One Piece of Advice for Graduates

"I used to be young and cocky like these kids. Now I'm old and cocky." -Me, to My Director, as a group of graduates stood at the front of church one Sunday for a special blessing.


I have some words of wisdom to impart to the class of 2013. Because despite my receding hair line and expanding home equity line, it wasn't too long ago that I graduated from high school. Alright, so it was 1993. Two years before most of this year's graduates were even born. You happy now? I'm old. There. I said it. And I drive a minivan. Can we move on to the advice?

There is a line I write in every high-school graduation card that My Director hands me with the assignment of "be inspiring." Here it is: "Don't do anything you can't tell your mom."

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All in the Family

"Don't make fun of your mother. It's a sin against your soul." -My mom.

I don't call my mom as much as I should. Timing is mostly to blame. That's lame, I know. But sometimes when I think of calling her, it's too late. I know she's either asleep or...

Mom and I at a family wedding a few years ago.

One of the things I find most amusing, but sometimes most aggravating, about my mom is that I can tell how many glasses of wine she's had on a given night by the number of times I have to ask her the same question before I get an answer. The later I call, the more glasses of wine that have been consumed. And the more likely the conversation is, shall I say, colorful. This not only leads to a lot of repeated questions during the conversation, but repeated conversations the next time we talk.

For instance, she actually called me on the Monday AND Tuesday after Easter, to ask me how our Easter with my in-laws was. "Mom," I said on the second call. "What is this, Groundhog Day?" Then she insists we didn't talk yesterday, and the conversation becomes a blow-by-blow account of what we had discussed previously. A little bit of this is age. A lot of it is wine.

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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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Bacon & Egg Spring Salad for #SundaySupper

This salad was born out of necessity, and now has evolved into something of a delicacy in our house. Just ask my mom. I made it for lunch yesterday for my extended family: sisters, brother-in-law, niece and nephews. My mom, food matriarch who taught me everything I know, proclaimed, "This might be the best salad I've ever tasted." That was pretty cool to hear.

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Knowing Your Roles

"Always be a first-rate version of yourself, instead of a second-rate version of somebody else." -Judy Garland

We all have a job as parents. Moms and dads. No matter how our families happen to be constructed. No matter which roles in the family we hold, we are responsible for teaching our children. Showing them the way. Whether we like it or not, they are watching us. Watching us for how to be and how to act.

My parents had traditional roles. My mom was a housewife for most of my childhood, before they opened their swimming pool business. Before that, my dad worked a lot to support us. There were a lot of late nights where I remember him coming home as I was laying in bed.

To a certain extent, My Director and I have turned those roles around. We both work. We divide cleaning evenly. The kitchen and bathrooms are my responsibility. She handles the finances and is even better than me at fixing certain most things. I do the cooking. We don't follow traditional roles for a mom and dad.

Two examples from Christmas, one past and one present, tell the story...

My Director fixing the tree.
(Me taking picture.)

A couple of weeks ago, our Christmas tree fell down while we were at work. My Director was the first one home and didn't hesitate to jump in and assess the tree stand situation. Meanwhile, once I arrived on the scene, I took pictures for the blog and attended to the more pressing matter of figuring out how to save Googily, our Elf on the Shelf. Googily was sitting in the tree at the time it fell. (The big thing about the Elf is if you touch him he loses his magic. You can read more about this hilarious and potentially catastrophic adventure HERE.) I was also concerned about how long this disaster would delay dinner.

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Homemade Chicken Soup for #SundaySupper and #Sandy Relief

This week's #SundaySupper event is very special to me and my family. I am Jersey born and bred. My hometown, which is on the shore, has been battered, bruised, and in parts, broken. This week, as the #SundaySupper team helps raise money for Sandy relief, I thought it would be appropriate to share a recipe that evokes a sense of warmth and healing: my mom's homemade chicken soup,

This soup is a staple in my house this time of year, up until spring comes. I especially make it when one of us is sick. My mom would do the same. She still does. In fact, she included a tupperware full of it in the first care package she sent to me in college. Chicken soup makes you feel good. It warms your body and soul. It soothes your throat and your mind. It gently fills your stomach. It is healthy comfort food.

