“Everything you see, I owe to spaghetti.”
Carbonara recipe from the gorgeous Extra Virgin cookbook by Debi Mazar and Gabriele Corcos.
"To err is human...
I have a habit of thinking compulsively, sometimes in circles. Reacting to seemingly small stimuli, for example a negative feeling in the pit of my stomach or a tinge of longing, I fabricate a story to explain the emotion. People who know a lot more than me call it "rationalizing". I condemn myself for being affected by the impatient driver who cut me off or becoming irritable with a family member. For admiring young lovers enjoying the newness of their relationship and comparing it to my own relationship, or observing a peer with enviable confidence, looks, success, and wondering if I am enough. The cycle is potentially damaging because everyone has something we haven't. More so, everyone's different. We forget to give thanks for who and what we are, flaws and all.
I've eased up of late though, because there is an odd liberation in acknowledging unsavory human tendencies. Identifying simply, " I am in a bad mood; it will pass." Admitting when I am jealous, critical, or angry. Finding peace in a burst of fury or caddy impulse before releasing them. Feelings like this remind me that I am fallible, at the same time encouraging acceptance and personal growth.
"I am broken, and that is ok. I was made to be imperfect."
It is gratifying to be honest. In the deep recesses of my mind, what goes on isn't immediately available to others; I can choose to make it their business or keep it filed in my personal folder. Thoughts are powerful, but I've seen first-hand that thoughts don't make the person. Actions and words released in to the world make the person.
The struggle is constant, to make the right choice over the easy choice, to act with compassion and patience. Thankfully, every day is another chance, as my Nana told me once. You can wake up and begin again, carrying the weight of the days prior until it is too heavy to bear.
Scenes from Sunday (4)
Any day that is designated to celebrate a specific group of people leaves me with mixed feelings. On one hand, I am overjoyed to recognize the efforts and love of, in this instance, Dads everywhere. My Dad is a generous and hard working man. An athlete and all around big guy, in personality and stature, he never wanted for a son after he was blessed with two girls. We were enough. He taught us how to get back up after a fall, and rebound from life's disappointments. When you're a teenage girl, there are many. My grandfather is also a gem of a human being, with an enormous heart and even greater spirit. There are many men in my life to give thanks for.
My Nonny used to read Taste of Home magazine so I tend to look to their website for comfort food favorites; it reminds me of her. My Dad, Nonny's son, has been pining after Banana Cream pie, so for Father's Day I finally granted his wish, with this easy to prepare recipe.
A layer of cream, followed by a layer of sliced banana.
On the other hand, a close friend of mine lost his father around this time a few years back, and I can't help but think that where there is celebration, there is also the potential for bittersweetness. Everyone's circumstances are different. Non-biological fathers stand in and exceed the roles of a father, deployed dads are very far from home and their loved ones, or mothers go it alone. Others might not have a close relationship with their fathers so they are starting new traditions with children of their own. Nonetheless, Father's Day is open to interpretation. A silent prayer on a fishing dock, remembering summers spent with Dad before he passed, a day at the Rodeo, or a banana cream pie in the backyard, the residual smell of barbecue lingering in the air.
Another layer of cream. Whip waiting in the wings.
Dad volunteered at a Church carnival all of last week with the exception of Saturday when he worked at Monster Jam. He actually slept most of Sunday, fatigue setting in. But we spent time by the pool, noshing on burgers, dogs, and smoked chicken thighs. Nana's German potato salad was two parts German and one part Italian. She adapted the recipe like her mother used to, bringing a little Sicilian flair to the table. However Sunday is spent, may everyone find something or someone to celebrate. And of course, a pie makes any celebration doubly delicious. Happy belated Father's Day.
Lastly and most importantly (for me), the fresh whip. Williams Sonoma liked our pie enough to share it on their Instagram feed!
“Gratitude is not only the greatest of virtues, but the parent of all others”
Image taken at St. Paul Inside the Walls in Madison, NJ
Less is More (4)
Lunch at Raymond's
Raymond's is a charming diner style restaurant on Church Street in Montclair, New Jersey. It's the sort of place you go for a meal but leave feeling uplifted whether from stimulating conversation with a friend, a killer Cobb salad and fries, or the happy chatter of others. Children are always there I've noticed which I interpret as a good omen. The waitstaff are amiable and genuine, dressed in denim for a casual feel. My favorites there are the egg salad sandwich, the calamari salad, and the French toast. It's made with French bread and is simply decadent. It was at Raymond's I had my first Lime Rickey, discussed new business ventures, and comforted a single mom whose youngest was preparing for her wedding. Everyone has a Raymond's. The local spot to get a milkshake or a cup of coffee that is made just right each time.
Water in motion
Water has an inexplicable soothing effect. For the spiritual, it is symbolic of beginnings, the washing away of sins, and forgiveness. For the non-spiritual it is just as powerful. A close friend of mine once told me if I was ever to become worried or anxious, to envision myself floating in a running river, water rushing at my sides, my concerns washing away. I've never forgotten that; it has served me a great deal.
Nurturing a plant
My first semester at Georgetown, my mother got my roommate and I a delicate plant for our little dorm. It only lasted one week. Neither of us were very adept at caring for plants, although understandably it isn't really that difficult. Perhaps we were overwhelmed with the new chapter of college life. Since then I have made a conscious effort to take more attentive care of plants. Throughout our lives we will take care of children, siblings, pets, and elderly family members. We might even dedicate our time to caring for complete strangers. There is a certain comfort though in nurturing something that has nothing to say or give. That you can talk to without fear of judgment or worse, indifference. That won't poop on the carpet.
Grilled pizza
We've been grilling a great deal as the weather has been warm and summer beckons. The Chef of the house has a wild imagination and can make nearly anything on the charcoal grill. Inspired by a trip to the Monk Room, James recreated their Carbonara pizza with guanciale, eggs and crushed black pepper. It was perfectly, imperfect with its amoeba-like shape. Maybe he will make me another for breakfast.
The sound of fury
No, not William Faulkner , we're talking NASCAR. I attended my first race at the Pocono Raceway in Pennsylvania this past weekend. Unsure what to expect, I imagined it would be loud but wasn't prepared for the sheer magnitude of those engines. Despite the great volume, it was I might even say melodic as the cars whizzed by like furious bees. The roar faded in and out as they rounded the track. Even with ear plugs, the bleachers shook with every lap.