Family Ties

I love Christmas.  I really do.  And I love it more year after year.  I love watching my children embrace certain aspects of the holiday. I love making new traditions with our family and friends. And I just love celebrating all the things that are good, and special and monumental in my family.

I am blessed, so crazily blessed it scares me sometimes.  I have this really cool husband who works his tail off (but he does love his job so it's not too much work) to give his family a really great life full of wonderful experiences and moments.  He is, by far, the most generous person I have ever met and he is the master of picking out gifts.  I think he loves Christmas more than I do, and I know nothing gives him more pleasure than to see the joy on someones face when they open the gift he selected for them.  Although he may not like it, he's a lot like my mom.  Always thinking about others, thinking about the expression when they open that special gift, the joy of the holiday.

Don't get me wrong.  Two more different people you could not find.  Mimi and Pete clashed quite frequently over the years.  But they clashed for the exact same reason - loving me.  Mom wanted the best for me and so did Pete.  He went about it in a way that didn't quite fit Mom's formula, but he did it all the same and he did it his way.  Pete has provided for me and our three beautiful children an amazing life.  Mom didn't quite get that at the outset.  He was a trader, unconventional in his mode of providing.  He went back to business school with an 11-month and a nagging wife (yep, that's me).  But he did, and he kicked ass along the way.  And, he provided for our kids an outstanding example of work ethic and ambition, which I know they will embody as they embark on their own careers.

Mom was hard on Pete, really hard.  I am the oldest, first married, first to have a grandchild - blah, blah, blah.  And Mom fulfilled the role of the stoic, hard-ass, Irish mother-in-law.  She did not cut him one damn break.  But in her last few days, she told me how proud she was of the family we had and the life we had built.  She told me she did not need to worry about me and Pete.  I knew it was in there, she just liked to give him a hard time.

But here's the twist - I'm not so sure Pete would have had it any other way.  He always loved the challenge and Mom sure provided one for him.  Hell, he could have given her the Canary Diamond and she would have some snarky comment about how it didn't match her earrings.  But, I know they loved each other.  I know they respected each other.  And I know this because I am the one thing they had in common.  Kind of a special gift to each of them, huh?

Melting Moments (World's Most Tedious Holiday Cookies)

Cookie:
2 cups flour
3/4 cup butter
1/4 cup butter flavored Crisco
2 Tbsp powdered sugar
1/2 egg
1 tsp vanilla extract
1 tsp lemon juice
1 tsp almond extract

Filling:
1 cup powdered sugar
1 Tbsp butter
dash vanilla extract
milk added a little at a time until right consistency

Preheat oven to 350.

Mix all ingredients for cookies together to form dough.  Refrigerate to make dough easier to work with.  Roll into small 1/2" balls, flatten with fork and bake for 10 minutes.

Mix all ingredients for filling and sandwich between cookies.  You can add food coloring to the filling if you like.

Christmas Joy

Do you remember your favorite Christmas ornament from your childhood?  That one piece that you could not wait for your mom to unwrap or pull out of the storage box?  Do you remember decorating the tree as a kid and all the stories that went with every ornament you carefully placed on the tree?  That one was from Aunt Joan. . . Mom got you that when she went to San Francisco. . . You made that one in first grade . . . That was from your first Christmas . . .

All these tacky pieces, dripping with globs of glue and glitter, handmade crafts and special mementos of trips near and far.  Bright vivid colors, pieces you loved to hold, memories you would cherish.

My favorite decoartion didn't go on the tree.  It was this centerpiece-thing that Mom would put on the coffee table.  It had three felt reindeer covered in gold glitter and it was tacky.  I'm talking Carol Brady-1970's-tacky.  But I loved this piece.  I played with it so much that those damn reindeer were bald by the time I hit middle school.  Dad would crank up a fire, Mom would attack the Christmas tree with a vengeance, and I would just sit at the coffee table and play with this silly centerpiece.  And not once, not a single time, would Mom ask me to leave it alone.  She would let me have my fun, sweep up the glitter remnants when I was done, and softly smile while humming some John Denver holiday tune.

I am the complete opposite.  I am the annal retentive holiday decorator.  No one, and I mean no one, gets near my tree.  All the decorations have a certain place and when it comes to holiday illumination, I am the queen.  Pete picks out the tree and leaves the rest to me.  The kids don't dare come within a four foot radius of the tree until every light is in its place.  They know this, and they stay back.  Until this year.

Thomas pulled out an ornament Mom had given him on her last Christmas with us and I just melted.  I stopped in my tracks and I remembered that damn gold reindeer centerpiece.  I stepped away from the tree and let the kids do the rest.  They had a blast - chatting about the ornaments, which ones they loved, how they remembered certain ones, hanging them all haphazard on the tree.  I sat on the couch, watched with a heavy but very happy heart, and wished Mom could see this.  Wished more than anything that I could play with that silly reindeer centerpiece.  Wished more than anything I had an ounce of Mom's patience during each and every day.

Cherish the small moments, relish the big ones, and celebrate everything in between.  Merry Christmas from me and Mimi!

Christmas Cookies

2/3 cup shortening
1/2 cup sugar
1 egg
3 Tbsp milk
1 tsp vanilla
2 cups flour

Icing:
5 Tbsp butter, softened
3 1/2 cups confectioner sugar
6 Tbsp milk
1 tsp vanilla
pinch of salt

Preheat oven to 350 degrees.

Mix shortening and sugar together.  Stir in egg, milk then vanilla.  Add flour a little at a time.  Wrap in wax paper and chill.  Roll out on floured surface and cut with cutters.  Bake on greased cookie sheet for 10 minutes until done but not brown.

Icing:
Mix all ingredients adding mile last (a little at a time).  Separate and color with food coloring.

Going Bananas!

Looking back, I realize what a gift it was to be with my mom while she was dying.  It was hard as hell to watch her slip away and, as I've said before, the last few hours of her life were brutal. However, I had all these really special moments, hanging out by her bedside, chatting about all things random.  I got to ask her a lot of questions, get her advice, calm her nerves about leaving my dad and the six of us.  But I forgot to ask her one question, a question that plagues me every single day - "how the hell did you raise six kids without ever raising your voice?"

