Everyday kindnesses

Here in the United States, it is Mother’s Day; and I find myself reflecting, once again, on two things—first, how blessed and lucky I am to be a mother, and second, on my own mother’s extraordinary generosity of spirit.

Little gestures can mean a great deal in the press of ordinary life. I learned this at my mother’s feet. My mother was wonderful at responding to others’ needs in the small ways that can truly make a difference. She reached out to the little ones in the neighborhood, greeting them when she saw them outside, inviting them into a conversation that continued as long as they lived there. In the days when we had milk delivered to the house, she always greeted the milkman. If she happened to have fresh blueberry muffins that day (which she often did when berries were in season), she would give him one. She did the same for our mailman. She welcomed newcomers. She took walks on summer evenings and stopped to talk to everyone along the way. Although I was an only child, she made sure that I had frequent opportunities to spend time with my many cousins, and that my friends knew they were always welcome in our home.

Consciously or otherwise, she practiced what we Catholics call the corporal works of mercy. My father, who typically worked out of town during the week, joined her in these good deeds, large or small, whenever he could. She visited hospitalized friends and family. She went to viewings and funerals—not just for family, but for friends from childhood, neighbors, people she had met through her work, church members—to comfort the grieving. When her long-time customers became too frail to come to her salon, she went to their homes to do their hair—not for money, but in gratitude for their patronage.

She cooked for everyone—the ailing, the grieving, those whom she thought just needed a lift. She delivered dozens of Christmas cookies to the priests first, and then to relatives and neighbors every year. She entertained friends and family graciously. She called her sisters, brothers, nieces, nephews, and cousins regularly, sometimes nightly, if she thought they needed attention. With my father, she made a point to continue the Italian tradition of visiting our older relatives on Sunday as a demonstration of respect. She volunteered tirelessly at church—assuring that vestments were crisp and fresh, taking charge of the altar flowers, making cakes for bake sales, helping out with Girl Scouts. She did anything the school asked of her.

Always a gracious host, she opened her home to my father’s New England family many times, assuring their comfort and spending hours preparing memorable meals from scratch, usually in the summer months when the kitchen was hotter than Hades. She took my father’s brother in at a low point in his life, and with my father helped him to recharge.

Throughout their 49-year marriage, she was a loving, completely committed wife and partner to my father. And when I became a mother, she became a “Nonnie” of infinite, loving patience, who took obvious joy in every minute she spent with her grandchildren.

The remarkable thing is that my grandmother died of the Spanish flu when my mother was only eight. Her notion of mothering, within and beyond her immediate family, was developed in her heart, on her own. She took seriously the values she heard about in church and, consciously or otherwise, lived her faith throughout her life, mothering those around her with everyday kindnesses.

Photo: My mother and me just before my cousin Sally’s wedding. My mother was in pale lavender; I was in buttercup yellow. Sadly, the original color photo has faded.

Consistent with the time, I have almost no photos of her taken in the context of ordinary, day-to-day life. Cell phones have changed all that, and that is one benefit of technology for which I’m very grateful.


Oscar, mother, and those jelly jars

I’ve loved The Importance of Being Earnest, one of dear Oscar Wilde’s funniest, since we staged the show in high school. Many of its epigrammatic quips have stayed with me all these years.  It’s possible that I like this one best:

All women become like their mothers. That is their tragedy.
No man does. That’s his.

The value of Oscar Wilde’s epigrams cannot be underscored. Their essential truth, well cloaked in satire, sticks like chewing gum under the dairy bar counter. They grow with you. When I was 16, I thought this was just a funny line. When I was 21 and trying to assert my independence, being “like my mother” was the last thing on earth I wanted. When my own kids came along, I wondered if they’d be like me. By the time I was 40, I began to hope I was at least somewhat like her. And now, of course, I am—at least in one notable way.

Which is to say, my kitchen in fully of jelly jars. Specifically, Bonne Maman (“good mother”) jelly jars. Like Clark Griswold’s Christmas bonus, they’re the gift that keeps on giving. Whereas my mother saved commercial jelly jars for her own wondrous jams and preserves, I use the Bonne Maman jars for everything from baking soda to chopped onion to leftover sweet potatoes. I find they’re ideal not just because I’m a “brand loyalist,” but because the mouth is fairly wide, the lids are an adorable red-and-white check, you can easily see what’s in them, and they stack. More than that, Bonne Maman jams take me back to June in Provence, where Françoise, our charming hostess at Hôtel l’Hermitage, at breakfast served baskets of just picked strawberries and cherries from the orchards around Mt. Ventoux. Plus, as you’ve probably discovered, if it’s French or Italian, I’m in.

