The Legacy Mom Left Me

Maybe it's because she died on March 20th, now/already eight years ago, or perhaps because her birthday is March 22nd, but when March comes around I think of spring, and celebrate Mom. This year I wrote about what I inherited from her. It focuses on one aspect of my inheritance, which--as my family and friends know well--relates to the kitchen, and hosting. 

 

“I’m passing the baton to you!” my mother announces. It’s November, 1993. My second child, asleep in my arms, is six months old. My two-and-a-half-year-old daughter is running circles around us in my parents’ home.  Mom, in her cavalier, always-the-director way, is waving at the dining room table. She’s talking about my taking over Thanksgiving, Christmas Eve and Christmas Day dinners, as well as all other large family gatherings for which cooking is required. Though we’re five kids in our blended family,  I am my mother’s oldest, and the closest geographically. We’re staying with my parents until we find a rental not too far away. 

A knot in my stomach prevents me from objecting, and so I just nod, not wanting to go against my mother’s pronouncement.  Mom adds, “And make sure you prep enough in case we have extra guests!” Not having enough food is a fear that I’ve also inherited. 

I did take over those meals, starting with Thanksgiving of that year. I still have the pages from Working Mother magazine's November 1993 issue (see the image below!), and I continue to prepare some of those recipes. Now, thirty-three years and just about that many Thanksgivings later, the pages are wrinkled, taped, and stained. 

Holiday hosting has been a part of our family lore forever. Growing up, especially during the holidays and despite our lack of enthusiasm, all the kids were recruited as helpers and directed into service to set up, prep, and serve dinner for our usual 30-plus guests.  There was always a list, written in my mother’s famous script, masking-taped to our white-tiled kitchen wall.  She would update and cross out as she finished one of the tasks listed. 

Our duties ranged from setting the table and vegetable peeling and chopping,  to creating individual place cards with lettering and illustrations. Mom was big on guest seating arrangements. Tasks also  included passing hors d'oeuvres —caponata and crackers, or warm cheesy bites—assisting with the buffet set up, and clearing the table once guests finished their dinners. We also helped set up dessert, which usually included Mom’s Italian-style ricotta cheesecake, and pignoli cookies served with espresso. 

One sister, five years older than I, was given the privilege of reviewing Mom’s list along with her, and sitting next to Dad at the table.  My older brother, the oldest of all of us, was also given a seat with the grown-ups. My two younger siblings and I were at the children’s table for years. Mom primarily directed her commands to us younger ones, and spoke in requests to the older ones. At the kids’ table, we rolled our eyes and nudged each other in united jealousy.  

Perhaps because I bristled so at the bossiness of my mom, that part of entertaining I didn’t inherit. At least I don’t think so, though you might want to ask my husband and kids!  But for decades now, I’ve enjoyed my inheritance of hosting. I love planning a guest list, bringing friends together, designing a menu that includes drinks, appetizers, dinner, and dessert,  writing my shopping and prep list, setting the table, creating the environment, and making a playlist.    

My husband and I live in an apartment now. Our sit-down dinner parties no longer have the 30-plus guests of days gone by. However, my system remains. Menus are typed, printed, and saved for reference. Lists are also typed into my computer, and, like my mom, I enjoy crossing out items as I complete them. 

As I type just now, my son texts me, 

“I’m making salmon tonight. I want to make that sauce you make with dill, Grandma Sonia’s recipe.” 

I look through her old recipe notes, on index cards in a file box that I keep in a drawer near my cookbooks. I rifle through all the recipes and find this one, handwritten by my mom. I photograph it and send it to my son, and then follow up with a text.  

“You might want to double this," I tell him, "you know, in case some others come by.” 

 

Mom and Dad with an Angel :)

1993 Working Mother Recipes--and Some of My Menus!

The Table--From Our House

Buffet --All Set 

Almost Spring's Big Dig

Mom and a Storyboard

“Look at her!” my friend Sus declares as we uncover photos of my mom.

I’ve found the black and white photos of my mother at work. She was one of the first female art directors on the “mad men” scene of Madison Avenue. I heard the story so many times, about how I was almost born at Y&R (Young & Rubicam) but how she just barely made it to Flowers and Fifth Hospital—after a quick stop to pick up a nightgown in Bloomingdale’s—and then on to the hospital to give birth to me. 

I go through photos—there are hundreds, maybe even thousands of them. They date back to the time my mom was little, posing on the Boardwalk in front of her parents’ home in Brighton Beach. Posing…they were always posing.