It's true.  Mom was not a yeller.  Can you believe that?  I feel as if I spend 80% of my day yelling my head off at my kids.  As if, somehow, by raising the decibel level and pitch of my voice they are going to listen to me.  I'm a smart person, graduate degree and all, yet I still can't get through a day without losing my cool and yelling at my kids somehow expecting that, miraculously, this one time they will listen.  Isn't the definition of insanity repeating the same action and expecting a different outcome?  That proves it - I'm insane.

Don't get me wrong.  It's not like we don't have wonderful, calm, "Rockwellian" moments in this household. But there are so many times when I just completely lose my cool and yell, and yell, and yell . .. and get ignored by the three Lilliputians who are clearly running this insane asylum.  So how did Mom do it?  How did she manage to get all six of us out the door, fed, cleaned, clothed, homeworked without raising her voice.  I mean we had family dinners every single night, home cooked meal on the table, all six of us sitting there (invariably talking over each other so it wasn't a quiet meal) and mom didn't have to yell to get us to the table.  Yell to turn off the TV.  Yell to clean up the toys in the basement.  Yell to get us out the door.

I would like one morning in my household where my boys actually get their socks, shoes and jackets on without me raising my voice.  One football practice carpool where we aren't rushing out the door, football pads trailing behind us, helmet bouncing on the ground, me yelling "Get IN the car!"  One afternoon where homework just gets done, no nagging required.

In one of my recent running chats with Mom, I asked her advice (note: see above comment about my insanity).  How did she manage to keep the level of chaos in our house manageable?  How did she do it without yelling?  Well, it's pretty clear.  Just stop yelling.  Take it one step at a time.  Start getting the kids ready 10 minutes earlier and give yourself some wiggle room.  Touch them on the shoulder so you command their attention instead of yelling from two rooms over.  All these things I know, I just have a hard time putting them into practice.  Let's face it, it is far easier to sit on my duff in the kitchen typing this blog and screaming for the kids to come for dinner, then to get up, walk into the family room and ask them in a civilized tone.  

As Pete continues to tell me, don't make everything an issue.  He truly is the voice of reason in this household, although he is the voice that gets to shower every morning, go off to a cool job on Wall Street, travel and eat at really nice restaurants; so while I respect his opinion, I'm not always sure if we share the same reality.  That said he is right: stop making every little thing an issue.  But, when this is all I do all day long, everything seems like an issue to me.

So, I'm going to try and take it down a notch.  Apply all the things I learn in yoga and relax.  Who cares if they are a few minutes late for school?  Why do they have to do homework right when I tell them?  Let the kids have some control over how the day is structured, and maybe they will do a better job listening next time.  And, stop yelling.

Since I have come to the conclusion that I am going bananas, today I made banana cake for the kids and they loved it.  Thomas helped me mash the bananas, Regan and Jack fought over who would lick the beaters, and I didn't yell at anyone.  Not making everything an issue, just like Pete.  One day at a time, just like Mimi.

Banana Cake

1/2 cup butter
2 eggs
1 cup sugar
2 bananas (ripe)
1 1/2 cups flour
1/2 tsp salt
1/2 tsp baking powder
1/4 tsp baking soda
1 cup powdered sugar
1/2 cup chopped walnuts (optional)
milk as needed

Preheat oven to 350.

Cream butter, sugar, eggs and bananas.  Combine flour, salt, baking powder, baking soda.  Mix into creamed mixture.  Spread batter into a 9x13 baking pan.  Bake for 45 minutes or until a toothpick comes out clean.

Mix powdered sugar, chopped walnuts and enough milk to make an icing.  Spread over warm cake and serve at room temperature.

Meatloaf and Mashed Potatoes

Birthdays were a huge deal for Mom.  She always did her best to make our day special and she did that for everyone she knew - family, friends, neighbors.  Mom had a stack of cards on deck and her birthday calendar was overflowing with names; there was hardly a day went by when she wasn't passing birthday wishes along to someone.  She had a penchant for picking out raunchy cards, especially for her close buds.  This used to embarrass the crap out of me when I was in high school, but now I find myself searching the aisle at CVS for that perfect card with the dirty joke.

Going off to college, Mom would call me every year as close to 6:30 am as possible (aided slightly by the fact that I was a whole time zone behind) so she could remind me of the time I came into this world.  I'm fairly certain the roommates did not appreciate this call, but I sure did.  It was just one little thing I came to expect each year, and now as my second birthday passes without Mom I realize how much I miss that call. Half the time I was barely awake, or slightly hungover from the night before, but Mom's call always made my day.  We'd chat for a few minutes, share my plans for my big day, thank her for the gift she sent and the day would begin.

I've had some awesome birthday celebrations throughout my short 42 years - the Big Wheel my roommates got me junior year in college and the ensuing keg party that almost got us kicked off campus, sleeping out for ND tickets on the eve of my 21st birthday, taking friends to Great Adventure in my teen years, my 40th surprise dinner party with the mac-daddy limo into the city, hanging at the Willie Nelson concert in Big Sky with the family.  Good times, really good times.

I am blessed and I am lucky, but I still feel a little sad.  Whether Mom was here to celebrate with me, or just a phone call and card away, I knew how much she relished my special day and I miss that.  As a mother, I completely understand how special it is to celebrate the birth of your children.  It's not just a time to plan a party or make that special dinner.  It's an amazing miracle that these children have graced our lives and their birthdays are special beyond words.  Regan, Jack and Thomas won't understand that until they have families of their own, but they love to hear the story of their arrivals in this crazy world and I love to tell them all about it.

I'm trying hard not to forget my special story but with Mom gone, those details are starting to get fuzzy.  I do know I was born at 6:30 am and I do know that my birthday dinner always consisted of meatloaf and mashed potatoes.  So, I share with you Mimi's meatloaf recipe.  Not exactly the fare you would expect on Labor Day weekend, but give it a try sometime and make sure to remember your friends' birthdays (preferably with a raunchy card!).

Happy Birthday to me. . .

Meatloaf
Meatloaf mix (or 1 lb ground beef, 1/2 lb ground veal, 1/2 lb ground pork)
1 cup bread crumbs
2 eggs
2-3 dashes worcestershire
1 small onion diced and sauteed until soft
1/2 cup sour cream
1/4 cup mustard
1/3 cup ketchup
parsley flakes
Italian seasoning
garlic salt
salt and pepper

Sauce:
1/2 cup ketchup
1/2 cup maple syrup

Preheat oven to 375.  Mix all ingredients and put in loaf pan.  Bake for 1 hour.  Top with sauce and bake for another 15-20 minutes.