Please enjoy this recipe that means so much to my family, and follow the links below help those families who need it after Sandy:

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THE PEANUT GALLERY: Unused Tickets

"If you think summer next year will look like summer last year, it won't." NJ Gov. Chris Christie on Friday

Tomorrow is not guaranteed, let alone next summer. Gov. Christie's sobering reality check about the long road to rebuilding the shore is just the latest hit to life as we know it in New Jersey.

Every year for Easter, my mom gets each of her grandchildren a 100-pack of tickets for the rides on Casino Pier in Seaside Heights, NJ. The tickets go on sale early - for half price - in the spring. My mom, like me, can't pass up a bargain:

Notice the Easter Bunny on the ticket book.

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Every Day is #SundaySupper, Especially with Perfectly-Grilled Pork Chops

Some of my most vivid, vibrant, and most cherished memories of childhood are of the six of us - mom, dad, my two sisters, my brother, and me - sitting around the table, saying grace and eating dinner. This nightly tradition was rarely missed. My mom made sure of it. And her meals were always fabulous. None more than most Sundays, when the aroma of the sauteed garlic and braised beef and pork for the gravy for that day's pasta dinner would fill the house from early in the morning. It's something I do every few months. Make a big pot, and freeze portions for later meals:

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

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Queen of the Guilt Trip

"Daddy are you talking to Mema?"

"Yes. How can you tell?"

 "Because you're yelling."

An amusing, but not very proud moment in my parenting career. Yes, I was on the phone, talking to my mom. And yes, I was talking rather loudly. "Yelling," as Peanut described. You shouldn't yell at your mom, right? Not ever. I agree... unless she's taking you on a never-ending guilt trip that has spanned three weeks, two states, and several phone calls.

Image from zazzle.com

My mom is an Italian princess. But for the purpose of this story, she is The Queen... The Queen of the Guilt Trip.

Like My Director and I, you've surely visited the websites and read the guide books. You've planned itineraries and scheduled character breakfasts. All to make your child's Disney trip - her first, mind you - special. Memorable. Unforgettable.

And it was after we completed that process that The Queen started her guilt trip. For it was not until then that she learned she was not invited to Disney to celebrate Peanut's birthday, but her grandparent counterparts were.

First, The Queen lulled me into submission with platitudes. Telling me how excited she was for us. How much fun it will be for Peanut. She even said she'd rather celebrate Peanut's birthday after the trip instead of before, so she could see pictures. She had me totally fooled. Little did I know the guilt trip was coming. It started with a nonchalant, high-pitched, "okay" More emphasis on the "O" than they "kay." You hear that, you know trouble's brewing.

When she finally decided she was in fact upset, The Queen piled on the "me's" and "I's." The first-person pronoun is still a sharp, stinging weapon. I was ill-prepared to respond to statements like, "You didn't think of ME." And, "I am very hurt." Then there was the very effective and fully loaded, "I won't get to see MY granddaughter's first reaction when she sees the Magic Kingdom." Ouch. But that doesn't hurt nearly as much as...

The Widow Card: This may not apply to all, but in extreme cases of guilt-tripping, The Queen will in fact invoke widow in several ways. First, she will simply state the fact. "I'm a widow," meaning this hardship entitles her to certain privileges and considerations. Second, she plays the other side of the widow card by invoking dead father. Very tricky and very effective. "If your father were alive, would we be invited on this trip?" My answer: No. (That didn't help matters.) In most cases, invoking widow is highly effective. Not only does it tug at the heart strings and make the tripee wonder "what if," but it is also difficult to dispute true statements (I'm a widow) and outrageous hypothetical statements (If you're father were alive...)

