The Guilt Trip of a Lifetime

"Every time you go away you take a piece of me with you." -Paul Young

"She's old enough," we said. That's how we justified it. She's old enough to be without us for a couple of weeks. Sure, she'll be aware that we're gone. She'll definitely miss us. But she'll be just fine. Most important, she'll still have a lot of fun. Without us.

There we are. Young and in love. Venice 2004.
(I still have that shirt.)

So My Director and I went ahead and followed through on a promise we made to each other on our honeymoon. Our favorite place on that whirlwind Italian odyssey was Venice. But we were there for just two days. "I wish we had more time here," we said at the time. So we promised each other we'd come back for our tenth anniversary. We even shook on it. Or pinky swore. I can't remember exactly. There was definitely a lot of wine involved.  Either way, it was clearly a binding agreement.

You never know where you're going to be ten years from now when you make promises like that with your spouse. Financially, physically, or professionally. You can never know. Peanut wasn't even a glint in our eyes when we made that promise to each other, and ourselves.  So as we sat on our couch shortly after New Year's this year, contemplating whether we should follow through, it was she who weighed mostly on our decision.

Every time I think about her, talk about her, choose to write about her, or do anything at all in fact, it is with Peanut in mind. And anytime I think, talk , write, or do, it dawns on me that she will be this age only once. I want to savor every last moment in time with her and of her. All through her life I've done this. Not so much lamenting. But enjoying. Documenting. Mentally, pictorially, and verbally. Beaming with pride and amazement. We recently watched some videos of her from when she was a baby. What a wonderfully magical yet simple time. How much joy she brought us. How truly blessed we are to have witnessed her discover this awesome world, and for us to rediscover it along with her. Reliving these memories didn't make me sad. It made me thankful. It also made me realize how many times I must have squealed a high-pitched, "yay!" during Peanut's babydom.

I am also thankful to have had those two weeks in Europe with My Director. From Venice we went on

Paris 2013. Still young. Still in love.
(I wear glasses now.)

to Geneva and then Paris. I like to think our marriage is strong, but I also believe all couples need time away. Alone. To reconnect, rekindle, and have an actual conversation during a meal without someone who is either complaining about their dinner or forgetting basic details of their day. All of that being said, I am sad to not have had those two weeks with Peanut. While in hindsight I do not think this trip was for her (a subject for another blog post), that doesn't mean we didn't think of her. Especially during down time and on travel days, we both found ourselves missing her a lot.

The one time we managed to connect via Skype a few days into our trip (communicating was much more difficult than we had anticipated), we could tell by the look on her face that she was so excited to see us. She was missing us, but putting up a strong front without us. That's my girl. She stayed with my sister and her family at what we called "Zia camp." (Zia is aunt in Italian.) Her second week was spent in Wildwood, NJ on vacation with my extended family. A vacation we normally attend. Besides that shaky Skype call that cut out after five minutes, her only true contact with us for two weeks was a daily letter we each wrote her, one for every day we were gone. We wrote them before we left. Some were funny. Some were informational. Some were sentimental. And some were accompanied by gifts inspired either by where in the world we were or she was. Turns out, this was a very good idea. Peanut loved her letter every day and looked forward to that little bit of interaction with us.

My sister said Peanut was very well-behaved. A pleasure. A true joy. This came as no surprise to us. She also adopted our policy of not saying no on vacation, so Peanut never had to wear what she didn't want to wear. Those dresses My Director packed for dinners out, for instance, stayed in the bag. (Peanut currently prefers an active chic look.)

Back-at-home-for-first-tim-together selfie

When we returned, Peanut looked so different from when we left her. Her hair was more blonde from the sun. She was tanned from her vacation. She looked older. Rarely one to be outwardly affectionate, she hugged us both very hard and buried her head into My Director's chest when we first saw her. And because she comes from a long line of guilt trippers, every time we asked her about her vacation she would say, "But you guys went on an adventure. I didn't get to go on an adventure." Way to lay it on thick, kid.

Later that weekend, Peanut and My Director baked a birthday cake for me. We had a belated celebration since we were in Paris on my actual birthday. Peanut knew exactly how she wanted to decorate it with icing in my favorite color - green. She wrote the names of my favorite sports teams on it and spelled "Happy Birthday Dad," too. When I blew out my candles, I told her I had made a good wish. In following tradition, I didn't tell her what I had wished for. But she was quick to tell us she also made a wish and that it was for "you to never break up our family again."