Words are tangled in my throat as I peruse her sketchbooks, and flash back to the times she sketched at parties, when curious guests couldn’t help but come by and ask what she was doing, look over her shoulder, admire her fluid intake and translation of the scenes around her.

I was not like the guests; her sketching made me uncomfortable.

Now, as I leaf through the dozen or so sketchbooks, I have an uneasiness mixed with pride and regret that I didn’t enjoy her drawing—while she was drawing. Why did her sketching bother me? Why didn’t I accept it more readily? Why wasn’t I proud then? 

Mom's Sketches in Spain 

As some of you may know, now over two years ago, we moved from a house into an apartment. At that big downsizing time, I took a lot of my old photos—okay not only mine, but those from and of my parents (their ex-spouses!), grandparents, aunts, uncles, parents-in-law, siblings, kids…well, you get the picture. Tons of photos! They were packed into large Rubbermaid tubs and put into storage.

One of my new year’s resolutions was to go through, sort, keep or toss: my big dig. And so, it’s begun.

It’s amazing how many blurry photos, how many duplicates, how many “unknowns,” and how many trees and sunsets were captured. And as I sift, I try to identify criteria for saving.

My criteria has yet to be defined. I do know that I’m not going to scan them all; I want to keep the “hard copies.” Not sure what I’ll do with them, but I’m enjoying going through them…remembering so very many moments.

In another box, I’ve found letters. Those I’m loathe to toss…at least some of them. Especially words from people, like my parents, who are no longer on this earth with us. I've put those aside for now. I'll read them all. Eventually.   

This all comes back to my kitchen. As many of you may also know, food is another way I keep people ever-present. Menu planning is something I enjoy daily: I think about who’s going to eat it, what the weather is like, what’s available, and what people might be craving.

I open up a recipe box, and look for one of our Christmas Eve classics: The orange Jell-O mold, complete with shredded carrots and crushed pineapple, which she always made in the shape of a Christmas tree.

I never thought I’d ever make it. Now I pull out the recipe, and look for the pan that it will set in. 

 

 

And Just Like That, It's Soup time in December

     I don’t mind when the sun paints my face, with thick broad gentle strokes, forcing me to recognize it, which I do.  It reminds me that I should focus on the now, the present.

     At this very moment, it’s all about today. Focusing on the elements around—the feelings, paired with sounds, sights and smells, has a balancing effect. My mind is racing elsewhere: thinking of the books I’m listening to, the wonderful big band music I saw and heard on Friday night, the headlines slapped across this morning’s newspaper, the dinner I will make tonight, the work I need to do, the nostalgia for family no longer here, one that profoundly infuses me this time of year. The elements, and the rhythm of my feet below, ground me and push me forward as I run.

     My mind goes back, as it so often does, to the recipes. The weather’s chill has me thinking of soup. And though I could rifle through my collection of saved NYT cooking recipes, or the many books that I still have (even after unloading hundreds haver the move!), I am set on one: carrot soup from Moosewood Cookbook. 

     And this is what brings my after-run steps to my book shelf, and right over to one cookbook in particular, to a page I have marked from long ago.

     

     Moosewood Cookbook, the original, was one of my first on-my-own cookbooks.What I mean by that is that I always had my mom’s recipes, yet I searched for those recipes I could adopt and call my own. Moosewood, at the time, was my great resource. 

    Moosewood was also the first cookbook I ever endeavored making just about everything from. The book itself, now decades later—food stained and a bit unsteady in keeping all the pages together— represents a period of time, my twenties, when I expressed a lot of my independence and creative energy through food. (Wait, am I still doing that?!) 

     This carrot soup offers the balance of two flavors I love combining:  sweet and salty. But as I sit to write this blog, I recognize that you might not share my passion for cooking. Still, I’m guessing you probably share my joy of eating.  It’s funny how when I teach, I touch on the topic of food and almost all my students have a positive reaction; though they are still struggling with English, their second, third, and even fourth language, food remains a first language. They wax nostalgic about their grandma’s cooking, dishes that say “home” to them. Food is their common ground…our common ground. This is why I still say if we could just all sit down and share a meal, we might have peace in this world.

       In the meantime, now and in the next year, I will continue my ever-expanding exploration of dishes (so many recipes, so little time!), as well as travelling, dancing, reading, writing, teaching, and of course enjoying the many meals I look forward to composing, creating, and consuming with family and friends. 

     With these thoughts, and this note, I wish you and yours lots of peace, and many many delicious soups and other dishes with loved ones during this holiday season, and in the year to come.

