In Jennie's Kitchen

crispy baked eggplant

I've learned a lot about myself this summer. Some lessons were really just reminders of the "me" that fell into a deep slumber last August 7th, and about embracing my own fearlessness. I've never been afraid to take chances, yet when faced with the responsibility of raising my girls all alone, being the sole decision maker—well, that is simultaneously overwhelming and terrifying.

One of the early conversations Mikey and I had when we met was about parenting. We talked about the immense responsibility that comes with rearing little human beings that will contribute positively to the world as a whole. How to best love them and let them know they're the center of your world, but not the world. Back then he said a test should be required to have children, and I still agree with that sentiment. One glance at a newspaper headline is all you need to understand what he meant.

I thought about this the other night as I watched Away We Go. The next morning I awoke, and the movie still fresh on my mind, comforted and reminded me that the sadness of our past needn't be a hindrance—we are the sum of our experiences. The painful parts have the ability to inspire us to dig deep within ourselves.

Sometimes it's the little things that can unravel my sense of being and purpose, like dealing with fussy eaters. That's especially tough on my ego these days. It's like a game of chicken, me sitting at the dinner table looking at all the plates before us, as my daughters systematically wrinkle their noses at each one. I stand firm, take a deep breath, and calmly remind them that it is the last meal before breakfast. Okay, maybe I say it with a little edge in my voice, and a vein bulging in my foreheard. I never claimed to be Mother Teresa. "You don't have to eat, but it's twelve hours before the kitchen opens again" is often my other line of defense against their stares.

A year ago this didn't bother me. Mikey would come home, see the array of homemade food and exclaim he was the luckiest guy alive. Now my culinary confidence lies in the tastebuds of a four year old and nine year old. What I constantly remind myself these days is that I was a picky eater 30 years ago too. Bear was never on my bucket list of things to eat, but it is something I've tried. I'm pretty sure my 8 year old self would've passed out if she'd been told that would happen one day.

My girls generally cobble enough together to go to bed with a full tummy—this is why my dinner tables always have lots of little plates of vegetables, fruit and often pasta. Every now and then I hit a homerun, like with the meal you see here. It went over so well the first day that not one whine was let out when I heated the leftovers for lunch the following day. Isabella actually squealed with delight at getting to eat the eggplant again—eggplant people! The eggplant caused quite a fuss on instagram too, with pleas for the recipe. I'd never actually written it down. The outside is as crunchy as it appears to be, and the inside gives way to a creamy eggplant center. It's also baked, not fried, the key to its crunchiness being a blast of high heat.

The flour amount is an approximation, since the thought to record the recipe came after I had already started breading them. The panko measurement is spot on because luckily I thought to weigh the amount left in the bag after the eggplant was all coated—talk about quick thinking. Still I decided to keep the ingredients "loose" here—baking needs to be exact, a recipe as simple as this eggplant is worthy of winging it when you don't feel like measuring things out.

As for the rest of our meal, I packed some provisions from home for my vacation pantry. That there is fusili a mano from Caputo's, a local Italian shop near my house in Carroll Gardens. And the sauce—oh my god, you must try Marcella Hazan's recipe for tomato sauce with butter and onions. I know, I am very late to this game. For years I resisted making it because growing up sauce always meant using basil and garlic, and butter never ever made the cut. In recent years, I started adding a knob of butter to my marinara sauce, so I did have an idea of how this would add a creamy texture and flavor. The sauce, unless made in batches and frozen, doesn't work for my everyday busy schedule since it takes 45 minutes to cook. On a lazy summer afternoon overlooking Cape Cod Bay, 45 minutes didn't matter, and the scent of simmering tomatoes bathing in a mound of butter didn't even make me blink at the thought of donning a swimsuit later that day.

Crispy Baked Eggplant

Serves 6

Music Pairing: Orange Sky by Alexi Murdoch with Pete Townshend & Rachel Fuller

2 black beauty eggplants, sliced into 1/4-inch thick rounds

Sea salt, enough to "salt" the eggplant and to season the egg

Extra virgin olive oil, for coating the pan & drizzling

All purpose flour, about 1 cup (145 grams)

Panko breadcrumbs, about 2 1/2 cups (140 grams)

3 large eggs

Freshly ground black pepper, to taste

Thirty minutes before you're ready to coat and bake the eggplant, you'll need to "salt" them. This helps draw out excess water, as well as any bitterness from it. Using a regular dinner plate, create layers of the eggplant, liberally salting each layer before adding the next one. Cover the layered slices with another dinner plate or baking sheet, and rest a heavy object on top (a cast iron skillet is perfect, but I can also vouch for using a mega-dictionary).

Let the eggplant sit, undisturbed, for 20 minutes. Remove the weight, and don't worry about the brownish liquid that has collected on the slices—that was the goal. Transfer the eggplant to a colander in the sink. Run cold water over the slices, making sure to rinse off all of the salt. Lay the slices single-layer in a cloth towel. Roll the towel up, and set the eggplant aside to dry off for a few minutes.

