She was a weaver. Coming to it late in life, her footsteps were no longer steady, but her fingers delicately managed the small loom in her living room, balls of yarn beckoning from the nearby basket. One of her last days, I came to see her. Her daughters handed me a small, soft package, wrapped in tissue — a narrow jewel-toned scarf unrolled, marked by a label with the weaver’s name. Continue reading
We were both lifeguards.
Beyond that, our lives were different. Continue reading
Every few years, my mom would troll our neighborhood for a good refrigerator box. Continue reading
I wore my jean jacket this morning. Neither fashionable nor flattering, it is faded and worn, broken in over decades. Continue reading
25 May 2016 – I took a walk with my dad this morning, his 86th birthday. I needed his advice. I brought my coffee, but he would have preferred a good pastry. It wasn’t really his time of day either. But I wanted to talk.
Thing is, Dad died 7 years ago. Continue reading
Hug the mixing bowl. Yes, really hug it. If you don’t, it will fly across the kitchen. Actually, with liquid batter, the mixer works just fine, most of the time. But with dough, the bowl goes flying off the base, ingredients with it. If you hug the bowl while it mixes, it will stay on the base. So, I keep hugging the bowl.
Because it was Grandma’s. And when I bake with the KitchenAid 4C that is as old as I am, Grandma is in the kitchen with me. She is telling me to use the best of ingredients. She is baking alongside my three children, at least one of whom is already taller than her. All of this is a neat trick, since Grandma died 22 years ago. Continue reading
I sat in a Potbelly restaurant in the Garment District of Manhattan, wishing it were Dubrow’s Cafeteria. The problem? Dubrow’s closed in 1985. Still, I wished.