Looking Back

I am completely perplexed by this new trend of placing a magnet on the back of your car for every little thing your family does.  I now can tell by your tailgate where your kids go school, what sports they play, where you summer, where you ski in the winter, where you like to eat your burritos, what political party you belong to, what kind of dog you have, and whether you are a Yankee or Red Sox fan.  Funny, right?

When we were growing up, Mom drove a navy blue Olds Delta 88 station wagon.  She longed for nothing more than to plaster her rear window with those transparent college stickers.  She envisioned all six of us going off to schools far and wide, her rear window filled with numerous college names.  Unfortunately, that didn't happen.  The girls all went to Saint Mary's, Jed graduated from Fairfield and by the time it got around to Kevin, Mom had empty-nested and abandoned the battle-wagon for a cute convertible. (Note: there were no stickers on the back of her new ride).

I often wonder what Mom's car would look like if she lived in the world of oval magnets that adorn our SUVs and minivans.  Would she have a Jersey Girl magnet?  A shamrock?  A Carolina blue tarheel?  I Love Neil Diamond?  I got to thinking about this and I realized she would not have put any of these silly magnets on the back of her car.  She was proud of who she was, proud of her children, proud of her heritage.  But, she never felt it necessary to wear that as a badge or publicize it.  She just enjoyed who we were, what we accomplished and where we were in life.

Sometimes that bothered me.  There were times when I would have liked my mom to brag about what I had done, talked about it a little and let me know that she was proud.  It's not that she wasn't, it was just hard for her to be proud of one of us at a time.  She never wanted anyone to feel left out or less accomplished.

As a kid, this was tough.  As a mother, I get it.  You don't want any of your kids to feel that they are less important, or less accomplished, or less successful.  However, (and this is where Pete does a great job of keeping it all in check), as a parent you have to celebrate every success and teach your kids to celebrate along with you.  We always let our kids know what we think of their accomplishments, even when they falter.  And we are working very hard to teach our kids to be proud of each other and I hope that pays off in the end.  I have since taken all the magnets off the back of my SUV.  I have found other ways to let my kids know how proud we are of them and all that they do in this world.  I know Mom was proud, but I wish I had known that sooner.  If there was one white oval magnet Mom would have on the back of blue station wagon it would be "Proud Mom".

One Down . . .

So the first year has come, and gone.  Twelve months without Mom.  One year of "firsts" without Mom.  No more, "this is the first birthday without Mom".  No more, "once the first year is over . . ."   That's it.  It's done.  And you know what?  I made it.

A year ago, I really didn't know what was going on.  I, unfortunately, had the surreal experience of watching my mom die.  Watching the woman who brought six children into this world, cared for her dying mother and sister, managed friendships and relationships with ease - watching this woman fight for every last breath when her body was nothing but a shell.  I don't talk about those last hours all that much and I'm very thankful that I could be there, but I'm also very pissed off.  I just can't, and never have been able to, get my head around the fact that a woman who did so much for others was made to leave this world in such a cruel way.  And a year later, that hasn't changed.  I have made it through the first year without Mom, but it made me realize that there may be at least 20, maybe 30, more years of my life without my mom.  And that just pisses me off.

I began the anniversary of Mom's death rushing out of the house to catch a flight to my 20th college reunion.  And I ended the anniversary of Mom's death, laughing and crying with my dearest girlfriends - we were gathered in this old dive bar we used to frequent in college and the song "Dancing Queen" by ABBA came on.  I lost it.  Could have been the handful of vodka tonics I had but I'd like to think it was pure sentimentality at the playing of that song (one that Mom and her gang loved and we all played at our weddings).  The first notes came blaring out of the speakers in this bar and my best friend pulled me to her shoulder while another grabbed my hand, and I completely lost it.  Sobbed like a little baby while "Dancing Queen" played and all these drunken alums danced around us. Someone handed me a napkin to wipe away my tears and very little words were exchanged.

There, in that very moment, Mom was present.  She was present because she was the type of person who would have handed me the napkin, pulled me to her shoulder and grabbed my hand.  She was the type of person who would not have to say anything to make those around her feel better - she just did.  And in all of my anger and self-pity and sorrow and mourning, somehow I have managed to keep those friends in my life.  Mom has made sure that they have not left me, just when I needed them most.

I've been a pretty crummy friend, and a pretty lousy wife, and not such a great mom myself this past year.  I've taken these twelve months and I've suppressed my anger and sorrow, and that's made me not such a great person to be around.  However, sitting there in this crappy bar crying huge tears of sadness, I realized that the first year is over.  And I made it.

To all of you who have put up with me this past year, thank you very much.  Mom thanks you too.

Blueberry Muffins
(I have no relevance here other than the kids and Pete deserve something a little special for breakfast tomorrow)
1/2 C margarine or butter
2 C flour
1 C sugar
2 eggs
1/2 C milk
2 tsp baking powder
1/2 tsp salt
1 tsp vanilla
2 1/2 C blueberries
2 tsp sugar for top

Preheat oven to 375.

Cream butter and sugar together.  Add eggs one at a time, mixing well.  Combine flour, baking powder and salt.  Add alternately to creamed mixture with milk and vanilla.  Mash 1/2 C blueberries with a fork and add to batter, mixing well.  Fold in the rest of the blueberries.  Pour into greased muffin tins.  Sprinkle with sugar and bake for 30 minutes. Let cool for 15 minutes before removing from pan.

A Mother's Pride

Mimi's Kitchen is back - and so is mine, finally!  I unpacked all the boxes and put Mimi's Kitchen back in its rightful spot, in the place where I keep the few cookbooks I actually use and a perch which allows Mom to take in all the splendor of my new kitchen.  Mimi would have loved this kitchen and it would have been the first kitchen I've had that Mimi remotely liked.  Pete and I have lived in some really cool spots, but they were always older, had a ton of charm and needed some work.  Somehow, Mom tended to focus on all the work we needed to do and made no bones about expressing her opinion.  She was very good at that.