Meanwhile, preheat the oven to 475F (245C). Lightly drizzle two rimmed baking sheets with some of the olive oil. Place the flour and breadcrumbs each in separate shallow dishes (pie plates work very well).

Add the eggs, salt and pepper to a deep bowl, and beat with a fork to combine.

Coat each slice of eggplant as follows: gently press into the flour, flip and gently press again to coat both sides. Use a fork to dip the slice in the egg and lightly coat both sides, shaking off any excess egg. Dip the slice into the panko, using your fingers to brush some crumbs on top, and gently press the eggplant so the crumbs stick. Place the fully-coated slice on the prepared baking sheet.

About halfway through coating the slices, one tray will be full. Drizzle the slices lightly with some oil. Go ahead and bake those slices for 20 to 25 minutes, turning halfway through, until golden on both sides. You can coat the remaining slices, set them on the second tray and then pop them in the oven once the first tray comes out.**

Transfer the slices to a paper-towel lined plate for 1 to 2 minutes to absorb any excess oil. Serve hot, warm or even at room temperature. Leftovers may be stored in a covered container and heated in a 350F oven for 10 minutes.

**Really, I do it this way for efficiency, plus it allows the first tray to cool a bit, so the kids can dig in without burning their mouths once I bring them to the table. You can certainly coat them all at once, and bake both trays, just keep an eye on them, as you may need to alternate the pans in addition to turning each slice halfway through the baking time.

homemade corn broth

This is my seventeenth summer going to Cape Cod. Michael first took me just a few months after we started dating in August of 1995. I was a kid back then, just 21 years old, but still remember that summer so vividly. The 300 mile drive in his little red Toyota Celica, and the box of cassette tapes he used to pack for road trips. It was the first time I'd heard Cracker, and found myself singing Movie Star again all these years later as I made the drive out here last week. I still keep the Best of Van Morrison, Vol. 2 cassette in the glove compartment.

As we make the drive out here, I still murmur silly things like Bic Pen Drive, as we pass the Bic Drive exit on the I95. And crude things like "Exeter, I wasn't even in her"—Mikey made that one up as we drove through Rhode Island once. Then there's Mash-the-peas, as we pass Mashpee, one of the towns on the Cape. The motel we stayed at, Terrace Dunes, is just down the road from the house we rent now. I glance at the efficiency unit we called home for those two weeks every time I drive by it on my way down Shore Road.

And there I go with the "we" again. Technically, I'm still part of "we" because it's me and the girls, but often the "we" I refer to in conversations is me and Mikey. It's hard to remember that "we" is now just "me", at least in the immediate, physical sense of the being.

As I reflect back on all that has happened this last year, it feels a little like a dream state. So much of it was survived by going into auto-pilot mode, even when I was making carefully planned decisions. The circumstances under which my life was guided this last year were extraordinary, and I'm learning to not regret what I didn't do—rather be proud of what I did accomplish.

Like what you see below—a cookbook, my very first. As I pressed the send key on the final edits of my manuscript on August 10th, the reality of this past year sank in. Just one year before on that same date, I was planning the celebration of Michael's life. He had died just three days before. 369 days later I found muself combing through more than 55,000 words, which embodies so much of the life we shared for 17 years. My work on the book proposal began two years before his death, and while he wasn't physically by my side while writing the actual book, he was still there every step of the way, guiding me with every word and recipe.

This last year, has felt like crossing a wooden bridge where the slats are slowly falling apart, every step I take a race against time to get across to the other side. The journey has been mending those slats as I cross into unchartered territory, always trying to stay one step ahead. But really, what am I trying to stay one step ahead of—death? You can only run for so long before you truly accept the inevitable truth of life. We all must go at some point. That is the more difficult reality to face when I think about being in love again. I know that forever is an intangible, and only lasts as long as there is breath left in one's body. Memories are wonderful, and at first comfort you, but a year later, they don't curl up with you at night. They don't kiss the back of your neck as you chop vegetables for the evening's dinner. They don't hold you, and stroke your head when you've had a bad day.

A year later they remind you of what you hope to have again some day. The memories remind you why you took the chance all those years ago. Love is perhaps the greatest risk any of us can take. We leave ourselves so vunerable, building a life with someone, collecting moments and memories, hoping things move with a natural progression. And then one day you go out to do something you've done a million times before, like shop for groceries, and poof—it's all wiped away as easily as words disappear from a blackboard. You find yourself struggling to remember that those memories really did happen. They weren't dreams, even though they feel like fragments of a life left shattered.

And so this last year has been about picking up those scattered pieces of my life. Putting them back together, to slowly see the whole puzzle again. Except the puzzle will never be complete because my story is far from over. The missing pieces now are the experiences yet to come.

