Before I was rich

Before I was rich,
I polished my own shoes,
Washed my own car,
Ironed my own shirts, mowed the lawn,
Fixed my car
Did home repairs
Ate sparingly
Weighed a hundred and forty five pounds
Napped in the middle of the day;
Took Tai Chi
Fenced
Jogged in the park with the stopwatch I bought for twenty dollars at
Feldmar.
Bought a stained glass candle holder in Sausalito for five dollars and skipped
two meals to pay for it.
Before I was rich I was happy in my melancholy, wishing only for love to
make my life complete.
Now I am rich but not in money;
I am rich since I married you;
Rich in love and in happiness.
All else is memory.
-Michael

There will never be another you

Five years ago you took your last breath. I woke up at 3 a.m. this morning and remembered the moment when life as I knew it, ended. I wanted you to go for your sake, but I wanted you to stay for mine. I couldn't imagine a life without you then, and I still can't imagine one now. Even though you were already gone, you were still breathing so I didn't have to say goodbye. And then you stopped.

Nothing is right without you. Every moment, every memory, every song, every accomplishment, I want to share with you. I miss your laugh, your smile, your dancing, your jokes, your kindness, your hugs, your voice, your eyes. I see the boys and Hazel and I think of the joy they would bring you, and you them. So glad that Andy, Summer, Mary and Cooper had the privilege of knowing and loving you. I'm thankful that Michael knew you, but wish you could have seen us together. I close my eyes and I can see you so clearly. I had a dream about you a while back and it was so real that when I woke up, I couldn't stop crying. It was too painful to let go of you, even if it was only a dream.

I want to believe in fairy tales, and God, and reincarnation and anything that can make me hold on to some proof that you are still around. Are you in Hazel? Did you bring Michael and I together? Are you watching over us? I don't know what to believe. I only know that I feel your presence every day and that you will live on in our lives forever. You were the best mother, the best grandmother, the best friend.

My only hope for myself is that my children and grandchildren can honor me in the way that this family honors you. Thank you for being my role model. Thank you for teaching me how to love and laugh, even when the times are tough. And thank you for being wonderful you. In our eyes, mom, you always have been and always will be, Saint Peg.

She walks in beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies,
And all that's best of dark and bright
Meets in her aspect and her eyes;
Thus mellow'd to that tender light
Which Heaven to gaudy day denies.
-Lord Byron

Summer of love

I am approaching the end of my first week off for the summer. I have so many plans but so far I've been in a kind of vegetative state. I mean, I am capable of watching old "Sex and the City" episodes and laying in the sun for a few minutes a day, but that's about it. When the semester ends, I'm Jello. As much I love teaching, each semester sucks a bit of life out of me.

Oh the plans. I am going to write on my four blogs, put together some online editions of my journalism classes, read, remodel or move, cook, organize photos and files, spend time with my sister and her kids, visit the boys, and of course, spend time with the love of my life.

Michael and I have been doing some soul searching these last few months. We are at a point in our lives where killing ourselves at work is making less sense. We so love the time spent together, hanging out in cafes with friends, strolling, and just enjoying all of it. We especially love snuggling in bed with a good book, but sometimes work is so exhausting that we walk in the door and crash together on the sofa like a couple of zombies. Luckily, we both have the same body clocks so we awake at 3 a.m., ready to party.

I don't want to admit that I am getting older. I still feel like I'm 20, but I have to say that I do see things differently these days. Things that used to matter seem less important. I find myself asking lots of questions. Do I really need all this stuff? Do I really have to work this hard and what am I trying to prove, and to whom? Is denying myself bread and pasta really worth it? Is flying first class necessary? Well, scratch that last question.

Michael and I often joke that we would like to live in a grass shack on a beach in Hawaii for a while and just be. Or maybe take off to New York and find a little apartment where we can act like a couple of wild Bohemians, drink lots of espresso and wine and read and write books. Or maybe Paris near Saint-Germain. While these plans may seem a bit far-fetched to some, it keeps us going. Michael makes me believe that we can do anything, as crazy as it might sound. We would rather be known as a couple of old crazy people than give up.

