My Italian Aunt

My body shakes violently as it erupts unexpectedly.  The tears dribble down my cheeks, my vision blurred by emotion.   She is among the last of my living relatives, my parents’ generation. Her simple invitation to stop by any time to visit literally makes my heart hurt.  It is the grip felt by a grateful heart.  The heart of a little girl who couldn’t wait to see her aunt, her tall, strikingly Italian aunt with dark eyes framed by short dark hair.  Often with a baby on her hip, Aunt Rita twirled around the kitchen with an incomparable energy, offering of a tray of home baked goodies with tea, coffee or lemonade. 

Every few years, her family settled in a new home and there were always a lot of kids, my cousins.  This contrasted the constancy of my life where I lived in the same house, as the youngest child for the longest time, with much older siblings. After hours of adults visiting and children (that included me) hiding or seeking, rolling down a hill or swinging on tree branch, we left with hugs, kisses and gifts. Aunt Rita always had a huge weed-less garden brimming with fresh produce.  We would slowly amble to our car, our arms balancing sacks filled with cucumbers, abundant green leafy swiss chard and  “what in the world to I do with all this zucchini’” zucchini.  When we didn’t leave with produce, we left with homemade cinnamon swirl bread.  The drive home was punctuated by my incessant queries, “When are we going to visit again?” and secret thoughts, considering a long-term life with kids, babies and an Italian aunt.

Long gone are the gardens.  I haven’t seen Aunt Rita for a long time and I only see one of my cousins, infrequently.  How does family drift, like we have? How is it that I must now put on my adult, grown-up persona?  All I want is an afternoon in my canvas sneakers and my side-zipped peddle pushers, my mother gripping the steering wheel, my brother and me sitting in the front bench seat, my hands over   squinting eyes while I try to block the glare of the sun, my sisters  scrambling in the expansive back of our white ‘67 Impala, while we all sing melody, as we go visit Aunt Rita again.

The Ordinary

 Quite impulsively, I tore the wrapper and the inner foil lining, snapped a few rectangular pieces of chocolate and casually, but expertly aimed for my mouth. Once I began chewing, my tongue and the roof of my mouth was assaulted by pop rock candies that had nowhere to go, but to bounce up and down and crackle inside my mouth. This, a product of Israel, certified by a rabbi as Kosher, satisfied my cravings.  Those cravings that I must have had, but never acknowledged before I savagely attacked the bar in the first place. In five minutes flat, I devoured two servings, while actively discounting the events of my day as unworthy subjects for writing.

Tonight my son and I were talking over dinner about E.B. White and his brilliance.  White was able to translate his life on his homestead in Brooklin, Maine into something pretty extraordinary as he wrote.  Ordinarily, a city dweller, E.B. viewed his country life with fresh eyes. Everything was new and exciting.

Thinking about my day, those I came in contact with and their unique perspectives of our world helped me to view my life with gratitude.  Early this morning, a former student skipped down the hall, stopped her motion abruptly and asked, “When are you going to read with me again?” The first grader who asked to have extra work packed in his bag for the weekend is not afraid of risks and hard work.  His face must ache from all the smiling.  He is so happy to be reading.

Everyday can be new and exciting whether you are a famous author, a young reader or middle-aged female teacher who is a reader and writer.  We are in charge of how we spend our time and how we view the world.  We wonder and we write so as not to forget the extraordinary nature of the ordinary.

Loss and Unconditional Love

He anticipates my leaving

Eyes sad

And I wonder

If I should,

Stay

My heart

Aches

As I

Open the

Creaking door

And slip

Out,

Never unnoticed

I race back

Knowing

What love

I

Have

Missed,

While away

Yet he

Pardons

For the hours

Spent,

Alone

He looks

At me

In a full

Tilt of

Happy

Together,

Once again

The

Tail

Tells

It all.

