So in a short – countable – amount of time I will become a married woman.  The last few days of single life have gotten me thinking about this incredible journey that has led me here, back to Pennsylvania ready to settle down and become a wife.  I have five years of kitchen experience – if you count my fry cook/ hamburger slinging days in high school.  I have 2 diplomas, both with a Summa Cum Laude typed into them.  I have friends who have been with me every step of the way and some who I just knew for a short time.  Every one of them has impacted my life in some way.  And of course through it all I have had – for the last 3 years at least – a supportive man by my side, my biggest fan.

So for him – because some of these stories even he hasn’t heard – I want to begin to share my countdown to married life.  My opus of sorts.  The tears, lessons, and laughs that have brought me here.

Oregon, 2008 – Oregon was my first taste at being an adult.  In my Sophomore year at Johnson & Wales University, I took a baking and pastry internship at Sunriver Resort in Sunriver, Oregon. My time in Oregon taught me so much more than how to work in a commercial bakery.  Oregon taught me how deranged cocaine can make a person, before the Charlie Sheen incident.  It taught me that making muffins is truly an art.  Either that or I was just talented enough to be one of only two people who could manage not to mess them up in the bakery.  But most importantly Oregon taght me how to ride a bicycle.

My dad always said my middle name should have been grace, because then I would have at least had some grace in my life.  I gave up learning how to ride a bicycle at the ripe old age of 6.  My six-year-old reasoning had decided that such experience would not be a necessary contribution to my life experiences.  And then I picked an internship in Sunriver, Oregon where I was given a bike and told that the bike would be my primary method to get to work.

My first serious bike accident was because my groceries were uneven on my handlebars.  The bike tipped, my arm went into the rocks, my knee followed.  I took pictures.  Before my internship was over, I had ruined 3 bikes.  I fell over the side of the bike.  I flipped over the handlebars.  I slid out on an inch of snow coming down a hill.  And somehow I managed to bump my knee repeatedly on the side of the bike while going uphill until it was sore and bleeding.  I fit what should have been a minimum of 6 years of childhood experience-related injuries into 6 months of trial and error.

Throughout it all, I learned that I am horrendously stubborn and that my dad should have fought harder to add grace to my name.  Or maybe I should have known saying at 6 that you will never need a skill is certainly a dooming commentary on a skill you will be forced to learn.

Here begins the countdown.  I know as Matt’s wife I will need to learn some things.  I will probably fall a few times, but cuts and scrape heal.  I’ve definitely gotten enough of them to know that!

Happy Eating!!!

Emily

Sunday after Christmas my family skipped church to visit my Pappy in the hospital.  He knew he was on borrowed time and we were talking about life after death.

“I’ll save a space at the feast for all of you,” Pappy said, his eyes brightening.

My mom told him to save a block of mansions for us in heaven, and he smiled.  But I think he was really looking forward to the feast.

I grew up eating feasts with my pappy.  Every other Saturday night my mom, and sometimes my dad when he was not working, would pack all of us kids up and we’d go to family night.  Meatball sandwiches, sloppy joes, hamburgers, hotdogs, Uncle Brian always hated casserole night so he brought pizza, the food was filling and there was always plenty.  It was never a classy affair.  But it was our family.  Pappy would be busy telling a story.  Everyone else would have switched conversations at least 5 times before he even thought of finishing the story.  And all of the grandchildren would be told to be quiet at least 15 times before the end of the night.

The adults were always louder.  Us, kids knew that.  We just let them think that we were the ones being too loud.  It made them feel like they were in charge.

Pappy was the biggest culprit of the “shooshing” police.  He loved to tell us all to be quiet.  He was not a doting grandfather.  He loved us and told us how proud he was of us every time we gave him a hug goodbye.  But he wanted to train us to be responsible, well behaved, and most importantly to know when to be quiet.  So he made us practice a lot.