Which brings me back to Michael, who said something to me as he left for work this morning that made me smile: "As long as I have you, I'm happy." Right back at you, sweetheart.

"There are some people who live in a dream world, and there are some who face reality; and then there are those who turn one into the other." -Dougless Everett

I'll take Manhattan

I remember taking the train to New York City with my mother to see the Rockettes perform on stage at Rockefeller Center. My mom looked sharp and I looked pretty cute dressed in a green satin dress with matching purse, my hair in curly locks. I remember the shoes vividly. They were patent leather Queen Anne heels. Those heels may have only been an age-appropriate three quarters of an inch high, but to a 7-year-old, they may as well have been stilettos. The excitement of Manhattan was almost overwhelming. My mother, a former dancer, loved New York. When she was in the city, she lit up like the Chrysler building. She lived there in her youth and always had some very exciting stories to tell. After the show, we went out for chocolate sundaes and she gave me the G-rated version of her life in New York all the back to Connecticut. From that day on, New York was in my dreams.

Jump ahead one year. My brother was 18 and I was 8. We boarded the bus early in the morning for the New York World's Fair. I didn't sleep a wink the night before. I was so excited about the trip, especially the idea of being away from my parents. I can still picture my brother in his knee-length black wool coat and hat. He looked quite dashing. I was dressed in a plaid skirt and white shirt, with black patent leather Mary Jane's that clicked when I walked. We arrived at the World's Fair and my little mind went into overdrive. I fantasized about being alone in this city, or with a boyfriend. I even fantasized that Steve was my boyfriend. (I've always had a very overactive imagination).

By age 12, we had left Connecticut and moved back to my birthplace, Miami. I never forgot New York. I developed an obsession with Woody Allen after seeing Annie Hall (my brother took me to a Woody Allen film festival when I was 13) that I have yet to shake. I'm not sure if it was the black horned-rim glasses or our mutual love of New York, but watching a Woody Allen film became my soul food. I would get lost in the black-and-white New York that only Woody could bring to the screen, and I'd fantasize of living there one day.

How I ended up in California at 15 is another story but I can tell you that I've been trying to get back to New York since. I dream of New York. My house is adorned with New York photos and books and memorabilia. I own 19 New York mugs that I drink my coffee out of each morning. I have New York days where I pretend I live in New York. On these days I eat only New York food - perhaps some deli or pizza followed by a black-and-white cookie. I watch episodes of Sex in the City or a favorite New York movie like Annie Hall or Manhattan or When Harry Met Sally. Or some days I just dream, in black and white.

"New York is my Lourdes, where I go for spiritual refreshment." -Brendan Behan

Unforgettable

The time spent in New York with my sister was a time when my love affair with New York blossomed. We were in New York through the sweaty summers and coldest winters, we saw the tulips in the spring and the leaves in the fall. We did things that people only dream, from attending a birthday party for Federico Fellini to interviewing The Scorpions on the top floor of the Polygram records building.

My favorite memory from that time was the night we celebrated our magazine deal. Denice and Lucia came with us to Tavern on the Green. We sat in the Crystal Room and it began to snow. It was magical.

We went on to publish our infamous magazine, but gave it all up a few years later. Gina became a mom for the first time and I became a college professor. I still visited New York as often as I could and knew that some day I would live there. Now, for the first time in my life, it seems possible.

"No one should come to New York to live unless he is willing to be lucky." -E. B. White, writer

New York memories

My sister and I arrived in New York on one of the coldest days in winter. We were accustomed to California weather so when stepped out into the New York cold, our faces froze. We were in New York to land a publishing deal for our magazine. We were already publishing a local music rag in Hollywood and were ready to take it to the next level.
We met one of the largest magazine publishers in Germany in the lobby of our hotel after flying all night. We were offered a deal on the spot that we later decided to pass on. We would meet with several other publishers and always begin the day the same- with a Bloody Mary, just to take the edge off. That's the great thing about New York, you can find anything you want or need at any time of day.

