as promised...

I read somewhere that all children mythologize their birth. I don’t believe this to be true in all cases, I rather think I’ve met some folks who, now down and out, think of that time as an inconvenience to their parents and a disappointment to others. I find it hard to relate things that I’ve only heard and not seen, or seen but didn’t remember, then heard at family gatherings time and time again, each time etched more immortally within my own personal story. I definitely have an issue of it and if I ever write my story, how much of it was told to me as opposed to those times I lived, felt and believed. Most definitely my babyhood is all filtered through the minds, beliefs and story-telling powers of my relatives.

While I don’t believe all of us think our arrivals as front-page news, I do think that each of us, in our own way, would take the chance if offered to go back in time and experience our first months of life. That time when, even though we’re living, we have no recollection (as if we’re in a coma or under anesthesia). If everyone around us wasn’t as nurturing as they should be, or downright mean, we wouldn’t have the slightest recollection of it. People we came to trust later in our lives could have been those harshest to us in our early days and nobody but an outside observer would have that knowledge. If that observer didn’t tell, or wasn’t around in later years, did the tree fall in the forest?

I’m not all that versed on repressed memories and related psychology, but it seems to me that patients are always recalling hideous things that happened, rather than just a time where they might’ve lain in their mother’s lap, by a soothing fire, feeling that all was right and snug in the world. Further, if we do have those “snug” moments, are those the ones that carry us through life and give us hope where others, maybe not so cuddled, have doubt? I’ve always thought ‘nature vs. nurture” a fascinating study, although one that would take a spare lifetime, which I do not have.

What most of us remember about this amnesic time after our births and somewhere before the ages of four or five, is what we see in pictures. The ones that carry the unmistakable brand of the decade in which they were taken. Since I’m not yet fifty, my beginnings were captured on thick, quality paper with pattern-cut edges with warm shades of white-grey-black. I try to imagine color in that world, but it’s not there until those same pictures move, as Grampa was also an amateur movie-maker. None of us knows how lucky or unlucky our childhoods were, until notes are compared. Maybe the comparison isn't such a good idea after all.

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fireplace or forest fire?

i have a dark side. for some of you that'll be hard to believe. for others, the ones who know me best, "no kidding" is the best phrase here. that i am my own worst enemy has been told to me too many times to count. sometimes, when led to the altar of joy by the season or people celebrating it, the mind goes elsewhere. so far (fingers crossed) this year hasn't been so bad in that respect. i'd hate to believe it's because i indulged in a not-so-civilized ritual, but, hmmm. ok, here goes: i recently wrote down ALL the creeping, crawling thoughts onto pages and pages. all those things that hit me when i don't see them coming. the lies, the games, the very troubles that have found their way into my life. i hate to say it felt good, but oh, the feeling not unlike eating a very rich chocolate cake - the whole cake - in one decadent sitting.

for me, the way the pen-to-paper looks is almost as important as it reads, and i made the letters tell the stories in painful detail. all the pieces that you want to push aside when they intrude. my own personal bone-pile to quote a very wise friend, all come up too often because of the long walks i've been taking. there they were, allowed and encouraged, onto paper. what to do now. oh yeah, burn the suckers.

folded up small, in the corningware dish they went. candles in a dimly lit bathroom, fan on, door locked - burn baby burn. they fought back. not catching, not flaring. stubborn as i knew they would be. but, they did finally burn and all that was left were their ashes. almost as if i knew what to do next, i pushed the ashes into a pile, dug a hole in the corner of the backyard that is home to doggie doo and buried the suckers. gone. finally.

i don't know if that ritual did anything real, or if my mind told me those thoughts were finally unwelcome, but i have to say it really worked. they don't come any more. and if they do, it's just a little toe and then better thoughts overtake. my walks are filled with music and hopeful thoughts, plans, and motivation to keep up the lifestyle of the last 3 months that have shed me 30+ pounds. so satisfying. much more than that chocolate cake.

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it's a beautiful day and i'm supposed to be racing around readying for thanksgiving. but i can't stop feeling the thanks. isn't that what we're supposed to do? this whole season was built around it. but i keep trying to push it aside to plan menus, make lists and clean rooms.

i wouldn't be so rushed if it weren't for the company we've had for the last month or so. all welcome guests who gave us joy and enriched our lives. and now it comes down to the mundane righting of the household. today's society and its stipulations encroach and people say "hurry, or you won't get it all done in time". i know i'll give back. make a juicy turkey, a welcome atmosphere and, barring mishaps, tasty tempting side-dishes. i'm leaving desserts to the experts this year, as the sweet stuff always seems to be the straw that stresses me. i don't want to feel stress this year. i want to keep this feeling that i'm so lucky to have what i have, to have found what i've found, and to have kept the capacity to enjoy it all.