None of this really has anything to do with homemade corn broth, but when I posted photos earlier this week while I was making it, many people began to ask what it was and how to use it. Hope you're all having a peaceful, happy summer.

Homemade Corn Broth

makes a scant 6 cups

I decided to make this broth a few days ago as a way to add more flavor to a pot of simmered mussels. I didn't have any wine in the house and didn't think to pack my vegetable bouillon either. I'd bought a few ears of corn earlier in the week to make corn chowder, though, and figured the sweet corn broth would add just the hint of flavor I needed to perk up my pot of mussels in lieu of white wine. It is 100% Virginia approved.

I've included step-by-step photos to show you how to remove the kernels from the cob. You can certainly buy a gadget to do this job, but really a chef's knife is all you need. Start by cutting the kernels off one side. You'll then have a flat surface to rest the cob and continue cutting off the rest of the kernels. Add the kernels to a container or ziptop bag. Freeze them to preserve the sweet flavor if you don't plan on using them in the next day or two (here's a recipe for creamed corn and summer corn chowder—swap in this broth for the vegetable stock). Dump the cobs into a pot and scrape them with a butter knife to release the remaining milk from the cobs. Now you're ready to add some aromatics and put up a pot of homemade corn broth.

3 ears of corn, kernels cut off and saved for a later use

1 leek (white part only), rinsed clean and cut in half

2 garlic cloves, peeled and smashed

6 cups of water

Sea salt and freshly ground black pepper, to taste

Hold the cobs over a 4-quart pot. Using a butte rknife, scrape the cobs to release any remaining milk from them into the pot. Add the cobs to the pot, along with the leeks, garlic, water, salt and pepper.

Bring to a boil, then reduce the heat to a simmer and cook for 15 minutes. Place a fine strainer or sieve over a deep bowl. Pour the stock through, discarding the cobs and any solids that have collected in the strainer. Let the stock cool completely. Store in the fridge in a tightly sealed glass jar for up to one week.

   

this little light of mine

When Isabella was in pre-K she sang This Little Light of Mine at her winter recital. She would practice the song over and over again at home, and every time it would end with me in tears.  Mikey used to laugh, in a very loving, teasing way, for how freely my tears flowed at school performances because I'm generally a tough Brooklyn gal.

Tonight that song popped into my head while I was cleaning the dinner dishes. The line "no one's gonna blow it out" hit a particular chord every time Isabella used to sing it. I saw my job as a mommy to keep that light going—make sure no one ever tried to extinguish her dreams. Now I'm faced with keeping that flame lit all by myself, and heaven knows her inner light was challenged in the most painful way.

Over the last 373 days, I've felt depleted and numb in ways I never want to feel again. One year ago, I had a house full of people. Michael's death was still so fresh and raw for them, so my home—our home, overflowed with people flocking to support me. I know the sentiments are still there, but one year later, it's just me and the girls mostly. People have moved forward in their own ways, the way families do—the way they should. There's still that moment during dinner when a silence falls upon the house because he usually came home while we were eating.

This week I must do what I've avoided for a year. I must say another big goodbye to a life that was interrupted, derailed. It is time to finally put the last of Michael's things in storage, and prepare our apartment for another family. Soon the home we brought our daughters to after they were born, the place we melded our lives into one 13 years ago, will become a place for another family to call home.

This is a necessary moment in truly moving forward, but it feels paralyzing. I walked into the yard today, and saw that my rosemary, sage and mint plants are all still alive. They survived a year with no love from me, just whatever kindness Mother Nature bestowed upon them. They even made it through Hurricane Irene last September. Mint grows like a weed, sprouting wherever it can. It's persistent and refuses to give up, or in for that matter. Perhaps I am as resilient as those herbs because this little light of mine is still flickering, and will one day shine bright again.

Smoky Watermelon Gazpacho

I hadn't intended to pair a recipe with this post, and then this soup I made last week came to mind. It reminded me a lot of how I've been feeling the last few days. On their own, the ingredients don't seem like much—it's just tomato, watermelon and onion, and they almost seem like an unlikely pairing to throw in a blender together. Yet this works, and beautifully. The watermelon adds a bright, refreshing coolness to tame the harshness of the raw onion. The tomato is the bridge for these two ingredients to meet, since it is afterall the main ingredient in gazpacho.

Our life at certain points may not seem perfect, but the knowledge we gather along the way is key in shaping our future. Each experience has merit and meaning, and helps keep that little light going strong.

serves 2 as an appetizer, 4 as a generous-sized amuse bouche

1 large beefsteak tomato, diced

1/2 cup (83 grams) seedless watermelon, diced

1/2 of a small yellow onion, diced

1/4 cup vegetable or corn broth

Pinch of chipotle powder

Generous pinch of fine sea salt

Good quality extra virgin olive oil, for drizzling

2 basil leaves, finely chopped

Add the tomato, watermelon, onion, broth and chipotle powder to a blender. Puree until very smooth. Place a fine sieve over a bowl. Pour the gazpacho into the strainer, using a rubber spatula to press down the solids and extract as much soup as possible. Discard any remaining solids.

