I wanted to pop in real quick. and say hello to see how everyone’s (almost) summer vacation is going. It feels like school is never going to end here in NYC. I started a countdown on the dining room blackboard in anticipation of the last school lunch I’ll have to pack. Yes, even I lose my steam after nine months of the daily grind.

Before we head out of town for some R&R and I wanted to share a few new recipes that have been published over at Relish Magazine. I write for them twice a month, and while I’m generally good about sharing them on Facebook and Twitter, I often forget to let all of you here know about them. I’ll try to get better about that in the future.

Speaking of which, why do we only wait until December 31st to make resolutions? Life is always a work in progress, right? My goal for this summer is to try and be more in the moment. I nixed all summer camp plans, which was quite freeing. It allowed me to plan two vacations sort of on the fly, and spend time with a few dear friends this summer.

Here’s what I’ve been up to over at Relish. And if you do decide to make a summer resolution, please feel free to share what it is; we can all use a little inspiration.

Parsley, Lemon Thyme & Pistachio Pesto

Strawberry Vanilla Syrup

Slow-Roasted Tomato Salsa

(hint: this recipe uses the slow-roasted tomatoes from Homemade with Love)

The recipe for the Chai Spice Cinnamon Buns at the beginning of this post can be found here.

I’ve written dozens of lines on this screen, and deleted them all, not knowing how to describe what I’m feeling. Being a tightrope walker sums it up a bit, at least the last few weeks. Don’t look down, that’s the key, right? Keep my eyes focused on the path ahead, and getting across to the other side.

But what is the other side of grief?

It is so hard to shed the cloak of being a widow. It’s a double-edged sword, not wanting to be identified as the girl who’s husband died, our story being interrupted so abruptly. And yet, when people start to see me as I am today, on my own, it saddens me. I have to remind myself they’ve not forgotten him; it’s just the natural progression of things. I’m just becoming comfortable with being seen as a single mother, even though that isn’t exactly how I feel. Yes, I do the daily job of parenting alone, but he is always in my heart, guiding me in the decisions I make for our family.

I am alone, but not really.

Until the memories start to fade…

and the sound of his laughter becomes a distant echo I struggle to remember.

It’s almost two years since that moment, and I’m still standing. I looked down at my boots the other day and realized they’ve strolled the streets of Paris, walked the beaches of Normandy strewn with razor clam shells and a thick layer of snow, and clocked many miles making my way up a mountain in Morocco.

Two years almost down; the rest of my life to go.

The last couple of weeks have been about catching up, and finding some peace, calm and happiness. I made the decision to skip summer camp for the kids. We all need a break from routines and alarm clocks. Plans are plentiful, but aside from arrival and departure dates, the in-between moments aren’t etched in stone. Funny how before Mikey passed away I craved predictability and was always the planner. Now I’m the person running to the airport terminal as they announce the last boarding call.

I’ve been keeping myself busy with work, and wanted to share some new recipes before I fall into end of school busyness and prepare for the first vacation of the summer. One thing I plan on leaving at home, as I set about packing, is my cloak. I’m trading it in for a light sweater. One that I can drape across my shoulders when a cool breeze comes out of nowhere to remind myself that our story wasn’t a dream.

And while it feels like it ended, it’s just being told by new narrators—Isabella and Virginia. Our girls grew out of the story Mikey and I started, and they will keep it safe.

Music Pairing: Paths That Cross by Patti Smith

I’m known for cooking hot breakfasts for the girls every day, but I rarely partake in them during the week. Sundays are my day to linger at the table with coffee, a hot meal, and the newspaper, if I’m feeling extra decadent with my time. During the week, I usually set about the kitchen packing lunch and preparing for the day while the girls eat. I don’t feel particularly guilty for not sitting with them since the kitchen opens into the dining room. I’m a stone’s throw from them, just across the counter, caught up in chatter about the day ahead.

Once the busyness of the morning is done, with them dropped off at school, it’s my tummy’s turn for some TLC. I put up a pot of French press, and get to work on my favorite breakfast—a perfectly cooked sunny side up egg. I love the contrast of the crispy edges of the whites, as I poke at the yolk and watch it slowly dribble out. It’s the simple things that I find most comforting, and cooking an egg just right is one of them. So, imagine my momentary fluster when I cracked my egg into the pan yesterday and the yolk broke. I immediately realized I took one of the older eggs from the carton. Older eggs are better for making hard boiled ones, which means the ones I buy fresh from the farmers’ market need a week or two to “age”. I set a few aside for this purpose every week.