Mimi had a hard time entering any one's home and not rearranging their furniture or advising them on the window treatments they needed to complete a room.  I, on the other hand, have always gone for more of a minimalist style and would much rather wait and put up the custom window treatments I really want than slap up some store bought drapes.  Same thing with art - drove Mom crazy that we had empty walls.  But I didn't want to run out and buy some crap just to fill the space and we've managed to purchase some very cool, very meaningful pieces over the years.  It used to really hurt me when Mom made all these comments because it wasn't like Pete and I were living in some cheap lean-to.  We just happened to select expensive areas in which to live, filled with old homes which need a ton of work, and we took our time making the changes we wanted.

Bottom line, I never felt I measured up to Mom's expectations.  And I have done a lot, and I mean A LOT, of reflecting on this aspect of my relationship with Mom over the past few years.  Pete was really helpful during this time as he always had a great, neutral outlook and he pushed me to come to terms with my relationship with Mom before she died.  Honestly, if it wasn't for Pete, Mom may have left this world not knowing how I really felt because I had a very hard time verbalizing my feelings.  But I did, and I came to terms with the fact that she was a mother looking out for the best interest of her eldest daughter and wanting nothing but the best for me and my family.  And I had some amazing conversations with Mom in the days before she died.  And I found peace, as did she.

So as I celebrate the first Mother's Day with my mom in heaven, I am going to have a cookout and make her potato salad.  One of my favorites growing up - always reminds me of summer at the shore.  The kids tell me that I make the best potatoes because I'm Irish.  Mimi would be proud.  And I now know that she always was.  Love you Mom!

Potato Salad

5-6 medium, cooked potatoes, cubed (I use red potatoes)
1 cup mayonnaise
2-3 Tbsp apple cider vinegar
2-3 Tbsp sugar
1 1/2 tsp celery salt
1/4 tsp pepper
1 cup thinly sliced celery
1/2 cup chopped onion
2 hard boiled eggs, sliced (optional)

In large bowl, combine the mayo, vinegar, celery salt, sugar, pepper.  Taste to make sure it's right.  Add vinegar and sugar to taste (you want a little zing to the dressing).  Add potatoes, celery and onion.  Mix well.  Top with egg and refrigerate.

Sentimental Seagull

I was tucking Regan in the other night when I noticed this picture she has on her nightstand.  It's a photo of me finishing my first big race, the Atlanta Half Marathon in 2000 - one of those perfunctory shots the photographer takes as you cross the finish line. Regan has had this picture in her room for at least five years now and it struck me that I never had any pictures of Mom when I was growing up.  Actually, I don't think Mom ever existed in any photos, except for the ones where she was carefully userhing in a brightly lit birthday cake to the happily awaiting child sitting at the dining room table.  Mom was usually in the kitchen or behind the camera, so she didn't show up in all that many candid shots.

Although I don't have a picture of Mom finishing a big race (for those of you who know my mom, how funny would that be), I do have a copy of Jonathan Livingston Seagull - a novel by Richard Bach which my dad gave to Mom for Valentine's Day a long, long time ago.  It used to sit on Mom's nightstand and I must have been about 9 or 10 when I picked it up and was captivated by the photos in the book.  I used to love nosing about Mom's bedroom in the late afternoons when she was busy with all the hub-bub created by my younger siblings.  I would sit on her bed, file my nails with her old metal file, munch on some Pepto Bismol chews that she had stashed in her nightstand drawer, and look at the pictures in Jonathan Livingston Seagull.  I really cherished the quiet moments of feeling like I was the grown up in the house . . .

I don't think I really captured the meaning of the story of Jonathan Livingston until I was well into high school, but I would pick up this book every now and then, peruse its pages and find some sort of peace.  I never asked permission to borrow the book - I just took it. And it has been on my nightstand ever since.  It has traveled with me to college, my first apartment in Chicago, and every home I've ever had since.  It bears the sloppy yet beautiful inscription my father wrote to my mother on that Valentine's Day so many years ago, and right now, it is mine.  It's my little piece of Mom, and Dad, sitting with me every day and ready to comfort me when I need it.  It's my little piece of the childhood I loved, sitting with me every day and ready to comfort me.  It's my little piece of Mom, and her beautiful way of living, sitting with me every day and ready to comfort me.

I wonder how long Regan will keep my photo on her nightstand.  I wonder if she'll dig through my nightstand, and sit on my bed, and file her nails with my emery board.  I wonder what impact I will have on my kids, what memories I will leave with them.  I wonder.

The Last Word

Right now, I can't even find Mimi's Kitchen.  It's packed in some random box, shoved into a corner of the living room and gathering all sorts of sawdust as we renovate our kitchen. Oddly enough, there's a sort of weird symbolism in this.  Mom and I did not agree all that much and I know she would have numerous opinions about my choices for counter tops, paint colors, light fixtures, etc.  Instead of arguing with her, I packed her away in a box (sort of).

When I was a kid, I'd ask Mom's advice about everything, then promptly dismiss her opinion and do the complete opposite.  Clothing choices, hair styles, details of our wedding - I always asked, then promptly dismissed.  As I was taking a run the other day and chatting with Mom, I realized that most of my dismissive approaches to her sage wisdom were done purely out of control.  I wanted to have the last word, even if I secretly thought her way was the right way.  It made me feel better to have the last word, as if I had control.  There were many times, looking back, that I went against Mom's advice purely to argue with her and take a stand.  How silly is that?  Why couldn't I just accept my mother's advice and let her feel good about the fact that her opinions were valued? Kind of bums me out now.

As I struggle with some of the mundane decisions that come with renovating a kitchen, I realize that the choices I am making are exactly what Mom would have advised.  How different would my kitchen look if she were still here?  Would I do exactly the opposite just to make a stand, pick a different color just because she liked something else (most likely not, since Pete has a big role in all of this and he's usually right!)  So, basically, all these years, Mom was right.  I was wrong.  I was stubborn.  But, I always got the last word.  Would love to give that back right now.

Running on Faith

When I go running, I completely lose myself.  It's an amazing experience where I get a chance to shut out the real world, channel the music on my iPod and let my mind run free.  I haven't been running that much lately but I just found out I got a spot in the New York City marathon this year, so I have begun to step it up a bit and many of these runs have found me talking to my mom.  She loved the fact that I was a runner.  My Pop Pop, Mimi's dad, was a runner and I actually have a medal he won while running track in college - a very special piece that has been with me since I was in high school.

