My Mother loves to tell this story…

It was the night before Christmas and I was eight years old. My sister and I had worked hard to organize the perfect plate of cookies, glass of milk and note to leave for Santa. Once it was all arranged by the fireplace, my Mother recalled how I was distinctly dissatisfied with our offering. According to her, I went back into the kitchen, took out some prosciutto and started rolling it around some breadsticks. When my mom asked what I was doing, I looked up and said, “Just in case Santa is Italian.”

For some, tinsel and bubble lights conjure up childhood memories of happy holidays, but for me, it’s cardoons and cucidati. To me, Christmas is always about food.

I have one man to thank for this, my grandfather, Papa Charlie –my hero and one of the funniest men I’ve ever known. A Sicilian-American with a heart of gold who treasured his family above all – with food, drink and a pack of Kent cigarettes a close second.

In my family, cooking, not shopping, was what kicked off our holiday season with Papa Charlie as the Captain of our Sicilian-America ship. His job was to keep us all on schedule for The Main Event – Christmas Eve dinner.

Two weeks prior we made the cucidati. Papa told us it was a recipe passed down by Italian nuns from the town in Sicily from which we hail, Polizzi Generosa. Not sure to this day if his story was true, but nevertheless, the way he told it (always with a dirty joke about a nun) always made me laugh. He would take out an old metal meat grinder (the one that we only saw once a year) and he would load in raisins, piñoli nuts, dates and molasses. He would let me turn the handle and every year he would pretend that I caught his finger in the grind. This of course would require him to take a “medicinal” swig of wine before continuing on with the baking process. To be honest, I never liked the taste of these cookies but I loved the part when his finger would get stuck.

The week before Christmas was for shopping and for making the Bolognese. I felt so special that he chose to take my sister and me on this annual trip – a ritual, really – heading into Brooklyn in his grey Cadillac. First, we would stop at the butcher, then the cheese shop, the ravioli store and finally to get the mushrooms, cardones and artichokes (all in wooden crates). Of course all the storeowners knew my grandfather by name and they always gave my sister and me some special treats. Once, a butcher gave us gold crosses that he kept in his pocket as if they were pieces of candy.

On the ride home from Brooklyn, the car literally bursting with food, my sister and I sitting in the front seat with no seat belts, he would roll down his window to smoke his beloved Kent and then pull into Carvel, “but only if you promise not to tell Grandma that I had two cones.” Papa was a big man who loved life and food equally.

Once home, we would unload the packed car, get rid of the Carvel evidence and my grandmother would make the Bolognese that we would use for the lasagna on Christmas Day. The Bolognese recipe was a secret only known to my grandmother. To give you an idea how crazy my family is about food, I offer the following story: when my grandmother began to develop the early stages of Alzheimers, one of my Uncles was overheard saying “Make sure you get her to write it down before she forgets.” Yup….

Finally on the morning of Christmas Eve, our kitchen would be packed like the prepping stations at a busy restaurant. My sister and I would stuff the artichokes and mushrooms, while Papa would fry the cardones with a cigarette dangling out the side of his mouth. My mom would be busy cleaning and breading the fish.

Ahhh the Feast of the Seven Fishes. But don’t look to me for a recipe. Papa and I shared a common hatred for the smell of fried fish. So he made me what he called “Mariuccia’s Pasta” a.k.a. carbonara (MY FAVORITE). While my family would feast on eel and baccalao, Papa and I would have a delicious plate of pasta with just the perfect amount of pecorino, bacon (pancetta was too fancy for us), egg and black pepper, like we were our own special supper club.

Then wine, wine and more wine, which too was homemade by my grandfather and dad every October. At midnight, the kids would be allowed to open presents, while the adults would gather around the piano and attempt to croon their best Andy Williams and Frank Sinatra. My Papa Charlie would sneak me red wine with a sugar cube in it and laugh when I made a funny face upon the first taste.

So here I am the day before Christmas Eve, heading out the door to do my food shopping in a hurry. Of course, Papa is gone, I’m older and I now realize that those memories, smells and tastes were more precious than any of the wrapped gifts I received as a child.

These memories are so sacred to me. Here were three generations of people together in a room, sharing their recipes, stories, secrets, all the while laughing, crying (remembering the recipes of loved ones who had passed) and singing, always singing. I consider myself lucky that an artichoke can make me smile and remind me of Papa’s laugh; and that a cookie recipe, which may or may not have been created by nuns, allows me to recall the smell of my grandfather’s smoke-filled Cadillac.

This year, I’m basking not just in nostalgia for years’ past but really in the simplicity that was the holidays for my family as I grew up. And with that in mind, I’m on a mission. This year, I’m going to “be” Papa Charlie.

Tomorrow when I’m in my parent’s kitchen cooking with my Mom, I’m going to take out that metal grinder and show it to my nephew, who I could not adore more. I’m pulling out all of Papa’s old moves. I’m going to pretend to get my finger caught in an attempt to make him laugh, then I’m going to fry the cardoons (without the dangling cigarette) and give him a sip of wine with a sugar cube in it….all in the hope that someday, he’ll look back and remember the smells of the Christmas kitchen and that he’ll have delicious memories of these, his younger years. Perhaps one day he’ll tell stories about his crazy family that cooked and sang, laughed and cried, and how his aunt doted and lavished food and love on him.

And at the end of the night, I’ll show him how to roll the prosciutto around the breadsticks…just in case Santa is Italian.

Today marks the two year anniversary of the death of restaurateur extraordinaire Elaine Kaufman. This is a story that I began to write on the night she died.

I met Elaine five years ago, when my cousin Brian asked my husband and I to meet him uptown for dinner.