Fried eggs, on the other hand, are best made with super fresh eggs*. When I cracked my egg yesterday, and the yolk splattered open, I was crestfallen. Piercing the yolk is like the prize in the Cracker Jack box. My first thought was to toss the egg and start again, but I quickly came to my senses. Waste not, want not, right? I took a fork, and gave the egg a quick scramble in the skillet, making the best of my breakfast situation. While my original intention had been a perfectly cooked sunny side up egg, life has taught me that all is not lost even when things don’t unfold as I intended. We can plot and plan all we want, but it’s grace under pressure that allows us to see the silver linings when they present themselves.

*For a more scientific explanation on why, read this and this.

Sunny Side Up Eggs

Music Pairing: Sunnyside by Leftover Cuties

Take care in selecting your skillet, which all depends on how many eggs you want to cook. The whites will need room to scurry about until they set (usually within a few seconds of hitting the pan). An eight-inch skillet can comfortably fit two eggs, three if you don’t mind them touching each other (I usually don’t, in case you’re wondering, but happen to love the photo I snapped up above).  A ten to twelve-inch skillet is good for up to four eggs. As for the pan type, I love my cast-iron skillet. Non-stick pans work fine too, but I find they don’t deliver a super crispy edge. If you use a stainless steel skillet, you’ll need a very generous pat of butter—let’s call it 1 to 2 teaspoons, to ensure the eggs don’t stick.

And, as with scrambled eggs, the key to cooking sunny side up eggs is low and slow. A little patience will yield a white that is cooked through and not runny, and a yolk that is both set and slightly warm, but still ooze when stabbed with the tip of your toast. I’ve noted fleur de sel for my salt of choice because I like the crunchy bits, but you can use whatever salt you have on hand.

Eggs

Butter

Fleur de sel and freshly ground black pepper, to taste

Heat a skillet over a low flame. Add a pat of butter to the pan for each egg you’re cooking. Once the butter is melted, crack the eggs, one at a time into the pan. Let each egg set up for a few seconds, before cracking the next one. Continue to cook the eggs over a low flame, until the whites set, become opaque, and the edges are lightly browned and crisp, 3 to 4 minutes.

Season with salt and pepper. Serve immediately.

I feel like a stranger in my own life, and wonder if I’ll ever fit in again. The more I walk the streets of New York City, a reality is settling in. I’ve said this to friends, but somehow saying it here is going to make it feel real. Saying it here means I really have to face this fact, and figure out my next step…

My story feels finished here in Brooklyn, in New York City, in fact. The thing is I can’t really go anywhere until next summer. Isabella has one more year left in elementary school, and for all she’s been through, she deserves to close that chapter with her friends. They’ve come so far, and to move before then would be robbing her of precious moments and memories.

This feeling of unrest in NYC is nothing new. Years ago, back when she started kindergarten, Mikey and I talked about a five year plan. Even then we were tired and battered by this city. People travel from near and far to catch a glimpse of the excitement, the energy, but for two city kids, the hustle and bustle was beginning to wear us down. Just writing about this has thrust my heart into my throat. I feel a little nauseous thinking about leaving my friends, my family, my home…

One of the reasons I love going to Paris is that I feel so anonymous there. I can be anything I want, anyone I want. I hunkered down there for a whole month last summer because I needed to prove that I could drop myself some place completely new and unknown, and learn to swim instead of sink.

I’m not sure where life is going to take us Perillo Girls. And, honestly, I don’t wish for a crystal ball to see the future. The journey is what life is all about, and if we knew what the future held, perhaps we’d be too scared to follow the path for which we were meant. I think about this a lot in regards to Mikey. I’m not a gambling woman, and if someone had told me 18 years ago that I’d meet a great love, finally feel safe and secure, build a family and life together, and then suddenly have it disappear…well, I probably would’ve asked to see what was behind door number two.

So, this is the path I’m on, walking somewhat blindly, trying to figure out each move one step at a time. Sometimes the steps seems to magically appear, painting themselves, pulling me in a direction to which I don’t know, but am not afraid to explore.