Risks

“More than half will not survive to maturity,” the woman behind the counter stated evenly.  This was something that I had not considered or a reality I chose not to remember.  My husband and I were not novice chicken owners.   We had done it before.  Less than a decade ago meant a spring visit to the “Seed and Feed” for a half dozen chicks to round out our flock.  Now, I was just at the ordering stage.  I wasn’t supposed to consider death so early in the process, was I?

It seems that all the latest magazine issues that passed through my hands like Mary Jane Farm, Martha Stewart Living, and Mother Earth News had articles about chicks, chickens and their care. Devouring each, reinforced my resolution to become a bit more self-sufficient and led me to inquire about ordering chicks.  Sweet little fluffy balls with feet and beaks and doting buff colored adult hens were modeled inside the pages, glossy and perfect.  None reminded the novice of the pitfalls or heartache of ownership.  The only image that I have held in my mind is the energy those young ones possess and the loud chorus of chirps, almost deafening at times as we set the brood in a tall box for comfort and safety. We all gather and watch.  If you sit long enough you can watch them grow and change.  The anticipation and excitement of new life in the house quickens my breath and yet, the unknown fate of the birds is a reality and leaves an inkling of dread.

Yet, there is not much in this life that does not come with risks.   Mutual reliance is a basic condition that accompanies poultry ownership and outweighs the possibility of heartache.

Joyful Cooking

Mindfulness comes naturally for me in the kitchen.  It hasn’t always been that way, but with decades of cooking experience, I can relax and enjoy the experience and process.  My cooking in earnest began as a young teenager.  My working mother would leave the recipe and the ingredients handy and I would prepare supper for my family.  With a little confidence, I began scouring cookbooks and my mother’s recipe card files.  I began baking bread, desserts, and other dishes beyond the ordinary meat and potatoes.  It was great fun to experiment and my mother gave me free rein of the kitchen.

Side by side, I cooked with my mother, my grandmother and my great aunt since I was a little one. It was those early experiences and the trust my mother had in my abilities that set the course for a lifetime of joy in the kitchen. 

Tonight feeling the weight of my favorite knife in my left hand and taking note of the uniformity of the bits of onion actually made me smile.  Slices of green and red pepper were added to the mix along with crushed garlic, sea salt, and gingered grated carrots.  What a colorful mix.  Another smile. Tapping the egg cradled in the palm of my hand along the edge of a large soup cup, my thumbs broke through the shell and the egg released in a plop. In went a splash of homemade kefir. torn multi-grain bread pieces, some fresh parmesan,  a slurp of ketchup, and a little soy mixed all together with ground beef.  Meat loaf.  A simple dish from my youth, remade with much joy and intention.  The meat mixture pressed into the cast iron enamel baking dish is a symphony of texture, color and flavor and a testimony that even the simplest of culinary dishes can bring much pleasure and joy.

My love of cooking has bound me to my grandfather, a man I never knew.  This man was a gifted chef.  Even as a young girl in the kitchen, I would somehow attribute my culinary success with genetics.  When my son began working in restaurants and eventually became a chef, my mother often reminded me that, “He got his talent and passion for cooking from his great-grandfather.”  This all may or may not be true. What I know to be true is, that the act of creating nourishment for those you love, helps create bonds in the kitchen and around the dining room table.  Something that is hard to duplicate anywhere else.  No wonder I am a joyful cook.

Today's Lesson

Although I try my best to live each day in gratitude, there remain some days, only a few days that leave you just scratching your head in wonder.  Today was one of those days.  I spent most of the day in bed trying to ward off the aches, pains and nausea that settled in my body. My puppy Rex, tail in a constant motion of happy lay by my side as did a myriad of cats in various stages of grooming or recline. Although I was the only human in the house, I felt loved unconditionally with my swarm of pets around.   I received three letters in the mail, cuddled with my adult daughter while she told of her passion for her work caring for the elderly. In the latter part of the afternoon  I sipped my favorite Yerba Matte Latte.  Then there was the moment that I discovered I misplaced my keys. The quiet focus on feeling well quickly wound into a spiral of, “ Where are they?  How will I get to work in the morning?”  I held the image of Toyota on tow truck making the fifty-mile jaunt to Down East Toyota for a special key with a microchip deeply implanted in the black plastic key handle.  “That will be two hundred and eighty dollars, Mrs. Keene.”

