Something momentous has happened in the past month and I havenโt even let you in on it. Not because Iโve been keeping it a secret, but because I just didnโt know how to tell you. And also, I wasnโt exactly sure how to deal with it myself.
In truth, the story begins a little over a year ago, on my birthday, April 2012. At the usual celebratory breakfast, there were a few gifts scattered on the table and Abby, the self-appointed VP and Director of Birthday Events in our house, chose the order in which Iโd be unwrapping. There was a small box that looked like jewelry (#1); a medium box (#2) that, Iโd eventually find out, held a dove-shaped candy dish (both girls know that Iโm a sucker for anything bird-related); and a tablet-sized box, wrapped in leftover snowflake-print holiday paper.
โThis is last,โ Abby said. โItโs the best one.โ She looked conspiratorially at her father.
โHmmm,โ I said shaking it. โWhat could it be?โ I like to take my time unwrapping, because I know it drives the girls crazy.
โRIP IT OPEN, MOM!โ
The paper came off fast to reveal a crimson box. In gold across the middle, it read โLiberty of London.โ
โHmmmmmโฆ.I like where this is goingโ
โJUST OPEN IT MOM!โ
Inside was a blank notebook with a midnight-navy leather cover, embossed with ornate vines and leaves.ย โHoly cow!โ I said. โItโs so beautiful.โ The only thing I like more than birds is a blank notebook. โThanks!โ
โItโs your next dinner diary,โ Andy said. My first dinner diary, as you likely know by now, chronicles fifteen yearsโ of dinners. It, too, was a gift from Andy, though he didnโt know what it would become when he bought it for me a few months after we got married.
The only way I know how to explain what happened next is by using this phrase we often deploy in my house: Emotional Lockdown. It describes the phenomenon of shutting down what you are feeling in order to get through what youโre feeling without completely breaking apart inside. One might say Iโve been in a state of perpetual Emotional Lockdown all June-long, in anticipation of my eldest graduating from her storybook sweet elementary school next week. Sometimes, the passage of time, the change of an era, is just too much for me to bear.
โSo who wants more pancakes?โ I said to no one in particular, locking away both the journal and the heartburn back where they belonged. In a box, out of sight.
Andy stared at me, incredulous.
โThatโs it!???โ he said. โI thought I knocked that one out of the park! Youโre almost done with your dinner diary. You need a new one!โ
โI like it! Who said I didnโt like it?!?โ
โSo then what was that reaction?โ
โWell. Iโm not done with the first diary yet. Itโs hard to think about a new one right now.โ
โWow,โ Andy said. โThat is dark. Iโm just sticking to birds next time.โ He got up and cleared the girlsโ syrup-smeared breakfast plates.
I wasnโt lying. I did like the book. (How could I not? It was freaking gorgeous.) I just didnโt like what it stood for. And the original diary still had a dozen pages left, which roughly translated to one more year of dinner recording. Another year for me to think about all that had transpired since I cracked the spine on it fifteen years ago. Another year for me to decide whether or not I even wanted toย start a new diary, now that I am coming to terms with the fact that these eras donโt go on forever. They have last pages. They have graduations. They wrap themselves in white towels instead of the ones with hoodies that have floppy puppy ears. They tell you to dismantle the dollhouse and store it in the basement, next to the box with the words โcrib beddingโ scribbled across the top in black Sharpie.
