The other day, I was making a lemon meringue pie and—as is required in baking—following the recipe to the letter. Any time I bake something, I think about my mom. Not for the reasons you’d think, though. I have absolutely zero memories of my mom baking anything from scratch. What I do remember is hardly ever having the same thing for dinner twice in one week. My mother is a master cook; she can make an amazing meal out of a few simple ingredients and make it look like child’s play.
Good luck asking her for a recipe, though. Nothing is written down, and all measurements are given in units of bastante, un poquito, and apenitas (“enough”, “a little”, and “just barely any”). So usually, when I’m trying to recreate one of her dishes, I end up just winging it. I suspect that this is her well-meaning way of dragging me out of my comfort zone. Where I prefer to follow a recipe with precise measurements and procedures, she’s content with having a fairly tight grasp of various cooking techniques but relying on a well-honed instinct in the kitchen.
I hope I’m not painting the wrong picture. My mom hasn’t spent her entire life in the kitchen, slaving away for her husband and daughters. She’s also had a successful career as a contract manager. I’ll be honest: I have no idea what she does on a day-to-day basis even though we talk about work with each other all the time. I do have a feeling that her talent for “winging it” has helped her with her job just as my penchant for following rules and guidelines has helped me in mine.
I have such a vivid memory of when my sister and I had a day off from school and mom took us into the office with her. This is when I was about 7 or 8 years old and she was working as a marketing/PR specialist for a company that manufactured life vests and seat covers for the airline industry. My sister and I were sitting in her office quietly while she talked on the phone with someone. I don’t remember what they were discussing, but I do get the feeling that the person on the line was asking for confirmation about something. My mother said “Ok, hang on,” audibly shuffled some papers around on her desk, waited a beat, and spoke an affirmative response into the receiver. It was magical. I could never pull off something like that in my line of work, nor would I have the balls to even try.
Here’s to you, mom. Keep winging it. I love you too much for words.
My mom is moving offices this week and she just sent me this photo in an email:
“Blast from the past… was in file cabinet that I had not opened in 6 years.”
I remember the exact day this picture was taken. I was 10 years old, and I had just finished getting ready for my 5th Grade Dance which was to be held at the brand new school. We had spent all year in portables and we had two consolation prizes: we were the first graduating class of Embassy Creek Elementary and our dance would be the first event at the new building.
You can’t see it in that picture, but the necklace I’m wearing has a pink heart pendant. It’s size and shape was perfect for sticking in my mouth and clicking it up into my top palate like a retainer. I doubt that’s the reason I needed orthodontia later on, but it definitely couldn’t have helped.
Saturday Sept 26 Had a decent breakfast at the hotel and drove into the next town over to do some last-minute shopping at Target and Marshalls. I found a suitable clutch purse at the former and my grandma found a nice shawl at the latter. We had some really good pizza in the Polish area of Linden, NJ.
My sister and her boyfriend met us at the hotel and we all drove to the wedding together.
Look at how freaking cute they are!!!
The wedding was at the Richmond County Country Club and it was absolutely beautiful. Since the bride is Jewish and the groom is Catholic, they had a priest and a rabbi to do the ceremony. Afterward, I saw them walking to the bar together. Just kidding, that was a bad joke (that I’ve told about a thousand times since then). But seriously, they did have both and it almost seemed like they were trying to upstage each other throughout the service.
The hors d’œuvres course was so good that we were almost too full to eat dinner. Luckily, we had some downtime while we listened to some toasts. My mom, the matron of honor, gave a pretty good one. But the star of the evening was the bride’s best friend. Very quickly, it became clear that this woman was infatuated with her. I never thought I would hear the phrase “my blood is exploding in my veins” at a wedding, and yet, there it was; coated in a thick Russian accent and making me bite my tongue to keep from cracking up at the table.
At one point, my sis leaned over to me and asked “Are you keeping your head down so you won’t laugh?” I stifled a giggle and nodded my head vigorously. Dinner was great, as was the band/dj.
My mother’s cousin got married in Staten Island, NY last weekend.
Friday Sept 25 Woke up at the very ass-crack of dawn in order to catch our 7:50am flight. It was on time and there were no screaming babies.
We landed in Philadelphia a little too early for lunch, but that didn’t stop me from demanding a Philly Cheesesteak at 10:45am. I rationalized that we had breakfast at like 5:30am or some ungodly hour, and Adam watched in horror as I pressed the CheezWhiz button on the really cool automated ordering kiosk.
Our connecting flight to Newark was also on time and devoid of screaming babies, but the fact that we were on a Dash 8 and I was in the window seat next to the propeller made me want to scream like a baby.
After a flight that felt like a ride on Space Mountain, we landed in Newark and took our free shuttle to the hotel in New Jersey. We were the first people in our party, so we got a free room upgrade. Score. We had a few hours before we had to go to the rehearsal dinner, so I took my time getting ready and admired the view from the hotel room window.
Me & Sis at the rehearsal dinner
The rehearsal dinner was nice. If you’re looking for some good Penne Ala Vodka on Staten Island, I highly recommend Cielo on Hylan Blvd.
I present to you: nine and a half of my fifteen minutes of fame.
When I was about five years old, I got to be an “in-studio friend” on Romper Room along with my good friend Julie.
I don’t remember much about the experience aside from the fact that I threw a full-on tantrum about my outfit just minutes before we went on air. And really, I think the only reason I remember that is because my mom has never let me forget it.
“We picked that outfit out together ahead of time! I asked you, ‘Marcelita, te molesta?’ and you told me it was fine.” What my mother was asking me was “does it bother you?” because when I was a child, every article of clothing “bothered” me. Had I been a child star (and not just an “in-studio friend”; not bitter), my catchphrase would have been “Me molesta!” - it bothers me.
Although the outfit had passed whatever arbitrary standards at the time of its selection, it failed miserably on the day of the shoot and what ensued was what I can only imagine to be the most glorious temper tantrum the likes of which my mother was all too familiar with. Honestly, the way she describes it, I’m surprised I was even allowed in front of the camera afterward.
Well, they did allow me to go on-air: I’m the one in the tacky-even-for-its-time sweater and blue skirt; just look for the albino. Also, there’s a close-up of my mug about 5 minutes in.
![To: momFrom: meSubject: boots for NY, found ‘emBody: [above photo]To: meFrom: momSubject: RE: boots for NY, found ‘emBody: you are kidding, right?
To: momFrom: meSubject: RE: RE: boots for NY, found ‘emBody: am I?
Honestly, the only thing stopping me from buying them outright is the price tag. That, and as Adam pointed out, I’m not 12.](http://29.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_ks6gmatwYF1qz9fn6o1_400.jpg)