As you can see, these are such heavy thoughts for a Monday. To take my mind off things a bit I made this salad for lunch. My other option was to sit down and sort through six months of receipts for my assistant. Going into the kitchen to cook seemed like a much more exciting alternative. I poked around the kitchen, looking for something to inspire me. I opened the fridge, which is incidentally exploding with leftovers, but it wasn’t a physical hunger I needed to feed. I needed to work out these feelings of gliding through life without any direction. I needed to create something to remind myself I could do this—I’ve always been doing this.

I had a few cherry tomatoes on the counter, and found a bag of corn in the freezer. They were in a ziptop bag, and the telltale strands of silk stuck to the frozen kernels were a clue I must’ve cut them from a fresh cob. I contemplated when I would’ve done this since corn isn’t in season, let out a sigh, and moved my attention back to the fridge. I had a thread going here, and was convinced I bought cilantro at the farmers’ market this past weekend.

Bay leaves, check.

Parsley, check, and check. Why did I buy two bunches? Oh, well.

Basil, yep, had that too.

There was a fat bunch of lemon thyme also, which I used to make this pesto.

But no cilantro. Hmph.

I settled on the lemon thyme for my salad, then went about prepping the rest of the ingredients. I love, love, love making salads, and always gravitate to them when I dine out. In my opinion, being able to put together an excellent salad is the sign of a great chef—not that I’m saying I’m one, but a girl can still aspire, right? So, what elevates a salad to greatness? For me, it’s all about texture and diversity of flavors, and also how those tastes play together to create a harmonious marriage with each bite.

A fancy restaurant might’ve put their best brunoise forward for this salad—chef speak for an 1/8-inch dice. Maybe they would’ve settled on a larger dice, say 1/4-inch. That would certainly work here, but I wanted a more rustic feeling. I decided to thinly slice the onions, and cut my zucchini into thin half moons—I forgot to mention I found zucchini in the fridge too.

Since the corn was frozen, I had two choices—boil it quickly, or just throw everything in the pan to make a warm salad. The latter option won out because I figured a quick saute in the pan would coax some extra sweetness from the cherry tomatoes too. A splash of sherry vinegar added just enough acid to pull all the other flavors together. I know some of you will ask “can I use another vinegar”? My best guess would be balsamic could work here, but next time you’re shopping, I really do encourage you to buy a bottle of sherry vinegar. It has a more nuanced flavor, less bracing, than apple, red wine or even balsamic vinegar.

Less than thirty minutes later, my anxiety had waned a bit. I spooned the salad onto a platter my auntie gave me recently. It belonged to my nana. I stared at the crack in it for a few minutes, realizing time is the glue that will fill the cracks I feel in my heart. Time is the salve that will one day make me feel whole again. I just need to stay more in the moment, and stop being so anxious wondering what’s next. It’s only a matter of time before I find my place in this world again.

Music Pairing: Time After Time by Cyndi Lauper

Sautéed Corn, Zucchini & Cherry Tomato Salad

serves 2

I used frozen corn kernels here, but fresh cut kernels would work well too.

1 to 2 teaspoons olive oil

1 small onion, thinly sliced

1 small zucchini, cut into 1/8-inch thick half moons

1 cup (115 grams) of corn kernels

10 cherry tomatoes, cut in half

4 sprigs lemon thyme, leaves removed & roughly chopped (discard the stems)

Splash of sherry vinegar

Sea salt & freshly ground black pepper, to taste

Heat the olive oil in a 9-inch skillet over a medium-low flame. Add the onion and saute until lightly golden and fragrant, 1 to 2 minutes. Add the zucchini and cook until it’s lightly browned, stirring a few times so the onions don’t burn, about 3 minutes.

Add the corn and give the pan a good shake to mix everything (you can use a spoon to stir it too). Cook for 1 minute, then add the tomatoes and lemon thyme, giving the pan a good shake again. Cook for 2 to 3 minutes, until the tomatoes start to wilt and break down slightly (not completely). Stir in the vinegar, and season with the salt and pepper. Cook for 30 more seconds. Spoon onto a platter to serve.

You can make the salad up to one day in advance, and store it covered in the fridge. It can then be served cold, or at room temperature.

Oh dear May, your exit feels as abrupt as your entry. Time feels like a treadmill full speed ahead. Much as I try to keep up, I always seems to fall behind. In some ways it’s a good salve. One day you pluck your head from the fog and realize in just two months, it’ll be two years since a jagged gap was suddenly inserted into your life.