Periodically since my birthday, Andy would wander into my office where the Liberty journal lived, tucked away on a shelf, pick it up, and shake his head. โI will never understand your reaction to this.โ
Easy, I thought. I was in lockdown, not willing to close the book on the era that began on February 22, 1998 with Andyโs childhood recipe for Chicken Cacciatore, and ended on May 12, 2013, with a Motherโs Day dinner at my sisterโs house, where both my siblings, both my parents, my brother-in-law, his parents, and six cousins raised milks and Chardonnays to the first beautiful spring evening of the season. In between those two meals were holiday charcuterie spreads for old high school friends; beef stews and baked pastas for new work friends; Fourth of July barbecues on our Brooklyn rooftop, where we watched millennium fireworks light up downtown Manhattan and the Twin Towers;ย tortilla piesย and lasagnas for college roommates who had their first babies; a grilled soy-limey swordfish for a couple we knewย in our hearts to be soul mates, but who would break up five years and two kids later; many million Mark Bittman recipes (especially this one)ย that pretty much defined the era; spaghetti and meatballs for the Seinfeld finale, pasta with yogurt and caramelized onions for the Palin-Biden debate;ย breakfast burritos for American Idol every Thursday in the spring of 2011;ย coq au vin for the first dinner we cooked as new parents; grilled turkey dogs for our first dinner in our first ever apartment that came with a mortgage; take-out pizza with my entire family on the night we moved to our suburban Dutch Colonial (me=seven months pregnant, me=ravenous); mail-order ribsย for end-of-the-school-year โbus stop parties;โ Grimaldiโs pizza and Juniorโs cheesecake for Andyโs Brooklyn-themed 30th birthday party; Andy-made paella, with homemade aioli, for my 30th birthday party; more than fifty birthday cakesย for over fifty birthday celebrations; freezer dinners that helped two working parents survive two kids under two; four long-table, champagne-filled dinners from Phoenix to Kiawah Island to New York to Larchmont, celebrating each of our four parents hitting 70; dinners spent mourning the loss of two special uncles; Bugialiโs Minestrone; Marcella Hazanโs Bolognese; Nobuโs Miso-glazed Cod; Jim Laheyโs pizza; David Changโsย Brussels Sprouts; Andy Rickerโs Pad Thai; Fish cakes! My God did we eat a lot of fish cakes! Easter Hams every spring at our daughtersโ great-grandmotherโs house, until 2008, when she died at age 93; Passover briskets for seders presided over by my father, who once cried at the table remembering his father presiding over his childhood seders; the relentless โ the blessedly relentless โ roll-out of stir-fries and burgers and pizzas and baked potatoes and pork chops and Grandma Jodyโs chicken at our family dinner table night after night after night.
When I think too much about all that happens around that dinner table, itโs hard to know what to do next.
โIโm going to be 57 when I finish the next diary,โ I told Andy finally. Adding, as usual, God willing. โAnd Phoebe is going to be 26, which is how old I was when I got engaged.โ
Upon hearing that, Andy โ who, I might add, looked like he was in physical pain flipping through Phoebeโs elementary school yearbook the other night โ started showing telltale signs of impending lockdown himself. The hand went up and his head turned away. โStop. Stop,โ he said. โJust start writing, would you?โ
So here we go.
ย Page One: Abby snapped the above photo to record my first entry:ย Cobb Salad.
My New Diary. Iโve been keeping this one for almost a month, but it still feels like Iโm cheating on someone when I log in a meal.
Old Diary, Page One.ย Some of these recipes are still in the rotation:ย Curried Chicken with Apples,ย Chicken Pot Pie,ย Scalloped Potatoes. And, now that I think about it, some of the recipes that have dropped from the rotation, are probably due for a comeback. (Next up: Amatriciana sauce!)
Old Diary, Last Page. After fifteen years, the original diary has completely ripped from its binding. These are the last two pages. On the left are ideas I scribbled three years ago โ ideas I thought would make good posts for a blog I thought I might start one day.
I just got all teary eyed. What a story your meals tell. I feel like I should start logging my meals just to be able to look back 10 years from now. Itโs amazing what memories the food you cooked can bring back. How sentimental and valuable.
Allow me to echo all of the above sentiments. I am currently mourning the โlossโ of my own storybook sweet little boy, who recently has turned into a 13-year-old who prefers to spend all his spare time alone with his computer instead of watching TV with me. Iโve always wanted to be a โperfect momโ and my failure to achieve this is hitting me hard these days. Thank you for this beautifully written post.
This made me teary! Itโs just sweet, and it all goes so fast and thatโs so sad.
Doesnโt it all go by in a blink. Kudos to you for enjoying it while it was happening. Hereโs to the sequel.
Hi Jenny,
I LOVE your cookbook and use it all the time, and your blog is my favorite. This is a touching and dear post. I have to ask you about your old journal book because I am almost positive I used to have the exact same one, but I canโt remember where I got it so long ago. Would you mind sharing with who makes this journal? It took me straight down memory lane and Iโd love to find out if itโs still being made. Thanks for all the amazing recipes and heartwarming posts. The best!!
Aloha from Hawaiโi!
xo, Patty
My goodness, what a post! Brought tears to my eyes! What an incredible journey your first notebook tells, full of family and love and good food โฆ amazing! Hereโs to the new adventures ahead.
Just love this post. It almost made me cry-but in a good way. Isnโt family dinner just incredible?(Understatement of the century I know!) Itโs our whole lives wrapped up with the people we love-what could be better? Thank you so much for sharing this post, and this journey with us!
looks like you struck a nerve w us mothers! possibly your best post. you had me on tears too (1 and 3 yr old girls here). thanks very much for sharing.
Aaand, Iโm crying.