Stories Archives - Page 5 of 6 - Stephanie DelTorchio

Bake Some Memories

Italian Fig Cookie Recipe

Many years ago my aunt and uncle shared their recipe for Italian Fig Cookies (Cuccidata) with me.

Her cookie dough recipe with its time-tested measurements and instructions ensured perfect results every time. His fig filling recipe caused me difficulty year after year.

Truth be told, I’m a decent baker. But for the life of me I couldn’t figure out why my cookies didn’t equal theirs. Mine tasted okay but missed that something special thing that made theirs sooo good.

Every year, a week before Christmas I’d call my uncle to whine about the latest filling failure. It was either too runny, or thick, the flavor was off…something.

He took great pleasure mocking my baking abilities – did I follow the recipe correctly? Measure right? Not rough handle the dough? My answers were ‘yes’ to all and then he’d tell me I’d done something “stupid”.

We’d review the recipe again. While I scribbled notes he’d brag about the twenty batches already baked, decorated and wrapped for gifts. I couldn’t match his production.

On or about year fifteen my uncle and I came to an impasse over these cookies. We agreed I’d bring my ingredients to his house and work out my problems together once and for all.

The first thing I learned: this competition of ours was rigged. He cheated.

My uncle used fresh figs from a tree he nursed in his yard (for the record, figs are not native to New England). The tree, originally shipped from Italy, grew in a large plastic barrel in the corner of his impressive vegetable garden. Come fall, he harvested and dried the figs, I swear, to taunt our cookie bake-off. Then he wrapped his baby in layers of burlap and moved it to the garage where it received his tender administration until spring.

Fresh figs.

Hands down, no comparison to my figs. Dried, cryovaced and shipped 5,000 miles from Messina to Stop & Shop.

While my Cuisinart produced a slurry mess, the old contraption he used ground the figs, dates and raisins into a glorious chunky texture. Perfection.

As I worked the grinder’s hand crank, Italian music played on the Hi-Fi fighting against the timbre of my uncle’s directives. His normal speaking tone was at least thirty decibels higher than mine on my best screaming day. No matter how many times I insisted his yelling didn’t make me understand the recipe better, he insisted, louder, it did.

We measured, mixed and baked cookies. Wine got poured, then coffee while we enjoyed the sweet confections of our labor.

My uncle remembered his mother and aunt making these same cookies in the “old country”. His version couldn’t compare to theirs, he said. The memory of his departed family softened his face, but did nothing to quiet his voice.

I left his kitchen with a ginormous tray of the best cookies I’d ever made.

Maybe it was the fresh figs. Or the old-fashioned grinder. More likely it was the channeled love that made his cookies so delicious.

Today I took out the recipe which is now immortalized in a fundraiser cookbook. It’s not his recipe, of course, but the one he and I worked out together. To me it’s perfect.

As I channel my aunt and uncle I’m both happy and sad. Happy for the memories of our years baking together, and sad, missing the friendly banter between batches.

I put on Christmas music, pour a glass of wine and tear up with joy. These cookies taste stupid good.

Be F-G AWESOME TODAY!

Be Childlike

The word AWESOME gets thrown around a lot.

It’s a subjective word, of course. What I find awesome might bore you to death, and vice-versa. I still love the word because it makes me feel childlike. Not childish. There is a difference.

Childish is acting like a baby or with immature tendencies. Acceptable from a toddler. Draining and boorish when adults behave this way, no? You know the type. Whiners. Complainers. Demanding. Feet stompers.

Being childlike is sort of whimsical; trusting, innocent, fearless. All the endearing qualities of children. I remember watching my six-year-old son’s face as we entered the Magic Kingdom. It lit up. He couldn’t take it all in at the same time. Standing there, frozen, in awe of Main Street, the music, the characters – all of it like a dream.

Adults experience this too. Seeing a natural wonder (Grand Canyon anyone?), a Key West sunset, the streets of Paris at night from the top of the Eiffel Tower — your adult eyes open in wide-eyed childlike wonder. You process this differently than a child but it still leaves your heart fluttering. Is this real? Can I bottle it up?

Trying something new, with or without fear, brings on the giddies, right? I remember my first (and only) white water rafting trip in Acadia National Park. No lying, this gal’s heart raced, and not the good kind! Petrified, panicked, were the emotions bubbling under my surface. Crying for Mommy, under my breath.

Despite all logic to stay away from danger, we paddled hard in the direction of a waterfall. A waterfall! Every survival instinct said “turn the raft around” and paddle like hell in the opposite direction. To calm, safe waters.

