Dear Wyoming,

It’s with the best intentions I write to you. Less of a good-bye letter, more of a thank-you-from-the-bottom-of-my-heart note. We’ve had our ups and downs, you and I. Like summer days with blue skies that stretched to the tips of the mountains in my backyard, barely hitting 85 degrees but feeling like it was 100. Sitting on the deck soaking in the whirrr of the hummingbirds, the swoop of the hawks, coyotes at dusk, grass as green as a velvet blanket. But you had to blow it when summer came to a screeching halt, short lived, ending practically overnight as temperatures plummeted and daylight ran. Okay, okay. I’m not here to tell you what I’m angry about. This is a litany of thoughts as we pack our bags and move on.

When we arrived, Regi and I were running on empty in some ways. The opportunity to move hit us out of the blue–but at the best time. You may or may not know this, Wyoming, but parenting is difficult. It’s messy, nothing like they (whoever they are) promised. It’s like being handed the fanciest, priciest, most technologically savvy vehicle, then being deprived of the key, let alone the instruction manual. Quite frankly, it sucks at times. And so we left Nashville with our parent tank nearing empty, in agreement with our little family that moving meant refocusing, reorganizing, restarting.

I’ll never forget packing up the stuff, all our stuff, and making that cross country move. While we were drained emotionally and mentally, at least we had a semi truck full of things we held dear. Like furniture we’d collected over the years but never used, boxes of Grandma’s china and our barely used wedding china, baseball cards and various collectibles I won’t acknowledge, photos –triplicates, blurry ones, the ones of people we chose not to acknowledge anymore. Once we moved in, we still couldn’t bare to part with much of our stuff so it never made it to the living room. I’d held on to Christmas decorations that never should’ve crossed state lines, plastic bins stuffed with yellowed Kindergarten papers from my school days, dozens of Rolling Stone Magazines from the 70s, scary looking collectible dolls, passed down stuff that I couldn’t even remember who did the passing down. Luckily this move brought us a nice basement which became the perfect place to store our best intentions of sorting through the boxes one day, some day, maybe never day.

Then life happened. Instead of the emptiness getting filled, the hole grew. So much occurred, so much screaming, wringing of hands, so many tears of anger and hurt. Like we’d been side swiped by a Mack truck and were waiting on road side service–who never showed up. You know what I’m talking about, Wyoming. You know the sleepless nights, fits of rage, the unrest, the slamming of doors, the ultimatums, the fear. I thought moving to this bubble was going to shield us. It didn’t.

I have to say, you stood strong, Wyoming. Never let me down. You challenged me–that’s putting it mildly–and taught me more in this four years than any other time in my life. Among other things, like how to drive in driving snow, how to shovel and plow all that snow, and how to laugh after running into snow banks, completely buried, because I refused to believe ice was that slippery. I dusted off my rusty skis and learned to enjoy the mess in front of me. You gave me friends who kept calling and pushing me to new limits, like hiking through mountains so high and so difficult on hot summer days just to enjoy the view. All for a new perspective I’d otherwise never experience had I not dared myself to go a little further.

You know what hit me recently? For the times I felt like an utter failure, all I had to do was look out any window of our home and catch a sunrise that was more beautiful than any I’ve ever experienced. Those towering mountains capped with snow filled evergreens, the sun shining her morning light as she peeked over the tips. Sunsets that plunged those green mountains with bold purples and pink. Words cannot describe the beauty that prodded us with the gentle reminder that no matter what, tomorrow would bring a new day overflowing with tons of mercy. You reminded me daily that God has His hand on each aspect of my life and though it may have been difficult and felt like I was going under, you reminded me to look up. To enjoy nature and strengthen myself for what was ahead.

