Play Those 88's by Barbara Quinn

My mother turned 88 a few days ago and a small group of her family and friends celebrated by going out to brunch with her at a favorite spot. She was particularly happy that everyone could have unlimited Champagne, Mimosas, and Bloody Mary’s, and she loved the fact that there were so many choices so that everyone found something they liked to eat. In typical Mom fashion she insisted on treating the group as her birthday present. What a wonderful thing it was to see her family and friends gathered around her. The restaurant made a fuss over her, and at the end of the meal made a special dessert plate with chocolate and raspberry syrup hearts around an individual tira misu. Everyone in the packed place sang Happy Birthday. Mom had no trouble eating it all up and she also enjoyed several glasses of champagne, insisting on everyone at the table clinking everyone else's glass. That led to much laughter and confusion over who hadn't clinked glasses with whom.

I’m grateful that she was happy on this day. It hasn’t been easy for her since my dad died a couple of years ago. After 60 years of marriage, her days definitely are lonely and without their center. But she’s finally moving on and is able to find a little joy in watching her family grow and change, in spending time in the company of those who share this journey of life with her.

Happy Birthday, Mom! May we all clink glasses and get a little tipsy together next year.

Herbaceous Thoughts by Barbara Quinn

It’s time for planting my herb garden here in New York. This weekend I hit the garden store. What a delight it was to roam up and down looking at the beautiful flowers and drawing in the wonderful scents. In my neighborhood, the purple lilacs are already out in full bloom. The fruit and vegetable stand has dozens of branches of lilac displayed in the front of the store. And last week when I was in NYC the corner flower stands had cherry blossom boughs propped in cans to take home. What a wonderful idea. When we ate at a Moroccan restaurant the place was filled with the cherry blossom boughs. The downside is the wretched pollen that makes my eyes water and nose run, but that’s a small price to pay for the beautiful sights of the blooms. On the way to the garden center, I noticed that the ground was covered in the spent blossoms. The petals swirled through the air, nature’s confetti thrown in honor of spring.

My tarragon and sage have already come back without any help, poking out of the ground with the first warmth of the season. The sage has taken over far too much of the garden already. So has the mint, which I try to keep off in a different spot since it is the most territorial of herbs.

At the garden center, I picked up a couple of large pots of basil. You can never have too much basil in an Italian household. One of them went to my Mom who is 87 and still cooking for herself each day. I’m grateful for all her lessons, in cooking and in the garden. It’s her voice in my head that guided me in my search for my herbs. “Look at the bottom of the stem and be sure it’s not yellowed or black. Check beneath the leaves for critters. Is the plant happy looking?” After the basil, I selected Italian flat leaf parsley. “We use the flat not the curly," Mom said. Then thyme, oregano, and rosemary. Some of each went to Mom, a Mother’s Day gift she’ll enjoy, almost as much as the pizza well-done that we downed at Roma's on Saturday, accompanied by a pitcher of beer. Yep. She still loves her beer and wine.

Thanks for all the lessons, Mom, not only in the garden but in life. Who else was going to teach me how to save my Parmesan rinds to flavor soup and then serve them up for a tasty treat? Or how to roast peppers over the gas flame of my stove and then put them in a paper bag to steam before preparing?

I’m looking forward to muddling some of that mint for us for a spring Mojito!

Thank Heaven for Little Girls by Nannette Croce

I have one child. All through my pregnancy I assumed––maybe even hoped?–-for a boy. No special reason, except I was a woman––obviously–-and I had an older sister. I grew up with a male cousin living next door. Just close enough to make the male world appear mysterious and exciting without any of the downside of brotherhood.

I gave birth to a girl. As most mothers, once she was there in my arms I felt no disappointment, but what surprised was the immediate connection. She was a female with all the same parts functioning in a way I understood. In the first few weeks of life, females––thank heaven I was warned in advance––may even menstruate slightly.

Of course, no parent knows fully what to expect as a child grows. She’s taken a few turns I didn’t or at least I don’t remember taking. But things like her relationship with her Dad, her later love/hate relationship with me, her first love, her first breakup, followed the path I knew they would.

My daughter graduates college in a few weeks. When she left us, four years ago, she went long intervals without calling. I didn’t panic. She needed to establish her independence. In this last year, though, she calls more often. We talk mostly about her future, how to transition from college to the real world, where she will look for jobs.

Instead of feeling threatened by my advice, she seeks it out. This is her rehearsal for the next phase. Some women prefer the childhood years. Not me. This is what it was all for. All the intervals of wakeful nights. All the arguments, frustrations, tears. From here on our relationship will continue woman to woman.

Sunday Rituals and Vituals by Kat Magendie

Sunday's are about ritual: Get up; yawn, drink coffee; organize the one paper we have delivered to our cove, the Sunday Asheville Citizen Times, into read piles; mountain walk; turn TV to Sunday Morning; and turn on oven. What a life, what joy, what comfort. Used to be the ritual was church-going. Grouse. Mutter. Mom forced us five kids to crawl out of bed, wash our face and brush our teeth even!, get dressed, and all to attend boring church and worse was when we had to get up earlier to attend boring Sunday School before boring Church. I still think church is boring, sorry Church Folk, sorry Mom, sorry ministers and priests and whatnotall, but, one of my Sunday rituals is I’m no longer afraid I’ll go to some fiery hell if I don’t get my butt to church. I digress. I’m talking about biscuits here. Yep. Hot flakey put some honey butter on mine please biscuits!