How did that happen? How is it I’ve managed to live almost two years since that moment? I suppose it’s resilience and determination. But mostly, it’s the fact that I learned very early that bad things happen to good people. Life is fickle, and the same day that brings immense joy and happiness can also wield deep heartache.

But still I keep going because deep down I do want to be happy. I’m an incredibly independent, headstrong woman, but oh did I love being part of a couple. Michael and I were about as opposite as two people could be. The fact that we spent almost 17 years together is often perplexing. As I read his journals, though, what I’m beginning to understand is we weathered all of our differences because we were both hopeless romantics deep down. We believed in love, longed for it, and intrinsically understood that love is a living, breathing thing that requires respect and care. Love is susceptible to the elements, and left unattended it will simply wither and die.

Having said this, what I’m about to admit next may seem contrary. Yesterday I resumed my weekly date nights with myself. My recent Paris trip reminded me that I need that weekly outlet to nourish my mind and soul. I’m not good when I’m forced into any one role 24/7. I never just identified as being a wife, mother, or even writer. Before I can be any of those, I need to first be Jennifer. She is the foundation upon which all those characters are built.

I’ve wandered far from my goal of sharing a few things that I’ve really been enjoying lately, so before I lose you all together, here it goes…

— I saw this on my recent date night…Before Midnight. I hate movie spoilers, so I won’t say anything more than if you loved the first two movies, you will not be disappointed in this last installment.

— I read Let’s Talk About Owls with Diabetes during my trip to Paris, and like every David Sedaris novel it was the perfect cure when laughter is on short supply.

—I started reading The Forgotten Gift: An Interrupted Novel a couple of moths ago, and only turned my attention away because it’s on my kindle. Sometimes, most times actually, I just want a real book to hold and read, to feel the pages turn between my fingers. Well, that’s a silly excuse once you start reading this compelling novel. The back story is it was written by a friend’s sister-in-law while she was dying of cancer. It’s a captivating story, and the proceeds go towards helping her son come to terms with the loss of his mother. Good news is it’s now available in paperback too. Definitely add this to your summer reading list.

—This video I captured while strolling through Paris.

—Of all the interviews I did for the book, this one is perhaps my favorite. After a month of being on the road, and doing dozens of radio, print and TV interviews, I finally felt like I hit my stride.

—These muffins Luisa wrote about recently. Once this heatwave breaks next week, I’m so making them.

—Spring and summer means the farmers’ market brings back some old friends…strawberries, asparagus, and peas, oh my! I’ve linked to a few of my favorite recipes, and here’s an oldie but goodie below to nudge you into the kitchen.

Strawberry Rhubarb Crumble

serves 8 to 10

For the Topping:

1 cup (125 grams) old-fashioned oats

1/2 cup (45 grams) toasted hazelnuts

1/4 cup (49 grams) coarse natural cane sugar (like Sugar in the Raw)

1/4 teaspoon (1 gram)  fine sea salt

Leaves only from 3 sprigs of lemon thyme

Dash of ground cinnamon

4 tablespoons (2 ounces) butter, melted

For the filling:

1 pint (10 ounces) strawberries, stems removed

4 stalks (12 ounces) rhubarb, cut into 3/4-inch pieces

1 tablespoon (10 grams) cornstarch

3/4 cup (150 grams) granulated natural cane sugar

Preheat the oven to 375ºF.

To make the topping, add the oats, hazelnuts, coarse sugar, salt, lemon thyme and cinnamon to the bowl of a food processor. Pulse until it forms a coarse, sandy mixture. Pour in the butter and pulse 3 to 4 more times until the mixture comes together into little clumps. Set bowl in the refrigerator to chill while you prepare the filling.

Cut the strawberries into quarters and place in a deep bowl. Add the rhubarb, sugar and cornstarch to the bowl. Using a spoon to stir together until well coated. Scrape fruit mixture into a 10-inch deep ceramic pie plate or 8-inch square glass baking dish.

Sprinkle the oat topping evenly over the fruit and bake for 35 minutes, until the juices bubble and the topping is a deep golden color. Remove from oven and let sit on a wire rack until cooled, about 2 hours. May be prepared and baked the night before—just cover the top with plastic wrap and let sit on the counter until ready to serve the next day.