Recycling is always a good thing, and since many of us are trying to make the switch from plastic storage to glass, why not try some Bonne Maman—non-GMO, by the way—and put some of these great little jars to handy new uses?

Bon Maman






But it doesn’t taste like my mother’s…

Author Laura Schenone went to Italy in search of her ancestral ravioli recipe. Hold that thought while I digress a bit.

Ravioli is my favorite food in the world. Not the fancy kind, stuffed with lobster or  “kiwi infused pork” (no kidding!). Plain old cheese ravioli. Peasant food—la cucina povera— at its finest. It was my family’s signature dish for Christmas and Easter. Other special occasions might feature gnocchi or lasagna or “homemades,” but ravioli was always my mother’s pièce de résistance.

Mom didn’t use a recipe, of course—she did it all by feel. She rolled the dough and cut and filled the ravioli by hand, while the sauce was on the stove, in the last few hours before dinner. The ravioli were so tender they truly did almost melt in your mouth.

My mother eschewed shortcuts, possibly because the act of making the ravioli was so important to her. Daddy bought her one of those special rolling pins with the die-cut squares—a ravioli cutter—but she never used it. The ravioli it produced were too small, she said. When he brought home an Italian macaroni machine (that’s what we called it), she used it once, to make spaghetti as a first course for Thanksgiving, then retired it to the basement, saying it required too much flour, which made the dough tough. She never made the ravioli in advance and froze them, as many people do. Mom learned most of what she knew about cooking from her two older sisters—my grandmother had died in the flu epidemic when my mother was only eight. My guess is that Mom’s attachment to “hand made” ravioli was a way of staying connected to her earliest, and probably fondest, childhood memories.

When I was about nine, she patiently trained me to help her. I marveled at the way she whipped that dough around the long, smooth macaroni stick Daddy had made her. She didn’t fold the pasta dough in half, drop the filling at intervals, and then fold it over and cut around it—she cut out every single top and bottom and filled them one-at-a-time. I learned to make the filling—ricotta mixed with egg, fresh parsley, a bit of pecorino, and black pepper—drop a dollop onto the cut-out square of dough, top it with another, and crimp the edges together with a wet fork. And then race to get those delicate little packets into the pot of boiling water, with her chiding  me to handle them with care.

I should add that Mom was a working mother. That she didn’t start cooking till after 8:15 Mass. And that she accomplished all of this in a tiny rectangle of a 1958 kitchen, on a tiny rectangle of turquoise enamel kitchen table partly  covered with a well floured, old cotton  tablecloth I still have. It’s there, in the photo.

When my kids were old enough, Mom enlisted their help. My son, Chris, could whip that macaroni stick around like a pro when he was only eight. My daughter, Emily, picked up hand rolling as well and, inspired to a large extent by my mother, subsequently received her professional chef’s certification from the Culinary Institute of America.

These are glorious memories. One of my great regrets is that we have no photos of Mom in the kitchen, doing these ordinary-but-extraordinary things that made our lives so rich.

But back to Laura Schenone. Given my love of ravioli, how could I have passed up, on a Saturday stroll through Barnes and Noble, a book with the irresistible title, The Lost Ravioli Recipes of Hoboken? Her family’s Genoese ravioli are different than our Southern Italian version—she uses a meat and cheese filling you’ll hear about in the video. Her quest to duplicate the taste and texture of her childhood, told within the context of a soul-searching memoir, is a satisfying detective story on multiple levels, beautifully told. And it’s an eye-opener for all of you who’ve said a thousand times, “It’s good, but it doesn’t taste like my mother’s.”

I’ve bought the book as a gift for friends and family maybe half a dozen times. You should read it, too. With Laura’s permission, I’m including her engaging and wonderfully instructive video; you’ll hear a short version of her story as she demonstrates how to hand roll pasta dough.

Laura Schenone’s first book, A Thousand Years Over a Hot Stove, is a James Beard Award winner and a fascinating history of women “in the kitchen.” I highly recommend it, as well. Her newest book is due out later this year.


.Video used with permission.