Recently, my runs have been hard.  I'm out of shape and need to get back on track rather quickly, particularly if I'm going to complete this marathon.  I've started telling people about my intent to run the marathon, largely because I feel the more people who know what I'm up to the more likely I am to run the damn race.  A lot of people have asked if I am running for a charity, which I suppose comes out of the fact that my two sisters rocked it in the 3 Day Walk last year.  Oddly, I find running to be a very selfish thing for me - it's my race, my run and I really don't want to be giving anything away.  I know this is very self-centered, but it's who I am and how I feel right now.  I just like to run, enough said.  And I am very selfish, just ask my husband!

As I was running today, I had this great conversation with Mom (great because I was the one carrying her side of the discussion, which worked to my favor!!).  I was telling Mom how I began to feel bad that I wasn't running for a charity.  We had this great dialogue around my reasons for running and how it was perfectly fine to run my race, and run it for me.  Then it dawned on me, or maybe it dawned on Mimi.  I should run my race and encourage others to do what they want for their favorite charity.  So I am going to take off on November 6th and run 26.2 miles through all five boroughs of New York City.  I am not going to raise any money.  I am not going to pledge any dollars, or any goods, or any time.  I am going to run, and I am going to run with Mimi.  I have decided to have her name printed on my bib that day so when I run through all those miles of the city, the crowds will see her name on my chest.  Maybe a few of them will shout "Come on Mimi, you can do it!" or "Go Mimi, go!"  They will cheer me on and shout her name, and she will be with me every step of the painful 26.2 mile way.  How cool is that?

As Mom and I run the New York City marathon, I encourage all of you to do something for your favorite charity, if you are so inclined.  Give where you want to give, volunteer where you feel your time is valued, and offer up just a bit of yourself to others.  Mom was really good at that.  I am not.  So I am going to run, talk to my mom, and feel some inner peace hoping that others will give where I could not.

I don't have a recipe for today but I'll find a good one to help me carb load the night before the marathon.

Irish Pride

A week from today is St. Patrick's Day and I am really dreading this holiday, probably more so than the big ones.  Mom was fiercely proud of her Irish heritage and she would go all out on St. Patrick's Day.  Corned beef and cabbage, Irish soda bread, the Clancy Brothers playing in the house.  She would don her green and wear it proudly.  It was a day Mimi cherished and she would run around talking in a brogue all day wishing the luck of the Irish to everyone she met.  So next week is going to be a tough one.

Mom made no bones about the fact that she would have liked an Irish son-in-law, and she made sure Pete knew in no uncertain terms that an Italian surname was not going to cut it in her book.  I wouldn't say they got off to a rocky start, but Mom's inability to pronounce Pete's last name and the fact that he doesn't have a lick of Irish in his lineage didn't really help.  Mom was actually baking Irish soda bread the first time she met Pete and I am convinced this was some sort of subliminal attempt to get him to change his surname to something Gaelic.  Subtlety was not one of Mom's strong suits.  But, hard as she tried, there was no changing the fact that she ended up with one Italian, one English and two Polish sons-in-law -- there has got to be a good joke in there somewhere . . .

As a family, we focus a bit more on our Irish heritage than we do on the Italian.  It's not that we aren't proud to be Italian, we are and the kids know it.  It's just that the Irish have way cooler music, tend to be a bit more of a partying crowd, and have their own holiday. The kids all adore their Notre Dame apparel and Pete has one of the largest collections of Irish music this side of Dublin.  We even toyed with having Regan take up Irish dancing but she got so mired down in sports that she couldn't find the time, and I'm convinced that Thomas is part leprechaun.  I think even Pete would admit, with no disrespect to his Italian ancestors, that having some Irish in your background is pretty cool.

So, as we head into the Irish holiday, I do so with a very heavy heart.  I miss my mom immensely and I miss her zest for life.  I miss the cards she would send the kids for St. Patrick's Day and the "top of the mornin'" greeting she would have for me on the phone.  I miss her smile and her wit, and I really miss the banter she and Pete would throw around whenever they were together - those two made quite a pair. I can, however, say that I will not miss her Irish soda bread.  Bordering on blasphemy, I admit I cannot stand the stuff. That said, I don't want to rob my kids of this great tradition so I'm going to start tonight and attempt to make it, hoping I can turn out at least one decent batch by March 17th and make Mom proud.

Slainte!

Irish Soda Bread

4 C flour
1 C sugar
1 tsp salt
1 tsp baking soda
2 sticks butter, softened
1 C raisins
1 1/3 C buttermilk
1 egg yolk (to brush top)

Preheat oven to 350.  Mix all dry ingredients.  Cut butter into dry mixture.  Add raisins. Mix in buttermilk a little at a time.

Knead dough on a floured surface.  Shape into 2-3 round loaves.  Cut cross in top of loaf and brush with egg yolk.  Bake for 1 hour.

Carolina Blue

One of the things I loved about Mom was the fact that she was a big sports fan.  She adored her NY Giants and would route for Notre Dame to no avail, but nothing could come between Mom and her beloved Tar Heels.  Having graduated from UNC-Greensboro, Mom considered herself a true Tar Heel and that woman idolized the UNC basketball team, particularly during the Dean Smith era.  Back in the day, her allegiance to Carolina would rarely come between Mom and Dad, as Notre Dame used to be a football school and UNC-Chapel Hill has always been a basketball school.  Nowadays, those waters have gotten a little murky and the tide seems to have shifted.  Wonder what Mom would think this year as the Irish are ranked higher than UNC in basketball, both men's and women's!

As it turns out, Regan is a huge college basketball fan, not to mention a pretty good player herself .  When she's not shooting hoops in the driveway, she can be found watching ESPN coverage of whatever game is on, men's or women's.  Mom would have loved this.  One of the coaches Rey has worked with graduated from Notre Dame and helped lead them to the women's NCAA championship ten years ago, so Rey tends to follow the Irish a little more closely this season.

But tonight, Regan and I are going to sit down and watch one of the more storied rivalries in college basketball - UNC vs. Duke - and we'll be thinking of Mom the whole time.  The Tar Heels have to travel down the long road from Chapel Hill to Raleigh, the asphalt marked on one end with Carolina blue tar heels and the other with the Duke blue devil logo.  Tough challenge.  But I know they can rise to the occasion and Mom will be with them the whole way.  If Mom were still around, we'd chat tonight pre-game and talk about the odds.  Then we'd call each other if the game was heading in UNC's favor, and we'd definitely replay the highlights over the phone in the morning, second-guessing coaching decisions and any miscues from the refs.  Most importantly, we'd comment about the cute boys from UNC and how the Duke fans were rude, and of course opine about some of the unsightly tattoos these young guys have.  I miss these mundane conversations more than I admit.