The afternoon was a dance of sleep and leaping out of bed sure that a 10^th search through my jacket pocket or the 18^th rifling through my purse would result in a find.  Broom handle pushing the dust bunnies, shoes, socks and wrappers from the dusty darkness normally found under my bed unearthed nothing but a pile that I pushed to the side while I continued my quest.  When I lose something, all I have room for in my mind is mapping out a plan to find the missing object.  Rest does not come easily. The tension is felt throughout the house.  It is no fun for anyone. 

Into the darkness of night, armed with a flashlight I searched corners, drawers deep with underwear and socks and I even looked in the refrigerator.  I prayed continuously through the day for calm and a resolution to this mystery.  I prayed for acceptance.  Finally, I prayed to my patron saint, St. Jude.  I felt foolish praying for such a trivial request, my keys, but as I prayed I imagined my mother mouthing the same words fervently begging for assistance with something far greater than keys.  As I prayed, I felt a connection with my mother.  You see, my mother prayed to St. Jude when I was born.  Being a few pounds meant that the chances of my survival were slim.  My mother turned to her faith. 

After prayer, I found the keys.  They slid between the passenger’s seat and the door.  With keys in hand, the tears came freely.  Not because I found my keys, but I imagined the intensity of despair in my mother’s wait following my birth.  Her prayer and the fact that she carried a little card with the prayer to St. Jude in her purse, is a testament to her love for me and the power of faith, for we are never alone in our despair, no matter how great or small.

Opportunities

I am not a morning person. Seldom do I hop out of bed ready for the day, unless I am catching a plane or one of my kids are sick or something.  I am a, “Just 5 more minutes, pleeease, oh pleeeease!” I often implore my husband who tends to bolt out of bed, awake and ready. 

During this sacred time of the nineteen day fast, the alarm sounds in the darkness of the early morn.  When I was growing up, my family abided by the laws of lent.  No meat on Friday and before the first day of lent you would make a promise to give something up like candy or something as a spiritual sacrifice.  I was never much good at that.  Maybe I was too young, too immature.  But as an adult, I recognize the potency of this time and opportunity for renewal. 

My biggest struggle is to rise in darkness.  I like the light.  The shades are open to allow the sunshine to find its’ way in and kiss me awake in light and warmth.  This morning, my alarm was set across the bedroom, so when it sounded I bound toward it in one leap to turn it off.  The annoyance of the alarm’s tone tends to arouse and I shuffled toward the kitchen for wake-up coffee.   During the fast, all food and drink must be consumed before sunrise.  The night before, I plan my strategy of attack.  How do I get the most sleep in and eat and drink before sunrise?  This morning, I had the cold quart of milk kefir, the mix of whole grain cereals, banana, bowls and spoons all lined up for quick assembly while the water boiled for the French press. This strategy allowed a twenty-five minute period to pass from the time I shut off the alarm to when I sipped the last of the coffee.  I admit, my description is not very spiritual at this point, but as the nineteen days progress, I become keenly aware of the seasonal changes and expansive nature of light.  It also helps to remind me how grateful I am to ordinarily have a full belly and plenty of fresh food and water, while others are without.  That is their daily existence. 

The sacrifice of sleep expands my day of prayer and reflection. With my husband by my side following breakfast this morning and bird song in the background, we carefully selected prayer and sat in silent meditation. 

It is now lunch hour.  I will not eat again until sunset. Instead I will pray when ordinarily I would mindlessly be eating.  Some days are easier to get through than others, but I am ready for the wisdom and guidance that comes with slowing down, living more mindfully, spiritually and taking note of the many bounties I have in my life-grateful that I have an opportunity to grow and affect a change in my world.  A change for the better in my thoughts, words and deeds.