But at some point along the way, with the dust settled and the snow thawed, we realized it was time to go. Time to pack up, move out, be on our way. This time though, we surveyed life through a different lens, with different discernment. Who we’d become, what we’d experienced, was no longer housed in all we’d amassed in the basement, the workshop, the bedrooms. And as if we’d shaken the dirt from our boots, we came to the same conclusion: we didn’t have to hold onto the past any longer physically or mentally. And so, in complete family agreement over a warm bowl of pasta, we decided to sell almost everything. Gave ourselves permission to be free of the self-inflicted guilt over stuff that didn’t matter, stuff buried in boxes for years. I finally crushed the lie that I’d never be able to replace my favorite bookshelves or the piano or the things Sophie and Eli shouldn’t be saddled with because I refused to let go. Once we started, we couldn’t contain ourselves. We donated, burned, and sold it all. Yep, the mattresses, gone. Refrigerator, left behind. Armoires, sold to the friendly neighbor, along with the ATV, beehives, washer and dryer, pool table and couches. At the end of a day, the only things that stayed were the things that mattered.

And guess what, Wyoming? It’s the freest we’ve ever felt! In turn, we’re leaving as different people thanks to you. Scarred but resiled. Relieved, able to laugh at what we thought would take us under. Not because we did anything right, but because we survived. That boy we raised, stubborn and temperamental, polite and handsome, misguided and reckless? Took his ambitions and fearlessness, and is serving this country proudly. Sure, he took the winding road, but he found the way. You had a lot to do with that, WY, but ultimately, it was God who held him. And us. It sounds silly, I know, but we came here with a snot nosed middle schooler who knew everything, and we leave with the confidence of parents who raised a fine young man.

You know what else? Sophie, my strong willed daughter, has become my closest friend. Confidant and confident, she brought me to my knees at times, sent me to a place of begging God for something, anything. Now she sings in my ear, a beautiful melody of perseverance and strength, a different person than when she arrived. Full of life and a smile that warms a room, she’s given us a gift so great I can hardly contain my thanks. A boy named Hendrix who rocked our world when we thought it would be shattered, whose laugh mirrors hers, whose joy is uncontainable. How things change when follow the path God has for us, not the one others carve for us.

And so, Wyoming, we walk the driveway one last time. The moving trailer may have less than when we arrived, but oh–our hearts are full. Thanks again for the adventure! If you ever need to get away, please come visit. I’d love to show you the sunset as it slips away over the ocean and watch you feel the sand between your toes. This is what I call living!  ♥♥

All my love,

Kim

Off We Go, Into the Wild Blue…

I love riding my bike on a sunny day. I go about a hundred yards from our garage to the county road, fat bike tires spitting gravel,  my legs warming up to the exercise ahead. At the end of our driveway, it’s another football field to the main road where four wheelers and tractors outnumber the F150s on most days.

There’s a yield sign at the end and as I approach it I squeeze my right hand-brake without coming to a complete stop. I’m familiar with this way. My route is the same as the many times before and I know how far it is point to point. Two miles. Four miles. Six miles. Take your pick, choose your course, go.

Once on the half-gravel half-paved road, I coast. This is the fun part of my ride. I take my hands off the brake and enjoy the entire first half of my so-called exercise ride because it’s all downhill. But what a beautiful ride it is. It’s a two lane country road surrounded by pastures of hay where long steel pipes and massive wheels of side roll sprinklers inch along, water shooting out 24/7 during the summer. It’s all about farming here, and preparing for the onslaught of winter and keeping the cattle fed. Thus the miles and miles of hay fields that light up with yellow and purple all summer long.

Leaving where we’ve been planted for the last four years in beautiful Wyoming feels like we’re on our bikes again–pedaling pedaling pedaling–watching the scenery in our peripheral as we go. We came here for many reasons, arriving a bit empty but leaving so very full. Like the many side roads along the main highway of life, this has been the season of all seasons in our lives. I realize more than ever how this quiet, small town has been the best place to navigate our little family during the transition of teenage to adult years. Away from the draw of congested highways and populous school districts to the land of few stop lights and little travelled roads. I have no question it’s where we were meant to be, just like I have no question that it’s time to move on. It’s difficult explaining the uproot to people who’ve never left their comfort zone, their job, their childhood home. Often friends tell me how they’d love to explore a new expanse where they’ve never stepped foot, and often I relay how I envy their roots planted deep in rich soil.