I missed his incessant shooshing on Saturday.  All of my mom’s family was piled into a little room in the Hospice Hospital.  Most of us had been there since 6 that morning, and the sounds would range from sobbing to silence.  Then we’d all move out to the waiting room, and things would get noisy.  Someone would undoubtedly quiet the crowd.  But it just didn’t have the same potency Pappy’s quieting had.

We all ate a meal on Saturday.  It was nothing like those family nights, but it did involve a lot of food and everyone laughing and talking, and for a little while forgetting about the man in the room gasping for air, for a little while.

As I sat by my Pappy’s bed on Saturday night, before I said my final “see you later,” I kept praying that somehow he could stop suffering.  Each labored breath I made a silent plea for God to just bring him home a little early, that somehow he could cut the process short.  And with every breath, Pappy reminded me that I had no say in this.  Just as I needed to be quiet when Pappy said so, I could not pray Pappy home any sooner.

It was 3 am Sunday morning when he finally passed.  I was at home in bed.  Some of my cousins and my aunt were with him.  I am sure God has explained to him that there is no shooshing in heaven already.  And I bet he’s enjoying that feast as I type this.

I know my pappy was in pain.  Mesothelioma is a terrible thing to die from.  He told my sister and I at least 2 times in the last month to stay away from asbestos.  We told him we would.  I am happy Pappy is no longer in pain.  But there was just one more feast I wanted him to enjoy with me, my wedding feast.

I wanted Pappy to marry Matt and me.  I wanted him to give me all of the advice 49 years of marriage deserves to give.  And I wanted to walk over to his table, hug that wonderful old man, and feel his bristly mustache on my cheek as he said to me,”I’m so proud of you.  I love you.”

That was one feast I never thought he’d miss.  But I know he’ll be there.  He’ll be sitting at the feast, watching all of us, and trying to contain himself, because I’m absolutely sure we’ll be a little too loud and he’ll wish he could come down from heaven and tell us all to be a little quieter.

He was so persnickety about noise.  And like my younger cousin said, it was a privilege to know him.

Happy Eating!!!

Emily

I am a firm believer in a Saturday morning pot of tea curing any problems experienced during the week - I get this habit from my mother.

Oregon was on my mind a lot this week.  I could feel my knee scraping the bicycle as I rode up the winding hills to the intern house.  I could smell the muffin batter, baking into perfect muffins – I was one of maybe two interns that managed to not screw up the muffins on a daily basis, so I became the  main muffin maker.  And then as the week marched on, I remembered the long rides home from work and the month where I worked 20-some days straight.  I felt the accidents, one after another.  I would have given up that bicycle were it not for the 2 mile trip into work, at 3 in the morning.  I knew the cycle of the moon then.  It was a new moon the night I flipped over the handlebars and into a rock.

I started noticing the moon again this week.  Tuesday night was hardly a sliver.  This week was supposed to be the start of new exciting things.  I started my first big-person job at The Liquid Fence Company as public relations/ social media/ staff writer (my official title is Public Relations Assistant Coordinator).  I have a lot to learn, but I’m sure I’ll find my proverbial muffins (that thing that I can manage to never mess up) and be confident in my job in no time.

But this whole new start came with a price.  It meant the end of my days in a commercial kitchen.  It meant an hour commute – in a car!  And it meant me feeling like I did on that bicycle the first day in Oregon all over again, completely unsure and exhausted from the effort.

Oregon was a true epiphany in my life.  I met my soon-to-be-sister-in-law, made friends with some pretty wonderful people, and I learned how to ride a bike at the age of 19.  But more importantly it was the place where I realized my body could not handle working in a kitchen forever, and I decided to take a new path into the world of writing.  This week showed me that the epiphany of Oregon really was for the better.

I love the world of food and hope to never leave it’s tasty sphere, but now I get to explore other worlds and other talents.  While I will hold main-muffin-maker high in my list of life accomplishments, I will not miss the back pains and searing carpel tunnel from working in a kitchen.  And the best part – I get to cook all I want for fun!