i'm 50 now. that thought comes through and all i feel is grateful. i've earned any lines, aches and cellulite that has formed in/around this body. i've earned the short-term memory lapses and jumbled thoughts that result from a life filled with times worth remembering and lessons well learned. i don't have the slightest urge to have anything nipped, tucked or enhanced. i'll keep it all. the aging process has brought me a new awareness of the luck i have that others do not. the gifts i keep and try to use when i can.

my computer's crowded with photos, journals and wishes. my greatest joys are simple ones: pen and paper play (blue ink, bold lines and flourishes), trying to finish just one more crossword puzzle before bed, collecting recipes, soft yarns, baking the perfefctly browned whatever, watching the dogs run up/down the walkway, abundant flowerbeds, sleepy saturdays, a good garage sale, listening to adventures told by my kids (whosever biological ones they are), laughing, music that moves me, a flattering outfit, all natural shades of green, a perfect sentence, an inviting scent, old movies, anything jimmy stewart did, honest people, funny friends, baby animals, my front yard, saying "we" instead of "me", grated cheddar, howard stern, mom's house and the memories there, family traditions, vibrant colors, the look of trust on a dog's face, brothers-in-law, balloons, pool parties, cool breezes on a hot day, wind chimes, sunsets, fireworks, piglet, my husband wearing his 'comfies', a good hair day, pride in my work, watching my soap, italian soccer, perfectly fried fish & chips, fruity drinks where you can't taste the alcohol, barbeques, silhouettes and having had granparents. so much more, but i think i've already won the contest for longest run-on sentence. i'd list them instead, but i don't like the look of lists - reminds me of to-do chore and shopping lists. thanks should flow and keep coming like pouring rain or the spicy finish of a perfect bite.

all the thanksgiving thoughts i've heard and read lately, felt forced to me. like they're supposed to happen now, so here they are. this morning they all hit and i'm warm with them. it's going to be a great day. thanks to all who've brought me here. time to get out the shopping list...

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just like gramma used to make

nothing brings me closer to both my grandmothers than having my way with the kitchen. i strive to recreate smells, tastes, inviting warmth and the love that both put into the most amazing italian meals. mixing old and new, vicdomino and longo, creativity and nostalgia - all into stockpots and baking dishes. all i can say is, well, yummy. not necessarily for my own versions, but for those inspirational to the methods used to create them.

two very different women, different levels of life, different looks entirely. commonalities include heritage and height - i take after both. i remember watching each get prepped and ready for their day: one with great care, very proper and detailed, the other with the fortitude of many women before her, with an "into the kitchen i go, doesn't matter much my looks while i'm there" attitude and tenacity.

each with different specialties. one made a MEAN sauce (or gravy as the die-hards call it), the other great attention to detail - antipasto platter just right - CHECK! lasagna bubbling in the oven - CHECK! the right amount of tempting side-dishes - CHECK! good to go. i take after both there too. more the latter i'd say, the sauce i'm still perfecting. i'm happy to say that i can feel their spirits near when i attempt to re-create their specialties.

gramma madoo (my baby version of mother, like my mom called her) was adept at the sweet stuff: baking. pignole cookies (that's pinion or pine-nut to the rest of you), harvey wallbanger and rum cakes (*hic*), even potato/peanut butter candy. along with chewy-doughy pizza (the way i love it!), a beautiful/bountiful table could be found at her glendale home.

gramma rose made the most tender, fall-off-the-bone meats. Along with a very dark, rich tomato sauce served with lots of crusty bread. She introduced me to the pungent tang of romano, still my choice over parmesan. a down-home atmosphere was always present in her burbank home.

add to that my dear great-aunt josie's incredible meatballs and pizzelles and i'd say my kitchen lineage is a most respectable one.

my style? no shortcuts, no canned sauces, no ready-mixed or prepared meats, always freshly grated cheeses and garlic bread with real garlic. all a novelty in today's hurry-up kitchens. a full meal takes more than one day, and those days started early and ending late. honestly? it gets harder with each year and my grammas made it look effortless. i know now that it was far from it. in my little girl's mind, dinner was always ready when we arrived, glimpsing only a small portion of the preparation and never allowed to participate for fear i'd be underfoot and hamper the process.

richness, fullness, love. no wonder i have 'portion issues'. but i wouldn't trade a bit of how i got here. with two loving women at the helm, missing them both more with each year since their passings, keeping their lessons close and dear. the most fondly remembered? "always use your hands to mix and mold the food - meatballs especially". in my opinion, that's where the love is added. gramma madoo insisted that several sized spatulas were always close at hand, but preferred to use her fingers to scrape batter from beaters or bowl. often washed and very well used, her hands. much like mine today.

love and miss you grammas and aunt josie. you are in me today, in gene and spirit. never forgotten, served up with each hearty italian meal.