Once she effectively deployed the widow card, she had me so off balance that she smoothly moved on to the complete denial of reality. The Queen had successfully managed to whittle away at my defenses to the point that I'd believe anything. Namely, that she and my mother-in-law not only get along, but actually enjoy each other's company. The fact is, they're all very nice people, they're just not nice to each other. My Director and I are the only ones who can admit this. Also, it's bad enough I'm going to Disney with my in-laws and staying in the same room as them. I need my mom there too?

She then ended the conversation with, "I'm not trying to make you feel guilty." And she was serious. All while either beginning or ending as many statements as possible with two very strategically placed words: "I understand, my son." "But my son, I'm not upset with you." She's a guilt-trip genius. 

I admit, I made some missteps. I could have handled this part of the trip - The Queen - better. I believe she has a right to be upset - a little upset. And she did raise some valid points.

After all, there was a time where my mom was my favorite person in the world. I think most sons (and daughters) can say that. I was such a momma's boy, it lasted well into high school. And even parts of college. Until that beautiful blonde-haired WASP smiled at me from across a crowded room and captured my heart forever.

Still, my mom taught me how to love. She taught me the importance of family and faith, and the value of a dollar. My senses of loyalty, humor, and creativity come from her. She also taught me how to cook. She protected me and comforted me for all of those years. And how do I repay her? I hurt her feelings, right or wrong. Her guilt trip worked.

So I said, "Mom, we'll go on a family trip next year and we'll bring you. Maybe even back to Disney."

You think that would appease her at least a litte, right? Wrong.

"I could be dead by then."

Game. Point. Set. Match. Long live The Queen.

I found this perfect cartoon here.

You read that right...we're staying in the SAME ROOM with my in-laws. You can read all about it here.

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So This is Christmas

A week after my daughter was born, I wrote her a letter. I used a word to represent each letter of the alphabet. Each word is an action I hope she chooses to take during her life. Here's what I wrote for the letter "O:"

Observe. Observe traditions, like eating seven fish on Christmas Eve... traditions are a huge part of who you are, and where you came from. Learn them. Appreciate them. Make them your own. Maintain them, while making changes to fit the times. That will make passing them on even more special.

I wrote that more than four years ago. It's still true. It's come true. And will always be true.

Christmas Eve is the holiday for many Italian-Americans. More important than Christmas. It goes back to the old country. And my family is no exception. Our tradition, what makes this event so special, is the seven fishes (yes... it's fishes. This is one of the few instances where I will allow a grammatical mistake.)

We eat seven fish on Christmas Eve. But to tell you the truth, we don't really know exactly why. We're funny that way. Some say it represents the seven Sacraments of the Catholic Church. Some say it's the seven deadly sins. Others argue the seven days it took Mary and Joseph to get to Bethlehem. Then there's the seven hills of Rome theory, and the seven winds of Italy one.

I like to think of the Biblical significance of the number seven: three for the divinity plus four representing earth. Seven is the perfect number, representing Christ on Earth. I'm not super religious, but this is the explanation I prefer.

Regardless, on Christmas Eve, we eat.

My parents made Christmas

My parents made sure Christmas Eve was always special. The fish and the gifts and the memories. Ah, the memories... not all of them fond. You see, we're no Norman Rockwell family. We have our warts just like everyone else. There was the year my niece screamed bloody murder because we had skipped a part in the Nativity play she was producing (I was Joseph and my performance was spot on.) There was the year one of my sisters nearly choked to death on a fish bone, requiring the Heimlich Maneuver (the downside of eating nothing but fish). There was the year my dad got irrationally angry and threw a fit because there was only hazelnut coffee made. (that's genetic.... hazelnut makes me mad too.)

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Candy Land of the Lost

"That's life. That's what people say. You're riding high in April; shot down in May." -Frank Sinatra

Candy Land is a necesary rite of passage, and at the same time a form of torture. Quite simply, it is the bane of our parental existence.

Why, Hasbro? Why do you do this to us? Why do you move us painfully, slowly up that rainbow spiral board only four or five spaces at a time? (If we're lucky.) Then, like a punch in the stomach, allow one of our opponents to draw the card that lands them on Chocolate Mountain, leaving us way behind in Gummy Hills? Curse you, Hasbro.