We found a bar in town that became our favorite. I remember the first morning that we wandered in to this place. The bartender resembled the B52s Fred Schneider. The Barenaked Ladies "Hello City" was playing on the radio. As we sipped our Bloody Marys, our stools began to shake so we did what Californian's do when things shake - run! Luckily, it wasn't a New York earthquake. It was just the subway below. At that moment, I added another thing to the "Reasons I Love New York" list - no earthquakes.

"There is no question there is an unseen world; the question is, how far is it from midtown, and how late is it open?" - Woody Allen

Who knows where the time goes

Yesterday was our anniversary. Three years. Seems like 30, and I mean that in a good way. We woke up and headed off for a day of memories. We went to Kate Mantalini's in Beverly Hills where I sat three years ago and drank champagne and ate calimari with my best friend and goddaughter just hours before we married. We ordered the same, made a toast and felt giddy. On to the rabbi's for some soul searching. "Ah, you two seem so in love, yet so peaceful," he said. Smart rabbi.

We headed over to the Four Seasons and remembered how we felt that day, all the love, all the emotion. We drank more champagne, ate chocolate strawberries and walked to the place that it all happened. Michael had arranged for the same table to be set under the arch. Rose petals and candles adorned the table, and I felt a little weak in the knees. Michael took my hand and placed a beautiful diamond band on my finger, stacked with ones from the last two years. "I would marry you a hundred times, he said."

I handed him a Tiffany box with an engraved money clip. "Who is MJB? he asked. "Stop kidding," I said. "No, really, who is MJB?" I took the money clip from his hand and there it was: MJB. (My husband's initials are MJA).On the back was written, "mi amore." At least that was right.

"I wiill take it back tomorrow," I said. "I can't believe they did this!" When we returned from Il Cielo, I looked in my purse for my receipt. There it was in my own handwriting:
MJB. As we made love, I wondered, "Who the hell is MJB?"

I am like a falling star who has finally found her place next to another in a lovely constellation, where we will sparkle in the heavens forever. -Amy Tan

Morning news

It's 4 a.m and I'm awake. I buried my nose in my husband's back and lodged my cold feet under his warm body in a last attempt to fall back asleep. It didn't work. My brain at in the middle of the night can best be described as a newsroom. Thoughts pour out of my head, from the logical to the ridiculous. There's the late-breaking news, second-day stories and features, all firing out at once, and the ticker, running nonstop... Where is my book...Why does my stomach hurt...Why hasn't the conference coordinator called...What if I have a tumor...What if the plane crashes...I miss Eliot...I miss Riley....I miss London...Raw diets are stupid...I need to pee...What if the hotel in NY is booked and Elena can't get a room...She could stay with us...That would be weird...Would she think it was weird....It would be weird...Will Daniel get into law school...Where are my keys...I need to pack...Michael needs new underwear...When was the last time I had a period...I need to write my presentation... I need to read more...Todd should be famous...I need more time to do things I like...What if I never leave LA...But I like parts of LA...I hate LA...I want to live in New York...Will it snow while I'm in New York....I miss my mother....Portland rains a lot...I like the rain....Why did Summer tattoo her fingers...I need more holy water...The students are driving me nuts...I hate driving...Is that a squirrel on the roof...I hope it's a squirrel and not a rat...New York has rats...I need new clothes...My car needs serviced...I have to call the car detailer...Did I give James the keys to the newsroom?...I have to call the printer...I'm hungry...I should give up caffeine...I want some coffee...I hope Eliot's stomach is OK...The kitchen needs redone...I hate ranch houses....I miss Santa Monica...Did I brush my teeth last night....Is it true that bedbugs bite...What is a bedbug....I'm itchy....I have to call Lucia...Why did Danny get voted off American Idol...If birds chirp at night, does that mean they are night birds...Is there such a thing as a night bird....What was that bug in the pool...It had wings...What if it multiplies....I hate bugs....The crickets will be back soon...I hate crickets ...I hate beetles worse than crickets...At least beetles are quiet...still, they're worse...no rats are worse...why do people hate rats but like squirrels...I like pigeons...I miss New York...I miss the kids more...I hope I don't get cancer...I want to live forever...I'm getting older...I need to write a book...One day older and one day closer to death...Pink Floyd's lyrics are depressing...What are the lyrics to that song....WHAT ARE THE LYRICS TO THAT SONG?....I need to go look it up on the Internet....I need to pee anyway...and I want coffee...but what about giving up caffeine....I can't give up caffeine and drive every day....Where is my robe...My robe needs washed...My other robe is white...It cost too much...I can't get it dirty...What is the point of having things you don't use....I need less stuff...Where is my damn dirty robe...I'm getting up...Maybe I'll try to sleep again...Lack of sleep will kill you...What if I'm dying....I need to sleep...I can't believe Michael looks at people's asses all day...What a strange profession...Speaking of asses...I hope I don't have any lunatics in the newsroom this semester....WHAT ARE THE DAMN LYRICS TO THAT SONG...I'm getting up.