I don’t know why, but we recently felt a release from Jackson, a letting go, a gentle prodding to a different pasture. After praying and questioning, talking and praying some more, Regi and I knew it was time. And one thing that doesn’t scare us is looking ahead and embarking on a new adventure. To where? We don’t know. Oddly enough that’s the part of the journey we rest in because it’s what grows our reliance on God. What would our faith life be if we only released our grip when we were confident of what awaited us on the other end of a decision? I wish it were as easy as saying we heard God’s voice in the middle of the night and here’s the exact plan for what’s ahead. Nope, that’s not the way it happened. So, we’re back on our bikes at the part of the journey where we let off the brake and coast along until we reach our next destination. This part of the ride is where not much is required of us except trust. We don’t have to do the pedaling right now because we’re being pushed along by an unseen hand to a place He has yet to reveal. But, we rest knowing He knows, and that’s all that matters.

 

And now a word for you who brashly announce, “Today—at the latest, tomorrow—we’re off to such and such a city for the year. We’re going to start a business and make a lot of money.” You don’t know the first thing about tomorrow. You’re nothing but a wisp of fog, catching a brief bit of sun before disappearing. Instead, make it a habit to say, “If God wills it and we’re still alive, we’ll do this or that.” James 4:13, 14

 

Do You Smell What I Smell?

It was late dusk when I was driving home. Regi and I had closed up our retail shop for the night in the busy town of Jackson Hole, and as we’d driven separately that day, I looked forward to the quiet unwind on my way home, just me and my true crime podcast. We followed each other until he waved me on as he stopped for gas. I zoomed by excited to get home. A third of the way through my commute, I reached the canyon where it would be another 23 miles without cell service, after which point it’s another 15 miles home. It’s a lovely drive and a nice (but forced) way to decompress. The Snake River flows on one side, the mountains climbing up behind. On the other side, The Bridger Teton National Forest. In the summer it’s not a big deal to get through the canyon unscathed. It’s light until nine o’clock and most of the animals have headed up to cooler pastures. But today it was nearing winter, when it gets dark at 5:00, the time of year you’re likely to encounter almost anything. A herd of elk crossing randomly, maybe a moose, or a mule dear…all headed to bed down for the night.

I rounded the corner right before the canyon shrunk to two lanes. I wasn’t speeding, unlike most other times, when I came upon a guy on my side of the road with his hazards on. No sooner did I glance his way to see if I could offer some help did I notice a blob in the middle of my lane. I wasn’t quick enough to avoid it and ran over whatever that guy had just hit. Thumpity-thump-thud-scitch-scitch-scitch. Four years in the middle of nowhere and I’d managed not to hit a single animal…until now? My heart raced, my mind wandered to a hundred large animal cemeteries. What did I run over? Was it alive? Did I finish it off? Bambi’s mom–please, no! Wretched dusk and clueless animals that jump out whenever they please.

Immediately after my hit and run there was a pullover where I could gather my wits and calm my nerves. If I hadn’t known better, I’d a thought the carcass was hanging from the underbelly of my car. At least a hind quarter or something because the  S-M-E-L-L was dreadful, as if death had hitchhiked its way onto my Jeep. A car stopped to check on me, saying they’d run over whatever I’d run over, and they smelled terrible as well. Knowing Regi wasn’t far behind, I assured them with a smile then turned my hazards on. The raw meat stench settled into every available inch of legroom, headroom, carpet, glovebox, and cup holder. By the time Regi stopped and I relayed to him the chain of events, we headed home in tandem, my stomach shaky. I rolled the windows down. Awful. I rolled my windows up. More awful. No matter what I did, I couldn’t escape the smell.

Though it was already dark when I made it through the canyon, I signaled Regi to go on home–I wanted to run through the carwash before going any further. I plopped in all my extra quarters and upgraded to the highest level in hopes it would clear away the memory of what happened.

By the time I got home, I told the story to my daughter, Sophie and my cousin, Josh, who was staying with us. We decided it best to tell ourselves that I ran over a rabid elk and had that not happened, pandemonium in nature would have occurred.

“What am I gonna do? My car smells like something crawled into my engine and died. If the smell doesn’t go away, I won’t be driving it ever again,” I said. They cringed, shook their heads, and laughed.

For the next couple days I drove with the awful smell then complained again. “I have to do something. Maybe I should sell my Jeep and be done with it,” I joked ever so seriously.