How cute is this cake she made for me?

Ouch, babe.

We had an amazing time in Europe. But I couldn't help but miss her, and I can't help but think of what I missed. And lament. She is at such a great age. An age of learning and understanding. Of critical thinking and reasoning. Of giggling and joking. Of exploring and discovering. And she's just so adorable. I feel this summer has come and gone like every other before it and all of the ones that are yet to be. Too quickly, yet jam-packed with great memories. We made the most of our time with Peanut. A lemonade stand. A dinosaur park. An amusement park. Camping in the backyard. But more often I feel her drifting away. Already.

At age six she has such a busy social life. Between after school activities and play dates, I could go days sometimes without quality Peanut time. There are days where I'll skip the gym to come home early if the weather is nice, only to find her at a friend's house or with a friend over at ours. It's our own little real-life "Cats in the Cradle." And then I lament some more. Then again, there are few sounds I enjoy more than Peanut and a friend giggling at each other in some far off corner of the house. Or even better, hearing her channel her mom's diplomacy and settle a difference of opinion without drama, making her guest feel at home.

As Peanut grows older I realize I want her involved in our once-in-a- lifetime memories from now on. Soon enough she will be making those memories on her own. Our choices cost me some of the best and most precious days of her lifetime. As much as we may try there is no getting them back. I realize this is a nice problem to have. That I am complaining about an otherwise awesome vacation with My Director. Still, no more leaving Peanut behind. I miss her too much. There will come a time where she'll leave us behind. I'll miss her then too. At least I won't have the guilt.

Oddly enough, last summer I wrote a post about being away from her for ONE NIGHT and missing her. You can read it HERE.

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We Took the Road Less Traveled

"Where troubles melt like lemon drops, high above the chimney tops. That's where you'll find me."- from Somewhere Over the Rainbow

I was tired, hot, cranky, and annoyed. (I'm sure this comes as no surprise.) This was not my idea of a vacation. This is not how we had said we would spend our 10th Anniversary celebration. My Director had totally hijacked our day and dedicated it to shopping. No...looking for the perfect gift to repay my sister and brother-in-law for watching Peanut for the two weeks we were away. This is one area where we, and I believe most men and women, differ. Shopping. I don't look for things. I think of what I want ahead of time and I set off to buy things. Or, I see something and impulsively say, "I'm going to buy that," finances willing. But I never say, "I want something like this so I'm going to go look for it." That's just a waste of time. Nonsense.

Yet, here we were. Immersed in nonsense.

This is 1 of nearly 6,000 identical stores.
But look at her in her cute hat. I can't stay mad at her.

We were on the island of Murano, the place in Venice famous for its hand-blown glass. And My Director had taken a one-way boat to Nutsville, obsessed with buying a set of glasses. We went into every store, on a mission. It was maddening because all of these stores are the same, except for infinitesimal differences in each figurine, light fixture, or piece of jewelry. I was stuck in Venetian Groundhog Day and I needed out. So I threw a bit of a tantrum. Albeit, a strategic, impassioned, but sympathetic tantrum. To my surprise, it actually worked.

Still, I was tired, hot, cranky, and annoyed as we boarded a boat to head back to mainland Venice, Piazza San Marco. First we had to make one last stop at "Murano Faro." This is the only place where you get a boat to the island of Burano. One of my wishes for our trip was to go to Burano, because it's little known, quiet, far away. But at this point, in the state I was in (the "done with shopping" state), I felt defeated and resigned to go back.

This selfie proves there were actually more happy
moments on Murano than not. (And that I am terribly bald.)

"Last chance," My Director called to me. "If you want Burano we have to get off here. Now."

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Salvage-Your-Vegetables Frittata for #SundaySupper

Usually for my #SundaySupper posts, I share a meal I've made well ahead of time. To make this one authentic, really true to the title, I waited until yesterday to make it. Frittata is an Italian open-faced omelette that requires some patience and - might I say - skill to execute. I've ruined many a frittata before getting it right.

