When I was in first grade, I loved Brian Murphy. Just looking at him made my heart do a flip-flop. That was it, all I had to do was just look at him. That was enough.
But my first real boyfriend was Stephen David. He had soft brown eyes and straight brown hair. He was cute. We liked each other. In 7th and 8th grade we always had boy and girl birthday parties. We would play slow dances on the record player. It was Stephen David that I wanted to slow dance with. When we danced; it wasn’t too close but it wasn’t too far away either.
When I was in 8th grade, it was Stephen David who gave me my first kiss. This happened at my best friend, Sandy’s house. It happened in a dark hallway, probably on a dare. Nonetheless, it was my first kiss. When our lips touched, I felt like an electrical current started to run from my toes to the top of my head. It was a surprise but a total pleasant feeling. I would remember this first kiss and Stephen David for the rest of my life.
Many years later, I grew up, married and moved away. After I had my first baby, I came home to visit my parents and was told that Stephen David had been killed in a car crash, the night before his sister’s wedding. He was 25 years old. He wasn’t married.
Now, here I am, I have lived a full life, married, had 9 children and almost have 15 grandchildren. But I still remember that 13-year-old boy and how one night in a dark hallway, he gave me my first kiss. I still remember that sensation of electricity. I still remember how sweet my first kiss tasted. And after almost 40 years, I still remember Stephen David.
Do you remember your first kiss?
Friday, April 29, 2011
Wednesday, April 27, 2011
Easter Eggs
This year, I boiled two dozen eggs, so that we could decorate them for Easter. Of course, one fell on the floor, with the yolk leaving a gooey mess, leaving 23 eggs to boil. By the time we got around to decorating them, there were 20 eggs. Someone ate three hard-boiled eggs.
Whatever happened to the easy method of coloring eggs? I think that only happens in books, movies or commercials. My granddaughter settled on the box of marbleized looking eggs. My son filled the cups up with the colored tablets, water, vinegar and vegetal oil. For me, this was the beginning of a good salad dressing. My son, granddaughter and grandson each colored an egg. They couldn’t just leave the eggs in the colored solution; they had to constantly stir them around. The eggs turned out ugly.
We started over and opened the second box of Easter egg coloring, put the colored tables in a cup, along with water and vinegar. Aahh, that was more like it…back to our old ways. We were tired and crabby with one another. My grandson knocked one of the containers with the blue color over onto the table, and his father yelled at him.
In the end, we colored the remainder of the 17 eggs, my grandson and granddaughter’s hands, along with the two sturdy tied dyed paper towels, and all the newspapers that we had spread out on the kitchen table.
I took a few pictures of my grumpy son and his family. All in all after Easter, we will have some memorable pictures, and some delicious deviled eggs, if the group doesn’t continue to eat the hard boiled ones.
Whatever happened to the easy method of coloring eggs? I think that only happens in books, movies or commercials. My granddaughter settled on the box of marbleized looking eggs. My son filled the cups up with the colored tablets, water, vinegar and vegetal oil. For me, this was the beginning of a good salad dressing. My son, granddaughter and grandson each colored an egg. They couldn’t just leave the eggs in the colored solution; they had to constantly stir them around. The eggs turned out ugly.
We started over and opened the second box of Easter egg coloring, put the colored tables in a cup, along with water and vinegar. Aahh, that was more like it…back to our old ways. We were tired and crabby with one another. My grandson knocked one of the containers with the blue color over onto the table, and his father yelled at him.
In the end, we colored the remainder of the 17 eggs, my grandson and granddaughter’s hands, along with the two sturdy tied dyed paper towels, and all the newspapers that we had spread out on the kitchen table.
I took a few pictures of my grumpy son and his family. All in all after Easter, we will have some memorable pictures, and some delicious deviled eggs, if the group doesn’t continue to eat the hard boiled ones.
Sunday, April 24, 2011
Easter Hats
My Mom was a hat person. I remember her wearing one on Sundays to mass and every other time that she dressed up and went out. She was a tiny woman, standing 4’11” in her stocking feet. But when she wore her stylish spike heels, she stood, 5’2” with her long brown hair piled on her head. What I remember vividly was the ritual that went along with buying my mother’s hat and my hat for Easter.
