Weekend Thoughts

living, losing, loving and how they shape you

It was a funny coincidence to have the same due date 14 and 19 years ago (May 7th), but even more interesting that I went into labor with our daughters three days later on May 10th. They would both make their debut into the world the following day on May 11th, one just as day turned to night, and the other as night turned to morning.

One might think their birthdays would be easier 11 years after Michael’s death. I certainly would’ve thought that in the early days of grief. The longer he’s gone, though, the further we get from him being alive, from the many trips to the zoo, aquarium and spur of the moment drives to Rego Park for empanadas and italian ices.

Lately, especially so, grief has been all-encompassing. Some days I wonder how I will get through to the next one–it’s a black hole nestled in quicksand. Get yourself out of the hole, and you still have to get to safe ground before sinking.

Even on the days I’m having a wonderful time, the days where sadness isn’t playing a starring role, it’s there, lurking, waiting for an opening to swallow me whole. I thought being a widowed parent would be harder when the girls were younger. Small children carry so many demands. It’s only once I got through it, and passed into the teen and young adult years that I realized these later years would be harder. Much harder.

Throw in a massive dose of perimenopause, and well, I spend some mornings in bed wondering why I’m still here. How I’m still here. I often find myself tired of this life, exhausted to my bones by it. I’m short on patience for people who seem incapable of realizing the goodness in their lives or acknowledge the privilege to which they were born. I find myself intolerant of maintaining one-sided friendships, where I feel like I’m doing most of the work to keep the connections going.

But at the same time, I reflect a lot on what I know is good in my life, and that for all the hardships I’ve endured, my life has still been easier simply because of the color of my skin. I remind myself this moment right now isn’t forever. Life is an ebb and flow.

I am thankful for the strong relationship with my dearest friend of 36 years. Friday mornings bring calm and peace as another friend and I find a way to deepen our commitment to friendship with a weekly walk. There’s my two best friends in Brooklyn, who even though we don’t get to see each other as often as I’d like, we share a sisterhood that transcends time, having raised our babies together and now commiserate as we watch them navigate college.

And there’s Matthew, whose love for me is so deep and unending to a degree I don’t understand, and sometimes even get angry at how much he loves me. How bizarre is that? I’m sure it’s related to some deep survival mechanism of never wanting to doubly feel the kind of grief and loss I’ve lived with these last eleven years. Part of it is also that we both lived stories before meeting each other. Much of the work is figuring out how to weave them together, and the reality that some parts do not have a neat transition–the seams in our stories will always be visible. The question is whether the stitches will be neat or always full of loose threads in need of mending?

I’m looking forward to the day we can live our  lives together daily instead of 68 miles apart, and also extremely terrified of it because I like my solitude and  have grown very comfortable living alone, which is a completely different experience than being lonely.

In case you’ve not already noticed, my posting of new recipes has been a little off. The original goal was once a week, and the lack of posts is not for a lack of recipes. I’ve a book full of so many new ones to share. The well of inspiration to write is what needs replenishing, and for that reason, I’m going to focus on the things I know I can accomplish right now. Things like continuing to migrate 12 years of archives from my original site, making reels for instagram which I enjoy much more because I’m doing them on my own terms and didn’t jump on the bandwagon when they first launched a couple of years ago. If you’re not already following me there, you can find me here.

I’m also putting together more ebooks, and want to sit down and really figure out how to get some virtual cooking classes launched. I think confidence in the latter is what’s holding me back. Years ago I did a lot of television segments and spoke at conferences. My heart raced with anxiety every time but once we went live, an energy came about, my fears subsided and people genuinely enjoyed themselves. I want to find that person again.

I guess what I want you to know is that even if you don’t see a new post here every week, there’s things happening here for which your monthly and annual subscriptions are helping support. I appreciate your support as I work through this particular moment in time, and make sure to check back often for new recipes being added to the archives every week. You won’t get email alerts for those posts because that would be annoying and spammy, so I choose to post them without an email update to save us all the headache of a crowded inbox. My hope is to get a new recipe up towards the end of next week, one for a chocolate-orange pan di spagna (an Italian sponge) that is one of the easiest cakes you’ll ever make–there’ll be notes to make it gluten-free or with regular flour.

I’d like to leave you with a post I wrote 10 years ago. It is a moment that still lives with me deeply, and one of the few memories the girls truly have of their daddy, of our family as a whole. May your weekend be gentle and peaceful. Be well, and remember to be kind. xo–j.

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Originally published May 4, 2012

This morning I hopped the subway after dropping the kids off at school to do the unthinkable. I bought understudy cupcakes for Virginia's birthday party tomorrow. I've been beating myself up all week about it. So many milestones have transpired in the last 270 days. The first Cape Cod trip. My birthday. Our anniversary. Thanksgiving. Christmas. A new calendar year.