***

Dairy-Free Strawberry Rhubarb Crumble

Omit the butter in the crumble topping. In its place, add 1 tablespoon olive oil and 2 tablespoons (30 ml) pure maple syrup.

***

Serving Suggestion:

I love a few generous spoons of this over thick, creamy yogurt, especially for breakfast when I’m feeling a little decadent.

Storing Leftovers:

The crumble is fine covered with plastic wrap overnight at room temperature. Anything longer than that, I suggest popping it into the fridge.

Seven years ago we planted a tree in our old yard. It was a Japanese maple, Michael’s favorite. Our marriage had hit a crisis point, and while we did the necessary work to put our relationship back on track, that tree served as a symbol of our love and strength. As Michael patted the soil around the base of the tree, beads of sweat slowly slipping from his forehead to his shoulders, he said “if this tree survives, then so will we”.

When I planned my move from the old apartment, I couldn’t imagine leaving that Japanese maple prey to a new owner’s like or dislikes. What if they decided to re-do the garden and toss the tree? My friend tracked down this organization that would find the tree a new home for a modest donation. Our Japanese maple was supposed to spend its days nestled among one of the city’s community gardens. They were going to tell us where exactly, so the girls and I could go visit it. See, having had him cremated (his wishes), we have no place to escape to, where we can deposit some of our feelings of loss. Not that it ever leaves you, it’s just that having a resting place allows loved ones to stop, reflect, yet remove themselves a little with each visit from the feeling of loss, if that makes any sense.

Right now, his ashes sit in a box next to my desk, a post-it note tacked to it that reads “JP don’t forget me”. Across the street from my current apartment, there’s a large pot with a little Japanese maple like the fledgling one we planted, and it sends a pang to my heart. Every time I see a Japanese maple like the one that used to enjoy a shady corner in my old backyard, my loss feels heightened. Is my tree thriving, or is struggling to survive? When the tree was first removed by the New York Restoration Project in the winter of  2012 it was placed in a greenhouse because they said spring was a better time to plant it. Last time I checked in, I was told the tree was moved to a community garden, and they would get back to us with the exact location. Follow up phone calls and emails went unanswered. I’m sure to them it’s just a tree, but to me it was so much more.

That Japanese maple was a symbol of our love, of our commitment to each other and the life we built together. I’m starting to come to peace with having lost track of the tree. It’s out there somewhere. I just can’t touch it, or feel it.

I can’t see it.

But its roots are buried deep within my heart forever.

Music Pairing: Roadmovies by Bettie Serveert

I’m not really sure where to start. See, this is my inherent problem. A million things always seem to be whirling in my mind, and I can’t keep up with them, let alone prioritize which ones to focus on. A couple of things suddenly became quite clear in the last 12 hours.

The less serious, and kind of funny one, was the realization that I was actually correct is saying “c’est fin” in my last post. As I made my way up the Metro stairs in search of caramels, a conversation Isabella and I had at dinner one night popped into my head. Saying “je suis fin” is the incorrect way of saying “I’m done”—that actually means you’re dead. “C’est fin” is akin to saying “that’s it”. It can be used interchangeably, depending on the inflection in your voice at the end of the sentence—either saying it with a period at the end, or with a questioning tone, as a waiter will often ask when he sees you’ve finished eating.

I know, this doesn’t seem significant. I mean, who hasn’t stumbled in a foreign language? For me, this was a bit of a revelation. One of those lightbulb moments, where you say “aha!” to yourself. I knew all along the correct phrase to say, and doubted myself the rest of the day, feeling foolish, as if I’d made some colossal mistake. I profess that mistakes are a part of life, both to my children, and to the crowds of people that came out to support me the last six weeks. Like many others, though, I’m good at doling out wisdom, but not always capable of applying it to my own situation.

I tucked into bed last night rather early, at least for a woman on parole from motherhood for a few days. And yes, I did just insinuate motherhood is a jail sentence. The reality is I love my daughters. I’d fight to the death for them. I’m still trying to accept my new role as a single parent, though. This wasn’t what I signed up for when we had children. It’s not so much the everyday race and juggling act that is hard. It’s more the feeling that I never have the time I want and need for myself. It’s the overwhelming mental and emotional pressure I put on myself, thinking that one fuck up and my kids are doomed for life.

