Shall We Dance by Barbara Quinn

“What do women want? They want, evidently, to dance.” - John Updike


I went dancing for the first time in long time. The bar was packed with people of all ages.People in their twenties were dancing shoulder to shoulder with people in their sixties and the crowd was singing along. There was every type of dancing on the dance floor: rock, blues, Irish music, heavy metal. We danced to all of it.

When I was in high school the nuns taught us to Irish dance. Italian-American-hand-gesturing-me never did get the hang of keeping my upper body stiff and my arms ram rod straight at my side during those jigs and reels. Four of us had to compete at an Irish Feis. I was….awful! But I do still love Irish music. And I love going dancing.

Some years back a knee injury and operation put a stop to my dancing days. During my recovery I yearned for the time when I could walk without pain. I would dream I was running, or dream I was dancing, then wake to find my knee throbbing. I didn’t appreciate my legs till I lost the use of one of them. To do laundry I had to push piles of clothes over the balcony through slots in the railing with my crutches. Then I hobbled down stairs and pushed it toward the washer and dryer with the crutches. Things, like cooking a meal, took three times as long to get done. And getting into my car was quite an event.I couldn’t food shop on crutches and had to depend on my husband to get that and much more done. One good part was when people saw me and my crutches walking toward them, the crowd usually parted leaving me feeling like a gimpy Moses.

I’m grateful that I recovered and can dance again for dancing is healing. I feel a pang of sympathy every time I see someone on crutches, or in a wheel chair. Though my knee will never be the same, it works well enough that I can dance without noticing it. I have a feeling when I get older, I’ll return to dancing in my dreams where there will always be room on the dance floor, and I’ll finally get those Irish jig steps right.

A Piece of Cake by Barbara Quinn

It’s nearly St. Patrick’s Day, the Irish High Holy Day, a holiday that I celebrate happily with my Irish-American husband. I love hearing Irish music, which is what we did last night, and going out for corned beef or shepherd’s pie. Tom has his Guinness and I my Tullamore Dew. But for me, St. Patrick’s Day also signals another holiday, one that is high in my Italian-American pastry pantheon: St. Joseph’s Day.

St. Joseph’s occurs March 19. This holiday is usually celebrated quietly and privately here in the United States. The thing that it is best known for in many Italian-American homes is the St. Joseph’s pastry. (How unusual, huh? an Italian holiday that revolves around food!) But some churches, including ones in Lousiana, construct intricate St. Joseph's altars, which are also popular in Southern Italy.

Many cultures have special cakes or pastries. One of my favorites is the King Cake which makes its appearance around Mardi Gras down in Lousiana. Every year someone mails me one and I am thrilled to receive it. A plastic baby that symbolizes the infant Jesus is hidden inside a rich icing covered coffee cake. The person who finds the babe gets good luck, and is responsible for bringing the next King Cake.

Growing up in an Italian-Americans home many of our holidays had special desserts. Easter had grana, a wheat pie, Christmas the honey-coated strufoli, and St. Joseph’s its two mouth-watering pastries: the cannoli filled sfinge, and the custard filled St. Jospeph’s zeppolle. The zeppole is not like the fried and powdered sugared one that they serve at street fairs. St. Joseph’s zeppole is a cream puff, often baked, and then split open and filled with a custard that may have almond and vanilla flavors, and cherry juice. The sfinge is often a fried dough, split and stuffed with a sweetened ricotta that is found in cannoli. Both types of pastries have their camps and fierce aficionados. I like them both. They’re a southern Italian tradition, popular in Naples and Sicily. They are my favorite harbinger of spring. I’m extremely grateful that they only appear for the month of March, or I’d be eating way too many of them.