LET ME TELL YOU ABOUT MY MOTHER by Rhoda Marshall

My mother lived to be 99. And until she was about 98 she had all her marbles. When she was 94 she gave up her apartment and moved into a senior hotel in Long Beach. It was a very nice place, not too big – not too small. She could talk to people and participate in whatever limited programs they had. The dining room offered menus with several choices at each meal and she never complained about the food. Of course, she had a very small appetite and was easily pleased because she didn’t eat much. I think that after a lifetime of cooking, she had lost all interest in food.

I called her every day.  One day when she was living in the hotel for about 2 years, and about 96, she sounded kind of down so I asked her if she was okay and she said- in a really not okay tone- that she was okay she guessed. I persisted and she said she wondered how long she would have to go on living. Nothing was any good anymore. I said “Mom, why not just relax and enjoy yourself? You deserve it. Look”, I said, “you don’t even have to make your bed in the mornings, or shop, or cook, or worry about cleaning the house. What more do you want?” “I want”, she said, “to be 90 again.”

At some point, in some way, my mother met a man there. A new-comer. I have no idea how it started but he and she became quite close and she even asked me if she could bring her “boyfriend” to the annual family Christmas party. Of course she could. We were all dying to meet him. And of course he came with her.

Well, it seemed that Bill, that was his name, was just a kid of 89 and kept teasing her for being an older woman, and so much older than him. And my mom just wanted to do what a lot of women did down through the ages – shave a couple of years off the top.

My First Food by Cristina Mazzella

 One of my first memories of food is that of my mother jarring tomatoes in our small apartment in the South Bronx. I must have been about four years old… It was late summer, and the entire hallway, kitchen and living room were taken over by crates and boxes of tomatoes. As the days went by, the acidic smell of the tomatoes mixed with that of the moist cardboard, filled every corner. I remember her working so hard, late and into the night. I remember her setting me up for a late night bowl of cereal: my seat was a crate and my table a box of tomatoes. The smell permeated the taste of the sweet milk and cereal, changing it to something strange but not unpleasant.

Throughout the process my grandmother would stop by to inspect her work: the critical eye of the veteran scrutinizing the new foreigner, judging her for not even being Italian and trying to jar her own tomatoes…

As the days passed the smells changed with each step, and the boiling stage brought our small, 5^th floor apartment from hot to unbearable. I was watching my mother and noticed how tired she seemed. I wondered why, why was she doing all this? So late one night, the light coming in from the kitchen pulling me from sleep, I shuffled in and asked.

“Why? Why baby? Tomorrow I will show you, I promise.”

The next day was a Sunday, and my mother made the typical Italian “Sunday dinner” for my family (including my aunt and uncle, my cousins and my grandparents): pasta with tomato sauce, meatballs, eggplant parmesan, pork and sausages. (Now, I doubt the memory I have of what that dinner tasted like came from that day, because my mother has made that meal many times since, and the description I am about to give most likely comes from the culmination of enjoying a lifetime of that deliciousness.)

The meal was perfect: a silky tomato sauce, ground meat sautéed in white wine and garlic; perfectly browned, moist and firm meatballs that melted in your mouth; pork so tender that the fork slid through it like warm butter…and so full of flavor that people’s eyes closed as they ate it; plump, juicy sausages that had just the right amount of crunch with a firm outer skin… The table was quiet. I looked around to see everyone just, eating. No talking, no commenting, just forks moving in plates. I think I remember my uncle make a kind of humming noise as he chewed… Finally my father put his fork down for a moment and said, “My god honey, this is delicious!” My grandmother offered no compliments, but her empty plate spoke volumes and she shuffled uncomfortably in her chair. My mother shot me a quick look and with a sparkle in her eye and responded, “it’s the sauce I jarred myself!”

My grandmother raised an eyebrow. My next bite tasted of satisfaction and victory.

The Goddess by Lisa Maxwell.

      "Come on Lizzy, let's go for a walk!"

      "Okay mom."

      I brushed the sand off my sticky arms and legs and jumped up out of my post swim stupor, leaving my damp towel askew in the sand. My siblings, Anne, Linda and Gray were all lost in their own worlds in half-sleep states, oblivious. Everyone's hair was still wet and tangled from our salty swim.

     The breeze danced around over my skin as sand continued to fall off the parts of my body I hadn't swiped. Mom was wearing the same faded one-piece bathing suit she had worn the summer before and the summer before that.

     The straps fell loose around her brown shoulders and she was carrying a small plastic beach bag. I trotted beside her, my eyes squinting from the sun, riveted to the sand, sidestepping baby conch shell pods and fly-covered seaweed piles, scanning every inch of

beach.

     The sky was neutral in color, and the seagulls swooped in my peripheral vision. The smell of decaying sea matter wafted in the air. We were on our quest for the most perfect shells and pieces of sea glass, heading west into the sun down our beach, not a soul in sight.

     "Look Little Bits!" her pet name for me, "Over there!" I studied the sand in the direction that her finger pointed and finally saw the beautiful bottle green gem poking out of the beach debris, ran over and scooped it up.

     "Thanks Mom. Ooohhh, it's beautiful!" I rubbed my fingers over the sea-smoothed edges, marveling at how much they had been worn over an unimaginable length of time.

I held it up for her to see, and even though her Venus body was back lit her smile beamed. I dropped it with pride in to her bag. We would walk about half an hour one way, and half an hour back. Just the two of us, not talking much, delighting in the prizes we would find to add to our collection. Our standards were equally high, not accepting anything the beach yielded that wasn't perfect.