Once again, my mom blazed the trail. Her tradition is a broccoli rabe and salami frittata for Easter. (She also pronounces it "freh-TAHD" because she's a New Jersey Italian.) But I figure, why wait for Easter to have it? I make these almost every weekend, all year long. And, as the title of this post suggests, I use whatever vegetables I have left in the fridge at the end of the week. I don't like to waste food or money. So what better way to save both? Theoretically, this meal costs nothing. (Wink.) Most of the time I use garlic, red pepper, and maybe some cheese or onion. Yesterday, however, I hit the veggie motherload...

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Criminal Minds

"Never rat on your friends. And always keep your mouth shut." - Goodfellas.

Young "Hendry" gets pinched and learns
the two most important things in life.

There is a code. It's a mostly unspoken code among Italian-Americans. Robert DeNiro's character in GoodFellas did speak it, though.  (I posted it above.)  He said it right after Ray Liotta's character got arrested for the first time. Called them the two greatest things in life. (In the scene depicted on the left.) Peanut, herself half-Italian, subscribes to the code. I guess it's genetic, because I never taught it to her.

Haven't you ever made your friends promise to keep a secret? It wasn't a bad thing, right? When we learned Peanut made her friend pinky swear something, we were mildly concerned at worst. It wasn't that she made her pinky swear, it was what she made her pinky swear. In true mafioso form, our little angel told her friend, "not to tell her mom anything about her anymore." That's right. Peanut's friend got pinched, see. While Peanut generally keeps quiet to us (the code), her friend - not Italian - sang like a canary to her mom.

Turns out, Peanut was tired of us finding out about her exploits at school, no matter how innocent they were, through her friend's mom. So she went to the source and told her to pinky swear... to basically keep her f*cking mouth shut. And guess what the friend did? Told her mom about the pinky swear, who in turn told us about the pinky swear. Vicious cycle. This is what happens when you bring non-Italians into your inner circle.

Here is the anatomy of the crime:

1. Peanut and friend interact at school.
2. The friend tells her mom the story.
3. Peanut tells us nothing.
4. Friend's mom tells My Director.
5. We tell Peanut.
6. Peanut tells friend to keep her mouth shut.

What this little girl who was unwittingly ratting on Peanut doesn't know is there is no witness protection in Kindergarten. This friend - or should I say consigliere, is playing with fire. She's risking getting Peanut pinched. Or worse, herself whacked. While Peanut lawyers up faster than you can say cannoli, her friend spilled the beans with very little effort on the prosecution's part. So she quickly became our source of information. Our stool pigeon. It's mostly funny stuff. But this pinky swear business had us worried.

My Director didn't want Peanut becoming a mean girl. Worse, a sneaky mean girl. Someone who likes to keep secrets, both from us and among her friends. Someone who was perhaps bullying her friend to keep things from us. (Really?! She's five.) I understood her concern, but I also understand the code. (I'm Italian. My Director is NOT.) Sometimes secrets have to be kept. Then again... do they have to be kept in Kindergarten?

While I found all of this mildly amusing, I don't like the idea that my daughter is a schemer. Already.

We've had several conversations with her since the "pinky swear" incident. We've been sure not to be accusatory. We told her we want to hear everything about her day - the good and the bad - no matter what. That it's ok if something or someone bothers her, or if she doesn't like someone or something. We  just want to know anything and everything. Open the vault, kid. We might not always agree with her, we might not always like her decisions, but we will always be on her side.

That was out mini-intervention. It seems to have worked. Lately, Peanut has been spilling the beans herself, to us. Often she volunteers the information without prompting. After all, the code begins and ends with family. We're the best at keeping secrets. And the best at making sure our little princess doesn't turn into a mean girl.

Sometimes when Peanut acts up, it's my fault. I learned that the hard way and wrote about it HERE.

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Tailgating with Grandpa Sal's Sausage and Peppers for #SundaySupper

This recipe reminds me of one of my favorite people ever: My Grandpa Sal. He and my Grandma Sylvia lived in the house right behind ours. Our backyards connected. As a little boy, it was great to have my grandparents live so close. (I'm sure my dad thought otherwise of having his in-laws 100 yards away.)