His birthday.

But their birthdays—that's a hurdle I don't know how to face.

The girls turn four and nine next Friday. The celebrations begin tomorrow with Virginia's party. Rather than host a huge shindig at our place, as I usually do, I decided to keep it low maintenance. It's at a local pottery studio. I chose 11:00 am to 12:30pm so I wouldn't have to worry about serving breakfast or lunch. It pained me to be running, hell sprinting, from feeding people. Cooking, feeding—that's how I show I care. For these birthdays, though, I sensed I'd need to hold onto every piece of my fiber to keep it together.

I resolved I would not bake the cupcakes either. If I choose to be an inactive participant in this milestone and not leave my mark on it, then it wouldn't count. I could fool myself into believing it's not really going to happen. The idea is absurd, but there's nothing logical about grief.

After 30 cupcakes had been tucked away in boxes, I crossed Essex Street and the handle broke. The boxes landed upside down. A lump in my throat, tears welling in the corners of my eyes, I thought it was a sign. It was Mikey, the man who incessantly teased "when are you going to start making your own water from scratch". He was looking down, disappointed that I copped out and didn't "mom-up". I couldn't put my selfish grief aside and bake our daughter's birthday cupcakes.

I looked up, muttering "fuck you" to the sky, followed by a "you're the one who died" whisper.

The gal at the bakery was amazing. She packed up fresh cupcakes, all the while reassuring me it wasn't a sign. "Sometimes it's just a bag" were her words, and they echoed in my mind as I walked down Orchard Street in search of a good cup of coffee and place to read my book.

After my coffee pit stop, I made my way to the East Broadway station. Then I spied this store  down the block.

I kept walking, and found this store.

Within minutes I was standing across from here, tears trickling down my cheeks.

It all started as a family outing to the Big Apple BBQ last June. After loading our bellies with ribs and pulled pork, I told Mikey I wanted to walk a bit before going home. I wanted the girls to see the city as their daddy and I had in our early years together. We weaved our way out of Madison Square Park, through Chelsea, the Village, Soho and into Chinatown. After a rambling stroll, we decided to catch the A at Canal Street.

Well, Mikey decided. I pleaded to take a cab because the trains were rerouted due to weekend work. As we stood underground, deciphering schedule change signs, a young girl asked for directions. She had a baby wrapped in a blanket, his unclothed arms and legs spilling out the sides. He was very still. I asked if the baby was okay or needed to go to the hospital. She said he was fine, just sleeping.

Then I noticed she was barefoot. I looked at her eyes, mascara smeared and bloodshot from crying, and asked if she was okay. She said she just needed to find the bus to West Virginia. Her mother had prepaid for a ticket to get her home. We exited the subway, bought her some sandals and the baby a onesie at a merchant on Canal Street. I cradled Virginia in my arms and got in a cab with the young woman and her son while Mikey and Isabella walked to the address her mother had given her—59 Canal Street.

I didn't even know Canal Street loops around once you hit the Manhattan Bridge, but luckily we had an old time, street savvy cab driver. I handed her my phone and asked her to call her mother to let her know she was safe. Afterwards, she told me she'd just left her husband. His mother had pulled a knife on her. She grabbed her son and ran to the train station. They had just woken up, hence the pajamas she was wearing and nothing but a blanket for the baby.

She shared more details, but that's her story to tell.

We confirmed her bus reservation, then set out to buy a bottle and formula for the baby (Fang Trading) and get something for her to eat (Smoothies). Mikey and Isabella went in search of a clean shirt for her.

I found a restaurant nearby and asked if she could use their restroom to freshen up and change the baby. It was pushing 5:00pm and I knew the girls were tired but her bus wasn't until 7:00pm. Mikey looked at me. He knew I couldn't get on a train and leave her sitting on a particle board bench inside the store where the bus tickets were sold.

I sent him home with the girls, and waited with her until the bus eventually pulled up. I was still worried because she had to change to another bus late at night. I overheard a young man who was going to the same stop, making the same connection. He looked honest and kind, so I asked if he could keep an eye on her and let her use his phone if she needed to call her mom again.

I went home and hugged my girls tighter that night. I felt incredibly thankful that I was sharing my life with a person to whom humanity, compassion and lending a helping hand was also a natural reflex.

As I stared at 59 Canal Street today, I realized the real message Mikey was trying to send me. The cupcakes don't matter. That day last June, the example we set for our girls about compassion and caring—that's what they will carry in their hearts forever. How I continue to live my life, our life, the one we intended for our girls...that's where the substance lies.