Josh, the consummate neat freak, asked, “When was the last time you cleaned your car out?”

“Not lately, but what’s that got to do with the smell?”

“Have you spilled anything recently?”

“No.”

“You sure?”

“Of course I’m sure. You don’t get it. It’s not coming from the inside, like a french fry or a chicken nugget that’s stuck between the seats. It’s what I hit. I think it’s coming from the engine. I swear something is stuck under the hood.”

He said, “But didn’t you notice a weird smell a couple months ago? You ever figure out what that was?”

“I never figured that out. But it went away after a couple days. This time it’s not going anywhere.”

Josh knows me well. He knows I love starting projects, just not finishing them. He busts my chops for leaving the wheelbarrow in front of the gate rather than putting it away. For leaving a bag of garbage on the porch instead of walking it to the corner for the garbageman to pick it up. For dropping bags of topsoil right in front of the walkway instead of putting them in the shop. So the fact that he thought I could have spilled something in my Jeep and never properly cleaned it up made perfect sense. But he was wrong. The smell was coming from the outside, not the inside. How many times would I have to tell him?

The next day, with the sun out and the sky blue, I looked out the living room window to see that Josh had practically disassembled my entire Jeep from the inside out. What a stubborn cousin, but oh well. I was fine with him searching for something that didn’t exist because it meant I’d get my car detailed for free and I was A-OK with that.

An hour or so later I walked out to see what his deep dive uncovered. He looked at me without saying anything at first, his version of an Italian smack down with the blue eyes he got from his mom.

“Come here.”

I hesitated. I took one baby step at a time towards him because I was nervous he was gonna throw something at me like a leg bone he’d found buried in the gas line.

“Smell this.” He’d pulled the rug out from the cargo space in the very back and shoved it towards me. I was grossed out and flinched, but obliged him with a quick sniff.

Okay, so it had a distinct smell, I’ll give ya that. After all, I’d thrown bags of soil in there, plants from the nursery, groceries, a gallon of milk that leaked out once, a very stinky dog after a long hike or two, and wet skis covered with snow that had to melt somewhere.

“This is what you’re smelling,” he pressed the carpet to his nose this time.

“There’s no way it’s been smelling like that and I haven’t noticed. What? It only started stinking the minute I ran over whatever it was?” But fine, if that’s what you think, and as a way to say thanks for cleaning my car, I’ll agree with you, I thought.

He spent the rest of the afternoon scrubbing the carpet, drying the carpet, then vacuuming the carpet until it looked brand new. Afterwards, he called me back out, “See what you think now.”

Small whiff. Nothing. Bigger whiff, still nothing. “Wow. The smell is gone. I’m impressed. But now that the inside is good, what do we do about the stink on the outside? I guess I can go to the carwash later. I’ll be interested to see what happens after the Febreeze wears off. I mean, it smells good now, but…” I stopped complaining, thanked him again, and gave him a hug. I didn’t want to discourage my cousin by my unusually pessimistic attitude (you’ll understand that when you get to know me better) that would prove him wrong bright and early the next day.

By nine the next morning, I was ready to leave and prepared myself for what would be waiting. Sure the back of the Jeep would smell like a pina colada on ice, but after driving it would smell like kombucha brewed with ripe elk meat.

But wow. I got into my car and not even the faintest hint lingered. The day before when I got within two feet of my Jeep the smell hit me like a bag of rocks. So I left home and after driving for fifteen minutes, confident the engine had toasted the rotting meat while I drove, I puffed up my chest and breathed as deep as I could. Nothing. I blasted the air. Nothing. I rolled the windows down. Nothing. I searched for the aroma that had been hanging in the crevices of my Jeep and found absolutely zilch.

I called Josh. “You’ll never believe it. It’s gone. Like, completely gone. This is really weird. How the heck did this happen?”

He laughed uncontrollably, I’m sure with a tilted head and open mouth. “Told you it was coming from inside.”

Inside.

 

What started out as a funny story between two cousins made me realize something. It’s easy to spend most of our time on the outside, like me washing my car, when in reality the inside should have been my focus all along. Because what’s inside is what matters most.

