Archive for the ‘family’ Category
Birthday Post Fall-Out (Plus Mention of a Wedding)
That last part got your attention, didn’t it?
Well, we’ll get there eventually, but you have to hang with me a bit.
The other day I posted about my mom for her birthday. I didn’t even tell her that I had posted it because she can only read the blog from my brother’s house occasionally, *and* she’s in the process of moving, so I figured I would wait until things settled down a bit to let her know.
And then I got this email this morning:
*****
Dear Aunt Shell,
Nana says thanks for the blog. I feel the same way about that song. You made Nana cry, but you knew I would. I am almost moved into the apartment the fellow that bought kitty’s stuff moved the furniture to my apartment today. My phone is disconnected and so is my tv- at the house everything is hooked up at the apartment. I am working night shift. I call you tomorrow. Michael typed this for me. We both send our love.
Love Mom, Michael
your favorite nephew Mia is out of the picture.
She’s still in school.
*****
OK, so it’s a little confusing with the shifting point of view, but Nana is my mom, of course, and I’m guessing she’s the one that feels the same about the song (I doubt my 10-year-old nephew is big into Bette–no snide comments!) and also was the one I knew I would make cry (true). Kitty is my mom’s mother-like figure who has recently moved to a care facility, and for some reason my nephew refers to my niece as a nephew (wouldn’t be a problem in Italy since “nipote” covers everyone, even grandchildren!).
That last one may be partly explained by the next email I received–from my niece (who, thank goodness is not literally “out of the picture”).
*****
Dear Aunt shell. Michael said he is your favorite niece. I don’t believe him. I sent you a post card when we went to Disney at Epcot. We might go to Italy to see you get married.
Love,
Mia
*****
Whoa Nelly!Aside from the utter cuteness of my niece and nephew, let’s go back and make some sense of all this.
My brother and his family recently went to Disney World on their first real family trip; everyone had such a blast, so it was casually mentioned that perhaps the next trip it to Italy. So I casually mentioned, well, hey, if everyone will be here, P and I could get married while you’re here.
Going back further. P asked me to marry him, oh, on about the second day we knew each other. So it’s always just kind of been there. Besides, the whole engagement process in Italy isn’t like it is in the States–here it doesn’t even really exist.
About the big day, though, neither of us are religious or want a big to-do, so a church wedding/typical southern Italian 500 guest extravaganza simply isn’t happening. We’re in no rush anyway since we already live together, and well, someday, when everything’s right, the stars align and whatnot, it’ll happen. I’m not concerned, and neither is P.
But when I heard that my family might be planning a trip, I thought, hey, why not?
Even better is that when I told P my family was talking about visiting, *he* suggested getting married while they’re here. So nice when we’re on the same page.
And I then received another email from my nephew which included the following:
*****
. . . Mom said on the way home [from Disney] next vacation is to Italy. Then I asked are we going to stay at Aunt Shells she said yes.
*****
Sounds serious, huh?
So, cara famiglia, the pressure is on.
Blog friends, feel free to leave comments hassling encouraging them to make reservations so P can make an honest woman of me. Only if you feel so inclined, of course.
Oh, and Happy Labour Day/May Day to those celebrating–why yes, it’s another holiday in Italy! Normally around here people go up into the mountains, but as P put it, we’re already in the hills. Hah! That’s Italian humor in case you didn’t catch it.
We will be having a lovely late lunch of Florentine steaks on the grill, baked potatoes, spinach, corn, salad, and (I’m guessing) lots of wine.
And, if you’re wondering, yes, I will also celebrate America’s Labor Day in September–being an expat has many hidden advantages.
Happy Birthday Mom!
Prompt #57: Wings
Cheesy as it sounds, the first thing that came to my mind when I read this prompt was Bette Midler’s song, Wind Beneath My Wings. And my next thought was of my mom, because, well, that’s what she is to me, and that song always brings tears to my eyes because it makes me think of her. Doesn’t hurt that today just happens to be her birthday as well.
My mom is truly my best friend, *the* one I turn to in times of happiness, sadness, and every emotion in between, and she has always, always, always been there for me. She’s never disappointed me. Not once. Ever.
Is she a saint? Well, sometimes I think so, but as far as I know, she hasn’t performed any miracles. Well, other than managing to remain a kind, loving person after what one could only euphemistically call a rough childhood.
But that’s her story, and certainly not mine to tell here.
What I can tell is my story, or rather ours from my perspective. How I became best friends with my mom through weekend and once a week visits. How she sacrificed custody of my brother and me when she left my father because she knew that’s what was best for us. We had already been growing up in a house with my father’s family; she saw no need to pull us from the stability. Besides, she was working the 3-11 shift at a hospital a half hour away–not the easiest hours to maintain when you have a 2 and 8 year old.
Of course I didn’t know any of this until many, many years later. But oh, how I appreciate it now. I marvel at the strength it must have taken to do something so unselfish, and I only hope I’ve inherited and/or learned half of what she’s exhibited.