Well, today is Tuesday and I could have them, could have had them yesterday, could have them tomorrow. But it wouldn’t feel the same, for I need that ritual on Sunday, to set it apart—larkens back to the old homestead days when dear ole Mom cajoled, “GET YOUR LAZY BUTTS OUT OF BED YOU DIRTY LITTLE HEATHENS! RIGHT NOW NOW NOW BEFORE I WHUP YOUR HIND-ENDS BUT GOOD! EVERY SUNDAY THE SAME THING. I. HAVE. HAD. IT. UP. TO. HERE! YOU HEAR ME?” Ah, yes. I hear it, along with the pitter patter of our dragging feet as we carried our own personal crosses to Jesus so he wouldn’t feel alone with his.

Anyhoo, don’t serve me those canned biscuits, eyew. I will accept Pillsbury Frozen Biscuits, because they are as close to homemade as I have eaten. My granny made cat’s head biscuits. Oh! She’d put the dough in a pan and then cut squares—gawdang those have never been replicated, ever. We’d dip them in chocolate syrup—a sugar-gritty concoction of sugar, water, chocolate sauce, and Granny’s secret that was a pinch of salt or a bit of love or some vanilla or a drop of sweat, or whatnot; who cared, it was sopped up and quick. Sunday morning is biscuit morning. Period. Amen. HERE are some recipes, Bless Your Heart if you don’t have your own. Here’s to Sunday—only five more days away! (What? You thought I'd write about Taxes?)

What They Gave Me by Nannette Croce

Like so many I am all too ready to blame my parents for what I did or didn’t do in life. Growing up with an extended Italian family I can spread the blame around to aunts and uncles as well. But in recent years, as most of them have passed away or aged, I’m softening my view and seeing what I gained from each of those people who played such major role in my formative years.

My Mom gave me my quick wit, heightened sense of justice, and fashion sense.

My Dad, the Engineer, gave me my organizational skills, my logical approach to problem solving, and my slightly more tempered ambition.

My Aunt Jeannette, the intellectual of the family, gave me a love of history and also entrusted to me all the important family papers and journals, even though I was not the oldest, but knowing I would most appreciate them. Uncle Fred, the only non-Italian, taught me how the rest of the world lives and that with an open mind and a big heart, you will never be an outsider.

Aunt Thelma, with no children of her own, told wonderful stories and taught me not to forget my inner child, even when I had one of my own. While her artistic ability skipped my generation, she passed it to two grandnieces. Uncle Bill, the “gregarious one” taught me how to enjoy good wine and the society of friends and family, and, eventually, how to accept death with grace and dignity.

Yes, there were drawbacks growing up with so many people poking noses into my business, but as the years pass on, I realize it’s the benefits that maintained the strongest hold.

Moments of Solitude by Nannette Croce

Being alone doesn’t necessarily mean being lonely. One person feels alone in a crowd, another is “her own best company.”

I don’t know if I am my best company, but I find myself very good company.

Seems more and more people almost fear solitude. They walk around with tiny phones clipped to their ears so they can talk constantly, in the car, the grocery store, while exercising. If not talking, they IM or chat. Keeping constant contact is the mantra of our time. No one says, “leave me alone” anymore.

I not only enjoy being left alone from time to time, I need it to stay balanced.

I make my best decisions alone. I may solicit an opinion now and then, but I consider that opinion, and all others, in solitude. Ultimately no one knows me as well as I know myself. Many people can’t say that, but I think that is because they spend little time alone, getting to know themselves.

I am grateful for the people who enrich my life, but I am also grateful for those moments of solitude. They enrich my life as well.

Thanks Mom, It Could Be Worse by Nannette Croce

Whenever I whined about inevitable miseries of childhood––the last day of summer vacation, the Christmas tree coming down––my Mom had a standard reply. “Would you rather be so-and-so?” (So-and-so being a child, usually about my age, who had suffered some terrible fate like a major illness or a death in the family.) Thinking back it was hardly original, just replacing the old Pollyanna, “let’s find the silver lining,” with a more typically Italian, operatic twist. I chafed at the injustice, but it worked, not just in shutting me down––my Mom’s immediate purpose––but in weening me from a "poor me" attitude.

Since then I’ve faced more painful events than the end of summer vacation, but Mom’s “it could be worse” outlook has kept everything in perspective, and, I believe, helped me heal more quickly. It’s not healthy to shut out grief entirely, and we shouldn’t beat ourselves up over a slight funk even for small things like rain ruining our vacation or a child going off to college for the first time. But looking outside myself has taught me that there can be good things even in the very bad, like the friends you didn’t know you had, who come to your aid.

So, thanks Mom, for always pointing out that “it could be worse.” Your motives may not have been pure, but the benefit was long-lasting.