I found this recipe on a Mayo Clinic website shortly after we were getting our life back to normal after Regi had a heart attack and I needed some heathy-er options for dinnertime. It is now one of our favorites! This recipe is adapted from eatingwell.com.
Tried and true by my family, who I’ve taught to love coconut almost as much as me. This cake has just the right texture and is perfectly moist. It’s even better the day after you make it.
I ask you: why would you ever make a plain bundt cake when you could make this?
Ingredients
1 3/4 cups flour
2 cups flaked coconut (sweetened)
1 1/2 cups butter, room temperature
2 cups sugar
4 eggs, room temperature
1 cup full fat sour cream
1/2 t. baking powder
1 t. vanilla
Glaze
1 cup powdered sugar
1/4 cup heavy cream (I’ve used coconut milk, full fat, from a can before)
1 t. vanilla
1/2 to 3/4 cup unsweetened coconut, toasted
Preheat oven to 325 degrees. Generously great and flour bundt pan.
In a medium bowl, mix flour and coconut. Set to the side.
In a large bowl, cream butter and sugar. Add eggs and mix until light and fluffy. Add sour cream, baking powder and vanilla. Mix well.
Add half of the flour to the creamed mixture, mix well. Add the remaining flour mixture and mix until well combined. Let rest for 5 minutes.
Pour into your prepared pan. Bake for 60 – 70 minutes or until a toothpick comes out clean. Cool 25 minutes. Invert onto serving plate and frost with the coconut glaze.
Glaze
Mix ingredients together in a small bowl with wooden spoon. Pour on top of cake and let it drizzle down the sides of the cake. Top with the toasted coconut.
This soup is hearty and just plain good. The farro (or you can use barley*) gives it a nutty taste and I just love the texture of farro. If you’ve never tried farro, please put it on your grocery list and buy some. Â
Ingredients
2 T. olive oil
2 medium carrots, diced
1 small onion, diced
2 stalks celery, diced
4 cloves garlic, minced
6 cups low-sodium chicken broth (have more on hand; the farro tends to thicken the soup up too much)
1 14.5 oz can diced tomatoes
1 cup farro, rinsed or *barley (I tried using pearl barley when I couldn’t find farro and it was delicious. Don’t use instant barley though. Please just don’t. I made the barley according to the directions on the box and added it to the soup at the end.)
1 t. oregano
1 bay leaf
Salt, to taste
1/2 cup parsley, chopped (fresh, as usual)
4 cups chopped kale (frozen works; but if you use fresh, remove the thick ribs)
1 15 ounce can of cannellini beans, drained and rinsed
1 T. lemon juice
Parmesan, for serving
Instructions
Heal oil in a large pot over medium heat. Add onions and saute.
Add carrots and celery and saute five more minutes. Add garlic and saute 3o seconds longer.
Stir in chicken broth, tomatoes, farro, oregano, bay leaf and then season with salt.
Add parsley and bring soup to a boil. Reduce heat to medium.
Cover and simmer for 30 minutes or until farro is tender. Taste as you go. It sometimes take s little longer to cook thoroughly. You don’t want it mushy but then again you don’t want it raw! At this point, you’ll see the farro has soaked up a lot of your broth so feel free to add more as you’d like it.
Then add the beans and heat thoroughly. Just a few minutes.
Remove the bay leaf or leave it in there like the Italians do and see who ends up with it. It is said to bring good luck!
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 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
My phone swooshed around 5 am today–I tried to pull myself out of bed because I felt good and rested. I chose not to check the text and forced myself back to sleep. Then, in the middle of a weird dream, my phone made the swoosh sound again telling me to check my phone. Regi was downstairs, I’d developed a headache from oversleep, and I remained as still as possible so that the dogs would stay asleep while hoping Regi would magically appear with a hot coffee. I looked outside and saw it snowed a couple inches and that made me wish I was still dreaming and on a sunny island where it would never ever snow again.
I fumbled to the side table to see who texted. It was my aunt. Before bed the night before, she and I got into a conversation about something she’d discussed at her Bible study. I told her I wanted to discuss it more the next day and asked her to send me the scripture verse. That text that came through at 5 am; the first one I ignored. However, it was her next text, the one that woke me at 6:49 that alarmed me:
Have you heard the NEWS THIS MORNING?
I sat up immediately. What was she talking about? With the corona virus infiltrating my every thought, the difficulty separating fact from fiction, my heart sunk a bit. This was it, the big one, so I braced myself. A friend of mine told me that whenever the phone rings in the middle of the night, she’s already figuring out what she’ll wear to the funeral before even seeing who’s on the other end. That was me this morning.
Lying in bed, still groggy, head hurting, tooth still sensitive from last week’s root canal re-do, and no coffee, I went to the half glass empty scenario. I was afraid to ask too much. Did I even want to know bad news this morning? Instead of texting, I’d rather hear the bad news than read it. I took a deep breath.
“Did you hear the news this morning,” she asked.
“Is everything ok? What is it?” I didn’t want to say what I was really thinking. Who died? Who’s sick? What are you gonna wear to the funeral?
She laughed a little. Then with a voice that was full of hope and excitement, she said:
Mary Magdalene and the other Mary came to look at the grave.2 And behold, a severe earthquake had occurred, for an angel of the Lord descended from heaven and came and rolled away the stone and sat upon it.3 And his appearance was like lightning, and his clothing as white as snow.4 The guards shook for fear of him and became like dead men.5 The angel said to the women, “[a]Do not be afraid; for I know that you are looking for Jesus who has been crucified.6 He is not here, for He has risen, just as He said. Come, see the place where He was lying.7 Go quickly and tell His disciples that He has risen from the dead; and behold, He is going ahead of you into Galilee, there you will see Him; behold, I have told you.â€
8 And they left the tomb quickly with fear and great joy and ran to report it to His disciples.9 And behold, Jesus met them [b]and greeted them. And they came up and took hold of His feet and worshiped Him.10 Then Jesus *said to them, “[c]Do not be afraid; go and take word to My brethren to leave for Galilee, and there they will see Me.â€
Suddenly, I calmed down. We laughed and she said, “You went for it!”
“I don’t know why but I assumed you were gonna say something I didn’t want to hear. Thank you, Jesus. Finally some good news!”
I’m so thankful that today believers all over are celebrating Jesus’ life. Pastor’s are bringing messages to empty buildings, their message echoing over empty pews, yet The Story they tell will penetrate more hearts than ever before. This news is not a hoax. It’s from the Bible, the only true media you’re gonna find. And it holds the only good news you’re gonna ever hear. He is the remedy that the medical community cannot give. He is truth that goes beyond what politicians will attempt to speak. He surpasses what our President can convey. He isn’t a conspiracy theory either. He is life everlasting and I’m grateful His death has brought me life!
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.Â
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.
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.
(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.
(Third note to self: order cookie cutter ASAP.)