In honor of Mom's alma mater, I'm going to make some beer bread tonight.  Knowing what I know about Mom, I figure she must have had a draught or two while at North Carolina (ya' think??) and this comfort food will lessen the sting of Mom's absence.  I will call Dad to talk about the game, but I'll spare him the "cute UNC boy" conversation.  And, I'll make sure that Regan understands how important it is to maintain allegiance to the Carolina boys.  Let's just put it this way, scholarships aside, none of my kids will be going to Duke.

Beer Bread

1/2 c sugar
3 c self-rising flour
12 oz. bottle of beer
1/2 stick of butter

Preheat oven to 350.  Mix sugar, flour and beer and pour into greased loaf pan.  Melt butter and pour over mixture.  Bake for 1 hour.

The Easy Way Out

As I was making tacos for the kids last night, a departure from the usual "Mom and Dad are going out mac and cheese", I recalled seeing a recipe for taco filling in Mom's cookbook.  Can you imagine making taco filling from scratch?  Did they not have the prepackaged taco dinner in a box when I was a kid?  Honestly, the most effort I exert when making tacos is opening that box and shredding some lettuce.  How in the world did my mom do this - and with six kids in tow?

Mom used to always opine about the ridiculous nature of all the "gear" kids required these days - boppy pillows, bouncy seats, bottle and wipe warmers.  When Regan was born, she was quick to point out the silly nature of these items, which were littering our apartment and taking up more space than the furniture.  She would reach for a freshly warm wipe and laugh, "You have got to be kidding me!  How did I ever raise six kids without a wipe warmer?"  Indeed.  How did she do it?  Do all these gadgets make our lives as moms easier, or have we only complicated our lives to a level that seems out of control?

When I was a kid, I walked to school every day - two blocks - and I came home for lunch. Mom would make me a homemade lunch every single day of my life, K through 6.  Grilled cheese, soup, peanut butter and jelly on saltines, maybe even a taco here and there. She didn't rush in the morning to fill a lunch box with pre-measured, prepackaged 100 calorie snack bags.  Do you know you can even get pre-cut carrots packaged in snack size bags?  I do.  I've got them in my fridge right now.  And I don't think these things make my life any easier.  They may shave some time off my morning rush, but they certainly don't make me feel like I'm living up to Mom's expectations.  I think that we are a generation who has made our lives so difficult and hectic, that the only way we can come to terms with that is to have someone else package our kids lunch snacks for us.

I grapple all the time with how crazy and competitive life has become for us and our children.  Sports at the age of 3, and not just one sport but several sports.  Music class, a class which I took with my kids before they could even walk or talk - Mom had a field day with this one!  Playgroups, playdates, carpools.  Everything I have done has been in the interest of streamlining the life that I have created to be so completely hectic for my kids, and for me.  If they don't play the right sport at age 5 then they won't make the travel team in 4th grade and they won't play varsity in high school and they won't get into the right college and they won't get into the right graduate school and they won't make enough money to care for me when I am old because I spent all my money on their grade school activities.

There are days where I wish I had a job to go off to so someone else could deal with the craze of my day.  Don't get me wrong.  I wouldn't trade my life for anything else, and I am half-heartedly poking fun at myself.  But I do wonder how to get back to the simple way things were when I was a kid.  I realize that's not entirely attainable, but maybe I can get back some semblance of the easier way.  So, we've started walking to school.  We only live two blocks from school but, more often than not, I'm flying out the driveway in the car to get the kids there on time.  Admittedly, not the best time of year to undertake this initiative as we have to dodge five foot snowbanks, but it's a small step.  I've pared down the sports my kids play - if they aren't interested in it, then we're not going to do it and I'm not going to worry too much about their future varsity career.  I've stopped participating in the ginormous soccer carpool.  It makes my life a little tougher, but it's really nice to have only my kids in the car and converse about their day for a few precious minutes while we drive to the field.  I can't promise that I'll make taco filling from scratch every time, but I will start to cut up my own carrots.

Taco Filling

1 lb ground beef (or turkey)
1/8 tsp oregano
1/8 tsp cumin
1 clove garlic or 1/4 tsp garlic powder
salt and pepper to taste
1 medium onion, chopped
1/4 green pepper, chopped
4 oz tomato sauce

Brown meat with onions and pepper.  Add spices and tomato sauce.  Cover with water and simmer for 45 minutes.

Friendly Eggs

There's this egg and sausage casserole Mom used to make on special occasions, which has now become a staple in my household.  I went to make it this morning, as Jed and his family were staying with us, and I almost cried when I saw the picture next to the recipe.  It's a snapshot of the Westfield gang - all Mom and Dad's best buds.  Friends they made, much like I have over the past eight years, from the newcomers group in Westfield.  Friends they have been blessed to have in their lives for over 40 years now. Some of whom we call Aunt and Uncle, some of whom have left this world all too soon, some of whom have moved away, all of whom I love dearly and have been part of my life from day one.

I looked at this picture, taken on the steps of Mom and Dad's house in Mantoloking, and I just relished in the smiling faces peering back at me.  They called themselves the End of Summer Group and would gather on a weekend at the end of September every year.  It was a weekend filled with lots of food, alcohol and antics.   I imagine it was comparable to The Big Chill, minus the pot smoking of course, and the stories that came out of these weekends were legendary.  Frankly, as a kid, these stories scared me because I just couldn't picture my parents racing lobsters across the kitchen floor or tossing someones bra onto a neighbor's roof, but that's for another blog.

As I studied the picture, I could just picture Mom waking up before the masses arose, stumbling down to the kitchen to make her cup of tea (how she raised six kids without ever consuming coffee is beyond me), and beginning to prepare a breakfast feast for her friends.  Once she got past all the dishes and glasses left from the night before, only because Aunt Fran got too tipsy to finish washing them all, she would set about to make this casserole.  I can picture these folks trickling down, one by one, grabbing a bite of Entemann's coffee cake, and waiting patiently for the egg casserole (dubbed Egg Shit by this crew).  I can picture them wandering around in their robes and sweats, fumbling for a Bufferin to ease that mild headache, picking at the bits of egg shit left in the casserole pan, reveling in stories of the night before and planning all sorts of activities for the day ahead.

