thought of the mosquito angle, so I thanked him for his ingenuity.
The morning was rounded out by a phone call from P’s mom (who doesn’t live in the village, but rather down the mountain) asking me if I wanted to go to the doctor. Again, I resisted the invitation, and I didn’t even think it was strange that she knew I had an eye issue.
Instead, I squeezed some drops into my eye, causing ridiculous burning for a few seconds and finally some relief, and then called the school to tell them I wouldn’t be teaching today. They, incidentally, hadn’t heard of the Great Eye Debacle yet, so it was good I called.
More drops and many cold compresses later, the eye was mostly back to normal by yesterday evening–much to the relief of the village, which sent some representative questioners this morning when I took Luna for a walk.
As for the eye, I’m not sure if it was a quickly traveling virus or even, say, a mosquito, but it seems to have passed, and I am left with only photographic reminders of all the annoyance. Because of the horrible pain, I was up for the sunrise yesterday, and that didn’t turn out to be a bad consolation prize.*
Unfortunately the weather turned cloudy and rainy soon thereafter, but you wouldn’t know it from the way the day started.
This from the balcony:
And this from my kitchen window as the sun traveled through the sky:
*Excuse the crookedness factor please. I was only working with one good eye, you know, and even that wasn’t so good since I didn’t have my contacts in. I’m virtually blind with uncorrected vision.
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[tags]eye problems, sunrises, calabria, life in calabria[/tags]
Love Thursday: Flowers Dried with Love
I’ve read that it’s bad luck to have dried flowers hanging around the house because they are a symbol of death–although that idea seems to be eroding a bit, proving that even ancient Chinese philosophies can be guilty of old wives’ tales.
Maybe I’m taking a risk, but I love flowers in any form, and I don’t see any reason why you can’t still enjoy them for what they have become.
Overlooking my house’s only staircase is this wrought iron structure. I started hanging bunches of flowers on it about three years ago, although there still aren’t very many bouquets. This is because most of the flowers I receive, buy, or pick can’t be dried as they’re too fragile, but see those yellow ones? Those were my very first International Women’s Day mimosa.
And although it’d be romantic to say that the big bunch of roses in the upper right corner were from P to mark some special occasion, it’d also be a lie. P’s more of a pick-flowers-on-the-go kind of guy, which suits me just fine–I don’t do well with fresh roses as I’m slightly allergic (my mom is full allergic). Plus I’m more of a wildflowers kind of gal anyway.
The roses you see were actually found in a rubbish bin near one of this village’s thirteen churches. Only one of the churches still operates regularly, but for every church, there is at least one woman who opens it up weekly, cleans it, and puts in fresh flowers, candles, prayer cards, etc.
When I saw those roses, still mostly alive although admittedly past their prime, outside one of the smallest and best hidden churches, I marveled at how much care goes into beautifying something that only one other Being sees–that one other Being being the whole point of having the church.
And the little bouquet of red in the middle? In this village, we have many immigrants from Africa and Colombia as well as Kurds from Turkey and Iraq. Just after I arrived came Helen, a nine-year-old Ethiopian girl who had come here with all the men in her family; at that time, there were no other immigrant girls or women (although now there are, as many have rejoined their families).
Both of us hungry for some female companionship, we forged a friendship, taking walks, picking wildflowers, drawing (I keep a stash of colored pencils for children guests, well, and me), and learning Italian together–she much faster than I. One day when I answered a knock at my door, I opened to only fresh air. Then I looked down and saw a small bunch of roses lying on the doorstep. From the corner of my eye, I noticed Helen’s head popping back behind the corner.
When I was thinking of a Love Thursday post, I thought of these dried flowers and how even though some may simply think of them as dead and ready for the rubbish bin, I keep them as reminders of times past–good and bad, but mostly good.
Either way, every bunch has a story.
Only as I was taking this photo did I realize that there happens to be a big heart in the middle of the iron structure, so maybe (hopefully) even under Feng Shui principles, that counteracts the death vibes.
Yes, of course I had noticed the heart there before, but you know how sometimes things around you become so commonplace that you don’t appreciate their uniqueness anymore?
Guilty.
But I like to think I’m getting better.
Happy Love Thursday everyone!