Instead we paddled hard and fast towards the fall until our arms ached. At the exact moment we reached the crest of the fall my entire body went all rubbery. Fear. Just over the rim I spotted rafts filled with rafters who’d gone over the fall before us. They seemed so tiny, distant, really far down below. Excuse me, what was the size of this drop again?

“HOLD ON!!” came our guide’s instruction from the rear of the raft.

Hold on? Bet your ass!

We dipped over the crest (I swear my feet flipped over my head) and the raft arced downward, then we were airborne. The bow crashed the churning water and went under, followed by our rafting crew. One by one we bobbed to the surface like ducks; drenched, spitting and choking on icy cold freshwater, unlike ducks. Safe and stable again, we high-fived each other, screaming our brains out, elated, and alive. And like all endearing children, once we realized we’d survived the waterfall drop, collectively yelled: “Let’s do it again!”

BE F-G AWESOME TODAY!

Original graphic and quote: Stephanie DelTorchio
Image: Viktor Jakovlev

Spread Joy

Not to sound all mushy but it’s easy to find Joy, especially this time of the year. And God knows this planet needs Joy.

Last night, despite chilly temps, community members gathered for a small tree lighting ceremony to honor and remember cancer patients. Signs of Joy were everywhere.

Joy…
in the testimony and support from patients and families for the unwavering kindness and love provided by a caring, professional oncology staff.

Joy…
in the aspiring voices of the middle school chorus, directed by a student conductor.

Joy…
in the faces of children when Santa appeared — skinny, jolly, ringing bells; just as wonderful and magical as the rotund mall version without long lines or admission fee to say ‘hello’.

Joy…
in the eyes of a sweet friend as she shared news of the heaven-sent companion she married, two years after losing her former partner to cancer.

Joy…
in the warm hugs of a mother while announcing her son is cancer-free.

Joy…
on the satisfied face of a beloved oncology nurse and clinical researcher on her decision to retire at the end of the year.

Joy…
in hearing the name of the person who bought a raffle ticket ahead of me win the door prize.

Joy,
the painted sign on my shed door. Placed there on purpose this holiday to be the first reminder every morning to live in Joy and do my very best to spread it.

BE F-G AWESOME TODAY!

Image/Painted Sign: Stephanie DelTorchio

Enjoy the Unexpected

Christmas greens, 60 degree sunshine in New England!

It’s almost sixty degrees in New England, a mere three weeks before Christmas. I’m lazing in flip flops on a beach chair unpacked from the garage. Sheltered from a wispy breeze it’s about 74 degrees on the deck. My dog joins me, stretched on the warm boards, twitching in a dream.

This time of the year we’re normally clinging on a ladder, and throwing out a few F-bombs while our fingers go numb wrestling with an uncooperative string of lights. Instead we’re slathering on sunscreen and thinking about taking the dog to the beach.

We hardy New Englanders understand the mood swings of Mother Nature; she’ll do what she’ll do.

I would not be surprised if black and gray clouds roll over us and the temperature dips thirty degrees in the next hour. Our credo around here: If you don’t like the weather, wait a minute.

I’m calling the nice weather a tease, knowing any minute, without warning, Mother Nature will change her mind. Winter is whispering on our backside and as sure as the grass is green today, a thick layer of snow will soon cover it. That is to be expected.

But the unexpected surprise is when an old friend from Atlanta calls to say he’s in town. Our unseasonably good weather gives little credence to my “this is not normal” speech when he arrives overdressed, expecting chilly temps or a few snowflakes. That was the day before.

There are no rules for weather forecasting where we live. We expect the unexpected and roll with it. No biggie. For friends who show up when you least expect, we call that surprise a gift.

BE F-G AWESOME TODAY!

Photo: Stephanie DelTorchio. Thanks to my sister-in-law for making the beautiful green arrangement.

Be The Best Thing To Someone Today

Without you being aware of it, you could become the person who changes someone’s life today for the better. In fact you most certainly may be the best thing that happens to someone today. That’s how powerful you are as a human being.

It might go undetected by you, but the person you grace with your presence (intentionally or not) will be forever changed. And grateful that you showed up in their life today.

***

I sat in a tiny waiting area. Tense. Afraid. Sick to my stomach. Again.

In this one there were six chairs, two side tables topped with a variety of magazines all battered and torn. A coffee table centered between the chairs held a gratuitous plastic flower arrangement. Why bother? Someone had tried to cheery up the room with honey-colored walls and unremarkable framed prints of forests and wheat fields. I hated this place just like I hated the place before it.

Across from me sat a little old man, maybe in his 80s, the only other person in the room. Where I hadn’t acknowledged him at all, he offered a kind and friendly smile.