      

Carrot Soup Garnished with Roasted Apple, Toasted Almonds, and Parsley

 

 

A Few Days in March: Spring is on the Way

 

                         Early March Comfort Food: White Beans, Spinach, Tomatoes, Potatoes...and Some Sausage 
March 5^th

“Last week I was thinking about what games to buy; this week I’m thinking about arming myself.”

These were the words of a Ukrainian guy I heard interviewed on NPR. Talk about playing the last week at this time game…

Still, I’m playing with time and going back weeks, months, years. It seems like photos make time seem that much more tangible.

I don’t mind not being able to see what’s coming; divining the future was never one of my three wishes. (Though—I have to admit—my number one wish was always the greedy, ‘I want more wishes!’ wish!) Of course, I did always want to be like Bewitched, and touch my nose and make magic happen—or maybe more like I Dream of Jeannie (always liked the outfit),  so I could just cross my arms and nod my head to make some magic happen.

However, and maybe, I’ve matured a bit. Though I still have many wishes, these days, I speak my wishes aloud, with palms pressed together in front of my chest, while I’m standing on my favorite rock at Davenport Park, feeling the sun on my face, and facing the ever-inspirational water. These days, I wish for the health and wellbeing of my children and my loved ones. I wish for food and shelter and equity of treatment for all. And I wish for peace. These days, my wishes are more embracing of a larger picture.

Since it's cooler, I go back to making comfort foods.

            Red Lentil Sweet Potato Soup--with Spinach, Cilantro, and Toasted Coconut

March 12^th

It’s a rainy/snowy day. I’ve finished Educated, by Tara Westover, and have re-started Calypso, by David Sedaris. I’ve got Caste, by Isabel Wilkerson, The Beekeeper of Aleppo, by Christy Lefteri,   and am continuing We are Each Other’s Harvest, by Natalie Baszile.

My book pile is my treasure. The books are filled with ideas that will plant themselves in my head, and will be woven in between my own thoughts—will support the ideas and beliefs I have. They will make me laugh. They will make me cry. Most of all, they will make me think. I start, and then put them aside so that I can write. The words the spring forth—though inspired by the words I’ve read, expressions I yearn to adopt—sometimes I feel like they might not be mine, but my brain envelops them, embraces them all, and moves them into the realm of my own usage. They become mine.

Though I’m writing, I am distracted by my book pile. I stop writing, and look—due to force of habit—at my phone. I scroll through my messages. There are many I could/should erase.  I’ve kept a few from my aunt; she passed away last year. I can’t erase her messages. Yet.

I listen to her voice and a collage of tangled memories comes fourth—and though they delight me on one hand, they deeply sadden me. I haven’t been able to listen to my mother’s voice—recordings—since she passed away, now almost exactly 4 years ago. Wow. Four years.  I imagine speaking with her—I have so many questions that are known lying, suspended in air. Unanswered. I also think about what I’d like to update her with. 

March 13^th

The sun is out—the wind is biting, but the sun manages to wiggle its way onto my face and I hold it there. I’m walking/running—and watching others do the same.

I see a young man, walking near Viva Grande in New Rochelle, and talking on the phone. I can hear him speaking in Spanish—commenting on the weather, “A veces, sí—demasiado frío,” and I imagine he’s arrived, perhaps from Mexico—judging by his accent--not too long ago, and recounting bits of his job…and the weather.  The wind is whipping is straight black hair around, but he lets it go. I want to see whom he’s speaking with, and imagine his mother—and maybe others gathered around. He smiles at me—perhaps because he sees me watching his hair dance. I smile an hola back to him.

My thoughts drift. I think about other young—and older men— and women, in his same position: those who have left their country and family behind in search of opportunities.  

March 16

It’s back to spring. The children’s squeals at Trinity Elementary School are paralleled by the parrots’ squawks. I wonder if they notice each other.

The children are not wearing masks—only wait, some have them as a kind of chin strap. I imagine their moms saying, “Make sure you keep your mask on!”

That brings me to thoughts of my mom, who passed away almost exactly four years ago, in four days.

Now running, I'm at the bottom edge of Davenport Park. The water glistens in the sun. I climb atop my prayer rock, the large one that rests right over the Long Island Sound. I think of peace, stability, sanity, health—and all the people I want to send warm thoughts to. I close my eyes and let the sun rest on my face. I tell my parents I love and miss them.

I turn around,  and run up the hill back to the street. Running up the hill today seems easier, but still, it’s not easy.

Then I run back to Viva Grande, my market, where I’ll pick up some vegetables and more for dinner.