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Easy Chicken Ravioli with Peas and Bacon for #SundaySupper

There are a couple of recipes I keep in my back pocket for days where I'm tired, late, or just don't feel like cooking something complicated. Since school starts in a week and a half, those days will be upon us more often than not. This is a great quick meal I keep in my arsenal for hectic days where I have no other choice. It's simple, quick, delicious, and Peanut will eat it without even a hint of complaint. It's also great for leftovers.

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Cantaloupe and Prosciutto Salad with Perfectly Grilled Chicken and Potatoes for #SundaySupper

In my ongoing search for delicious and nutritious recipes to try and - if they're successful - add to my arsenal,  sometimes I hit the jackpot. That's what I did with this salad. It is a re-imagined version of the old Italian prosciutto and melon appetizer. I have already made it twice this summer for backyard get-togethers. And it's a hit. It'll be a hit for your July 4th party:

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Cooking with Less: Orecchiette with Sausage and Broccoli for #SundaySupper

I know I've hit a home run with a meal when as we're eating it both My Director and Peanut say they want to take it for lunch the next day. This is one of those meals. It fills all of my prerequisites: quick, easy, healthy (relatively), and inexpensive. It also fills another important criteria: it passes on a tradition. This is my updated, healthier version of my mom's cavatelli and broccoli. I've made this for her as well, and she also approves. I love that three generations of Italians in my family (and my lovely WASP wife) can sit at my table and enjoy this meal together.

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Cooking with Less: Chicken & Sausage Stew

I'm big on leftovers. I hardly ever buy my lunch at work. Neither does My Director. So most Sundays I like to cook a meal that'll cover at least two dinners in addition to a lunch or two. If Peanut likes it enough to ask for it for lunch, bonus. Weekends give me time to cook dinners that take longer to make than I have time for during the week. So I like to make them last.

This recipe was delicious and lasted all week. My Director and I finished it just last night. (I didn't have time to cook because we spent the day packing for Disney.) Peanut ate some other leftovers. (I'm also big on not wasting food.)

Another successful meal inspired by
Cooking Light

Ingredients:

3 tablespoons all-purpose flour 

2 tablespoons olive oil 
2 cups chopped onion
1 cup chopped green bell pepper 
1 cup chopped red bell pepper
1 cup chopped celery 
4 ounces diced chicken sausage (I used a yummy apple sausage - more flavor)
4 garlic cloves, minced 
1/4 teaspoon ground red pepper
12 ounces skinless, boneless chicken thighs, cut into 1-inch pieces 
1 1/2 marinara sauce 
1 1/2 cups fat-free, lower-sodium chicken broth 
1/2 cup chopped green onions
3 cups hot cooked brown rice 

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I'm Top Chef

"We should look for someone to eat and drink with before looking for something to eat and drink." -Epicurious

I had found what I thought was a delicious mustard vinaigrette recipe on my Epicurious iPad app. How many husbands have said that before? How many husbands even have an Epicurious iPad app? Not many.

"You know, not many husbands do what I do," I told my wife. Very few, actually. She forced me to say it.  She had shot me a look of doubt when I described how I had dressed the cucumbers we were about to eat. I was insulted. I had every right to be. Don't doubt my cooking, lady. You should know by now. I even had the Peanut taste test my marinade before I poured it over the cucumbers. She loved it... wanted more. (Of course my recent dealings with cucumbers are now legendary.)

My wife took a bite, and her haughty doubt disappeared, replaced by humble satisfaction. "Never doubt me again," I told her her. "Especially when it comes to cooking." Like I said, not many husbands do what I do. Even fewer do it so well. That night I had made homemade fish sticks out of tilapia filets. I baked them so they weren't greasy. The cucumbers were our vegetable. I am a wizard in the kitchen. What can I say? It's in my blood.

My mother taught me well. But even she is impressed with what I manage to do every day. Yeah... every day.

I live the show "Top Chef." In every episode, the contestants are given a short amount of time to execute a delicious, successful meal. That is no different from my cooking dinner for my family every night. Both the contestants and I are given obstacles. But theirs are made up. Sometimes they have to cook with one hand, or a two-chef team has to cook while tied together under one apron. My obstacles are real. Flesh and blood. They are demanding and relentless. They are my daughter and my dog.

I watch the show and I can tell you those seasoned professionals on "Top Chef" aren't giving hugs and kisses or wiping a$$es while they're cooking. (I wash my hands A LOT.) They're not getting snacks, or cleaning up the rare accidents the dog has left. At least I know what's coming...