I dug out my nearly-filled notebook and scribbled in today’s entry: date, location, doctor, procedure. Keeping notes was my sanity, a way to control the uncontrollable. It gave me a sense of purpose; that I was doing something to help, to be productive, to keep a handle on the only thing I could manage. Notes. Names. Medications. Lab reports. Specialists. Surgeries. Chemo schedule.

I wrote with desperate intensity; fast, in a panic, worried I’d forget something, one tiny detail that once having escaped my brain could never be retrieved. And that detail would end up being the important clue and I’d beat myself up again for not having recorded it.

This was my purpose as a caregiver. A meticulous keeper of notes.

What started as a “just the facts m’am” reference grew into a filled journal of raw emotion. Writing became the only trusted reliable friend on the dark days.

Feeling angry and pissed, I had no trouble telling off everyone and anyone on paper, including God Almighty. Sometimes I punched people in the face. On paper.

Writing kept my sanity especially on days when I felt the entire world around me had gone insane.

This was one of those days.

I pressed the pen so hard my fingers trembled until the point tore through the page. That’s when the old man laid his hand on my knee making me flinch.

He smiled without showing any teeth and, with a surprisingly firm grip, took both of my hands in his. “How long have you had cancer?” he asked me.

I shook my head. “It’s my husband.” He nodded as if he only saw my lips move but didn’t hear my words. “My husband.”

“Yes,” he said. “How long have you had cancer?”

I repeated “my husband” again but louder, in slow motion, so he could read my lips.

He massaged my hands a moment.

“My wife,” he said, his eyes looking to the door, “she’s in there too.” He turned back to me and smiled. A full set of rather nice old man teeth. “We’ve been married sixty-two years. This is the second time we have had cancer.” Emphasis on the word “we”.

His eyes, mocha colored like my Dad’s, softened. He went on to tell me that he is present for every appointment, blood draw, chemo and radiation treatment. Holds her hair back when she throws up then wipes her face. Spoon feeds her when she can’t do it herself. Wraps his arms around her when she is too tired to cry or weak to walk. “We” meant they are so close and bonded, what happens to one is felt by the other.

He palmed my cheek, still smiling. “How long have you had cancer?”

“Two years.”

We talked a short while before he retreated back to his chair and worn out Yachting magazine to wait for his wife.

I thanked him when he and his equally sweet wife left, then returned to write in “our” notebook with a more peaceful stroke.

BE F-G AWESOME TODAY!

Image credit: Unsplash

Original graphic and quote: Stephanie DelTorchio

Be Yourself, Everyone Else Is Already Taken

Once again I’ve been the victim of mistaken identity.

I am not a weather girl. With all due respect to the sisters with real credentials, I am not a Meteorologist either.

I’ve been stopped too many times to count. I’m honest right away. Nope, not your gal. Still, they turn their heads trying a different angle, so sure I’m somebody they’ve seen somewhere. Trust me, at eleven p.m. I’m sleeping through the weather report.

This has happened so many times, my pat answer now is, “Yeah, I get that a lot, it’s the hair,” or if pressed, “It’s going to be a beautiful weekend. Get out and enjoy.”

Here’s the thing: I’m average. In height and weight, a homogeneous middle-aged female. I blend well in a crowd.

My husband, who loses me everywhere we go, claims 90% of the blondes in this country use the same hair color dye as me, including, apparently, weather girls.

Uhm…Meteorologists.

I’ve been stopped by:

Kids

Women (Bead and Button Convention Ladies. Who knew, right?)

Men, some famous (including then Senator, now Secretary of State John Kerry; former Celtics NBA player M.L. Carr on a JetBlue flight)

Numerous servers, clerks, librarians, and one Marriott doorman who thought I was much nicer in person.

In line at Panera this adorable girl, about 10, is standing next to me awaiting her order. She looks up and smiles; I smile back.

“I like your hair,” she says.

“I like your hair too.” Hers is dark brown, blunt cut with thick bangs, very Prince Valiant.

“I know who you are,” she says.

I shake my head, no.

“You’re the lady on television. You tell us the weather in the morning.”

Again I shake my head no. “I’m a writer.”

Quick to snarl back, she says, “My Mom says you should tell the truth every time.”

“Your Mom is right. Tell her it’s going to be a beautiful weekend. Get out and enjoy.”

BE F-G AWESOME TODAY!

Awesome ACCEPTANCE

Original graphics: Stephanie DelTorchio
Sunshine Clip Art: iClipart

Holding Hands

In my former neighborhood, a petite elderly couple, guessing in their early 80s, shuffled up and down the street every day, holding hands.