I have wonderful friends in my life, and I am blessed.  We've gone through the births, disappointments of losing a pregnancy, difficulties managing the hectic lives we create for ourselves, husbands who work long hours, the fallout of the recession.  We have gotten ill, really ill, and we've made the meals, helped with the carpools, arranged the play dates.  We have only begun to see all that the End of Summer Group has seen and I can only hope, that when the time comes, I can sit in my kitchen making egg shit for all my friends.

Egg Shit

6 eggs

1 pint of small curd cottage cheese

1 lb grated cheddar cheese

1 C milk

1 stick melted butter

1 C Bisquick

1 lb breakfast sausage

Preheat oven to 350.  Brown sausage and drain.  Mix all ingredients, except sausage, and beat well.  Add sausage to mixture.  Pour into a greased 9x13 casserole dish.  Bake for 40 minutes to an hour, until slightly brown on top.  Serve with salsa, ketchup or hot sauce.

Eye-to-Eye

It's no mystery that Mom and I didn't always see eye-to-eye.  I gave her a really hard time during my teen years and as I grew older, we managed to get much closer.  Once I was married and had children of my own, I would talk to Mom on the phone every day, sometimes more than once a day.  I loved to share with her stories of my day, the kids' days, things that were happening in my life.  I loved to ask for advice, then promptly dismiss it because my way was the right way.  I loved to chat it up with her, giving her all the scoop on my neighbors and gossiping like BFFs.  Yesterday, I so wanted to call her so I could bitch about my neighbor who refuses to shovel his sidewalk.  She would have appreciated that and validated my utter bitchiness about the whole situation.

When I was pregnant with Regan, I was completely neurotic.  I worried about everything - what I ate, how I ate it and how it was cooked.  Mom came to visit us in Chicago and I distinctly remember standing at the kitchen sink scrubbing a grapefruit with hot water and soap.  Mom thought I was nuts - she couldn't understand why I would worry about the pesticides sprayed on the outside of a grapefruit when I had no intention of eating the outside of this grapefruit.  In true Mimi fashion, she made no bones about expressing her opinion of the situation, which only fueled my desire to scrub harder. I'll be damned if she was going to prove me wrong, so I spouted all sorts of empirical data that supported my effort to scrub the crap out of that poor fruit.  I'm not sure if I ever even ate that darn grapefruit.

It's not as though Mom and I argued all the time (well, maybe all the time until I went away to college).  See, I am the female version of my dad in many ways, and I think that drove Mom nuts.  Not that we don't all love Dad but I was pretty anal, not very flexible and very quick to judge (shocking, I know).  As far as my siblings were concerned, I was the "mini mom", always tattling on everyone and trying to enforce the rules.  Bottom line, I was just pissed that Mom had so many kids.  I only got 16 months to relish in the glory of being the only child, so I had a big chip on my shoulder and I think that's one of the reasons why Mom and I didn't always see eye-to-eye.

So, tonight as I perused the cookbook, I decided to make Chicken Divan.  Normally, I would attempt to revise this dish and make it healthier, substituting skinless chicken breasts and low-fat soup for the original ingredients.  Instead, I decided to let Mom be right this time and follow the recipe exactly.  I would give anything to not see eye-to-eye with her these days.  Love you Mom.

Simple Gifts

Mom gave me the most incredible gift before she passed away - time.  Time to come to grips with losing her.  Time to say goodbye.  Time to tell her all the things I wanted her to know about me as a mom, as a wife, as a woman.  Time to thank her for all she had done for me in my life.  Time to reassure her that we would take care of Dad, take care of each other, and all get along.  And, most importantly, time to get to know her.  Not as my mom, but as a person - free from all those tensions found in the mother/daughter relationship, free from any reservation or judgment.  Time to really get to know her.  What a precious gift.

The weekend before Mom passed away, my sisters and I spent a few days and nights hanging out with Mom.  We took care of her, started to get Dad ready for life on his own, cried, laughed and drank a hell of a lot of wine.  Mom told us exactly how she wanted her memorial service to go, right down to the music and readings.  We rifled through her jewelry box and she dolled out some goodies, each with specific instructions and specific meaning to the recipient.  Mom was giving out her last gifts.

As we all sat on her bed, her jewelry spread around us, I asked Mom if I could have one thing.  One thing that meant more to me than anything in that jewelry box - her shaker of cinnamon sugar.  I thought she was going to fall out of the bed laughing so hard but that shaker always reminded me of Mom and her cinnamon toast.  A simple treat she would make when we were under the weather, a quick breakfast when we were teens on the run, a little shake that made plain toast a delicacy.  I believe the shaker actually predates my existence and Mom would always refill it once it ran empty.  She claimed she couldn't find cinnamon sugar in the spice aisle and it was easier to have it on hand, particularly at the rate the six of us consumed cinnamon toast.

Now that shaker sits prominently on my stove and I've introduced my kids to the delights of cinnamon toast.  I realize they don't need extra sugar in the morning, but a little shake of love from Mimi is the best way to start their day.

(I'm going to skip a recipe this time - cinnamon toast is pretty self-explanatory.  Enjoy!)

The Baking Dish

My grandparents would come and visit us for every holiday.  Easter, Thanksgiving and Christmas - they'd pack up their Mercury Grand Marquis, get a trip tick from AAA, and leave Indiana headed east to New Jersey.  Although it meant abandoning my nice bed to go bunk on a cot in Jed's room, it was really fun to have them come visit.  The thing I looked forward to the most was Grandma's lemon pancakes.  She would actually bring her own glass baking dish to make the pancakes, necessitated by the fact that Mom did not have the proper dish in her cache of kitchen accessories.  Truth be told, the baking dish was just a regular old 9x9 Pyrex (the light brown version made popular in the 60's) and she just liked to give Mom a hard time.  That said, it did create an aura of mystique about these pancakes, and it also meant we only had them when Grandma was in town. I'm fully confident Mom could have rocked the lemon pancakes.  I think she just enjoyed letting Grandma have the honor every time she came into town.

