Day 365. The End.
I’ve decided to make cheesecake as a send-off to this blog. I cannot think of any good reason why cheesecake should not be the cake-of-celebration for having reached my goal of creating something delicious every day for one year. Cheesecake was my sister’s favorite, and she died a year ago in March, bypassing a global pandemic by one week. Every memory I have of the countless celebrations in her home include a cheesecake. Cheesecake was my father’s favorite. He grew up on New York-style cheesecake, and he made sure my mother had a Lindy’s Cheesecake recipe when they married in 1963. My mother made good on her promise to feed him with love, and cheesecake. My mother’s birthday was in March. She taught me how to make a cheesecake using her large, ceramic mixing bowl in our kitchen in Ohio. I cannot think of cheesecake without thinking of my mother. The pandemic started in March and brought us to another March. All roads lead us to cheesecake.
One week into the pandemic and toilet-paper humor, I decided I would use the next 365 days to cook and bake, and write about it. Aside from a few months when yeast was sparse, we lacked for nothing, including toilet paper. Unbelievably, and faster than I thought one year could pass, I have reached the end of my goal. I needed a thing to grab on to at the start of this pandemic, something separate from teaching. True, I was tired at the end of some days and faced this goal reluctantly. Or worse, there was a day when I’d already gone to bed. I closed my eyes then moments later remembered my blog. But I dragged myself to the couch and sitting position anyway. Not long ago, after watching a family movie, it was close to midnight and I said to my kids, “My blog!” Ethan sat nearby. “Quick mom! It’s ten minutes to midnight. You can do it!” I shared some pictures and words of the food I’d made that day and at 11:57, clicked on “Post.” Mostly I felt like I was writing into a black void, then unexpectedly a friend would email or text indicating they were reading these posts. I was glad someone was reading, but I guess that wasn’t the point. All along I knew I was doing this for me, to brighten my days and bring on a spot of joy.
The cooking, baking, recipe searches, taking pictures, and writing helped to define my life this year. I’ve thought a lot about why the act of cooking and baking is important to me, too. Once, many years ago, a couple of friends were on a road trip and they stopped at our home for dinner. That night I happened to be making pasta with cauliflower and tomato sauce, garlic and cheddar cheese, a pretty standard week-night meal in our house. They dug into that food like it was their last drop of sustenance on the long journey ahead, even though they were only traveling by minivan from one state to the next. They exclaimed and wanted the recipe and so thoroughly enjoyed that simple fare, it seemed as if it had been many moons since they’d eaten a homemade meal. Making dinner that night, I would never have anticipated their reaction to it.
I think about the times I’ve been fed by others. A long time ago, for one year, I worked in a school in Highwood, Illinois, an old town with a large Italian population. The secretary of my school was a short, slight-framed, older Italian woman with whom I had a special connection. She had worked at the school for maybe her entire career. I complained to Vera once about the reading curriculum in first grade that didn’t use real children’s literature. Same old story. I hinted that I was going to talk to the principal about it. This was my first teaching job and she warned me against that. I’ll never forget her words. “You don’t talk about books to someone who doesn’t read.” She came into my room once as I was reading a story aloud to my students, and she paused to listen. Later she told me I was “the real deal.” Ah, to be seen by another person. Even if only briefly.
Vera and her husband were making pasta dumplings, she told me one day, and she’d like to have me over for lunch. When I went across the street and knocked on their side door, I entered their kitchen where they were filling dumplings with cheese and meat, trays of fresh pasta, dough, and flour spread out on the small kitchen table. The scene was intimate and homey, as traditional as any holy ritual, and I was invited to pull up a chair. It was the first time I’d eaten homemade pasta and I remember it still.
I have put a permanent place card next to my heart of the people who have fed me in my life. Homemade food is worth marveling at. And for me it brings back memories of the people I’ve enjoyed it with, and of other ways they’ve fed me. Vera fed me fresh pasta and there have been times over the years when my confidence suffered and I would go back to that one-liner she also fed me. “You are the real deal.” For years I hung my hat on those words. I am the real deal. And I thought they must be so because a wise woman who read books, whose name meant truth, and who had feather-light Italian dumplings at her fingertips spoke them.