A stylish, elegant pair, the man always wore a black felt beret and thin dark jacket. The woman dressed appropriate for the weather; a dress or skirt most days, then slacks when it cooled. They both wore white sneakers, laced not Velcroed.

They seemed glued to each other’s conversation, content in their own world, acknowledging no one passing by.

One Spring morning the woman stopped to admire a neighbor’s lilac trees in full bloom. She inhaled a sweet cluster and invited the man to do the same; he obliged and they shared a lovely moment. Then he snapped a few branches and delicately tucked them into her palm.

I imagined their long history. How had this precise, choreographed daily slow dance come to waltz into the neighborhood?

Perhaps they experienced young love, world travel, multiple wars, births of children, deaths of parents and friends, meaningful (or not) professions, communion with nature…all of it.

My last sighting of them was in early March nearly twelve years ago when I moved from the neighborhood. The woman dressed in a heavy coat, scarf wrapped around her head and twisted stylishly at the collar. His hand covered hers; he paused to take her elbow to ease her struggle onto the curb. There was a noticeable slow down to their dance, but they danced.

I wondered how many times over the course of their life, the simple act of holding hands had comforted or celebrated each of them.

BE F-G AWESOME TODAY!

Awesome LOVE

Original graphic: Stephanie DelTorchio

The Five Minute Rule of Civility

It takes balls to stand in the same air space as a person you’d rather squeeze the life out of. Still, my mother, a woman with great big balls believed anyone can survive a civil conversation for five minutes.

We’re grown-up big people. We know civility aligns with the rules of law and the Almighty. This is how mature adults (should) behave. Five minutes will ease you through a dreaded receiving line or a chance meeting at the deli. Five minutes is the average time it takes to floss your teeth, take out the trash and phone in a pizza order.

As an alternative to total avoidance, she suggested another, albeit radical approach. Go at it head-on. Be the friendly aggressor. Stick out your sweaty, shaking hand first. Say hello.

This is one of those situations where it sounds better on paper. Retreat in the opposite direction is more my style.

I have a certificate from the Absence/Avoidance Institute.

Despite a near panic attack, I sucked it up at a funeral service when it would have been very easy to give my condolences to the family and slip out the side door.

An older woman, the source of many nightmares, sat a few rows away glaring in my direction, buzzing to the people around her. In my mind they were talking about me. Because ego always shows up first. In the past she’d meddled in my business where her only stake in the outcome, to make waves. Her disloyalty ended a lovely friendship, although honestly, I couldn’t remember the exact details that caused us to not speak for years.

Occasionally our paths crossed. We avoided each other in opposite rope lines at the bank or the same grocery register. Easier to look the other way or recheck the list than attempt civility.

I paid my respects and approached the woman, interrupting her mid-sentence. She looked up and examined my face for a moment, trying to place me, then returned to her conversation — parking suggestions for the next day’s church service. My ego got booted out the door on its ass, where it belonged.

I stood in her air space and held out my sweaty hand. To my surprise she stood up and took it. Her frail, boney handshake drew me into a sweet hug. She still favored Jean Naté. Twenty years had rendered its penance. Her slight frame thinner than I’d remembered, now as fragile as a China doll. I thought a good sneeze might shatter her into a million bits.

She softened even more when I mentioned just having made her One-Bowl-Banana-Bread recipe. That the well-worn, stained card she’d written when I was a new bride is still a family favorite. “I don’t bake anymore, ” she said.

And just like that it was over.

We parted, in less than five minutes, with no daggers or bloodshed or promises to see each other anytime in the future. It was a civil conversation, that’s all. I’d like to think we were both better for it.

My mother’s contention:

They’re going to talk about you whether you speak up or walk away. Leave them with a good story to tell.

In fact behind my back one of her elderly friends said, “Can you believe she had the nerve to smile at you and shake your hand?”

I checked my watch. Under five minutes.

And my pizza was ready for pick-up.

BE F-G AWESOME TODAY!

Awesome LESSON

Original graphic and Photo image: Stephanie DelTorchio (the recipe)

Authentic versus Real Pumpkin Pie

My daughter was eight when we set out to make two authentic pumpkin pies for Thanksgiving dinner. Pumpkin pie from real pumpkins, not cans of pumpkin.

During the day-long event, I led the cheer: “Pumpkin pie doesn’t come from a can…,” and she’d chant back: “Pumpkin pie comes from pumpkins!!”

We danced off to the market to purchase small sugar pumpkins for our authentic pies. She inspected each one to find four pumpkins identical in size and as pure orange as a Crayola crayon. This took an hour.