“Search me, God, and know my heart; test me and know my anxious thoughts. See if there is any offensive way inside me, and lead me in the way everlasting.” Psalm 139:23

 
 

The Fruit We Leave Behind

When my grandfather died in 2012, I remember the aftermath of returning to his home and feeling the loss. The loneliness of not seeing him stand near the kitchen island frying his eggs in deep yellow olive oil, dressed in his tractor clothes that he’d worn the day before. Him digging around his property, moving dirt simply for the sake of moving dirt, then sitting in his brushed velour recliner now faded from the sun. Empty. 

Grandpa's chair
Grandpa Crisafulli’s chair

Grandpa was a farmer at heart and nothing made him happier than when he was planting a citrus tree. His life had been consistent with rows of plump Ruby Red grapefruit, navels, and sweet tangerines with a ton of seeds. Besides growing fruit, he built his fair share of houses for he and my grandmother during their almost 60 years of marriage;  every one of them had fruit trees in the yard. I’m certain they are all still standing.

During the week after his funeral when the family gathered at the last house he’d ever sleep in this side of Heaven, I remember roaming his back yard with its thick grass, fire ants, stickers, and trees. Lots and lots of trees. After all, he was good at growing and harvesting. At the very edge of his property in this neighborhood he developed, there were two different looking trees. One mango, one avocado. I hadn’t considered that he would plant anything other than oranges and grapefruits, but in front of me were these young deep green leaved trees heavy with fruit. At least the avocado one was. The mango was still young and hadn’t produced yet. I picked a few avocados that were too firm to enjoy but I’d be returning home soon and didn’t have time to wait until they ripened. I wondered how the mangoes would taste one day and hoped to get back before the house moved on to someone else who may not let me pick the fruit he planted.

Fast foward eight years to Wyoming where we live now. Wyoming is known for its wide open spaces and when I say that, I really mean it. It’s not like Florida with its palmettos and palms, thick in spaces, a full ecosystem thriving in the dense brush. Nor is it like Nashville, hills replete with dogwoods, maples, oaks and birch. But Wyoming? Unless you’re talking about one of the national parks that are in huge abundance, you’ll find most (not all) parcels of land void of trees. Beautiful wooden houses sit on desolate land without a single shade tree in sight. Oh but the beauty in the vastness of this state that everyone should get to experience just once.

Our home sits on a 40 acre hay field without one tree, except for what the original owner planted around the home. When you drive on the main road, you barely can make out that a house is sitting in the middle of the random puff of trees. There are 30 year old trees on this property–river birches standing at attention, reaching to the sun high above. Evergreens planted in a row, one even housing an owl’s nest, with branches that hold the snow so precisely in winter. At the front of our home, there are two lines of trees that create a covered walkway should you choose to take that route. There are two chokecherry bushes, an apple tree, a rose bush and others I don’t know the names of. He, a gentleman I never met, planted these trees so specifically that I’ve noticed how one blooms in vibrant pink then turns green, only for a different tree to start blooming. I’m never without color in sight, as if watching a well intentioned orchestra in my yard.

However, the first Spring we were here and after the 20 feet of snow melted, everything was brown (except the evergreens of course). The grass, the bare branches of the trees, the bushes low to the ground. I immediately brought the tree specialist over and told him to cut down as many trees as he could. I wanted them gone, at least a good amount of them. He looked at me like I’d lost my mind. He calmed me down and responded, “Why don’t I come back later. After you see what happens when these trees wake up. You have a beautiful yard and if I were you, I wouldn’t change a thing.”

Four years later, and I am in awe of the beauty that surrounds us. Very often, something pops out of the ground I never planted, as if it waited all this time for me to appreciate it. Poppies, succulents, you name it. I’ve found multiple pieces of petrified wood buried in my flower beds until I wonder if there is treasure deep in the rich soil. And yet, everything that we enjoy was left here by someone else. Much like the mango, avocado and fruit trees my grandfather left behind.

On a breezy day this past April, I walked our property with the dogs. I came across the dead grass that would eventually sprout into green stalks ready to be mowed and baled for some lucky cows. When I stepped into the tree line, I immediately felt a sense of calm and gratitude for the haven someone created. 