Give the soup a good stir. Divide into bowls, or juice glasses if serving as an amuse. Swirl a bit of olive oil on top and garnish with the chopped basil.

Make Ahead: The soup may be prepared one day in advance. Store it in a tightly sealed glass jar in the fridge, and shake well before serving.

day 366, a leap year

Our first gaze…

our first date…

our first kiss, which we thought would be…

the beginning of forever.

But life, and time, got interrupted.

In a single moment, the firsts went from exciting…

to excrutiating.

The first day of third grade without you.

The first wedding anniversary, filled with loneliness instead of laughter.

Eventually the firsts become too many to count.

And that’s what no one realizes—

there will always be a first.

Her first day of pre-k,

losing her first tooth.

Her elementary school graduation.

And then the really big firsts—

their first boyfriend,

their first kiss,

their first children.

And so I continue to continue,

hoping you can see these firsts,

even if we can’t see you.

J.Perillo August 7, 2012

fairytales for grown ups

My head feels like Dorothy's house as it's swirling into the eye of the tornado. This is what New York City does to me. It divides my heart from my mind. This is something I was beginning to realize even before Michael died. In six days it has slowly undone the careful stitches Paris wove into place. For a few weeks my fractured life felt whole again. Going to a new city, embracing a new culture and way of life, gave special meaning to learning a new kind of normal.

Some people may see this as wanting to escape from reality, but they haven't walked my path the last 363 days. At times I even find myself in heated disagreement with those who have suffered this kind of traumatic loss. It simply reaffirms that grief is a unique journey, and the path to a peaceful heart is different for everyone.

As my car shuttled down Boulevard Saint Germain last Sunday morning en route to the airport, I knew my departure was not an ending. Leaving Paris was a realization that I need to begin thinking seriously about where the rest of my story will take place. It may seem like a pipedream right now, but as a friend once said to me—nothing is impossible.

August 7th, 2011 was my poison apple, my stroke of midnight, the beginning of my battle with Maleficent, except my fate is not determined by the kiss of a prince. It is up to me to chart my own course—to plot, plan and yes, even dream big, for a happily ever after.

Fairytale Eggplant Parmigiana

serves 4 to 6

There's an amazing variety of eggplants out there, and if you're close to a farmers' market now is the time to discover them. I'm quite fond of Japanese eggplants for their creamy, mellow flavor. Last summer I eyed fairytale eggplants but never took the leap to buy them. As I wandered the Union Square farmers' market last Wednesday, I figured it was time to try something new. It turns out fairytales aren't just for kids. The prep is easy too, so no need for a fairy godmother with this eggplant. Just remove the stems and slice the bite-sized eggplant in half.

I've noted this recipe as serving 4 to 6, and when fleshed out with perhaps some pasta and a salad that is true. If you're on deadline for a book though, and find that one tiny portion just by itself isn't enough, you may only get two servings out of this dish.

Extra virgin olive, to coat the pan

13 fairytale eggplants (247 grams), stems trimmed & cut in half

2 cups (500 ml) marinara sauce

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

Preheat the oven to 425F (220C).

Drizzle some olive oil into a 9-inch glass pie plate, about 2 teaspoons worth. Tilt the dish to swirl it around the bottom and slightly up the sides. Arrange the eggplant, skin side down, in a single-layer in the dish. Evenly pour the marinara sauce on top. Sprinkle the cheese over the sauce.

Bake for 25 minutes, until the eggplant is very tender when pierced with a fork and the cheese is golden. Remove from the oven and let sit for 1 to 2 minutes before serving.

showers and sunshine

Paris and I have become fast friends. I say that with a bit of a heavy heart knowing I will have to say goodbye to her two weeks from today. Funny how when I arrived two weeks ago, I wondered if this trip was a mistake. It took me a week to find my footing, and understand that even if I was a stranger in a different country, I was still the same person lurking within my own skin.

As I write and watch the rain pour from the sky, the weather mimicks the tears yearning to come out. The dam broke a little this morning as I climbed the stairs to my apartment. I'd just finished a shop at the organic farmers' market on Boulevard Raspail, and as I turned the corner to my block, the reality that it was yet another Sunday hit me hard. Tears flowed past the rim of my sunglasses, and I couldn't hold them back.

At this time 49 weeks ago, I was still sleeping in our bed. He was awake with the girls, letting me sleep in as he always did on Sundays. I would wake to make love to him, cook breakfast, and eventually go out and do something I always do—shop for groceries.

I went out to buy groceries and in a flash, he was gone forever. Now I find myself staring into a corner of the ceiling sobbing, with a pit in my stomach. It took coming to Paris to realize the next part of my journey—how do I accept that I never got to say goodbye to him?

