Flying high

One of the pleasures of living on the East coast is the variation in the seasons. With Autumn come the bright hues and crunch of leaves, cable knit sweaters, and pumpkin spice lattes. We ease in to Winter with temperatures that drop steadily, snow falls, and the buzz of the holidays. When it has been dark for long enough, Spring greets us with warm sunshine and fresh blooms. 

​At last it is Summer. There are popsicles, roasted marshmallows, and late nights around the fire. Weekends are for the beach or picnicking. Weeknights, we grill outside greeted by warmth, a setting sun, and the smell of fresh basil from the garden.  There is an abundance of activities outdoors. My boyfriend James has a keen sense of adventure, which is aided by his appreciation of small things. Consequently, ordinary endeavors become grand adventures.  

One night, on a whim we went to the State Fair in search of a deep fried confection and a ride or two. Fortunate for us, there happened to be a traveling Circus group performing, the entertainers dressed head to to in red, white and blue, the picture of Americana. We grabbed seats next to a sweet family of six, and watched on in amazement.  ​

The first performer climbed a massive pole, and hung from the very top by just a wrist strap. In the wind, the pole swayed back and forth, as she stood atop and balanced with no net below her, and I ached with anxiety. There was a human cannon that flew through the air, and two young men that maneuvered a massive rotating apparatus with ease. A family of performers walked the tight rope, then rode along it on a bicycle. My heart beat faster with every step. Planes from the nearby airport roared overhead all the while, and  American flags waved as these talents were flying high against the backdrop of the evening sky.   ​

After the performance, we wandered, mounted the sky ride and caught a breathtaking view of the New York City skyline. James kept his eyes closed as he was reminded of one too many drills at high altitudes from his time as Marine. We had french fries with malt vinegar and a coffee milkshake to split, an end to a fine summer night.

“Everything you see, I owe to spaghetti.”

— Sophia Loren

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”

— Cicero

Image taken at St. Paul Inside the Walls in Madison, NJ