Of Kitchens and Cars

I like my stories to be complete and I usually don't write sequels. But in the interest of context, this one grabs a thread from the previous entry and pulls it forward.

Yesterday my parents' car was sold. You remember that from the last time we met, right?

My brother came from Arizona for a week. Another of his life-saving visits (that refers to both my life and my parents' lives because otherwise I might shoot them or me). He and I went together to have the car cleaned and polished. He's a pal who understands my sorrow and what the car has meant to Mom and Dad. 

I'm sure Brother had many of the same thoughts and emotions as I but he sorted them privately as is his way. In the open he helped me manage myself and was wonderful support. Inside we both cried over our mounting, mutual losses. Death by a thousand cuts. 

I made a Facebook post and said I was glad and sad the deed was done. My friends either silently or publicly nodded. My friend BB answered with something so true. "That is very tough. I don't know why doing what's right can feel so wrong."

She nailed it. Every step I take to do the proper and safe feels disrespectful and without compassion. Unloving. Unfeeling. My emotions and thoughts are constantly dissonant.

After the sale was completed I needed to be somewhere I would feel whole, accomplished, warm, nurtured, absorbed, in flow, and mostly in control. There are few places I am swaddled, cocooned and complete. My kitchen is one.

That's how yesterday's Sunday dinner gnocchi-fest was born. Italian soul food coming right up.
Cooling riced potatoes

Gnocchi is the simplest and most humble of Italian dishes but requires a light touch. A small potato dumpling served with sauce and/or cheese. They are the ultimate comfort food.

They're also a mess to make. They take over and leave room for nothing else. I don't care what Lidia Bastianich says on her TV show, or how she whips them up in half hour before serving them for dinner - my kitchen becomes a starchy mess of sticky countertops, every surface covered by a step of the process.

Dough ready to cut and press on the gnocchi board
I use a Lidia recipe and I bake the potatoes rather than boiling them. Less moisture means less flour is necessary to create the dough. Less flour means a lighter and fluffier finished product. And if the gnocchi gods really smile on you, those delightful little pillows all but float right off your plate.

Even though I haven't figured out how to make gnocchi without the concomitant potato-pocolypse, it was the perfect undertaking, allowing me to immerse myself completely in a wonder of creative cooking. There wasn't a neuron left for melancholy.

After baking my potatoes I peeled and riced them, incorporated the cheese, flour and egg, salt and white pepper. I kneaded away any sadness into a smooth, soft, yielding, slightly sticky dough. I rolled each dumpling across the gnocchi board. Perfectly imprinted ridges for holding delectable sauce. No tear allowed.

After the gnocchi were made and awaiting their later boiling, I
Waiting for the water
began dessert. Every pass of the rolling pin across puff pastry pressed sadness away from me. I spread a sweetened almond paste on the dough then placed peaches and blueberries atop. I watched the pastry rise and become golden on the oven heated stone. A beautiful galette was born. I felt myself coming back to life. I inhaled deeply of the baking fruit, as wafts of almond and cinnamon billowed through my kitchen.

From brilliantly red tomatoes I sliced away longing for a life different than I had, and tasted the creamy richness of buffalo mozzarella. I arranged both on a plate, mistress of my kitchen art, with room remaining for the dazzling freshness of basil scattered across the top.

In my kitchen pain cooks away, acid becomes wet. I lose myself in color, texture, quality, and flavors from the local produce stand, the speciality Italian market, my own yard, and the baker's 5AM delivery of warm sourdough bread.

My husband picked up my parents and brought them to our home. We ate in the warmth of the kitchen where the best meals seem somehow even better. The table was set with my mom's favorite old red and white tablecloth and napkins. 
We told them the car was gone; they nodded at the news. We opened a bottle of Rosso di Montalcino. We clinked glasses. Chin-chin. The depth of the wine's beautiful jewel tone equaled that of the dinner and diners.

The gods definitely gave a wide grin last night. Half the gnocchi were served with fresh basil pesto and other half with our family's traditional sauce.

I watched my mother, who now finds it difficult to eat, have three small helpings of gnocchi, the most I've seen her eat in months. She smiled after every bite. "These are the best I've ever had, including my own." What a compliment.

She chased her meal with a square of peach and blueberry galette and a side of vanilla gelato. Washed it down with strong Italian coffee.

Last weekend I did what needed to be done. I continued the difficult task of sorting, dismantling, and reconfiguring the lives of my beloved elders. Then I went about the work of reassembling my own spirit in a place I find solace and safety. We feasted on food that came from my kitchen, created by my hands, born of my heart.

We feasted on life.     
       

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