Thursday, December 31, 2015


We will once again start the New Year just as we played out the old year, by dropping the ball! Maybe this year we should instead of dropping the ball, make it climb to the top?

I often wondered what it would be like if the thousands of people who go to Times Square, since 1907 were to arrive and someone had forgotten to ready the ball for dropping. Just think of it, everyone looking up at the Times Square building, the countdown: ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, one… and nothing happened! I know I’d love it.
I don’t like to welcome the New Year, could care about staying up for the magic hour less, and would happily sleep through the process, nice and comfy in my bed. At my age, I’m in no mood anymore to count the days or years because they have all piled up on me, and I can’t believe I’m this old!

2015 just like 2014 has seen me rid myself of toxic people, people who are self-centered and not worth any time for, they just take and then bite at you for what ever reason their mind works like that.

2016 I plan to write a little more regularly and to offer more opinion about things as I see them, without hesitation. Damn the politics, religion and sensibilities of both the Liberals and Conservatives.

So I hope you will read and follow as I discuss what bothers me and I wish all of you a Happy and Healthy New Year, filled with love from your loved ones and respect for who you are.

Saturday, December 05, 2015


If there was one thing Grandma Frances didn’t own was a Mary Margaret McBride cookbook. First of all, she couldn’t read English well and secondly, the only Italian book she owned was her prayer books. An occasional read of Il Progresso or an Italian written church notice, and she was done. I don’t ever recall her watching the TV nor did she ever sit down. Grandma’s library was in her head, the books and newspapers neatly lined on the rows of shelves that stored her logic. Her memory was so good: Grandpa used it to remember what he forgot. She could recall pass good and omissions equally and could recall them in detail, you never argued with her, cross her and she never forgot!
But grandma had a stage, which she appeared on everyday, rain or shine, and she starred. It was amazing to see her cook, reaching into the recesses of her mind for old recipes, and recalling all the new ones. Like grandmothers from Italy, yours or your neighbors and friends: she didn’t measure because she didn’t need to.
Once she got her pasta pot steaming and boiling, like a magic cauldron, she began her magic. Her flip-flops were way ahead of her time as she bounced from one end of the kitchen to the other, she would grab her spices, many home grown and assault her pan or dishes with equal aplomb, flinging the stuff as if bombs were bursting in air. Like all Italian Grandmothers, she had that feel for cooking. In the aftermath lay the utensils of simple origin that were scattered though out the kitchen.
She had this amazing meatball egg-drop soup that materialized before your very nose. Within minutes it would come together and bring you to earth or should I say heaven almost immediately. The aroma of Parmesan cheese, the pieces of cut up crusty bread, the wine sitting in glasses, the mood to eat, the joy of finishing it led to the best memories I have today.
Be it a holiday cooking day for 30 or just for 3 or 4, she was the master, no recipe books, no instructions, just the fresh ingredients and her memory.
God bless all the Italian grandmas!
A mangia!