A Big Fear

for me is falling.

     This fear controls what shoes I wear, what activities I choose to do,  and how fast err uh sllllooooowwwww I walk.  It is always on my mind consciously and subconsciously.  Well, today folks, I fell and fell hard.  Thanks GAAHD I fell on my butt which as my Grandma Pagano pointed out last month is big because, "Italian women have big butts."  I got really scared and started crying and thought, "OMG what did I break,?" but thanks to my cushiony buttocks --nothing.  My husband rushed to my side and lifted me off the floor completely freaked out as well.   After our initial hysteria, I realized that I was fine and gratitude rushed in for my man.  He was there within seconds and picked me up immediately.

My nephew told me that my spaghetti bolognese was "yummy".  

     What would I do without him?  He helps me in and out of the shower and does a million little chores for me every day --like, can you reach that?  Can you get me some water so I can take my supplements?  Can you drive me to meet my friends because my leg hurts too bad to move from the gas to the brake in a safe (quick) manner.  (No one tell the DMV please.)  I attempt to return the favor by expressing my gratitude verbally at least a dozen times a day, and through actions via EPIC meals.  I was actually cleaning up after cooking when I fell.  I have devised a system where I sit on my desk chair while cooking so I can cook for hours without my legs raging in pain.  And here's where I fill you in on another big secret; I adore cooking for my people, so it's literally my pleasure.  For me, I love bringing people joy via good home cooked food.
     Oftentimes wonderful memories arise as I cook.  Memories of being in the kitchen with my late Grandma Karalfa as she made dozens and dozens of cookies for Christmas.  That lady could bake like no other.   I still have some of her mixing bowls and cooking utensils.  A certain metal spatula warms my heart every time I use it; I make a point to use it almost everyday.  My late Grandma Bopp had some sock monkey pot holders and I managed to grab one after she passed and it is proudly hanging up on my kitchen wall.  I can't bring myself to use it though --it's too cute to mess up!  I remember helping my Mom prepare new meals that she was trying out for the first time.  We had a "summer of ginger"; I grated more ginger for her than I will for

Jennie rolling bracioles at ninety years young

the rest of my lifetime.  The juice irritated her hands so I took the lead on ginger grating for all of her Asian kitchen experiments.  And then there's Jennie, my Grandma Pagano. She can teach you more about cooking in a weekend then any culinary school.  She is a master.  Her Italian cooking will put you in a food coma and she can whip out apple pie or a meatloaf that will be the best you've ever had.
     These lovely memories swirl around this food history of mine.  But not all of the  memories are pleasant.  My Step Dad was nasty to me growing up verbally cutting me down (it seemed) any chance he could get. I guess I am still healing from his verbal abuse because I just thought about a long paragraph of passive aggressive nastiness  where I berate him that I could relay to you about his behavior, but I will refrain .
     He was a stark contrast to the women in my life.  He liked to cook too, but if I was in the room with him while he was cooking all he would do was berate me and tell me how much of a crap job I was doing.  Good times!!!  He screamed at me and my Mom once about how he couldn't afford to have me peel potatoes because of how much potato I was peeling instead of just skin.  I think about that scene every time I peel potatoes.  And, I'm sick of it.  Once he was prepping vegetables for something like potato salad and was digging into me about how lousy I was at something.  I have forgotten what the screaming was about.  Well, being the angsty pre-teen that I was who was so angry, powerless, and sick of his mouth, I happened to notice his wedding ring lying on the counter not in his line of vision.  I took that ring walked outside and pitched it down a tree and underbrush filled gully.  Take that Steppy.  I hated him.  And I wanted him to die.  And hoped that he did everyday.  I think about this horrible memory too sometimes.  I've been tempted to tell him and apologize now that we are all older and calmer.  I no longer hate him.  He and I have come a long way and age and granfatherhood has mellowed him tremendously.
     So hateful memories --ain't nobody got time for that! I don't want these memories to resurface the old feelings of hate ... sadness ...  powerlessness .... Perhaps this old emotional pain is directly linked to my current physical pain?  Hmmmmm, YES --certainly part of it!  Let go love myself.  Release me from past hurts.  Live now, my kitchen is now my own and so is my life!  And I make dishes of love for my husband .... my people.  This is part of my path, my path to healing.  As I walk and live and learn and brace myself from falling literally and from my spirit falling into past trauma and pain I heal releasing regret and hate.  I give the child in me a big long hug while creating new warm and loving memories peeling potatoes for my encouraging, supportive, and kind husband.  I love you baby ....... You always catch me and let the divine catch my spirit.