In my heart, I acknowledged both men with gratitude. I get to experience the work done by their hands, rough to the touch, the dirt beneath their nails. The trees they planted sprout to life every year and gift those around them navels, lemons, and grapefruit bright yellow and red. Tart apples in Autumn, and berries that come to life after rainy season. Two men, one I knew and one I never met, have left me with a great thought to consider.

When I’m gone from this earth, what fruit will I leave behind?

A society grows great when old men plant trees whose shade they know they will never sit in. Greek Proverb

Backyard

My backyard. The caption was Eli’s idea that he posted on Instagram. He was about to start the second semester of 8th grade, the new kid in our small town. He was still a clumsy boy, chunky in the middle, shorter than most at school. A boy embracing a new start.

I took the picture a few weeks after we moved to Wyoming on a snowy December evening, when we were enamored with the short winter days and long frigid nights, excited to open the curtains and look outside to see how much snow fell while we slept. The days when I’d stop loading the dishwasher and the kids paused Netflix and we’d gather outside to watch the sun set into the mountains, the evergreens lined up in their neatly knitted snow scarves.

Four years later I came across this picture on my phone. The foreshadowing captured in one simple pose hit me hard. It was as though Eli raced through puberty after moving here–he shot up to 6’ tall, grew hair under his arms and his voice deepened, all while barely weighing in at 120 on the day he enlisted.

I studied the picture one day when I had nothing else to do. Besides, it was of him and he wasn’t here and I longed to remember the days he roamed our property and would come in for dinner. In the picture, he is walking away from me, headed towards the sunset, like it was calling to him. Follow me and make your own path. Don’t stay put, trust your instincts. 

Did I know there was a voice speaking louder than me? Perhaps. He’d always been the one to follow his own lead so I had to let him go. I had to allow him to carve out his own path even if it didn’t meet my expectations or hopes. But it didn’t come easy, this letting go.

“Son, be careful! Not too far! Turn around! Come back!” I tried steering him towards the driveway, where the snow wasn’t so deep, so that his walk home wouldn’t be so time consuming. But no, he wouldn’t listen. He took the long way, the route no one else had walked, like he was captaining his own ship, trusting his gut on this road less travelled.

I’ve learned a lot from this kid. I’ve had to let him go and allow him to find his own way. I’ve had to trust him to a Father who has plans so much bigger than any I had for him. I’ve had to step away and allow God to shape his dreams and intentions rather than me deciding what’s best for him. Kids have to learn to fly on their own, to make their own footsteps in the fresh snow.

Then, sit back and watch what God does in your kid. You’ll be amazed.

Eli, I’m so very proud of you.

Cooking with Nina

The kitchen holds memories for me–I have my mom to thank for that. I remember walking in from school to something on the stove bubbling underneath the lid of the Salad Master pot that clanked incessantly with it’s ding-ding-ding-ding-ding. It ensured all was well in my world. It’s those smells that reignite memories and I hope I’ve passed the same down to my kids. I wish I knew the aroma that hangs in my memory because I’d reproduce it every week. Maybe beef stew, rich and brothy with airy dumplings, or mashed potatoes ready to be mixed with a stick of butter and whole milk, maybe her chocolate chip cookies made with shortening, not butter, crispy throughout.

Now that I’ve been around the kitchen a lot longer, I realize that cooking alone isn’t fun. My kitchen isn’t all that large, but it’s the best part of our remodel in our dated home. I don’t have tons of counter space, but I love standing at my sink and being face to face with whoever’s sitting on a barstool drinking a latte or glass of wine. I like company when I stir the gravy, or mix the butter and sugar because that’s when laughter and a lot of loud talking ensues (especially when my cousin Josh is sitting on the third barstool from the right).

I had an idea when I went home for my dad’s 80th birthday in January. I arranged for my Aunt Joyce to take me to our cousin’s house. I wanted to immerse myself in my family’s Sicilian culture, perhaps to stave off the guilt that I’d turned my back on the old, thinking it would always be there when I was ready. After my grandmother died in 1999, and years later my grandfather, I realized how much I missed out on. Maybe it’s my age, tired of the push and pull of staying current, of competing with each other for success in the here and now. I wanted to be reminded of where I came from, and to experience my grandmother’s recipe that she would have loved to teach me, but I was too busy to ask about.