It sounds crazy, I know. And while many of you have commented that I’m doing a great job, we are, and always will be, our own worst critics. That’s human nature I suppose, and healthy to a degree. It’s good to be able to see our own faults. What’s not good is holding onto them. Process, let go, and repeat.

So, after a pretty restless sleep, waking up up every couple of hours, each time with a vivid dream clouding my mind, I finally awoke with a calm and peace (the jitters I’m feeling right now are no doubt the espresso pulsing through my veins).

Life is not a sprint. It is a marathon. I so desperately want happiness. Combine that with my fear of dying before I find it again, and it’s no wonder I don’t sleep well anymore. I’ve never been a great sleeper. I require very little to get by, and Saturday nights were where I made up for my deprivation when Mikey was alive. He used to take the Sunday morning shift, letting me sleep in. Somehow back then, my body got into a rhythm, and knew come Saturday night, my mind and body where allowed to go into deep charge mode. I don’t have that anymore. Instead, it’s all on me. My happiness, they’re happiness, that’s all on me every second, of every day, of every year—until “je suis fin”.

Looking at it that way makes me realize that I need to pace myself. My path is filled with so many twists and turns. This journey is not just one dimensional. In the midst of all this, I’m trying to learn who “Jennifer” is, and what she wants, likes, dislikes, needs, etc. I met Mikey when I was 21. He was 35. Doing the math alone makes it evident that he had the time to experience life more than I did. He had the time to work on figuring out who he was at his core. I settled into a relationship very young, and it is only now that I’m beginning to understand I sacrificed my relationship with myself a little. This is not to say I regret one second of being with Mikey. I simply wouldn’t be the person I am today without him. Not to mention that “who we are” changes and morphs with time. My needs at 39, are no doubt different than what they were before, and will be in the future. Our needs all evolve with time, and putting limits on them is similar to putting a noose on our dreams.

Now it’s time to pull myself up by the bootstraps and get ready to walk my own path. It doesn’t always seem clear, and the insecurity of the unknown is often terrifying. One thing that is undoubtedly true, is that my will to thrive, and not simply survive, is stronger than any fear I’ve yet to encounter.

Music Pairing: What’s Up by 4 Non Blondes

My mind is constantly racing with things I want, and need, to do. Giving birth to a book is more exhausting than actual childbirth in some ways. This book in particular has picked at the scab that slowly began forming over my wounds. I’ve found my heart and mind throbbing with an ache, wondering if I will ever feel emotionally safe and secure again.

I worry that I will die before I see my girls grow into women—happy women, not completely stunted in their own emotional growth by the premature death of their father. I worry that my time here will end before I get to see the rest of my own dreams come to fruition. I worry that everyone I love will go before I’m ready to say goodbye, or more importantly, have a chance to say goodbye.

I guess, at the heart of it all, I just worry way more than I ever did. Before I was carefree in my understanding of the reality that everything living will die. I suppose this is a natural reaction when death occurs outside of the natural order of things.

I’m not always good at telling others what I need, or don’t need, from them. During our time in couples therapy, Mikey used to get so upset with me for expecting him to be a mind reader. Being in love, at least my sense of being in love, means being keenly aware of what the other person needs even when they are unable to say it for themselves.

This holds true for the relationship we share with ourselves. Nurture being the key word, as I suspect too often we let that relationship lapse. Between work, motherhood, marriage, and in many cases fear, that little voice that screams inside of us all doesn’t always get the recognition it deserves.

That little voice is what I’m trying to focus on these days, and it has taken me back to Paris. After a vigorous six weeks of book publicity, I needed to get away from the responsibilities of my every day life. Of course the girls are always on my mind—motherhood is not a switch one can turn on and off. I’m incredibly thankful to have an auntie who is keeping them under her watchful eye, while I take some time to work on myself. Work on learning to listen to that voice. Before I can expect anyone to ever love me as deeply and wholly as Michael did, I have to learn to love myself that way. Therein lies the key to letting anyone else in close enough to risk having my heart broken again. And I must be honest that my heart will be  vulnerable in any new relationship, whether it’s something simply not meant to be, or I fall madly in love again and that person goes and drops dead again suddenly.

Being vulnerable is a fact of life. It’s how I handle that vulnerability that steers the choices I make. Do I run in fear, or face it head on, ready to accept both what I can and cannot control? That is what I’m working on these days.

