My dad’s birthday is July 12th, and he’s been on my mind-truthfully-the man is never not on my mind❤️
am:)
Sharing a Vito Memory
Tag Archives: Italians
Badass
A gleaming motorcycle arrived via flatbed to our suburban ranch. Six children are warned not to touch its chrome and attitude. Dad has never ridden a motorcycle before. He tells us he’ll be back later — he’s taking the bike across the George Washington Bridge. Wearing a button-up shirt, plaid Bermuda shorts, black knee socks and brown loafers, no one ever looked more badass.
Sculpt No.2 Imaginary Playdoh
The joy of imaginary playdoh. My first few sculpts have been created with airdry clay. In the coming months, I hope to venture into polymer. As a poor excuse for a kitchen Italian, I find the oven a tad out of my zone, and polymer clay requires oven-baking to set. I’ll get there at some point. Just not yet. This is Sculpt No.2.
Brick by brick, tooth by tooth the learning continues…
Here in Hudson Valley, NY, after the holidays with the trees barren and winter white no longer serving Christmas Card purpose, it can get bleak. This is the long stretch to spring. Any creating can be cathartic, maybe even add a little warmth in the fingertips.
I hope you are all doing well.
am:)
Betraying Our Kitchen Linoleum
Across many years, our kitchen linoleum withstood the battering soles of six Roselli siblings and the endless march of neighborhood children.
In our home Sundays began with morning Mass book-ended by evening pasta. Tomato sauce was gravy. Mom’s gravy hid meatballs. Our forks would battle fiercely.
My ‘best’ friend lived across the street. Every Sunday night her family ate pierogies and their cars were shiny. Her older cheerleader sister drove a beige Pontiac Firebird. I loathed the color—fast cars must be kissed by fire. I’d never eaten pierogies. I’d never been invited into my friend’s home for dinner.
One evening I was invited over for Sunday pierogies. Filled with potato and pan-fried to a golden-buttery crisp. That night, rather than my beloved dreams of flying horses, I sailed upon heavenly-winged pierogies The following morning I prayed for God’s forgiveness.
(in my childhood kitchen – a photo op – i didn’t cook back then – i can’t cook now – i’m a horrid kitchen italian)
anntogether 