“Let’s go to Nina’s and make those cookies like Grandma always made at Christmas.” Of course I could follow a recipe from Pinterest but what fun would that be?

The last time I saw Nina was at our family reunion in 2019. I wanted to see her again because she reminds me of of my grandmother; soft spoken, soft hands, soft words that come from her mouth.

Nina’s face is smooth, the wrinkles almost non-existent. She’s 81 and doesn’t look it. She greets us when we drive up to her front door with a big hug and a “Nice to see you, Honey,” spoken with great intention. Her house is old, been in her family since the beginning, and creaks when you walk across the floor. There’s a fire going in the wood-burning stove which we laugh about. Back home in Wyoming we’d be reveling in what feels like summer. My Florida relatives love that there’s a chill in the air and a reason to wear Uggs and burn a fire. The warm crackle makes the house cozy as we head to the kitchen which is right off the room where the fire rages.

Nina already had the supplies arranged on her butcher-block–eggs, flour, sugar, a splash of Brandy.  She handed me a faded 3×5 card that looked like it was typed on a Remington, heavy with oil splatter that held many stories.  Una buona mamma vale cento maestre.

I remember my grandmother making these cookies on special occasions. We’d oooh and ahhh over them the minute we walked into her kitchen. I never asked how long she rolled and shaped the dough, what kind of oil she dipped them in, or how she coated them perfectly with powdered sugar that left a trail wherever the cookies went. Now with Nina more than happy to pass on the family recipe, I felt like I was with my precious grandmother in some small way, as though it was her calling me Honey and patting me gently in the small of my back.

Before going any further, Nina asked, “Would you like an apron, Honey?” She offers me the one with a red and green map of Italy on it that I tie around my waist with giggly excitement–I love aprons. (I make two mental notes: to search for more vintage aprons, and to display them like Nina does…on a nail hammered into the wall, where anyone can grab them easily.)

After mixing our ingredients and rolling them all together, Nina took the dough from the bowl. Her hands didn’t hesitate the minute they hit the ball, working by rote, talking me through each step. Was it silly for me to show up wanting a lesson in making Italian cookies, I ask myself? What’s so important that I insisted on coming here today? Because I want to tell my grandson one day, “I made these cookies with your great Aunt Joyce and my cousin, Nina.” I want to share the stories we told, like when Aunt Jo taught Nina and Joyce how to make ravioli, and how she did it so quickly they didn’t have the chance to see how she did it. Stories of Nina’s girls, my cugine, and remembering the birthday parties we shared when we were young. I want to laugh the same way with Hendrix when I coach his tiny hands as he and I press the dough out one day.

Once the dough was rolled into a thin sheet on the counter, Nina took the stainless steel Fattigmann cutter and zig zagged her way across the dough. I studied the cookie cutter closely realizing I’d seen my grandmother’s over the years but never knew what it was for. Then we crossed the individual pieces of dough over, folded one side in, and gave it a final stretch before dropping it into the hot oil.

Fattigmann Cookie Cutter(Third note to self: order cookie cutter ASAP.)

Then we plopped the cookie dough into the cast iron pan that was bubbling with oil, six or eight at a time. Aunt Joyce was in charge of making sure they browned just right, then laying them on a grocery bag to drip dry.

The final step when they cooled was to put them into a brown paper bag, shake them up like a good Taylor Swift song, and let the powdered sugar fall where it may. What came out was a crispy cookie, laced with sugar, that tasted like every Christmas I ever remember.

We made a cheer to our success and fun, and I left Nina’s with promises of keeping in touch and seeing each other sooner than later. I left full, not just in my stomach from munching on too many cookies, but in my heart at the reminder of how important family is.

Something special happens in the kitchen when you cook with family. After my cookie adventure in January, my mind has started pulsing with ways to connect with my parents, my sisters, my aunts, my cousins, my kids and my friends in the kitchen before more time gets away. I encourage you to do the same. Who knows, maybe I’ll come to your house next and we can cook up something special. No matter the recipe, I can promise we’ll have fun.