Toni from the block

It's been so long since I've done this. I miss writing more than I can say but I've been involved in so many things that I just haven't had time to sit down and write. Every time I try to blog, my mind is filled with so much that I don't know where to start so I stop. I usually go and pour myself a glass of wine, hug my husband, and discuss how we both will start writing again when the time is right...later.

I find myself changing a lot these days. I owe this metamorphosis to three little boys--Eliot, Riley and London. The once rocker chick who couldn't get the word "grandma" out of her mouth without having it stick in her throat is now wearing necklaces sporting her grandsons' names and carrying stacks of photos in her purse. "Would you like to see the three cutest boys on earth?" I ask my students.
I never thought that I could miss anyone this much but I often burst into tears over the smallest things-- a little sock left behind, a Wiggles song, moldy Buzz Lightyear cheese found in the back of the fridge.
It sucks to finally have the life you've dreamed of, only to find yourself longing for more- a life that includes "the boys." Don't get me wrong. I'm the most grateful woman on the planet. I'm madly in love and live a wonderful life, but it just isn't complete without the boys.

First it was Eliot. I was so fortunate to see him whenever I wanted but then he moved with his parents to the Bay Area. At least it was driving distance. We would visit often but then the goodbyes came. I don't think any man has ever made my heart ache like saying goodbye to Eliot has. Then came Riley. Summer took him with her to venture off to Portland when he was just an infant. I remember that day like yesterday. I actually felt my heart break. London's birth was a scary day. Michael and I were in Palo Alto celebrating Andy's birthday, and the call came. Summer was in trouble -she was being rushed by ambulance to the hospital. We jumped on a plane, saw our new grandson for a few short hours and then boarded a plane back home because I had to teach. This time, my heart felt like it was being ripped out of my chest. I wanted to stay with him forever.

And it's not getting easier. My son tells me I'm "old school Italian." He's right. In my perfect world, we live in New York, or at this point, anywhere that resembles this picture: A house, preferably an old brownstone, in a culturally-diverse neighborhood. My sister and her family live down the street, Andy and Ami and Eliot are a few streets over, and Summer and her family are on the other side of the block, a few streets down. My brother and Michael's brother are a couple of neighborhoods over, Mary and Lizzy are in driving distance, and our friends can walk to our house. We get together for Sunday dinners and drinks and coffee and meet at the museum or the movies or the park. The boys come to grammy and gramp's house whenever they want and Michael tells them stories about bugs, and birds and science. Hazel and Cooper join the mix and we dance around the house like a bunch of nuts. I teach and Michael does medicine and we laugh and love a lot. And the holidays? fuggetaboutit! Food, wine, family, friends and love all over the place.

Unfortunately, we're all scattered from one side of the United States to the other. Michael tells me that one day, we will all be together (not sure how he's going to make that happen) but for now my life is one big Cole Porter song...
Everytime we say goodbye, I die a little,
Everytime we say goodbye, I wonder why a little...