Grandma was a tough cookie and didn't have the most patience for the completely chaotic vibe created by the six of us, but she was a good soul.  Dad was an only child so Grandma wasn't accustomed to the noise, bustle and apparent lack of structure that a household with six young kids produced.  Visits that lasted longer than a few days tended to test her will, and sometimes you could feel the tension build (and not just because Mom's baking dishes were inadequate).  Nonetheless, Grandma was a master storyteller, extraordinary artist and queen of the lemon pancake, and we all enjoyed her visits.

I have to admit that I have never baked the pancakes from scratch.  I found a mix at Williams-Sonoma that does the trick and, honestly, I was always so intimidated by Grandma's undying confidence in her skills and that Pyrex dish, that I never felt up to the task.  Funny thing is, Thomas absolutely loves these breakfast treats (known to many as German pancakes or Dutch babies).  I've gotten in the habit of making them at least once on the weekend, and T and I will sit over the stove eating the pancake before it's even cooled.  Grandma must be turning in her grave - the audacity to eat such a delicacy straight out of the pan!

Tomorrow morning, I'm going to attempt to make these from scratch.  Kind of wish I knew where that baking dish of Grandma's was, but I've got the Williams-Sonoma mix on hand just in case.

Lemon Pancakes
1 stick butter
1/2 C flour
2 eggs
1/2 C milk
Lemons
Powdered sugar

Preheat oven to 450.  Melt butter in in glass 9x9 baking dish in oven.  Beat eggs slightly. Using a whisk, alternately mix in flour and milk until blended well.  Doesn't need to be perfectly smooth.

Pour in the baking dish and bake for 15 minutes.  Top with lemon juice and powdered sugar.

Snow Day

Ahh, the snow day.  A source of so much joy and elation for children, and so much pain and suffering for parents.  I was actually looking forward to this particular snow day.  I thought it would be a nice chance to bond with the kids over sledding and hot chocolate, and avoid the hectic pace of our after school activities. That said, I'm fairly certain if you check back with me around lunch time, my outlook on this day will be far more jaded.

I have very fond memories of snow days as a kid.  Waking up in the wee hours of the morning to the quiet, snow-laden world.  Hunkering down around the radio and listening anxiously for 1010 WINS to announce our school closing.  Rushing to be the first of the six kids out of the house so I could take the inaugural run down the swing set slide, which always caused a great deal of consternation among the siblings.  You see, the first one down got to push all the snow piled on the slide to the bottom.  There wasn't anything very special about that snow, just the fact that you got to be the only one out of the six who could do it - once that snow was gone, so was the thrill of the slide.  Mind you, I often tackled little siblings on my way out the door and I was so darn tall that my legs fit half way down the slide while sitting on top.  But I'll be damned if I was going to let anyone get there first.  The resulting arguments among the six of us would force Mom to lock the back door and leave us outside for the remainder of the day.

Once we got past those early morning spats, playing in the snow was pure joy. Snowmen, forts, snowball fights with the big kids up the street, ice skating on Mindowaskin Pond - quintessential outdoor fun. And Mom would never disappoint. Nestle hot chocolate with mini marshmallows, chocolate chip cookies and her famous chopped meat soup.

As a family, we've created our own traditions for snow days.  The kids always have scrambled eggs and cinnamon toast for breakfast, we've found our favorite sledding hill a few towns over, and I cook up a huge batch of chili for dinner.  This time around, I'm reverting back to the traditions of my childhood and swapping out the chili for chopped meat soup.  Enjoy!

Chopped Meat Soup
1 lb ground beef (or turkey)
16 oz can of stewed tomatoes
8 oz can of tomato sauce
2 C water
10 oz package of mixed frozen vegetables
1/2 envelope of onion soup mix
1 tsp sugar

In a large soup pot, brown the ground beef and drain.  Add remaining ingredients and bring to a boil.  Simmer for at least 1/2 hour before serving.  Can be frozen.

Beginning to Cope

I lost my mom, Mimi, to cancer in June.  She had just turned 67.  While I knew her passing was impending, and I had plenty of time to prepare, I never really gave myself the time or the permission to grieve once she was gone.  I'm a mom to three kids.  I take care of the house.  I attempt to cook a dinner here and there.  I drive an insane number of carpools.  And, I commit to far more volunteer activities than I have the time or patience to fulfill.  I'm your typical suburban housewife and once my mom was gone, I let my crazy life take control and I tried to forget about how sad I truly was.

For Christmas, my sister gave everyone in the family the most amazing gift.  She rifled through Mom's old recipe box and compiled a cookbook filled with all the best Mimi had to offer.  It is incredible and filled with all these great photos of Mom, the kids, her friends.  Priceless.

Although I read through the cookbook on Christmas Eve, I let life run its course and promptly shelved it with my other cookbooks.  Last night, I was having a moment.  A moment where I felt really guilty about not feeling sad that my mom was gone.  I'm not sure if I just haven't dealt with it all or if I just don't want to go down that path.  I'm the oldest of six.  I'm the strong one.  I'm the one who didn't need Mom a lot while growing up.  I can handle anything.  Or so I thought.

Anyway, I broke down.  I have only done that once since Mom died.  I sobbed and cried for what seemed like hours.  I sat on the stool I am sitting on right now and scrolled through photos of my mom on the laptop.  As I turned to refill my wine glass, I caught a glimpse of the cookbook.  And I took it off the shelf.  And I read through each and every recipe.  And I cried, and I smiled, and I laughed.  Exactly what I needed.

Then it came to me.  I should actually go through the cookbook and make these recipes.  Better yet, I thought it would be fun, and therapeutic, to borrow from the plot of a recent movie and share these wonderful recipes and stories about Mimi via a blog.  I'm going to pick a recipe and make it - even the lasagna which I never liked.  Somehow, I think this process will make me feel better.  Maybe it will make you feel better too.  If nothing else, Mimi will continue to live on through all her great recipes and all the amazing memories they conjure up.

Welcome to Mimi's Kitchen!

Rich Muffins (or as my kids call them, Chili Muffins - because I always serve them with chili!)
2 C flour
1/2 C sugar
1 tsp baking powder
1/2 tsp salt
2 eggs
1/2 C oil
1/2 C milk

Preheat oven to 400.

Mix dry ingredients together in a medium mixing bowl.  In a small bowl, mix all wet ingredients together with a whisk.  Add wet ingredients to the dry, mixing well with a wooden spoon.  Pour into greased muffin tins.  Bake for 15-20 minutes.