At home we gathered all the utensils and ingredients for the filling and crust. We even tied on matching aprons.

I cut and she peeled the pumpkins. We scooped innards and saved the seeds for roasting later.

While the pumpkins boiled we ate lunch and mocked “real” pies made from cans. Ours would be the most delicious pies the family ever tasted. “Authentic” was the new word of the day.

We made a snack waiting for the pumpkin to drain and cool. She got crackers and I reached into the pantry for the peanut butter. Sitting right there, mocking me, three cans of perfectly pureed ready-to-use pumpkin.

The crust, made from scratch, was a fail-proof recipe given to me by my aunt. My daughter measured and mixed, incorporating little pieces of butter and shortening with her hands. The dough that should have resembled small beans looked more like Little Miss Muffet’s curds and whey. I made a second batch while my daughter looked for a Disney movie to watch.

The new dough rested as we ate lunch in silence, staring out of the window. “Pumpkin pie doesn’t come from a can…,” I said, and she answered: “I know. Pumpkin pie comes from pumpkins.”

Making the filling became a math lesson. This skill surpassed the fine motor challenge to keep the filling in the bowl using a wire whisk. At this point any parent can appreciate the triple time it takes to do anything when you add in an extra pair of small hands. I sensed losing her to Aladdin.

We rolled the crust nice and thin fitting it in the pan, crimping the edges. Together we poured the filling then placed the pies in the oven until perfectly set.

“Pumpkin pie doesn’t come from a can…,” I chirped and she droned back: “Yeah, pumpkin pie comes from pumpkins. I said I know.”

I choked down two aspirins with a cup of coffee while she watched The Lion King for the twentieth time. It was early evening when the suckers came out of the oven. I pulled my daughter away from the TV to admire our joint achievement.

Her ho-hum demeanor changed on Thanksgiving Day when she got to tell everyone how she made authentic pies from real pumpkins. Such pride. By the way, they were delicious.

The next year, and every year since, I open three cans of pumpkin puree to make real pumpkin pies. It’s a running gag now. “Pumpkin pie doesn’t come from a can…,” I say and she chants back: “Pumpkin pie comes from pumpkins!! In cans.”

BE F-G AWESOME TODAY!

Awesome MEMORY

Photo: Stephanie DelTorchio (from my actual pantry)
Image credit: Pixaby

Double-Stuffed Greeting and Reward

One of the 1,500 plus tasks under the job title “Parent” is to teach children etiquette and social skills. Item #874 is The Respectful Greeting.

As a child, upon meeting someone I was taught to stand still, be quiet, don’t move. Say hello if told to or risk going to bed hungry.

I might have learned a more global view, and better manners, had my mother sent me to (the totally fabricated) Mrs. Brown’s Finishing School for Girls, a place she threatened to send me more than once.

A foreigner friend pointed out my poor upbringing one morning when I ordered coffee at Dunkin’ Donuts. She deemed my lack of a proper greeting to the server and abrupt order request rude and impolite.

“Americans…You walk up to the counter and blurt out you want: Latte, extra shot of espresso. No greeting at all. Rush, rush.”

She gave me credit for saying please and thank you. Thanks, Mom.

Is this improper conduct nothing more than a culture difference? Yes, and no. Lack of knowledge breeds ignorance. In my case, I grew up an uninformed American child. Nothing more.

Do we miss the social cues to interact politely? Yes.

We’re in a hurry, always. We barely take a breath between checking off to-do’s. We don’t bother to look up and take a minute to make the person across from us feel appreciated, important, worth the muscle movement to offer a smile.

I took my friend’s sweeping admonition to heart and vowed to share this with my now grown up children.

My daughter started a new job in a new city. This change offered the opportunity to practice Item #874.

In the company cafeteria she noticed the servers seemed to go through the motions. They handed over whatever selections were requested from people who barely looked up from their cell phones or broke away from personal conversations.

To her credit my daughter engaged in conversation with the server. She said hello. Asked the woman, who looked tired, how her day was going. Is her family well? The server was taken back a bit, she said.

Only after establishing a respectful greeting did my daughter order lunch: a Caprese Panino. The server smiled. Then removed the tomato, mozzarella and basil from a premade sandwich and overstuffed a specially-made Panino.

While my daughter waited for the sandwich to grill, another person, busy texting on the phone, pointed to a pre-made panino. The server handed over a wrapped sandwich and smiled at my daughter.

Award that girl a Mrs. Brown’s diploma.

BE F-G AWESOME TODAY!

Awesome Kindness

Photo credit: Stephanie DelTorchio (my lunch!)

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