We just never know how feeding others can have an impact, how words or deeds can take hold in our psyche, like a fortune cookie message we keep in our wallet forever. A long time ago a friend was visiting me in a house I lived in near the ocean. I packed us a picnic lunch and off we went. Years later she referenced those tuna fish sandwiches as being the best ones she’d ever had. Say what? She was a new mom and had her baby with her at the time. She was probably desperate for someone to care for her for a few moments and maybe that came in the form of my preparing a simple lunch, which she never forgot. I doubt it was just because of the sandwiches.
I enjoy sifting through the recipe box of my food memories. Sometimes when I’m searching for a soothing thought to put me in a state of calm, I’ll think about something wonderful that I’ve eaten with a person whom I love. Often, we’re outdoors. A memory comes of pausing for a break on a hike in Ireland with new found friends, eating a sandwich and an apple, leaning against a fence and looking out at a wet, green field speckled with sheep. Or enjoying pizza and a cold beer on a sunny hilltop in Belgrade at a cafe on the edge of the forest. A giant swing on the property served to entertain our children while my husband and I grabbed a few moments of peace. Once, my family and I were staying the night at a simple hut during a trek in Ethiopia. We sat on the roof of the hut and watched as baboons scrambled toward their caves on the slope of a cliff, and we held hot tea and bread given to us as a sign of welcome by our hosts. Clasping that tea, we knew we would be taken care of during the night in that foreign spot.
A chocolate eclair always reminds me of my father. I can hear him saying, “Oh boy,” smiling and looking down at the pastry display inside the food hall at Harrods of London, wide-eyed like a kid again in New York City. He bought us both a picnic that day and we enjoyed it in St. James Park. A few years later he was left five thousand dollars in the will of an uncle and used that to send me to cooking school in New York. He wanted me to have a skill and set me up for life. I learned many skills at cooking school, but none as valuable as the ones I learned in my parents’ kitchen. Love and food are intermingled. There was hardly a joyful, happy occasion in our home growing up without it involving something delicious. The memories I have of the food enhance the memories of my father’s laugh, my mother’s smile, my older siblings arriving for the holidays and the love that we all shared.
My mother delighted in simple, good things. When I was a teen I remember her sneaking up to her bedroom for a little solitude, a glass of brandy and a little dish of peanuts in hand, a book tucked under her arm. She’d say she was going upstairs to have her party before bed. On weekend mornings she’d make pancakes. She had a knack for turning the ordinary into something special. She would make a pancake shaped out of the first letter of our name, large and covering the whole plate and recognizable as my very own. Neighborhood kids would wait by the backdoor for their pancake, too. An L for Lenny, a J for Jimmy. I’ve stored away hundreds of food memories of my mother, and I pull them up often. Her cheesecake, her smile, her sly grin when she sneaks another piece.
Before my sister, Raissa, died a year ago, I flew out to stay with her in her home. It was the last weekend that I ever stayed in her house, the house that was a foundation for me—for all of our family—for so many years. This was the last weekend that I would ever see her home as it was, her home crowded with the beloved artifacts of her life. And beloved to us, too. We all knew every nook and cranny of that home so well. The family photos, the hundreds of books that lined the shelves, the afghans and dishes and vases and fireplace mantel and coffee mugs. I cried openly and loudly the night before I left, knowing that this would be the last time I would be in this space that was my second home. “My home is your home,” my sister always said to me. But the house would be sold and I would never have this as my second home again, and the next time I visited this town, my sister would be gone. I looked around feeling the shock, like a rug was being pulled out from under me, but it wasn’t just a rug. It was every precious thing in sight.
One morning during my last weekend with her she was sitting up in her chair reading her newspaper, as she did every day, and I asked her if she wanted some breakfast. She had hardly been eating, so I didn’t expect her to say yes, but she put the paper down in her lap and looked up at me and smiled and said yes. Feeling hungry made her look so healthy. So I went into her kitchen and made her toast and scrambled eggs, simple comfort food. Our father was the Scrambled Eggs King. He cooked them slow and steady, all throughout our growing up. It was his specialty, we all knew. So I made them the way Daddy made them, no recipe needed for the dashes of good humor and love. She ate them with such pleasure, like she had not eaten in a long time, smiling up at me in thanks. I was feeding her, like she had fed me for years and years. We fed each other. I know I added joy to her life—she told me how much she loved me every time we were together—and she was my personal cheerleader, cheering for me every single step of every single way. I will live the rest of my days with the gifts she gave, and the memory that I made her comfort food before her own long journey home.