I was a little unsure as I stepped outside the airport yesterday. The feelings of excitement, the butterflies I felt as I buckled into my seat on Wednesday evening. It was cold, wet and grey. This didn’t catch me by surprise—it’s Paris, after all. Hours later the sun burst, casting rays of warmth from above. It was then followed by a dreadful downpour, and then yes, the sun came out again in all its glory. Life is much like the weather in Paris.

I went for a walk to Saint Suplice, and had a croque monsieur from my favorite cafe. Sarah knows the place I’m talking about, and it’s not just any croque monsieur. This one is a provencale-style, topped with ruby slices of tomatoes, and served open face on Poilâne bread.

Then I did what some might think downright silly when escaping for just a few precious days in Paris. I went shopping for groceries. I cook so often to show the people in my life how much I love them. The last few days I’ve been using cooking as a way to remind myself that I, too, am worth the time and effort that goes into a homemade meal. It started with a cake I baked myself for Mother’s Day.

As I cut slivers of garlic, and sauteed them in olive oil, a smile slowly came to my face. It was a humble meal of marinara sauce and penne. A simple salad, with a glass of Burgundy. And then I strolled down Boulevard Saint Germain to see The Great Gatsby. Oh, how I love seeing movies in Paris. I can’t really explain why, as I don’t know myself. It just fascinates me to the point of being exciting. Crazy, silly, childish…maybe all of the above?

I managed to keep myself up until midnight— quite a feat, considering it meant I was awake for 38 hours, running on only 3 hours of sleep. I woke nice and early this morning, catching the sun glistening over the buildings peeking above the walls of the courtyard outside my apartment. An apple tart I picked up from Poilâne yesterday served as my petit déjeuner, along with some strong coffee, fresh squeezed juice and a few raspberries.

I’ve been fighting feelings of guilt, as I pluck away at my keyboard writing, feeling like I should be doing something more worthy of my time. I’m in Paris, for heaven’s sake, I should’ve made my way to Blé Sucré by now. I want to spend some time lazily walking around the Musee d’Orsay, and finally get lost in the caverns of the Louvre—things you can’t do as leisurely with children. And then I keep reminding myself that I’m doing exactly what I set out to do when I booked this trip. I wanted to live life on my terms for a few days. No rising early to squeeze in some work before waking the kids. No mad dash to get into the schoolyard by 8:38am. No worrying about deadlines.

For the next few days, all I plan to do is listen to that little voice. Doing that in Paris makes perfect sense. I know the streets of the 6th and 7th, like the back of my hand. I can zip from A to B, needing little assistance from my trusted map. And yet, the customs and language still bewilder me a bit. Yesterday I told the green grocer “C’est fin” when I was done ordering which means “I’m dead”. The moment I said it, I knew it was wrong. Really, it means “I’m done” if you did the literal translation, but in French the expression is used to say the party’s over.

Paris offers me the familiar and unfamiliar. I feel completely comfortable here, and like an absolute stranger, all at once. It’s not too far off from how I feel in my own body sometimes. One thing I can say with certainty, though, is that I’m far from done. And so, my work continues.

Music Pairing: Dreams by The Cranberries

I’ve spent a lot of time talking lately about the nourishing power of cooking. I’m often on the giving end of that relationship, and it’s a role I cherish. Every now and then, though, it’s nice to step out from my usual position behind the stove, and simply be on the receiving end of a homemade meal. After six weeks of traveling to do publicity for the book, things winded down yesterday as I made my way home from Toronto. What an incredible bookend to what started here in NYC at the beginning of April.

Vittoria made her famous rice balls for my arrival in Canada. Nick contributed homemade dried sausage, as well as red and white wine—both homemade, to our dinner. Mary made the most perfect crostata with a jammy plum filling, and a crust that will haunt me until I have time to get into the kitchen and replicate it myself. Marisa made the main course, and what better way to make me feel welcome than with pizza? I felt so at home being with Marisa and her family, that I sat on the kitchen counter mere minutes after meeting her mom, Vittoria, so I could position myself just right to snap some shots of the incredible spread they had all prepared.

There are so many things I want to catch you all up on. Right now, I’ve got two big birthdays to kick off. The girls turn five and ten tomorrow. I’m still trying to wrap my head around that reality. How can I be the mother of a ten year old when I still feel fifteen at heart?