I grew up in Cleveland, Ohio, and still can remember our all day excursion to find our hats in downtown Cleveland. My mother didn’t drive, so we took a bus from the corner of house, and it would drop us off at Public Square, right across from the Highbee’s Department store. That was always where we started and ended our mission to find our Easter hats.
After what seemed like hours, we found the right hats, matching gloves and a purse. My mother paid for our hats with her credit card. We carried them in their hatboxes with the department store’s name proudly printed across the lid.
Afterwards, we stopped at the Frosty Bar, for a delightful frosty malted drink. This delightfully thick drink was served in a small glass. The warmth from my hand seemed to melt this frosty drink. The first sip seemed to bring on one of those awful brain freezes only to end up with one of my last gulps of the melted drink splattering in my face with a plop. Then we would stop at “The Nut House,” and we bought a small bag of warmed cashew nuts to eat along the way.
The evening was spent modeling our hats for my Dad, who smiled and told us how beautiful we looked in them. Then we placed our hatboxes in our closets. Every time the closet door was opened, the hatbox was the first thing that Mom spotted, pulled down, and opened. She would look at the hat with admiration, and longing, anticipating the pleasure of putting the hat on her head again. This ritual became a daily occurrence, while the days were counted and the excitement mounted waiting for Easter Sunday, and the time when the hat would finally be worn with an outfit, for show.
When Easter Sunday arrived, the last item to go on was our new Easter hat. My Dad would drive us to church, or we would walk if the weather were nice. A sea of hats would be all you would see on Easter Sunday at church, along with the sweet scent orchid corsages, pinned onto the lapel of the women’s coats.
Somewhere in the mid 60s, wearing hats stopped being fashionable. The hat departments and Millinery Shops started to close because wearing hats seemed to go out of style. Or maybe it was that Vatican II changed things by ruling that women no longer had to where hats to church.
Now on Easter Sunday, as I sit in church in suburban Pennsylvania, I notice a sea of people with different colored hair. Once in awhile someone stands out with a hat on, and it is usually a woman in her 70s, or a younger stylish woman, or a little girl. This is when I think about those straw Easter hats, and how much I miss the ritual that went along with buying them with my Mom. Then I wonder, where have all the Easter Hats gone?
I grew up in Cleveland, Ohio, and still can remember our all day excursion to find our hats in downtown Cleveland. My mother didn’t drive, so we took a bus from the corner of house, and it would drop us off at Public Square, right across from the Highbee’s Department store. That was always where we started and ended our mission to find our Easter hats.
After what seemed like hours, we found the right hats, matching gloves and a purse. My mother paid for our hats with her credit card. We carried them in their hatboxes with the department store’s name proudly printed across the lid.
Afterwards, we stopped at the Frosty Bar, for a delightful frosty malted drink. This delightfully thick drink was served in a small glass. The warmth from my hand seemed to melt this frosty drink. The first sip seemed to bring on one of those awful brain freezes only to end up with one of my last gulps of the melted drink splattering in my face with a plop. Then we would stop at “The Nut House,” and we bought a small bag of warmed cashew nuts to eat along the way.
The evening was spent modeling our hats for my Dad, who smiled and told us how beautiful we looked in them. Then we placed our hatboxes in our closets. Every time the closet door was opened, the hatbox was the first thing that Mom spotted, pulled down, and opened. She would look at the hat with admiration, and longing, anticipating the pleasure of putting the hat on her head again. This ritual became a daily occurrence, while the days were counted and the excitement mounted waiting for Easter Sunday, and the time when the hat would finally be worn with an outfit, for show.
When Easter Sunday arrived, the last item to go on was our new Easter hat. My Dad would drive us to church, or we would walk if the weather were nice. A sea of hats would be all you would see on Easter Sunday at church, along with the sweet scent orchid corsages, pinned onto the lapel of the women’s coats.
Somewhere in the mid 60s, wearing hats stopped being fashionable. The hat departments and Millinery Shops started to close because wearing hats seemed to go out of style. Or maybe it was that Vatican II changed things by ruling that women no longer had to where hats to church.