He was dead by time I ran the two blocks towards him.

We could have entire conversations with our eyes, though, and the look in his when I got there seemed to say "I'm sorry". His death took even him by surprise. The doctors said it happened instantly. I wonder, and worry what that moment was like for him. Was it like someone slamming a door shut, and is his soul wandering, in shock trying to still understand what happened? Did his life really flash before his eyes, like a movie montage? Did he remember the day we met, our first kiss, the day our daughters were born—our wedding day, wrapped in each other's arm dancing to Tupelo Honey?

Today began with such peace. I woke and dressed before anyone else stirred. I walked a few blocks to stroll the market before the rest of Paris woke too. No one shoving me, my confidence stronger after being here for two weeks. When I came across an Italian stand and eyed some Parmigiano Reggiano cheese, it didn't even occur to me to switch to Italian. French had settled into my vernacular. I stumbled upon a stand selling homemade English Muffins and thought how much he would've love them, and then why didn't I ever make them for him?

And then like a loose thread on a sweater, I slowly unraveled. I thought about this being the halfway mark in our trip, and that in two weeks I'd be packing to head back home. People often say "see you later" instead of goodbye, feeling the latter carries too much permanence—that it's too final. At least it's a closure, though. In some cases it's much better than feeling like someone pushed you from cliff, arms flailing in hopes of a safe landing.

What Paris is teaching me so far is that I have the ability to be my own safety net, even when I don't know the language or the customs. Once that truth settles into my heart and mind, I know I'll be okay. Even now Paris and I are in sync. Showers and sunshine have been in a bitter battle for the last hour, wrestling for control of the weather every 15 minutes. Right now, golden rays fill the sky, and my heart feels a little lighter, or perhaps just more capable of facing the rest of this day as I go in search of a baguette on a Sunday afternoon.

Le Penseur at the Rodin Museum.

independence day {rustic lemon cake}

A big part of being in a healthy relationship is learning to say two things: 1) I'm sorry and 2) I was wrong. They're all but five words when combined, but the inherent feelings of inadequacy that are intertwined with admitting them makes them difficult to utter. In a good relationship, where trust and love is both solid and reciprocated, there is no fear in saying them.

But what about the solitary relationship we share with ourselves? There is no one to hug us when we admit them, or to make a joke and break the tension of the moment. It is so easy to intellectualize how I need to be easier, more gentle to myself, yet so hard to actually implement it in the moment.

I'm exacting, precise, determined—perhaps this is why baking is something I love. I respect the rigidness of the variables involved in making a cake. Yet, I'm forgiving of my foibles in the kitchen, and harsh of the others that happen in my every day life. Go figure.

I'm taking this moment to admit my feelings that perhaps I made a mistake in choosing Paris for an entire month. The last eleven months have been a constant flow of change, trying to figure out my path in life without Michael. Going to a city where I don't speak the language, across an an ocean from all my friends and the people I love for an entire month wasn't exactly the right choice for what I intended to be a relaxing, peaceful way to wind down this first year.

I chose Paris because it was his promise to Isabella. For a fleeting moment I considered Italy because that is where I would've been more comfortable. My Italian, though rusty, is considerably better than my French, and the Italians are much friendlier (even the monsieur in the SFR store said so!). Not to mention a house in the countryside would've been a better choice than being dropped into the middle of a bustling city like Paris. I live in New York City, for heaven's sake. What the hell made me cross an ocean to escape to another loud, busy city where I so clearly do not have the upper hand?

Oh yes, it was Mikey's promise I was trying to fulfill.

This is where I admit I was wrong to myself, for not realizing that his dreams no longer have to be mine. It is where I whisper a silent "I'm sorry" for moving forward, and hope he knows wherever he is that I have to because I was the one left alone on that horrible day last summer. For better or worse, our worlds have diverged.

Now that I've admitted my anxieties and frustrations about this time in Paris, I can begin to move forward with my time here. It would be silly to not make the best of it, and sulking because I feel "stuck" in Paris is just plain stupid.

What plunged me into this melancholia was the not-so-simple act of buying fruit and vegetables my second day here. The day we arrived, to say we were tired was putting it mildly. After settling into our apartment, I set out to get provisions. A neighbor told me about the Monoprix a short walk away. Monoprix is like Target, only better because it's French—oui? You can get everything there, from panties to prawns.

Back home, I wouldn't dream of buying fruits and vegetables at a Target, but here it actually looked good—and since we were tired and hungry, Monoprix would be my first food shopping experience. I read the signs as usual, and stuck with stuff that was labeled of French origin in hopes of it being fresher and local. I was keen enough to observe shoppers bagging their produce and bringing it to a scale, where there's an employee stationed just to weigh them—I'm not joking. As I rounded the corner to the butter section, I heard the angels sing from above. I'm already addicted to the crunchy bits of fleur de sel laced throughout the one I chose. It was a seamless experience, and my Brooklyn accented bonjours, mercis and au revoirs made me feel less nervous about being in a foreign city.