I know these last few weeks have been sparse in terms of postings, but I have promised myself to work harder on posting more frequently.  As my weeks become more routine, I’m sure it will be easier to find the time and recipes you all come here for.  In the mean time I hope your new year is off to a great start.  And if it is not burn the New Year’s diet and go eat some of those Christmas cookies before they are completely inedible.

Happy Eating!!!

Emily

my mom's orange, such a bother

My mom cuts her oranges into segments.  I peel my oranges and then eat them.  My mom fights with her orange skins, hoping they come off and losing half the orange in the process.  My way is better.  And I don’t think she cares, because there is more than one way to peel an orange.

my orange, brilliance

Now you may be wondering why there is so much orange eating at my house.  My Great Uncle Bud sends us a box of oranges every year for Christmas.  He lives in Florida.  Oranges are better in Florida.  I wish I could share Uncle Bud’s real name with you all, because it really is an amazing name.  I have to confer with Matt, but I may just name my first child after Uncle Bud.  But back to the oranges.

These oranges are delicious and juicy and make me want to winter in Florida.  But since my family is doomed to a Pennsylvania winter and no fresh oranges, we all look forward to getting Uncle Bud’s oranges once a year.  And the package is such a wonderful reminder that, in a world where oranges can be bought 12 months out of the year, fresh oranges picked at the peak of the their season taste better.  The end.

Well not quite the end, because my mom still cuts her oranges and I prefer to peel them.  And then she wants to share.  And I have to fight with mom’s oranges and wish I had just peeled the stupid orange.

Happy Eating!!!

Emily

Frosty the Snowman puts on that magical hat and what comes out of his mouth – “Happy Birthday!”  After this week, I kind of understand where that silly statement came from.  When you have been in a complete netherworld of college for 4 and 1/2 years and the anti-climatic end of it all occurs and you return home to your room painted that same rose color that your mom painted it for your 13th birthday and then you finally catch your breath after shopping for Christmas presents and bringing your poor old laptop back to life, when life just throws you into a whirlwind and everyone would love to know how it feels, the words of Frosty ring especially true and Happy Birthday seems entirely relevant and almost certainly apropos.  For you see, you know whatever just happened deserves celebration, but you are not sure entirely what kind of celebration.  And it’s sort of awkward with all of those people staring at you expecting the words out of your mouth to be something mind-blowing and fresh.  College grads are supposed to be the ones with all of the new and exciting and fresh things to say, right?

Well I have nothing.  My capstone project that I spend hours on has an error on line 1069, and my professor has not fixed it.  This means months of work were for nothing.  My room is a pile of things that fit into my apartment, but somehow really don’t have a place anymore.  My laptop – basically my life – died from a virus on the last day of the semester.  I think it was rather symbolic, considering I told it many times that it just had to continue running till I was done.

And my Pappy, who I told you a while ago was diagnoses with mesothelioma(link), may not make it till Christmas.  My mom asked me today while we were out shopping, “what do you get for someone for Christmas who’s dying ?”  We settled on pajamas and searched for sets that came in a size smaller than a small.  The girl at the cash register didn’t seem to know what to say when my mom explained the pajamas were for her dad who was dying of cancer and terribly thin.  My mom called it, thin as a pickle, when she was on the phone with her sister last night.  Her voice cracked even saying it.  There really is nothing fresh or new to say to your mom when her dad is dying and its Christmas.   I’m afraid even, Happy Birthday won’t do.

So I am done with college.  I worked my tail off for 4 and 1/2 years, and life goes on.  All of that knowledge.  All of that work.  I loved every minutes of it.  And I can not wait for the happenings of the next 4 and 1/2 years.  But do I feel different.  No actually I feel like I have just been in a dream world and now I am back in reality.  The magical hat has given me a voice and somehow all I can say is Happy Birthday.  It is terribly ironic, don’t you think?

Happy Eating!!!

Emily