In Jennie's Kitchen

italian fried rice

Isabella has been completely immersed in the world of Harry Potter lately. Her curiosity began just before Mikey passed away. We watched the Sorcer's Stone as one of our pizza and movie night treats. It whet her appetite, and all she wanted from that point on was to read the books.

Michael had promised to buy her the Sorcerer's Stone as a reward if she finished her math summer study packet before we left for Cape Cod. They had been working on it together during the weekends when he was off from work. The night Michael died, I walked home to tell Isabella the news. She knew it in her heart, but had held out hope that I would return home to say he was okay. I knew that feeling. I held onto a shred of it as I sat in the ER, wishing desperately that it was all a dream.

After we talked in the hallway, and went back in the house crowded with friends and family, Isabella asked me what would happen with her homework packet. I unapologetically said "screw the homework packet". It wasn't the proper thing to say, nor appropriate language for an 8 year old to hear, but that's exactly how I felt. She worried what her teachers would say, and I assured her they would understand.

She didn't say anything, but I knew the Harry Potter book was on her mind too. She'd worked so hard all summer. I surprised her with the entire set of books before we embarked on that first family trip without him.

How did I even get on this crazy Harry Potter thread? Well, as I've said, I seem to be stuck in Hogwarts. As she finishes each book, I proceed with caution and watch the movies with her. Frankly, the kid has faced the biggest of fears these last six months, so I don't think Voldemort holds any horror for her. While watching the Order of the Phoenix, I had to step away so she wouldn't see my tears. It's the part where Voldemort is taking over Harry's body, feeding off his scariest and saddest memories. Harry fights back by channeling his good memories, those of his parents and friends. He has experienced moments that Voldemort couldn't begin to understand, and with that power he casts the evil being from his body.

I don't know how the series ends, so please no spoilers. What I do know is the sentiment that was being expressed in that moment. Every day we're faced with challenges. Sometimes it feels like obstacles lurk around every corner, and the good memories are what keep the fire in our hearts and souls alive.

Last week I went on a thawing spree in the freezer. Leftover pantry items were piling up, so I took a bunch of things out to start using them up. Frozen cooked chickpeas provided us with homemade hummus two days later. Red merlot beans became quesadillas, and then there was a huge bag of brown rice. I stared at it for days, knowing all along I wanted to make arancini, Italian rice balls, with it. When I finally set out to do so, the bread I thought was stale actually wasn't dried out enough to make bread crumbs. I would've thrown in the towel, but the memory of freshly fried rice balls left me with a hankering that needed to be quenched. I should also mention I'd mixed all the filling ingredients, so there really wasn't any turning back.

At that moment, I stared at the cast-iron skillet and decided to do something that might be considered a culinary international incident. I heated some olive oil, dumped the rice mixture into the hot pan and proceeded to make this Italian Fried Rice. The anticipation of the potential this dish had, far out-weighed the fear of wasted ingredients. It wasn't a life-changing risk, but it was proof that bits of the old me are still in there. I just need to keep choosing to take more risks each and every day because determination and fearlessness are the most important ingredients for any life recipe.

Italian Fried Rice

serves 4

I used brown rice for this recipe becasue that's all I generally cook. I love Massa Organics. If you prefer white rice, I'm sure it would work well here too.

2 large (100 grams) eggs, lightly beaten

1/4 cup packed (7 grams) fresh flat-leaf parsley, chopped

1/2 cup (30 grams) grated Pecorino-Romano cheese

Freshly ground black pepper, to taste

4 cups (614 grams) cold, leftover brown rice

3 tablespoons (45 ml) extra virgin olive oil

Add the eggs, parsley, cheese and black pepper to a deep bowl. Beat with a fork to mix well. Add the rice and use the same fork to stir the mixture together until it is well combined.

Heat a cast-iron skillet over high heat. Add the oil and tilt the pan to swirl it to the edges. Once the oil is shimmering, about 30 seconds, add the rice mixture. Give it a good stir with the fork, then spread it out into a single layer in the skillet. Cook until the bottom gets golden and forms a crust, 6 to 8 minutes. Use the fork to stir and break it up, then spread into a single layer again. Cook for 2 more minutes, then serve immediately.

Leftovers may be stored for up to three days in a tightly sealed container, and reheated in a skillet over medium heat.

it's the little things

I felt like I was coming out of a fog the last two weeks. The six month mark arrived the same day as what should've been his 52nd birthday. The day was surprisingly calm and peaceful. I say surprising, because I honestly didn't know what to expect. Even though I resolved myself to celebrate and be thankful for him ever having been born, I wasn't sure how I'd feel when actually faced with the day.

By the end of it, though, me and the girls hadn't just gotten through. We laughed, we hugged and this next part will sound crazy, but none of us cried. The not crying part is a head trip. I mean, he only died six months ago. Shouldn't I have cried? People see me daily, with a look of sadness in their eyes, and ask how I'm doing. I feel weird when I say we are doing well. There's such a pressure of what people perceive, and if I don't fit with that perception, am I greiving properly, or enough?

I told you, it's a head trip. I know there are no rules to any of this. I know my journey is different from that of my daughters, different from that of other men and women who have walked this same path. No one can tell me how to grieve. I know it to be true, yet I feel as though I walk with a spotlight glaring on me at all times.

Through all those feelings the last two weeks, I still felt like I was headed into a new phase. One of acceptance, and a renewal of strength to want to keep going on this journey because turning back just isn't an option.

And then I come home on a Friday morning after dropping the girls at school and daycare, and decided to flip through the channels. I happen upon PBS Kids and a wave of sadness hits me like a tidal wave. Super Why was on, and at that time just over six months ago, I would've been coaxing Virginia into her shoes, getting her to daycare late, yet again. Our mornings were very cozy and relaxed before Michael passed away. He would walk Isabella to school, it was the highlight of his morning. Virginia and I would walk them to the door, blow millions of hugs and kisses, then scurry back inside to curl up on the couch and eat breakfast—poached eggs were her favorite.

There are no more leisurely mornings.

Then today, I was in the car with the girls, running a myriad of errands. It's President's Day Weekend, so the city has a quiet undercurrent. Many of my girlfriends are off on vacation with their family. I used to live for the three-day weekends, when we got him for one extra day. That third day in a row, all four of us together, meant the puzzle was complete for one more day, before we had to face the daily grind. Anyway, as I was driving, I thought about how we'd often load the girls in the car and drive to Queens for empanadas at Empanadas Cafe. It was a long way to go, and we could've had good grub in our hood, but the drive to Corona was a nice reprieve from the gentrified airs of Smith Street.

We haven't been to Empanada Cafe in over six months.

Last summer we also took the girls to Roosevelt Island for the first time. Michael got out of the car and took Isabella for a closer look as the tram was taking off, while Virginia and I watched from the car with Feelin' Groovy serenading us in the background. It's moments like that which leave me wishing I could build a time machine.

Could I live a lifetime knowing all I had to do was be strong a handful of days a year—a birthday, Valentine's Day, Thanksgiving? Of course. It's the smaller life moments that I miss more. It's knowing I have to constantly go through them alone, even when I'm in a room full of people who love me. It's just they can't possibly love me the way he did. No one ever will, regardless of whether I ever meet someone new. They will never be him, and that's really hard to accept.

I had planned on writing about a new Italian fried rice I made earlier in the week. It's a great recipe, and I'm eager to share it with all you. I needed to clear my head first, though, and writing here is the best place I know to do that.