Now on Easter Sunday, as I sit in church in suburban Pennsylvania, I notice a sea of people with different colored hair. Once in awhile someone stands out with a hat on, and it is usually a woman in her 70s, or a younger stylish woman, or a little girl. This is when I think about those straw Easter hats, and how much I miss the ritual that went along with buying them with my Mom. Then I wonder, where have all the Easter Hats gone?
Saturday, April 16, 2011
My Big Family Italian Sunday Meal
I am 100% Italian. My grandparents spoke Italian and so did my father. My mother learned her Italian from my father and his family. But my Dad didn't want his children raised Italian. We were Americans and that was that. Whenever we had to fill out school records - American was checked in the nationality box. Once I remember checking Italian and my father raised the roof. I never made that mistake again.
I love being Italian, even though I can't speak or understand the language or pretty much don't know too much about being Italian. I do know that I love to eat. I love it when the family comes together, and where food and drink and laughter are the most important component.
This past Sunday, I had an old fashioned Italian meal where most of my children were part of the festivities and participated in the laughter and the food. It was also a celebration of my daughter's engagement.
I spent two days cleaning the house and going back and forth to the grocery store, probably a half dozen times before I had everything I needed. I made a trip to the liquor store and bought four bottles of wine. I even went out to purchase some colored plastic tablecloths, matching napkins, and matching cups. I used regular plates and silver ware because it made it easier to manage the food.
I made my homemade pasta sauce with all my herbs and spices. I made my "famous" meatballs. The meatball recipe was from my mother. This recipe used by my mother and my grandmother had never been written down. Every recipe they used was in their heads. Now some of those wonderful recipes are lost. So I try to remember what they did or try to recall how the foods tasted. I cooked the sausage and when the meats were done, I put them into the sauce to simmer for hours.
Because there were over 20 people sharing the meal at two different tables, I decided to cut the bread in big slices. I assembled two huge antipasto platters with different types of olives, marinated artichokes, sweet red and yellow roasted peppers in olive oil, sliced,sharp Italian imported provolone cheese, thinly sliced prosciutto, cherry tomatoes, fresh basil, and mozzarella cheese tossed with imported Italian olive oil and balsamic vinegar, salami, and capers sprinkled throughout.
I cooked 3-1/2 pounds of pasta, and used over three pounds each of sausage and ground meat. Even with all the food I prepared, it sounded like a good amount. But I remember when my mother and grandmother made an Italian Sunday meal - it wasn't just pasta, meatballs, sausage, bread and salad. There would be stuffed braciole cooked in sauce, stuffed artichokes, breaded veal cutlets or chicken, broccoli, a tossed salad, and a few other dishes. But this was my meal, my way, and I knew that it would all be eaten. Even with leftovers, I had plenty of plastic containers available for my kids to fill and take home with them.
We toasted the newly engaged couple with wine. For dessert we had a yellow cake with raspberry filling, and yellow cupcakes with a chocolate butter cream frosting. Both purchased from the Oakmont Bakery (www.oakmontbakery.com).
Yes, this is my version of a Sunday, Italian meal. But the best part was having my children and grandchildren underfoot, and at the table, laughing and talking. We started the meal with the "Grace Before Meals," and a "Buon Appetito" (enjoy your meal.) In the end when we toasted the newly engaged couple with a "Salute."
I love being Italian, even though I can't speak or understand the language or pretty much don't know too much about being Italian. I do know that I love to eat. I love it when the family comes together, and where food and drink and laughter are the most important component.
This past Sunday, I had an old fashioned Italian meal where most of my children were part of the festivities and participated in the laughter and the food. It was also a celebration of my daughter's engagement.
I spent two days cleaning the house and going back and forth to the grocery store, probably a half dozen times before I had everything I needed. I made a trip to the liquor store and bought four bottles of wine. I even went out to purchase some colored plastic tablecloths, matching napkins, and matching cups. I used regular plates and silver ware because it made it easier to manage the food.
I made my homemade pasta sauce with all my herbs and spices. I made my "famous" meatballs. The meatball recipe was from my mother. This recipe used by my mother and my grandmother had never been written down. Every recipe they used was in their heads. Now some of those wonderful recipes are lost. So I try to remember what they did or try to recall how the foods tasted. I cooked the sausage and when the meats were done, I put them into the sauce to simmer for hours.