When Peanut and I walk through the door at 6pm after daycare pickup, I have 45 minutes to get dinner on the table. (My wife comes home around 6:45.)

My arms are packed with my daughter's lunchbox, her artwork, paperwork from the daycare office, her cup, her Lammie, some extraneous clothing she shed in the car, whatever toys she's brought along for the ride, sometimes dry cleaning or groceries, and my bag is draped over my shoulder. I plop all of this paraphernalia on the counter, and my quickfire challenge begins.

Almost on cue, the Peanut starts with her list of demands. "Daddy can I... Daddy may I... Daddy I want..." A snack. An apple sliced and peeled. Her playroom opened. A show to watch. To go potty. Her coat hung up. And while she does that Luna is nipping at our ankles, hungry for love and attention. After I dedicate a good few minutes to the dog, I let her out in the yard to get her out of my way.

Before any of this takes place, I've already started the oven, and/or fired two burners with pots on them and olive oil in them. So things are getting hot...  although not yet cooking.

Mostly everything I cook is fresh, especially vegetables. My daughter will no longer eat frozen ones. And the likes of Papa John, Chef Boyardee and Mama Celeste are not welcome in my house, in my kitchen, or at my dinner table. No respectable American of Italian heritage would allow that.

And over the past year, I have learned to embrace the crock pot... a device I had previously described as "lazy cooking." As it turns out, convenient can also be healthy and delicious if you want it to be. I also cook two meals most Sundays, to give myself a head start on the week. And I grill as much as I can, until the yard is covered in snow.

Recent menu items include: turkey meatloaf with sauteed broccoli rabe and homemade mashed potatoes. Grilled marinated tuna steaks with steamed broccoli and garlic rice. Pan roasted chicken thighs with kalamata olives, capers, and lemon served over couscous with a side salad.

Some of my most vivid childhood memories are from the six of us - my parents, my two sisters, my brother, and myself - sitting around the table, holding hands, saying grace, and sharing a home-cooked meal. It wasn't easy for my mom to do it every day. It's not easy for me either. I admit, I am dangerous with a big knife. And I don't peel potatoes. But my nightly qucikfire challenge is so worth it... for our hearts, our souls, and our bellies.

My mom is very proud. And my family is very well fed.

I mentioned sometimes coming home to accidents from the dog... there's a reason why it's so hard for me to get mad at her when she does that.

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Well Deserved, Long Overdue

"All that I am, or hope to be, I owe to my angel mother." -Abraham Lincoln

It's about time my mother gets a post of her own. Not necessarily because she deserves it, but because she demands it.

"How come you write about your father so much but not me," she routinely asks me. Well, there's my 'no mention of living relatives who don't reside in my house' rule. But since my mom broke the mold, I'll break my rule... for her. This once.

There's also the fact that my blog is named Daddy Knows Less, which apparently escapes her. In fact, a lot of things escape her. That's one of the things I love so much about her.

I also love that she's hilarious, often unintentionally. And it's not just because I have to tell her the same things over and over again and then get the same reactions from her over and over again like it's Groundhog Day. No... that's annoying.

Baby's first Christmas w/Mema

What makes her hilarious is times like when she was babysitting my daughter and I came home from work and saw that Lifetime was on the television, blasting, and nobody was watching. I could only laugh because I knew my little girl had to endure a day full of bad made-for-tv movies because a) "I don't know how to work the damn thing" and b) "At least part of the day we were watching 'Little House.'"

She's hilarious because the night before that, she asked me if she could "distinguish" her cigarette in a paper bag in my garage. She's so ridiculous sometimes I have no idea what part of her statements I should respond to first. Should I correct her vocabulary or remind her paper can catch fire?

While I can't stand that she smokes, it does provide for some moments of hilarity.

Sweaty meats are difficult to pronounce

My mother is a throwback to old-school Italian-Americans. She pronounces things like "mootsadell"(mozzarella) and "gobbagool" (capicola). Every time she says "brook-la-daab," I correct her.

"It's broccoli rabe, mom."

"We're Italian," she counters. "It's 'brook-la-daab."

Mmmm...broccoli rabe

"No, crazy lady. Even in Italy they say broccoli rabe."