The Lord is still in New York city

When I began this site many moons ago, I titled it, "She romanticized New York city way out of proportion." While things in my life have changed in very big ways, my love of New York remains the same. I recently returned from New York where we celebrated Michael and Summer's birthdays (they share the same birthday) with friends and family. As we sat in our favorite pizzeria in the Upper East Side, I sat back sipping my wine and watching this wonderful group of people- Michael, his brother and his wife, his cousins, my daughter, her husband and the babies, and my darling former student Lizzy, all immersed in interesting conversation. The feel of New York is different. Everything looks better, tastes better, is better.

We spent the days strolling the streets, visiting the Chelsea galleries and markets, and in true New York fashion, I bought a pair of black Gucci pumps. This was one of the highlights of my trip. I was walking down a street in Chelsea and met a young, very fashionable girl, sitting on her apartment stoop holding a baby. She had just put out some items- the Gucci shoes, some children's books, and some vintage fabrics. She was cleaning out her apartment to make room for the baby and was having a little sidewalk sale. I asked if the shoes were for sale and she explained that she "used to wear a size 8 before the baby but since having the kid she can't fit into any of her shoes." "How much?" I asked. "$20." Sold. They're a little big but who cares! I walked away with my $20 Gucci shoes and a $1 children's book- Madeline- my favorite. Ah, New York.

I spent an afternoon on the Sex in the City tour with Summer visiting all the locations from the hit series. My favorite moment was sitting on Carrie Bradshaw's stoop and drinking cosmos at Steve and Aiden's bar. We had cheese and wine on the 39th floor in Long Island City, saw the "Summer of Love" exhibit at the Whitney, drank la la lalos at Cafe Lalo, sampled blueberry, pomegranate, and passion fruit margueritas with Denice and Lucia, danced to bubbles with Riley, made London giggle, and hung out with my Italian family in New Haven. The best part of New York these days is that I'm with a man who loves it as much as I do (well, almost as much). New York is the greatest city in the world. If you haven't visited, go now. Just be warned, once you experience New York, it will be in your soul forever.

"One belongs to New York instantly, one belongs to it as much in five minutes as in five years." -Thomas Wolfe

Life's too short to finish anything

It seems like I never have time to write. Between teaching, and driving, and friends, family and my dear husband, something's gotta give!

I don't know if I've ever been this busy or this happy. I will follow that statement with a definition of "happy," or at least my definition. Happy: A feeling of joy and ecstasy mixed with uneasiness over happiness coming to a screeching halt because of death or tragic illness; giddiness followed by worry and sometimes guilt that I'm so happy while others are suffering; often excited, seldom relaxed, always optimistic.

I'm still convinced that it is impossible to be an intelligent, alive human being and be completely happy. There are just too many tragic things going on in the world each day for me to be completely happy. Let's just say that this is as good as it gets, at least for me.

I drive so far each day to and from work but knowing where my day will end up makes everything worthwhile. I used to think that time in the car alone with yourself is a great place to analyze your life. Now I'm learning Italian. I remember "shrink nights" with Michael where we would analyze his life. These days, it's hard to find anything wrong with our lives other than the amount of time spent apart so we listen to NPR, watch Jon Stewart, and get pissed off at the state of the world. This is what happens as you start to age.

I think a lot about the future. I try to stay clear of my deep-rooted fear of death and illness and instead, think of a time when Michael and I will have the time to walk hand-in-hand in the city, read more books, write more, and spend time with Eliot, Riley and London, our family and friends. I can't imagine ever being bored with Michael. We call each other several times a day, e-mail notes of love to each other and even talk on our cellphones as we drive side-by-side on our way to work. We run to each other's arms when we get home and collapse in each other's arms at night. We love our jobs but we love each other more so the idea of retirement is wonderful.