Friday night there will be a dozen kids flinging dough around my kitchen, as we usher in a new decade for my sweet Isabella. Twenty four hours later, we’ll be knee-deep in beads, paint and markers for some DIY fun for Virginia’s 5th birthday. By Saturday night, the apartment will be put back together, the chatter and chaos of the preceding 24 hours behind us. The house will be silent after swelling with the sounds of celebration and laughter, but the memories will be ingrained for a lifetime, creating one more stepping stone in a path towards happiness.

Music Pairing: Wouldn’t It Be Nice by The Beach Boys

Watch my Build a Better Pantry segment on Global TV.

Years ago, when Isabella was a wee little one, we had a neighbor who insisted on counting her son’s age in months up until he was three. Mikey and I laughed so hard at the idea of that. Imagine someone asking how old your kid is, and replying 32 months. It just sounds odd, right? I’m guessing that mom’s rationale was wanting to hold onto her son being a baby as long as possible. I get it. Oh man, do I get it, especially these days. In just two weeks, my babies will turn five and ten. I feel like I blinked and life tapped me on the shoulder, then screamed SURPRISE!

This whole way of counting has been weighing on my mind a lot lately. People often refer to Mikey having died a year and a half ago, or almost two years ago. Me? I refer to it as what it is—20 months ago. Unlike my old neighbor who wanted to cherish her babies early years, I’m trying to stay close to Mikey. The more time that passes since his death signifies the growing distance between my old life and my new one.

The counting game really plays with my mind. Often times I feel like I should be used to this new life. The one where I’m a single mother, and go to bed alone every night. The one where when I laugh at something silly the kids did, I have no one to call and share it with (at least not the person I want to share it with). When I look at his passing in days, though, it somehow makes it easier to be more gentle with myself.

Today is day 627.

Over the 17 years we spent together, we racked up more than 6,000 days. No wonder I still find myself struggling. Some days it feels like it’s getting easier, which makes the emotional set backs harder to navigate. May is an especially tough month. The girls both have their birthdays on May 11th, there’s Mother’s Day, and to top it off—May is the month we met. It’s when Mikey asked our friend Pat back in 1995 “who’s the girl with the pretty green eyes behind the reception desk”.

Instead of running from the downs, I’m going to face them head on. Choosing happiness means you have to confront the sadness, jump over it like a hurdle on an obstacle course. When all else fails, I know I can always find my way in the kitchen. I sometimes wonder if I’ve used it as a coping mechanism. We all have our vices, I suppose. At least mine isn’t hurting anything but my waistline!

I’ve been having a lot of fun testing new recipes using my All-Purpose Baking Mix from Homemade with Love. Seriously, this mix has gotten me out many a jam so far since my schedule is all over the place these days—literally, I leave for San Francisco on Monday morning! I hope everyone has fun weekend plans. Take time to put down the devices and enjoy spring. Walk in the park with your honey. Play tag with the kids. Whatever you do, stop and smell the tulips (the roses aren’t ready yet). Life is too short to be tethered to a phone, iPad and what not. Live life like a participant, not a spectator.

Hugs—JP

Orange Poppy Olive Oil Muffins

makes one dozen

Music Pairing: Love is Here to Stay by Louis Armstrong with Ella Fitzgerald

You can swap in almond, soy or coconut milk to make these muffins dairy-free.

1 3/4 cups (254 grams) All-Purpose Baking Mix (on page 20 in Homemade with Love)

1 tablespoon (9 grams) poppy seeds

3/4 cup (150 grams) granulated natural cane sugar

Freshly grated zest of 1 orange
(1 gram)

1/2 cup (125 ml) olive oil

3/4 cup (187 ml) milk

1 large egg

Preheat the oven to 350F (180C). Line a 12-cup muffin tin with paper liners.

In a large bowl, whisk together the baking mix, poppy seeds, granulated sugar, and orange zest to combine.

In a separate bowl, beat the olive oil, milk and egg together with a fork. Pour over the flour mixture and, using the same fork, stir until the batter is just combined, and there are no visible traces of flour.

Fill each muffin cup with a generous 1/4 cup of the batter. Bake until the edges are golden, and a skewer inserted in the center comes out mostly clean, about 25 minutes.