I can't help it. It seems I choose to deliberately aggravate her sometimes.

But why do I do it? Did she not hug me enough? No, she hugged me plenty. She didn't pay enough attention to me? I am the youngest of four... so possible.

I also don't want to fall in to the trap of eulogizing her before I absolutely have to. On the rare occasion I pour my heart out to her in a card or on the phone, even she asks, "Am I dying?"

Regardless... because even though she does demand it... she also deserves it.

So here you go mom...

There was a time you were my favorite person in the world. I couldn't get enough of you. I snuggled with you on the couch as a boy, sang to you the soundtrack from "Moonstruck" as you cooked in the kitchen as a teenager, took your side whenever you were in an argument with anyone, anytime. Including dad.

It lasted roughly the first 20 years of my life. I was a bonafide momma's boy. Then that sweet adorable WASP came along and stole my heart. And all I ever hear you say about her is "she's wonderful." Yes, she is.

My two favorite moms: 12/31/05

She's the one who promised you a grandchild one teary-eyed New Year's Eve and delivered. She was pregnant six months later. Your granddaughter arrived a year and three months after that promise. That's just one of many reasons she's wonderful. And so are you.

I think you're amazing. You taught me to cook, to love, to care, to shop for the finest ingredients at the lowest price, to be outraged when something costs too much. I think you have shown in the eight plus years since daddy passed away that you are stronger than all four of your children combined.

"Look at my kids," I overheard you say the morning after that horrible night. I could only imagine what you were seeing because a lot of the week that followed is a blur.

"I have to make sure I live a long time so I don't do this to them."

Yes. You do. (Then why do you still smoke?) You are a treasure. Our treasure. The only one we have left. You're our link to our childhood, our past, our fleeting innocence.

The last thing I said to daddy before he died was "thank you." From the beginning of this blog - before your granddaughter was even born - I've written about how much I appreciate that moment. Had I known it would be the last time I ever saw him, I would have said so much more. But I am thankful I at least said that.

In case I don't say it enough... just so you know, mom... I love you. Thank you.

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Happiness Is Being Italian

"Life is a combination of magic and pasta." - Federico Fellini


Picture it... Sicily... 1955...

Remember the "Golden Girls?" Estelle Getty's character would always regale her friends with anecdotal stories from her homeland? With all due respect to Sophia Petrillo, not all stories of Italian pride have to take place in the Old Country.

There we were, the three of us, enjoying Sunday dinner as a family just like the countless times I remember growing up. The one difference: it wasn't three in then afternoon. The peanut in her highchair, pulled flush against the dining room table, flanked by me and my wife. All of us with a heaping, steaming, sweet-smelling bowl full of Italian goodness sitting in front of us: rotini, ravioli, pecorino, sausage, garlic.

It was arguably the best pot of gravy I had ever made.

It's called "gravy" when you add meat to it

I watched as my daughter shoveled bite after bite after bite into her mouth, without hesitation or negotiation. She was happy, dancing, humming. I wasn't focused on eating my own dinner because I was getting so much enjoyment out of watching my daughter eat hers. I turned my attention back to my own plate, looked down, and just shook my head. In amazement.

"What's wrong?" asked my wife.

"Nothing," I said. "I'm just content."

It was then I realized that my favorite thing about myself just may be the fact that I am 100% Italian-American. We are a dwindling breed. None of my first cousins can even claim that distinction. Neither can my daughter.

There are people out there who hear "Italian" and picture a loud, crude, mafioso slob. I'm not offended by these people. I feel sorry for them. What offends me as an Italian-American is that Olive Garden, Ragu, and Chef Boyardee attempt to pass themselves off as genuine Italian cuisine.

Don't get me wrong, I mean no disrespect to those of you whose ancestry can not be traced back to the country shaped like a boot. Italian-Americans wear a certain badge of honor. And I'm not talking about the jewelry those guidos who walk the Boardwalk in Seaside Heights wear around their necks (They offend me too).

I told my wife that Sunday pasta dinner will now become a tradition in our home, just like when I grew up. The pot of gravy will forever become a simmering fixture on top of my stove. This is what's in our blood. This is what has been passed down from generation to generation.  I am perfectly content being the one to pass it along to my daughter. Even though she's only half Italian.

Nobody's perfect.

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