Then I ventured out the next day in search of a smaller shop to buy more fruit and vegetables. There was no layer of thick skin that prepared me for what I was about to encounter. See the Monoprix adventure the day before set me up for failure. I walked around that day, thinking "gee France, is just like New York, only the whispers overheard are in a different language". After all, the sounds of city life were the same—people bustling to work, kids en route to school, trash being picked up and streets being cleaned.

Do you remember Mr. Whipple? Well, the French Tourism Board should produce a PSA for Americans along these lines as a crash course on buying produce. Monoprix encourages you to serve yourself, but if you try that at any other produce stand get ready for a tongue lashing that even the most apologetic "je suis désolé" won't get you out of—at least if you're shopping at the market on rue de Bourgogne off of rue de Grenelle. I broke the rules picking my own fava beans and tomatoes, and it meant open season on the silly American had commenced. Once I realized my faux pas, I apologized but the line had been crossed and there was no turning back in monsieur shopkeeper's mind.

I carried my bounty home, feeling so upset and beaten. I had learned a lesson at least—do not touch anything at a French fruit and vegetable stand. Accept that they will put every item in a separate paper or plastic bag, and hope it counts towards their environmental karma and not yours. In just three days, I've accumulated more plastic bags, and little brown paper ones they neatly pack the berries into, than I normally use in the U.S. in a year. Carrying a canvas bag obviously means nothing, and when I try to say I have a bag, eyebrows raise and remind me "they know what's best".

Thankfully I found a closer produce stand just this morning, and the monsieur at the helm was incredibly sweet. His welcoming smile didn't chastise me as I absentmindely picked up a container of raspberries—old habits die hard. As soon as I remembered the protocol, I kindly asked "je voudrais un framboise s'il vous plaît", then rattled off "deux bluets, un framboises, deux pommes, deux citrons". We ended the transaction with a "merci et au revoir", and the pep had returned to my step as I walked home to make crepes for breakfast.

Had I not had the first awful experience, though, this lemon cake I'm about to share might not have come to be. See before I found the market with the friendly Frenchman, I was in an awful state, worried I wouldn't be able to properly buy ingredients while here for the next 24 days. As I sat down to work on the book, I needed to prove I wasn't a total idiot to myself. I went into the kitchen, and scanned the meager ingredients I had left. There was flour, butter, salt, milk, eggs and a lemon, along with the baking powder and baking soda I'd brought from my home pantry. Okay, maybe they weren't so meager. I also packed my scale, measuring cups and measuring spoons. I had clearly come prepared for battle.

I rummaged through the cabinets and found an acceptable loaf pan. My mission was clear. In order to redeem myself in my own eyes, I needed to bake a cake. There have been many changes in my life the last eleven months, but baking is one variable I can wield some control over.

With no mixer available, I decided to use my biscuit and scone technique to "cut" the butter into the flour. The flour I bought had a finer, talc-like consistency, resulting in a heavier weight when measuring by the cup. One cup equaled 165 grams, which I knew was about 2 tablespoons more than the all purpose flour I buy back home. For the sake of trying to share the recipe, I went with 290 grams of the French flour, knowing it would be about 2 cups of all purpose flour for my American friends to replicate.

35 minutes later, a fragrant, buttery lemon cake emerged from the oven. I may not have known the rules for buying fruit and vegetables, and my mastery of the language may be lacking, but I can find my way around a French kitchen—and that is a universal skill that has kept me grounded the last 334 days. The kitchen is my road to independence no matter where life takes me.

rustic lemon cake

serves 10 to 12

I should preface this recipe by reiterating that I've only made this with flour available to me in France. That said, this is one case where using a kitchen scale most defintely helps. I suspect the consistency of the cake should be spot on when using U.S. available ingredients, and perhaps try using a butter like Kerrygold or Plugra to replicate the flavor too since French butter is much richer than it's American counterpart.

2 cups (290 grams) all purpose flour

1/2 cup (100 grams) granulated natural cane sugar

1/4 teaspoon (2 grams) fine sea salt

1 tablespoon (15 grams) baking powder

1/4 teaspoon (2 grams) baking soda

1 vanilla bean, split & seeds removed

Freshly grated zest of 1 lemon

4 ounces (1 stick) cold butter, cut into 16 pieces

1 large egg (50 grams)

1 cup (250 ml) milk

Freshly squeezed juice of 1 lemon

Preheat the oven to 350F (180C). Butter and flour a 3-inch by 9-inch loaf pan; set aside.

Add the flours, sugar, sal, baking powder, baking soda, vanilla bean seeds and lemon zest to a deep bowl. Use a fork to stir together until well mixed. Scatter the butter pieces on top, and rub together with your fingers until it forms a sandy mixture with some larger pebble-sized pieces; set aside.