What’s Cooking Wednesday: Louise’s Banana Cake (Moistest Banana Cake Ever)
Since March has again turned colder and since I just happened to have some overripe bananas laying around, I decided to do some baking yesterday.
Wait, are you suggesting that I purposely didn’t eat those bananas the past few days just so I could make Louise’s Banana Cake?
Oh, dear blog readers, you know me too well.
So, as mentioned, this week’s What’s Cooking Wednesday is Louise’s Banana Cake. Perhaps you remember that my mom’s name is Mary, and my grandmother was Paulina/Pauline; if so, maybe you’re wondering who this Louise character is.
Louise was my grandmother’s neighbor and “good buddy,” as she always said, whose family surely has no idea that her legacy lives on in my family in the form of an old, tattered recipe.
Louise's Banana Cake Original Recipe
Yes, it’s that good. In fact, it’s my second favorite cake of all time, after only the chocolate one I shared with you last month.
When writing this post, I remembered that I actually have some old family photos in an album here, and lo and behold, there is one of my grandmother (left) and Louise lounging about in what was at the time our half of the backyard; my family now has the whole thing (without the dividing fence) because after the whole row of houses burned down in 1971–stopping at our house–Louise’s family chose not to rebuild on the same spot; my grandparents bought the entire lot and built the house that I and my brother grew up in and where my father now lives. Check out that car in the background y’all!
My grandmother and Louise of Banana Cake fame in our backyard
Ahem, right. The recipe.
It’s for an ordinary 13 x 9 pan, but this time I made muffins and a loaf (looks like bread but tastes like cake!).
My mom does a fabulous thing with this cake for special occasions–makes a whipped cream icing (recipe also below) and then does a layer cake, putting the whipped cream and fresh banana slices in the middle and then whipped cream, banana slices, and maraschino cherries on top with a sprinkling of walnut shavings. Yum!
For those of you in Italy, you can safely make the following substitutions: (1) 225 grams of butter instead of shortening; and (2) one teaspoon of “lievito vaniglinato per dolci” in place of the baking powder and vanilla extract.
Louise’s Banana Cake
Banana cupcake waiting for its espresso
1 c mashed bananas (2 medium, overripe)
1 1/2 c sugar
1 c vegetable shortening
3 eggs
3 c flour
1 tsp salt
1 tsp baking powder
1 1/2 tsp baking soda
1/2 c sour milk (add 2 tbsp of lemon juice or vinegar to sour it)
1 1/2 tsp vanilla
1 c chopped nuts (optional)
1. Mash bananas and set aside.
2. Mix together sugar and shortening, and then add eggs and beat until pale yellow.
3. Mix together the dry ingredients, and then add them to the sugar/shortening mixture, alternating with sour milk and vanilla. Batter will be thick.
4. Add bananas and the nuts if you’re using them, and beat until blended.
5. Pour or spoon into your baking vessel of choice and bake at 325°F (162°C). If baking a 13 x9 cake, it should take about 45 minutes, but check progress after a half hour or so. Muffins and loaf pans will take less time, so remove when the tops springs back from the touch and/or when a toothpick inserted in the center comes out clean.
Whipped Cream Icing
1 pint heavy whipping cream
1/4 c sugar
1 tsp vanilla
Whip (on high speed) until stiff peaks form.
Banana cupcake: Nom nom nom
Buon appetito!
ode to march
For my second Monthly Musings, it’s time to tackle big bad March.
I had originally planned on posting each Musing on the first of the month. Yes, I know March is nearly over, but since I made up this meme only for me, I can make up the rules as I go along too. Kinda like Calvinball, for those of you who remember my fascination with a little boy and his tiger.
Anyhoo, I’m most definitely not a poet, but this time, I decided on a haiku–thanks for the inspiration Bella and Guinness Girl!
Maybe I’ll do this for all the months now.
Or maybe I’ll change my mind come April.
I love power.
Me and My March
Flippant, fickle month
Warm, cold, wild, calm, cruel, and kind
My kindred spirit.
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[tags]march, poppies, flowers, haiku, poetry[/tags]
Michelle Kaminsky is an American attorney-turned-freelance writer who lived in her family's ancestral village in Calabria, Italy for 15 years. This blog is now archived.
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