Money

Growing up my parents didn’t specifically talk to us about their financial situation.  

My father was a construction worker.  That meant seasonal work.  He would be without work in the winter for months at a time.  

During those times I remember my grandmother bringing us groceries. 

We wore hand-me downs from cousins who were never quite the same size as us at the time they outgrew their clothes.

The dresses were always a little too big.   Even though my mother would hem the pants, they never fit quite right. 

But we were always excited to see what was in the bags my aunt would bring. 

The dishes my mother would prepare were simple meals using ingredients that would stretch.  And they were always tasty.  

I don’t remember ever being hungry. 

We never went without a meal.  

Although the tension between my parents was obvious, we didn’t quite know why.

I really didn’t understand “money” until I was married with children and with that came a mortgage and car payments. 

I quit work after I had my first child and didn’t go back to work until my third child was in first grade.

Our income was half of what it was when I was working. We started to live beyond our means by using credit cards. We didn’t want our kids to have to wear hand-me-downs. We made sure they would always have the hottest Christmas toy. 

So yes, money or I should say lack of did cause some tension in our marriage. It was more about differences in spending priorities though.   

My relationship with money is much different now.  I live on a fixed income and lead very simple single life

I have figured out that I don’t need anything, really.  I understand that buying new art supplies or pretty yarn, is just a temporary fix for when I am feeling low.  

My money worries now are whether I will have enough in the future to able to afford decent care if I need it.

My sister and I had a discussion yesterday about money.

She asked me if I regretted my spending habits.  She wanted to know if I was sorry that I didn’t save more.

To tell you the truth, I was never wealthy and at this point I never will be. So, if I had saved a little more, I don’t think it would have changed my life in any meaningful way 

No, me and money, we are getting along just fine now. And for the first time, it feels like enough. 

Lasagna

Lasagna

My heritage is Italian. My children are half Italian, half Hungarian.  Any kind of ethnic cooking I prepared, I learned from my mom and mother-in-law.  They were both excellent cooks. 

My mother learned all of the Italian dishes from my father’s mother who immigrated from Italy.

Yes, every Sunday we had pasta with tomato sauce made with sausage and meatballs.  We called it “Sunday gravy”.

There is a little bit of controversary surrounding the word “gravy” to describe tomato sauce.  In the region my ancestors are from it’s called gravy because the base of the sauce is meat.  

On special occasions my mother would make lasagna. 

It was a detailed, time-consuming process. 

First, she would prepare the gravy. This entailed many steps.

Brown the Italian sweet pork sausage links. Take the links out of the pot, drain most of the grease, then sauté a few cloves of garlic. “Don’t burn the garlic!”

The meatballs are a process all on their own.  No exact measurements, though. I think she just knew by sight and feel what the right ratio of meat, (pork and beef), eggs, breadcrumbs, parmesan, chopped parsley and minced garlic, was. 

Once the meatballs were formed, she would take a half of an onion, whole, not chopped, and cook the onion along with the meatballs in an iron skillet. 

She would stand over the meatballs, turning them when they “looked right”.  We used to tease her that she was “tending the meatballs.”

While the meatballs were browning, she would begin opening up cans of whole Italian tomatoes and tomato paste.  She would put the tomatoes into a blender along with fresh parsley. After blended she would add the tomatoes to the sauce pot that she had used to brown the sausage and garlic.

The tomatoes had to be cooked just right.  She’d bring them to a rolling boil until they started to foam, “look, she would say, when you see the foam, you can lower the temperature.”

She would let the sauce simmer for about an hour and then she would add the meat into the pot.

After the sauce with the meat cooked for another hour, it was time to assemble the lasagna,

She would prepare the ricotta mixture the same way she did the meatballs, no exact measurements.  Some parmesan cheese, an egg or two, salt pepper and the secret ingredient of a touch of crushed dried mint.

The lasagna noodles would be boiled until they were al dente.

Next, layer sauce, noodles, ricotta mixture, mozzarella, parmesan cheese and smashed meatballs. Repeat for another two layers. 

Top with sauce and sprinkle parmesan cheese.

Bake at 350 with tin foil cover.  After 20 minutes, take the tin foil off.  Let it cook more until it’s bubbling in the middle

You also you can do the knife test.

Insert a butter knife into the center, take it out and touch it to your tongue.  If it burns your mouth, it’s done 

I think the biggest secret my mother taught me was to let the lasagna settle out of the oven for at least 10-15 minutes before cutting and serving. 

As a single person living alone, I don't cook much anymore.   I tend to stick to the same foods.  Preferably, meals that require little fuss.

But I do make lasagna on special occasions.  And I do make “from scratch” gravy.  

My process is a little more condensed. For instance, I buy already crushed tomatoes, so no need for the blender step.  

For the meatball mixture I use flavored panko breadcrumbs, so I don’t add any extra spices.  Therefore, no need to chop parsley or mince garlic. 

But I admit I do “tend” the meatballs. 

I also take the time to simmer the sauce for 2 hours.  

There are no short cuts for assembling the lasagna.

I may have simplified a few steps here and there, but taking the time still shows in the results. 

Family sitting around the table, content, patting their full bellies, “Delicious Mom”. 

And every time I make this dish, I think of my Mother, She taught me well. 

  

Ken

 

Ken

We met 59 years ago. I was 19, he 24. It was my second job out of high school, and my first experience working in an office for a large company.

He worked in the engineering department.

The culture there included many single young people just starting their careers.

He was a quiet person, with a dry sense of humor and a sharp wit. I found him a little mysterious. He drove a big, shiny black 1965 Chrysler 300, and somehow that car seemed to add to his mystique.

At the time, he was interested in one of my co-workers, and I had a steady boyfriend.

But I was quite taken with him.

I remember one day he passed by the doorway of my office, saw me, and gave a small wave. I found myself blushing. Someone else noticed and said, “Hmm… I think you have a bit of a crush.”

One day he asked me to lunch. He wanted to show me his new red 1967 Corvette convertible.

My boyfriend was away at school, and his interest wasn’t interested.

We began to spend time together as friends. Lunches, a movie here and there.

Personality-wise, we were very much alike. Quiet, reserved, a little introverted, sharing the same sense of humor. Part of my attraction may have been that he was five years older. He had served four years in the U.S. Navy, and I thought him more “worldly” than I was.

It took a while, but eventually one thing led to another, and we began to officially date.

We shared the same goals—marriage, a home of our own, a family.

By then, the Corvette was gone, replaced by something more practical—a wagon.

Like our personalities, our marriage was steady and quiet. I still found him a bit mysterious, not one to reveal too much.

But I knew he was kind—someone who would do anything for me, for his children, for a friend or neighbor.

Our marriage didn’t last. I think I understand why now.

Our paths were different.

But we remained friendly.

I married Ross a few years after our divorce.

When Ross became ill, my ex-husband—the father of my children—reached out and said he would “do whatever you need.”

And in the two years since Ross has passed, he continued to be supportive and caring.

Yesterday, Ken passed away.

He suffered through the last seven weeks of his life, trying to recover from heart surgery.

I visited him a couple of times in the hospital and in rehab. Seeing him ill and vulnerable brought back so many feelings—of our early years, of the loss of our son, of the life we shared as partners and co-parents.

My heart aches for our children and grandchildren.

And for the young man in the black Chrysler, who once made me blush with a simple wave.

Rest in peace, Ken.