In a small bowl, lightly beat together the egg, milk and lemon juice. Pour over the flour-butter mixture, and use a wooden spoon to stir until just combined and there are no visible traces of flour.

Scrape the batter into the prepared pan. Bake for 35 minutes, or until a metal skewer inserted in the center comes out clean. Remove from the oven and set on a wire rack to cool completely before slicing.

simple twist of fate

I'm listening to the clock tick as I gaze out the kitchen window. I remember the day I found it in a shop in Soho back in 1999 when I started my personal chef business. I put those plans in motion while still working my day job as a video producer—yes, I've had a few careers in my short lifetime. While taking a stroll during my lunch break, hanging right there on the wall of a store who's name I can't recall but is now long gone, was a clock that read Time to Eat, the same name as my newly formed business.

The retro image of a June Cleaver-esque woman serving her family dinner is emblazoned on the minty seafoam background of the clock. It's a scene one will often find of me in my own kitchen. I'm never without my apron, even when I pack the kids' lunches in the morning. It's complusive, and part of my uniform as both mother and cook.

The throbbing thrust of the second hand on the clock reminds me of Mikey. When we first met he never wore a watch. It was part of his punk asthetic, I suppose, and also because he had a good internal clock. I not only wore a watch, I also checked it obsessively. One day he handed me a book of short stories by Harlan Elinson and suggested I read "Repent, Harlequinn! Said the Ticktock Man". I stopped wearing a watch shortly afterwards, realizing that obsessive time keeping is a prison of sorts.

The same can be said for tracking the days since August 7th, 2011. I'm tired of counting the days, and yet to stop counting them feels like a betrayal. If I loved him that deeply shouldn't I count every day until my last breath is taken?

The clock continues to tick as I think about this. Time keeps moving forward, whether I want it to or not. And really, I want it to keep moving. The waters are so uncertain, yet the view ahead is a promising one. There are just so many little goodbyes to be said, and really, who likes to say goodbye? So, for now I'm going to try and remember that every goodbye to my old life means there's a hello waiting in the wings to the possibilities that lie ahead.

No matter how we try to plan this lifetime, the simple twists of fate are the real time keepers. Some are traumatic, knocking us to the depths of pain and loss, requiring two hands on the steering wheel to keep control at every sharp turn. Then there are the twists that bring joy and happiness at the most unexpected moments, and for those all you need is an open heart, not a perfectly wound clock to remind you of the inherently fleeting nature of this lifetime.

Virginia literally stopping to smell the roses at Olga's wedding.

 

lemon olive oil cake {day 313}

I'm staring at the screen not knowing what I want to write, yet here I am letting the words free fall from my mind to the page. Something happended on day 313, actually it's been slowly unfolding and today it came full circle.

I don't look for signs, yet they seem to find me when I least expect them. Last Thursday morning, I went downstairs to the kitchen and watched the sunrise over the buildings in the backyard. It feels like I've found my groove again, at least in my morning routines. Before Mikey passed away I'd rise before the sun and go for a run, do some meditation and get a jump on my workday. He'd often joke that I got more accomplished before he woke than he could get done in a whole day.

I loved the feeling of cool air stroking my face as I ran with Arcade Fire carrying my feet faster with every step. For that ever so brief run, usually two miles, the freeing feeling of running and not being tied to any label—mother, wife, writer, was akin to wiping the slate clean each day. An energizing rebirth of my mind and body.

Last Thursday, day 313, as I sat at my dining table, the sun flooded the room. I heard the birds singing, and then looked on the roof to see two mourning doves. It felt like a sign from Mikey, and then my mind wandered to Three Little Birds. I brought the song up on my playlist and suddenly a third bird joined. Next thing the roof was covered with a dozen or so mourning birds, and two cardinals soared into the tree behind the house. We used to gaze at the cardinals and let them serenade us in our old backyard.

Tears trickled from my eyes to the corners of my mouth, my tongue rescuing them. I didn't realize I needed some reassurance that day, but he did.

Today, day 317, as we left the house Virginia stopped as she walked down the front stoop and noticed a dead baby bird. Sadly, we see them a lot around here. Tiny little guys, not a feather on them, that have just been hatched but not destined to ever open their eyes and see the world. We were in a rush, so I comforted her as we walked towards school.

When we finally came home 10 hours later, she stopped to look at the bird again. I told her we could bury him and give him a peaceful resting place under the tree in front of our house. She began sobbing as I used a twig to gently nudge the tiny body onto a leaf. She wanted me to leave it, and let it live, even though the bird was forever frozen in time from the moment it fell from its nest. The tears gushed from her eyes as she said it reminded her of daddy, and that he died too.

I held her and said it was okay to be sad and cry. She sobbed a bit more, then we went to the tree, dug a little hole with a twig and placed the baby bird in it. I covered it gently with dirt and Virginia and Isabella laid some hydraganeas a friend had clipped from their yard for us.

