I heard the thud of the backpack making contact before I saw what happened. Muffled by the puffy ski jacket, the sound of backpack-to-flesh was nonetheless unmistakable.

Restless from endless (pointless) days of Connecticut Mastery Test-taking and no recess, my oldest was uncharacteristically violent with his brother that week. He swung his heavy backpack, stuffed to the brim with God knows what (he likes flat rocks), and landed a blow square against his brother’s shoulder.

For the first time in more than a year, I pointed to The Corner. Click to continue »

I cooked Italian for my Irish father on St. Patty’s Day

Escarole and Beans the Patty way

Inspired by Giada Whosis and Mark Bittman

• Chicken broth. Homemade.  End of discussion.
• 2 or 3 minced garlic cloves
• olive oil
• Small dried white beans, soaked overnight and cooked. No canned. End of discussion.
• A couple of heads of escarole, rinsed well and roughly chopped
• Salt and pepper
• Small piece of a parmesan cheese rind
• Parmesan cheese for topping

Cook the garlic in olive oil in a soup pot over medium heat for a few minutes. Add the escarole and cook until it’s wilted. Add chicken broth, cheese rind and beans. Heat thoroughly. Add salt and pepper to taste.

Serve topped with parmesan and maybe a little olive oil. We also had spicy Italian sausage which were a perfect complement.

I had never made this before. It was a fresh and quite tasty dinner.

Although it was green, serving Italian-style food on what my father refers to as a high holy day seemed a little wrong. Although he did proclaim it the best escarole and beans he’s ever had.

And somewhere, my half Irish, half Italian mother is smiling.

“Week two of my double pink eye infection. Going to dr now,” I texted Joe.

From 3000 miles away came the hilarious response.  “You must look like a lemur.”

A few years ago, I became exceptionally susceptible to pink eye. I had it 5 times within 3 months. That was before we changed swim clubs. ‘Nuff said.

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Full disclosure: my heritage is mostly Irish. I was raised Catholic, and no longer participate in the Catholic religion. I went to high school with State Senator McDonald, I consider him a civil rights hero for his work to make gay marriage legal in my state, and when a friend of mine from New York wanted to legally marry his partner of many years I contacted Andrew to ask if he’d perform the ceremony (and he did so, gladly). Senator McDonald is not a close friend of mine; we mostly lost touch after high school. But I respect his work, and I’d vote for him in a minute if I lived in his district. Click to continue »

I’m so tired. My back is aching, my eyes are closing. I was scrubbing pots and pans, cutting up the chicken in the slow cooker. A long, teary, lingering hug goodnight to my boys, kisses on their sweet cheeks. Goodnight sweet angels. Look, I know Daylight Savings just started yesterday. I know you are wide awake. I, however, am not. I need you to go to sleep, boys. No shenanigans. Sleep. I love you. No, I love you more. Now go to sleep.

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The tetras died last week. Cleaning up in the wake of rotavirus at 2 am, I saw Mike (or was it Ike?) floating upside down in the bowl. The other followed about 12 hours later. Having survived the bigger, dumber cat breaking their bowl and the subsequent (yet momentary) flailing about on the kitchen floor, I thought they were hardy suckers. Not like that showy little golden tetra who mysteriously disappeared when I left all the fish in a mixing bow overnight. No, these were tough guys, capable of dodging the sharpest and fastest cat claws.

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