It's hard to imagine not teaching and Michael not practicing medicine but the idea of a life unknown is filled with excitement and adventure. Imagine waking up when the sun tells you to and catching an afternoon play! Michael and I figure that it will take the rest of our lives just to eat at all the restaurants we've missed in New York. There are art galleries and old book stores and little cafes all over the place. Stacks of books to read, recipes to cook, towns to wander in, people to meet, music to hear, new wines to try, languages to learn.

Enter death. It all sounds so lovely until the dark side takes over my brain. You know, the "what ifs?"
So I go through life giving it my all. I give my all to my students and my family and my husband. I race through life like someone is holding a gun to my head, just in case there isn't enough time for all the things I want to do. I read at night and write when I can and tuck away recipes and start lots of projects. I cut pictures out of magazines of places I must see and things I must do. Michael does the same. By Friday, our desks look like a cyclone came through the house, and we laugh. We sift through all of it and vow to tackle some of it the next weekend. When the weekend rolls around, the piles have doubled so instead of tackling one of our projects, we get in the car and take off for the beach. We sip champagne and talk about all the great stuff we're going to accomplish when we have time.

I was meant for you and you for me

Today is our second wedding anniversary. We stayed in bed at the Four Seasons hotel, ordered breakfast in bed, watched our wedding video and held each other tight. As tears trickled down our eyes, we remembered that day and wished we could do it all over again. We spent the rest of the day driving to all the places that held special memories - the restaurants, the theatres, the old house-- and took photos. We walked hand-in-hand to Il Cielo and dined under the gazebo where we once said our vows. He put a beautiful diamond band on my finger and I felt such love for this man, more than I ever knew I was capable of. My darling, Happy Anniversary. Thanks for making my life a passionate adventure.

"You are my prince, my angel, the love of my life, and most of all, my friend."

Happiest birthday

Welcome to the world, London Blake. I remember this same day, 30 years ago, when the most beautiful boy entered the world-- my dear, sweet Andy. To think that Summer gave birth 30 years later to her own sweet boy on the same day that Andy was born makes me believe in all kinds of fairy tales. Happy birthday, baby boys.

We all have our el guapos

I boarded the plane tonight, apprehensive as always, making my way through the claustrophobic corridor to our First Class seats. I am not a very good air traveler. My son says that I do not have a fear of flying; that I have a fear of coach. In reality, First Class just makes it bearable. I'm willing to use all of our miles to upgrade if it means a few extra inches of breathing room in the flying tube they call an aircraft.

I drink a lot when I fly but it never really takes away the fear. The only noticeable difference is that I cry less when we take off. After a few Bloody Marys or glasses of wine, I begin to relax. I know the alcohol is doing its job when I begin asking why I fear flying so much.

I sat back in my reclining seat and tried to Zen out but a man sitting directly across from me made it impossible for me to relax. He was seated next to an Asian priest. A Rabbi sat a few rows behind which made me feel a combination of safe and scared.

Have you ever met someone who is capable of polluting the air around you? I remember a time a couple of years ago when Michael sent me to a Jewish market to buy foods for Passover. I parked miles away and took my place in a long line of L.A. Jews. Within a few minutes, I had made friends with this little old lady in back of me. I was on a high because Michael and I were getting married in a few weeks. I would have waited in line for 24 hours to buy the things necessary to make him a traditional Passover meal.

There was a woman in front of me who could only be described as a toxic waste bomb. I thought of the Peanuts character Pigpen. This woman made everyone miserable. From her complaints about the length of the line, to demanding a chair for her to sit in while she waited in line (she was much younger than most of the people in the line) to yelling at the poor salesclerk for denting her gefilte fish. The bizarre part about all of this is she overhood me talking about how much I loved my fiance and she turned around and said, "Isn't love grand - that will all change after you're married a while." When I went to pick up our order, I said the last name. Turns out she was my husband's ex-wife's best friend. She didn't appreciate the hug I offered. When she left the store, everyone applauded.