Because there were over 20 people sharing the meal at two different tables, I decided to cut the bread in big slices. I assembled two huge antipasto platters with different types of olives, marinated artichokes, sweet red and yellow roasted peppers in olive oil, sliced,sharp Italian imported provolone cheese, thinly sliced prosciutto, cherry tomatoes, fresh basil, and mozzarella cheese tossed with imported Italian olive oil and balsamic vinegar, salami, and capers sprinkled throughout.
I cooked 3-1/2 pounds of pasta, and used over three pounds each of sausage and ground meat. Even with all the food I prepared, it sounded like a good amount. But I remember when my mother and grandmother made an Italian Sunday meal - it wasn't just pasta, meatballs, sausage, bread and salad. There would be stuffed braciole cooked in sauce, stuffed artichokes, breaded veal cutlets or chicken, broccoli, a tossed salad, and a few other dishes. But this was my meal, my way, and I knew that it would all be eaten. Even with leftovers, I had plenty of plastic containers available for my kids to fill and take home with them.
We toasted the newly engaged couple with wine. For dessert we had a yellow cake with raspberry filling, and yellow cupcakes with a chocolate butter cream frosting. Both purchased from the Oakmont Bakery (www.oakmontbakery.com).
Yes, this is my version of a Sunday, Italian meal. But the best part was having my children and grandchildren underfoot, and at the table, laughing and talking. We started the meal with the "Grace Before Meals," and a "Buon Appetito" (enjoy your meal.) In the end when we toasted the newly engaged couple with a "Salute."
Wednesday, April 13, 2011
Hines Ward and Dancing
Okay - I'll admit that I have been watching Dancing With The Stars. I usually don't watch too much pop cultural television. But I did watch a few of the Dancing With The Stars shows, the previous years.
I have to say, though, I have been watching every episode of this season's Dancing With The Stars. My favorite person that I want to win the whole competition is - Hines Ward. That will shock some of my family members. Hines Ward is a football player for the Pittsburgh Steelers. I am a Cleveland Browns football fan. Who knew I would actually cheer for a "Steelers" football player? That's a total surprise to me. Once my family reads this admission on my Blog...it'll blow their minds!
Hines Ward is an excellent football player. Some of his opponents think that he is a "dirty" player. But whatever you believe, you'll have to agree that he does everything with his trademark, good nature smile.
Hines Ward can dance, too. He has rhythm and gracefulness that goes into dancing. He definitely has all the right moves and when he is finished, his trademark smile comes out and bathes the audience with it.
Yes, I hope he takes this year title for dancing. Lets just say - Hines Ward has dance. But Hines Ward has the best smile on the dace floor and on the football field.
Hines Ward, this time, I'm cheering for you!
Friday, April 8, 2011
Fallen Heroes Memorial
Outside St. Joseph's Roman Catholic Church, Bloomfield, there is now a statue of St. Michael the Archangel, patron saint of police officers. The statue was dedicated on April 4, 2011. It was dedicated to the Pittsburgh's three "fallen heroes": Officer Eric Kelly, Officer Stephen Mayhle, and Officer Paul Sciullo. They were the three city of Pittsburgh police officers that were killed on April 4, 2009.
The Fallen Heroes Memorial depicts a strong but sorrowful statue of St. Michael on top of a three tier pedestal with the photographs of the three police officers embedded in the stone. Next to the statute is a huge police shield bearing the date of the officers' death, 4/4/09. The spot was chosen because it is prominent on the main traffic corridor through that part of the city. Despite the statue and tiny memorial garden being in front of the Church, they are a separate non-profit corporation, and not part of the Church. Both the City of Pittsburgh and the Catholic Diocese of Pittsburgh donated the land.
Sciullo was a member of St. Joseph's Church. The people who live in the area will never forget him. All three officers will never be forgotten, and neither will the day of their deaths, April 4, 2009.
An important lesson in all of this was how hard the people worked to make this monument a reality. Donations for the memorial are still needed. If anyone is interested in contributing, contact Bloomfield Development Corp., 366 Gross Street, Pittsburgh, PA 15224 or (www.bloomfieldnow.com).
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