Whatever you do, don’t let time run out for you to make memories with those you hold close.

La famiglia non è una cosa importante. È tutto.

After! All perfectly sprinkled with powdered sugar.
Before the sprinkle. Laid out on a brown paper bag, allowing the oil to drain off.

Hardest Prayer I’ve Prayed

There are days that I ask–

Why did we allow our son to go so soon?

He can’t vote, can’t get a tattoo, can’t operate a meat slicer at a grocery store, can’t rent a car, can’t buy spray paint, can’t get a lottery ticket, can’t buy tobacco, can’t serve on a jury, book a hotel room, or get a Costco card. However, he can join the military (with parental consent) and fight for our country, maybe give his life for you and me, and for others who don’t love this country enough to deserve his sacrifice.

We could have said, “Not now. Maybe next year. Just. Not. Yet.” Yet we didn’t question or flinch, we just signed. My eyes welled up with tears on the day we gave permission to his recruiter who put papers in front of Eli and handed me the tissue box. We willingly betrothed him to his new dad, Uncle Sam, then went home, slightly considering that the inevitable wouldn’t happen any time soon. But let me say, the pride of his decision felt like fireworks going off in my stomach. I’d tell complete strangers at the grocery, “My son is shipping out next week,” and I’m certain they heard the fourth of July celebration I was having with myself.

However, the sucker punch didn’t come until a few months later when we waved good-bye at the American Airlines gate. He didn’t look back as he and a couple others sprinted towards the jet bridge. We were busy laughing with the other families about that impending buzz cut that we didn’t hear the gate agent call them to board. There were no last kisses or hugs—just the whirlwind of a few kids who looked like they were headed to the locker room after a Friday night win. 

After we left the terminal, we sat in the car unsure of what to do next. Eli was headed to boot camp, end of question: no regrets, no turning back. No telling his new uncle we’d made a mistake. Right then and there, with a knot the size of Texas in my gut, I told myself we’d done the wrong thing.

But had we? 

Part of me–oh so glad he went. He was going nowhere staying at home, messing around with the wrong kids, getting into trouble, jumping job to job. The other part? I couldn’t imagine my baby being the brunt of a drill sergeant who didn’t care what he said about this mama and other choice phrases I can’t share with my PG-rated friends.

Finally, when the three months of nervous fuzzies surrounding whether he’d survive boot camp were over, and when our son successfully earned the title of US Marine, my heart started to breath again. He did it. This was it. The crowning achievement of his entire 17 years. The only problem was I hadn’t thought of anything beyond graduation, his visit home for two weeks, hugging him tightly, and showing him off to my friends at church. 

I hadn’t thought about our next good-bye or how difficult the real letting go would be.

Fast forward to ten months on the other side and everything has changed. He talks differently, careful of what he does and doesn’t tell me. He walks into a room differently, his head held high and shoulders square, which has added a couple inches to his previously lanky stature. Yet along with his perfect posture comes the reality that it’s only a matter of time until he deploys. Even though we aren’t in a time of war, the fact that he will be half way around the world in places where the political scenery changes on a daily basis has brought me to a new understanding and appreciation. Oh yeah, I can be heard belting out Courtesy of the Red, White and Blue with Toby Keith on most days, but in the middle of the night I’m begging God to watch over my kid since I’m not close enough to personally hold on to him with my bare hands.

I’m not in control any longer (as if I ever were). I’ve had to stop talking about letting go–biting my cuticles ’til they’re raw, overthinking where he could go, and all the ifs, ands and buts. I can’t track his phone, question how late he stayed out, or argue about what he does with his money. Those days are over. With the letting go comes a relief that I can’t do anything else except pray and trust God. Almost like it’s time to find a hammock on the beach somewhere and rest in the knowledge that in good and bad, battles and calm, God has Eli square in the palm of His hand. After all, he is a good Father who knows my thoughts, and knows my son, and loves us each so very much.

And so, my simple but difficult prayer has become:

God, he’s yours. Whatever he does, wherever he goes, let it all be for Your glory. 

Amen. Amen. And Amen.