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fragility

the cynical side kicks in and i wonder how much i can really trust. people have disappointed me in that arena for many years. once so badly i think it changed my entire outlook on life. i wonder about folks who talk about others in such a negative way - that they're not talking about me the same way when i'm not around. i've been told this is usually the case.

some people just have a sense about other people. they know immediately if that person is trustworthy or not so much. they sense failures and half-truths when they should, and take as long as they need to form opinions on folks they meet, especially those they are exposed to by other family members (aka family-members' new boyfriends, baby-daddies, best friends etc.)

i seem to have switched places with my mother on this trait. she used to always see the good in people - the angel in her head always overtook the devil when it came to giving people chance after chance to prove themselves. now, she is quick to know right from wrong, good from bad. i think it comes from years of having her beliefs proven wrong, some dreadfully so. with me, however, it's feeling over function, and hope that drives the opinion mechanism: do i like this person? am i drawn to them? do i want them in my life? do i NEED them in my life? if any of those apply, then YES, they are good people and deserve my trust. i think everyone can see the flaw in that logic (or lack thereof), although i am just now realizing it.

so, i'm left to my own intuition in this area. i believe i would be better served if i could just listen purely to my own hard-won judgement. if i could kick the long-standing habit of letting my inner critic talk over whatever first thought comes to mind, particularly in areas of character judgement. there always seems to be a more compelling reason to believe the hopeful aspects of a person and not the signs of that persons integrity (or lack thereof).

choices made, people accepted or left behind, it IS what it IS what it IS. better judgement in the future? if i can silence (or strangle, either one works) that inner critic who's obviously proven to be very naive and new to all this logical assessement stuff, there's a good shot.

OR i can finally listen to mom.

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Gramma's Geraniums

cindy has gramma's geraniums but I had forgotten she did. we have them in droves (front & back yard), rob planted them and they took off, mom can't seem to keep them going. but I had forgotten that cindy had them and when I saw a whole corner of them on her porch, i was so hopeful. a little piece of gramma in valencia.

when the glendale house was on the market, i cried a little everyday. my best childhood memories would soon belong to someone else. i even tried a rite of passage by burying a time capsule in a deep hole at the farthest corner of gramma's garden. a place i didn't go nearly enough, behind the patios and pool area, the small gate that led to gramma's passion. insanely big mint leaf plants, blackberry brambles (mom's favorite), zucchini, tomotoes - only remnants & stubborn vines remained as i sat in the dirt and cried. the little jar contained a picture of gramma & grampa in matching hawaiian garb dancing on the cruise. smiling at the camera, gramma showed herself - a happy lady with her loving husband, not a care in the world. wilted, dried flowers from her funeral and a letter telling just how important that house was to this family, and to me.

around the pool, gramma's fuschia geraniums thrived. on the day we took the kids to enjoy grampa's pool one last time, i carefully cut stalks to keep, hoping they would live on in our yards. hoping a piece of gramma would always be there, signifying comfort and love. and they do. even in valencia.

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a two dog night

the eskimos used to say it was really cold if they needed 3 dogs to keep them warm. i've always only needed 2 dogs, although maybe that has something to do with my being in southern california and not alaska.

i've had 2 sets of dogs in my adult life, although the most current is closer to a matching set than the prior. one way i have been lucky (or unlucky in the summer - whew!) is that one of each pair could generate enough heat to light a city block!

corona used to be the one we'd hug close when bones were chilled, now it's little tanner. smaller in stature but even greater on the heat scale. you can't wish him far enough away in the summertime, but when you just get into bed in the winter and the sheets give you a chill, tanner's the one you want by your side. and he's more than happy to oblige.

some of my happiest moments are spent with one dog within reach of each petting arm. it's one of the reasons i just can't see adding a third. no third arm! nope, two of them lay there making those calm, sleepy faces that let me know they are just as happy to be there as i am to have them there. little reminders that there's always something to care for in this lifetime. something to call your attention away from yourself at the most selfish of moments, or those most sad and crushing.

not having children of my own, i'd say i'm proud of my little furry ones (or big ones as the last case may be), that they all have loving and giving personalities and...oh wait, that's what dogs are mostly, just bundles of unconditional and anxious love. watching my friends and family go through the cautious toddler years, the tenuous teenage years then the expectant adult years that their children pass through too quickly, i think i may have taken the easier four-legged route. on a night where i'm able to snuggle down with them and watch an old familiar movie or two, that suits me just fine!

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