     It was our time alone together, and she was my goddess.

Lisa also sings beautifully.  Check out her Return to Jazz Standards on CD Baby.

LIVER AND ONIONS

     I was raised by a totally devoted yet diverse cultural entity named Fran and Carol. Fran was a decedent of Italian and French Canadian (very stubborn and sometimes a little wicked). Carol was German and Irish (also stubborn, and mostly just stubborn)
     Our family was a group of huge eaters and Carol was going through a period of self-exploration by renovating a Colonial home (by herself) and baking fresh bread every day. We ate like Kings and of course it was mostly – Italian. Pasta with everything! Tomato Sauce for all!!
     Occasionally however, Carol would wake up completely Irish and resent her three children’s Italian identity. (We were all quite dark).On those occasions she would decide to cook authentic Irish (whatever that is). She would never tell us, just surprise us as we sat for dinner.
     Imagine getting to your favorite part of the day and being told we were having Corned Beef? Irish Soda Bread? (yuck pass the butter). But the worst of the worst was liver and onions. We would all complain and finally she would arrive at the table with a heaping plate of dried and curled liver with slimy onion s all over the top.
     We would immediately gather condiments and proceed to disguise this unbelievable turnabout in dining. How could she make us eat this? We were not allowed substitutions.
     “Pass the salt” Steven would say. “Pass the catsup” another would yell. “How about Peanut butter”?
Carol was getting angry. How dare we begrudge her a single meal of “Irishness”. Why were we so selfish and rude?
      “Hey look at how high mine bounces” I yelled. Now she was mad.
And today I think how really badly I behaved that one particular Irish day. Why did I hurt her feelings just in an effort to make the others laugh?
       I think I will make it a goal this year to learn how to cook liver and onions and surprise her on her birthday. I wonder if she will remember? I hope she doesn’t get the catsup out of the fridge.

--Debbie Russo is the owner of both A Royal Flush, a portable toilet company that serves Massachusetts to Delaware, and Bridgeport Bio Diesel, a new CT based company that converts kitchen grease into renewable fuel

Diet #1789 by Alexandra Townsend

This was the 1,789th time my parents were going to lose weight. Which meant no carbs that week. No delicious bread or yummy pasta. The Italian in me started to wither. Can one survive without bread? Or maybe that month was no sugar. Damn, no candy or cake.

Either way, it meant dinner would be questionable. It would be something that I didn’t like. That, I could guarantee.

I came downstairs with dread. I looked at my mom and with a big, giant, shiny used car salesman’s smile she says, “Its Meatloaf” What? No pasta or buttered noodles. (Standard Russo fare in the 80’s)

I hate meat. It always makes me gag (insert gag face here) I have never had meatloaf and I know my life was better without it.
She says, “It is this great new recipe. Weight Watchers. It has apples in it.” Yeah, like that is going to seal the deal …

I love apples. They are my favorite food. I had apple buttons on my sweaters as a kid. Do you see where this is going?? I wasn’t fooled. This meal was going to suck.

She slices up this gray, yucky meat and there are all these colorful specks inside. Christ, this is really going to suck. Apples couldn’t save this. Chocolate and gummy bears couldn’t save this.

I take my first bite and I can’t control it. My mouth starts to water and my throat closes up. I am definitely going to puke. All of the sudden my mom looks at me. “You are ridiculous. It isn’t that bad.” My dad’s face starts to turn red and that vein in his forehead pulses. I know this isn’t going to end well. He is getting pissed!

He starts to yell and I don’t really remember what happens next. I probably blanked in fear! But I am pretty sure it was ugly. I am sure that, like a brat, I gagged and cried until I was sent to my room. This would, of course, get me out of eating the meatloaf.

All that matters is that to this day my mom still defends hat horrible meatloaf and I still stand by my gag face. It was awful.

Alexandra Townsend- I am not a writer, I just play one on TV. Not really, but I do love writing on my blog. I have been blogging for a couple of years now and I am officially hooked. Enjoy the ramblings of a slightly unstable person (I kid, I kid) by visiting http://runningjustasfast.blogspot.com.

Today is the day I start tommorow

If I don't get a good 71/2 hours of sleep a night, I walk through the next day like I have a hangover...which isn't possible since I gave up drinking about the time my daughter first hit the baby bottle. So I had a drag-ass day today because I went into NYC last night and got to bed a big two hours later than I usually do. I had so much to do today and all I could manage was returning audio tapes to the library.  I think back to when Charlotte was a baby.  Well, she was a good baby--she slept through the night.  At least, as far as I know she did.  Anyway, I'm waiting for the day to be over so I can start fresh in the AM.

changing from MoMoir to Auntoir

O.K. enough of Charlotte who doesn't even read my blogs which have all pretty much put her in a starring role.  (Her favorite role.) From now on I'm going to blog about my nephews and nieces.  I have a brand new booky best friend. Mr. Kieth Spaulding (last name withheld). He confessed to me this weekend that he now reads fiction.  Not just any fiction. But he just finished Freedom by Jonathan Whatshisname.  And he liked and hated it as much as I did. Poor Kieth. He is now on my You Have To Read This Now List!!!!! It's so nice to have a nephew who reads especially when you have a daughter who won't give you the time of day. PS. I just bought a kindle and am waiting for Skippy Dies to download. A warning to future Kindle purchasers: this is not an instant download. It took about ten minutes. I want my money  back.