Sometimes it's just a bag—and sometimes it's so much more. Mikey's sign to me came as a way to say it's okay to move forward, there is much more life left to be lived. For Virginia, his sign was to help her accept that he is gone.

Lemon Olive Oil Cake

serves 10 to 12

The morning this post started taking shape in my mind, I was putting the finishing touches on this cake for an event at Isabella's school. She was unveiling her Mount Vesuvius project as part of her social studies unit—the third graders were celebrating different cultures and she had chosen Italy. I chose to make an olive oil cake for two reasons—it was breakfast friendly, and I figured I could easily adapt my lemon poppy olive oil muffins into a cake which would be more likely an Italian recipe than muffins. Like our own lives, it's interesting what you can do with the same ingredients when you look at them in a new light.

1 2/3 cups (238 grams) flour, plus more dusting the pan

1/2 cup (125ml) extra virgin olive oil or regular

1 (200 grams) cup sugar

2 teaspoons (10 grams) baking powder

3 large eggs (150 grams), at room temperature

Freshly squeezed juice of 1 lemon (50ml)

Freshly grated zest of 1 lemon

1/2 teaspoon (3 grams) coarse sea salt

1/2 cup (125ml) milk

Confectioners' sugar, to dust the cake (optional)

Preheat the oven to 350ºF. Coat the sides and bottom of a 10-inch springform pan with butter. Lightly dust with flour, and set aside.

Whisk the flour, lemon zest, baking powder and salt in a bowl.

In a separate bowl, whisk the eggs, sugar, olive oil and lemon juice together until well blended. Add the  flour mixture and pour in the milk, stirring well with a wooden spoon to combine. Spoon the batter into the prepared pan. Bake for 35 minutes, until the edges are golden and a metal skewer inserted in the center comes out clean.

Transfer the pan to a wire rack and let it cool completely. Before serving, dust with the Confectioners' sugar, if desired.

{Make It Vegan} Swap in almond milk for the cow's milk, and 3/4 cup soy yogurt for the eggs.

hello june, it's nice to see you

carrot fennel soup, coming to a cookbook near you in 2013.

I should not be here right now. I don't mean the "being here" as in the bigger philosophical question of life. I mean really, there's a book, a manuscript due today. So far there have been 93 pages written. Over 100 recipes tested, written and edited, with a lot more to come. 30,074 words have been strung together so far, in a coherent manner I hope, to form a cookbook.

There is still more to be done, but I found myself here this morning, watching and waiting. I woke up and felt thankful for the sun streaming in through the bedroom windows. I went down to the kitchen to start my writing day, and have been too pleasantly distracted by the birds singing in my neighbors' backyards. I miss my own yard, the one we used to share back at our old place.

I remember when we started our apartment hunt 14 years ago. We saw over 40 places, and when we walked into the one that would become our home, the one to which we would bring our daughters to after they were born, though we had no idea we'd ever have children—well, the moment we walked in there we just knew. It was love at first sight, even with the living room walls painted pink—I'm not kidding. The kitchen had animal heads resting on the cabinets.

And that yard—the place where we would soon retreat for solitude and to hear the cardinals sing so sweetly. That yard was a mess. It was overgrown, untended to and unloved. It was a jungle but we knew that apartment was "the one" the moment we walked into it on a dreary Sunday afternoon right around this time in 1999.

Birthday parties were held in that yard. Friends gathered for BBQs and cocktails. Late night plans were hatched and when life allowed, we would meet back there for a date after the girls went to bed. I'd bring out coffee or tea, sometimes a glass of wine, and we would soak in the dark and silence. The light was broken for years, yet I could still see his chestnut eyes sparkle in the vast darkness.

I woke up this morning excited for the sunshine, the birds and knowing that in just 30 days The Perillo Girls would be leaving for Paris. For a whole month we will leave these memories, the physical space of them at least. We will plant roots for one month in a place I've never been too, where they speak a language I don't understand.

I am terrified beyond words. My daughters would never it know, though, because I'm good at masking my fears. They deserve the gift of fearlessness, to go after whatever they want in this lifetime and claim it as theirs. I want them to learn this from fact, not fiction. I will be their fearless leader, filled with more fear than they can ever imagine.

Today is 30 days until Paris and 300 days since Mikey died.

I've been through a range of emotions since I woke at 5:15am. Happy, sad, confused, hopeful. And now I start my day feeling optimistic. I have survived 300 days of something I never imagined, never wanted and often wish I could turn back the clock 301 days.

But—I am still standing.

I have stumbled.

I have felt broken.

But—I am still standing. And today I will face day 300 with the same fearlessness that motivated me  to buy three plane tickets on a cold day back in January to show the girls that there is a world more vast than the life their father and I started together here in Brooklyn.