To make matters worse, the competitor in us still wants to win, even though the only skill required to play this game is the ability to identify colors. That is when we realize our only shot is to actually root for our four year-old daughter to draw a card that sends her far enough backwards that gives us a chance at victory.

It's a double-edged sword. Because if your child is lucky enough to hit the lottery and draw that card to send her to the top, she'll be happy. But God forbid if it's you that hits the lottery. And heaven help you if your child is the one sent backwards.

So while we sit there silently hoping for a lucky card, eyes glazed from the mind-numbing boredom, you manage to close the gap. Only to get stuck in Licorice Swamp on your way back to respectability.

Subtly Un-Sweet 

This is the dance I found my green gingerbread piece doing with the Peanut's blue counterpart one rainy afternoon. But there was an anomaly. We were both closing in on Candy Castle, and the blackjack junkie in me realized neither of us had drawn one of the special cards. They were bound to come up. And sure enough, soon thereafter, I was sent packing to Ice Cream Falls. I made a big spectacle of myself.  A big, loud, "Oh, no... boohoohoo." Even fake crying.

Peanut came over to me, grabbed my face in her hands and kissed me on the cheek. She assured me it would be alright. "All you have to do is pick the colors and make your way back up," she said. As if it were that simple. Easy for her to say; she was about to win. One day she will understand the statistic improbability of my victory after that devastating turn of events.

When Peanut disavowed cupcakes

Three turns later, the Peanut was sent packing as well. All the way down to Cupcake Commons. Now she was beside herself. For real. She stormed off into her playroom.. I reminded her of the reassurance she had given me just two minutes before. Her answer: "I don't like cupcakes."

"You don't like cupcakes?!"

"No. I like cupcakes. I just don't want to play anymore."

I gave her my best pep talk. "We don't quit," I told her. "When things don't go our way, we find a way to make it better."

I took this time out to go to the bathroom. I said when I came out, I wanted her back at the game ready to play again.

She was. She told me she had picked her next card. Magically, it was the popsicle card that brought her right back up near the top of the board. Had she cheated? The thought immediately crossed my mind. Could she possibly be that cunning? And dishonest? My angel? Or were we just due for a run of special candy cards?

I will honestly never know the truth. I didn't even bring it up. But here's why I had my suspicions: Because during a game of Candy Land with my mom, I did something similar when I was the Peanut's age. Maybe a little older. So it's in her blood. Wanting to win at all costs. Being a bad loser.

To this day, I feel guilty about it. The memory of my mom's genuine (albeit over the top) reaction is etched in my brain. Did she know and just play along? Perhaps if the Peanut did in fact cheat, she feels the same way now that I did then. And will still feel the same way 30 years from now.

I will say this about Candy Land: It does teach us that life isn't fair. That no matter how hard you try, and despite your best effort, you could still be sent to the back of the line even if you didn't do anything wrong. Sometimes there isn't an explanation that will make you feel better. That's life.

Do cheaters win? Sure they do. But if they're worth a damn, they feel really crappy about it. The important thing is when your turn comes up again, you start that slow climb back up that mountain.

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THE PEANUT GALLERY: Evidence

When I was growing up my mom had a particular term she would use to describe the messes I left in the house. She would walk into the kitchen and perform a 360 degree scan of the all of the rooms. She'd spot a cereal box on the counter, an empty glass on the coffee table, a textbook on the floor where I was doing homework.

Then she'd ask, "Why do I always have to come home to evidence?"

Evidence. Genius.

Last weekend, my wife said something similar. "Why does all of your crap have to be strewn all over the counter all of the time?" I had no answer, except to compliment her on her exceptional use of the funky word "strewn."

She was right:

Laptop, iPod, running watch, 2 pairs of glasses, keys, and more....

A few days later, I noticed a similar trend when I stayed at home one day with the Peanut:

We played princesses

We camped out in the kitchen

And of course, the chair train. All aboard!

My wife mentioned the famous chair train in her now viral guest post that she wrote for my birthday. Click here to read it.

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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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