Back to the man in my aisle. He looked to be in his 70s with a white mustache and glasses, nicely dressed. Something spilled on him. Not sure if it was his fault or the flight attendant's but he was pissed. He stood up and had a fit. He refused his dinner and kept flicking his Wall Street Journal in an angry, irritated manner. The priest tried to talk to him but he told him, "Leave me alone." The priest would not give up. "Why don't you eat," he said. "I don't want to!" the man shouted. The priest grabbed his arm and spoke to him in a very calming voice. "Please, just have the appetizer and you will feel better." The man finally agreed. The priest took his napkin and placed it on the man's tray. He grabbed the man's arm and asked what was wrong. The man looked as if he was about to cry. I'm not sure what was said but what transpired from that point on was amazing.

The man changed. The priest held his hand and they laughed together. The man ordered vodka, the priest, a glass of red wine. They became fast friends. The priest was able to break through and give this man something he needed-compassion.

My sister once told me that she often wonders what people are really going through when they act the way they do. A man speeding down the freeway and cutting people off might be trying to get to the hospital to be with his sick wife or child. I can remember leaving my mother's deathbed and driving home in a daze. I went through a stop sign and a guy flipped me off and screamed at me. I started crying and thought to myself, "If you only knew what I'm going through." Maybe we need to give each other a break sometimes. Maybe some of us are just going through something. Or maybe some people are really like toxic waste, polluting the air around them. In that case, run for cover.

Memories of food

More about food. I love to eat. I am married to someone who like me, appreciates good food. You will never see candy bars and bags of chips and soda in our house. Our fridge is filled with Pellegrino water and pomegranate juice, fine cheeses and organic vegetables. Our cabinets are packed with whole grains and pine nuts, fancy mustards and exotic seasonings. Our table is adorned with organic fruits and figs and nuts, and our wine rack is filled with nice chiantis and assorted wines. What's missing from my favorite drawer, you ask? Mortadella, capicolla and salami.

When you are brought up in an authentic Italian household, you eat well. While classmates brought peanut butter and jelly sandwiches to school, we brought meatball sandwiches on Italian sliced bread and salami sandwiches with roasted peppers and eggplant. There will never be a better sound than a meatball dropping into my nonie's all day sauce, or gravy, as some Italians call it, on a Sunday morning.

I drool at the thought of salami and mortadella and meatballs. As much as my mind may know that it takes the worst practices to make that salami- that a pig died for the taste- the sounds of Frank Sinatra take over in my head and the dead pig is replaced with memories of sauce and meatballs and Italian imported meats.

My father died at 57 of a heart attack. My cholesterol is high and my brother's is worse. I mentioned the idea of a vegan diet to him and he said he would rather be dead. Part of me thinks this is crazy and the other part of me relates to it.

Summer made us some stuffed shells while we were in Portland. They were stuffed with tofu and nutritional yeast (the vegan's answer to parmesano) and they tasted good. But did they even resemble my mother's stuffed shells? Not in the slightest bit. My mother's stuffed shells, which she learned how to make from my nonie, were stuffed with ricotta cheese, whipped with eggs, parmesano, mozzerella and fresh parsley. They melted in your mouth. Summer's tasted good as well, but they didn't taste like Italian stuffed shells. To eat the vegan way means to throw out everything you remember and adopt a new way of eating. Fakin' will never taste like bacon, and vege sausage in my Thanksgiving stuffing tastes like, well, something other than my nonie's stuffing, and I love my nonie's stuffing. And don't get me started on Tofurkey.

As Passover approaches and Michael and I wonder what the hell to cook if we are not making brisket and chicken, and with Easter on the way, I can feel a longing for apizzagain (an Italian-style thick-crusted pie that consists of 18 eggs, Italian sausage, pepperoni, and three different kinds of cheese).
I know the vegan/vegetarian side of my family can't possibly understand how I could place such importance on meat. We rarely eat meat, but sometimes, well, you just want it. I wish I didn't, but I do. (As my mom used to say, "If the meat industry had to survive on me, they'd go broke.")

So I will continue to rationalize my feelings and try and make an argument that makes sense to Summer and the rest of them, but they won't understand. Only my brother and husband will understand why a Passover without brisket and an Easter without appizzagain is like, well...a day without sunshine.