And so, during my formative years, we got the best of the mother-daughter relationship (shopping, intimate chats, watching stand-up comedy into the wee hours of the morning on HBO, trying all the new restaurants) without all the daily annoyances (curfews, how much time we hogged the bathroom, begging permission to do things). Who woulda thought I would’ve ended up with such an idyllic childhood after my parents divorced when I was so young?
Now a lot of the goodwill that sprung up between us came because my mom let me be my own person, within boundaries of course. Controlling and domineering, she’s not, but she’s not a complete pushover either (although even she would admit to being more of the latter when it comes to her kids).
One of the stories she loves to tell, and that I have come to admire, is that I was always allowed to pick out my clothes–from the choice of a few pre-selected outfits. That way, she reasoned, I had the feeling that I was in control and making my own choices but at the same time didn’t leave the house in horribly mismatched, embarrassing outfits. Genius!
And that’s why I love my mom. She guides without pushing. She listens without judging. She loves with all her heart without taking.
And sometimes I think she’s more than the wind beneath my wings–she just may be my wings themselves.
Happy Birthday Mom.
And thank you. For everything.
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.
————–
[tags]sunday scribblings, kitchens, grandmothers’ kitchens, grandmothers[/tags]
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!
sunday scribblings: superstitions
Prompt #49: Superstitions
Superstitions–a topic close to my heart having grown up with an Italian-American grandmother and now living in southern Italy, where Roman Catholicism and mysticism live in surprising perfect harmony.
That phenomenon is worth a whole post, and indeed books have been written on the subject. Perhaps someday I’ll wax theoretical, but for today, let’s stick in the here and now, the daily implications of superstition in my life.
I’ve already written about my experiences with malocchio, The Evil Eye, perhaps the greatest superstition of all, especially since it crosses many cultures and religions. Some of my other favorite superstitions are things you should avoid doing lest you invite bad luck: placing a loaf of bread upside down, spilling wine, olive oil, or salt, dropping scissors.
Another of my favorites is that a pregnant woman’s cravings should always be satisfied or else the baby will be born with a birthmark in the form of the desired food or the child will be generally disfigured. You scoff?
I inherited a birthmark that my father has because my pregnant grandmother expressed her craving for chicken while scratching her legs. Yes, we both have chicken-shaped birthmarks on our calves (although I prefer to think it looks more like a heart). Someday I may show you, but sorry, today’s not the day.
All of my pregnant readers are more than welcome to quote me on this topic, by the way.
But my freakiest experience with southern Italian superstition happened about a year ago when P’s mom rushed into the house with tears in her eyes, begging me to go and retrieve some of her jewelry she had given me a few months before.
“What happened?” I asked.
“I had a dream.” I’m pretty sure she thought that would be enough information, but, you know, I’m American, so I ask questions.
“About the jewelry?” I was still not making a move for the steps to get the jewelry, so she gently guided me with her hands.
“No, about you and my son, and….” She sat down, started rocking back and forth, made repeated, furious signs of the cross, and began mumbling what I assume were prayers.
“What happened in the dream?” I stepped down two steps and stopped.
“I didn’t sleep all night,” she said, and continued saying prayers and crying. I didn’t see the conversation going any further, so I didn’t push it. I assumed that P and I had been dead in the dream–because if we had just broken up in the dream, that wouldn’t have been so upsetting? Right? Hard to tell. I went to get the jewelry.
“This is everything?” she asked as I handed her a few little boxes that contained earrings and a necklace I rather liked–it had a tiny ladybug charm, which, ironically, I always thought meant good luck.
“Yes, that’s everything. Do you want something to…”
“OK, I have to go,” she said abruptly and left, still saying prayers and still crying, but most importantly clutching the jewelry.
So I was left in the wake of this early morning encounter to consider not only my own and P’s mortality, but also what the jewelry had to do with any of it. Through various research including thinking back to my own grandmother but *not* including asking P’s mom, because this is a subject not to be discussed, I think maybe I’ve figured it out.
Among southern Italians, it’s a common practice that when one prays to a particular saint or the Virgin Mary for a request, one often promises something in return–many times it is a piece of jewelry to be pinned to the clothes of a statue.
I’m wondering if perhaps P’s mom had promised my pieces of jewelry somewhere along the way for some request, and then saw something bad happening in her dream because she gave them to me instead. Or perhaps she had simply promised away that jewelry in lieu of P and I staying alive and/or together. Or maybe she had seen something in the dream about the jewelry somehow causing trouble.
Like I said, I haven’t asked, because, truth be told, I don’t actually want to know the whole story. I’m definitely superstitious, and I believe in messages coming through dreams, so this was one time I was more than happy to live in blissful ignorance.
In fact, I didn’t even tell my own mom about this until I figured P and I were in the clear. Like birthmarks, superstitions seem to run in the family.
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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