My only knowledge of Elaine’s came from my childhood on Long Island, where one is expected to worship at the alter of Billy Joel. There’s a lyric in his song “Big Shot” that goes: “They were all impressed with your Halston dress and the people that you knew at Elaine’s.” So, that’s where we were heading, except that we didn’t know anyone, and neither of us were wearing Halston.

After a $17.00 cab ride, my anti-Billy/pro-Bruce NJ husband and I arrived at Elaine’s.

I don’t know if it was the glowing yellow sign flashing her name, the 70-year old bartender, the ex-cops drinking Makers, the smell of fried chicken cutlets waiting to get Parmesan”ed” or Edward Albee sitting in the corner that got me, but one thing I knew for sure. I was in Elaine’s house and I didn’t want to leave.

We sat at a round table in the back and as Ryan and Brian perused the menu and debated white over red, I could not stop looking around and taking it all in. I instantly knew that “things” happened here. Good, bad, wild, crazy…the energy was intense and enthralling.

“Does Elaine still come here” I ask my cousin, who was a regular. “Yes, every night,” he promised. “Just wait, you’ll see her.”

I ordered. I waited. Brian and I grew up with a grandmother who also went by one name, a woman who had the same powerful charisma, a woman who also made people wait.

The first course came. I was still waiting. Second course came, good but not enough to make you come back again. When the waiter came over and asked for our dessert order, I felt let down.

This wasn’t the night; she wasn’t here.

And then, as if a director yelled “Action!” Elaine came in through the front door. Immediately, I saw people all around me who were pretending not to be fazed by her presence, pretending not to notice that a shift in energy had occurred in the room. “Be cool, don’t look,” I told myself.

But I couldn’t help myself. Like the others, I was drawn to her, although she was really doing nothing at all. It seemed like the world was just rotating around her…but why?

“Mary STOP staring!” my husband begged, but I could not.

I watched her smile at Frank the waiter who she had known since he was just a kid, when he was a boy who walked in and asked for job without knowing that 30 years later he would end up being one of her most trusted confidants and protectors.

She made her way to HER table and sat, at first alone and then, occasionally, with others. I watched the whole restaurant try to plot how they would get to talk to her, or better yet – be invited to sit at HER table.

That first night, I was only able to get a smile in on our way out the door. So it became my mission to get to know Elaine better. Obsession? You could say so. We began to go to Elaine’s regularly. I was besotted. I ordered the same dish every time; tortellini with peas and prosciutto.

While all my peers wanted to go to the hottest spots downtown, Elaine’s was the only place I wanted to be. Week by week, a smile, a wave, one night even a hello and then one night (months later) our time had come.
We were heading out and I glanced over to her to say goodbye. For the first time, she made direct eye contact with me.

“Sit down” she ordered.

It was as if she was handing me a million dollars and saying, “Take it and run, kid.”

I sat down.

The questions began. “Who are you two?” While Ryan began telling her our names, I couldn’t get a word out. I could not stop looking at her hands. She caught me.

“What? My ring?”

Ryan looked down and blurted out “No way!” Elaine was wearing a huge diamond studded Yankees ring — you couldn’t miss it.

“George (Steinbrenner) gave it to me” She took it off and handed it to Ryan.

But it was not her ring I was staring at, it was her hands.

Elaine had the same hands as my grandmother. My grandmother Lucille was a piano teacher and I was forced to stare at her hands for hours on end while she patiently tried to teach me Hot Cross Buns. It was amazing to me how much Elaine’s hands looks like my grandmothers. Hands that I had not seen in 25 years.

“Your husband says you work with celebrities?”

I just nodded yes. I was mute. She began to speak:

“Never give them anything for free. They’ll ask you. You have to pay your bills and if you let one get away with it, they’ll all think they can.

“If they can’t pay you, make them promise to you when they can. They will have ups and down like you…don’t forget that.

“Now get up. I’m leaving.” She gestured to Frank and he escorted her out.

Elaine was SO COOL! Cool like my grandmother Lucille. I was even more hooked. I wanted to come back every week just to be in her presence, to learn from her, to watch her hold court, I dreamt that maybe one day, she would take me under her wing, tell me all her stories, teach me the ropes. I wanted her to be my “Tuesdays with Morrie.”

As time passed, we got a little closer; we talked about bringing back her famous Oscar night party. We were starting to make plans; she was beginning to like me. I’d tell her about a new client or cool party we did, and she would smile with approval. I think my excitement reminded her of her early days. I once asked her if I could write a story about her and try to get it published. She looked and me and said “Sure, that would be very good for YOU!”

But my greatest lesson from Elaine would not be about food, or table settings or celeb politics…Elaine shared with me a side that very few people got to see. So many stories were written about how tough she was, how she was crass, how she didn’t like women and preferred the company of men. I’m not sure how many people saw the tender and caring side of Elaine, but I did and it felt like an amazing gift, a blessing in fact…better and more special than the advice of one businesswoman to another.

Here’s what happened:

One night…late, maybe 1:30 0r 2 am, I was telling her a tale about a new client whom I was excited to be working with, mid sentence she interupted me, she leaned in and asked me this question.

“You have kids?”

I answered that we did not. I started to tell her our weary tale of 11 years of infertility.

She looked at me straight in the eyes, paused and then with only a grandmother’s sincerity, she grabbed my hand and said, “HAVE THEM. That may end up being your best job.”

Seconds later a man came over and put his pack of cigarettes down on the table, she grabbed the pack threw them across the room and yelled, “I didn’t invite you to sit down.” Shorty after that a man who I think was Martin Bregman walked in and Elaine was no longer mine.

Two weeks later, Elaine died. At 81 years old, Elaine left this world with no children or husband but SO many people felt the loss of her, people loved her as their own.

I went to Elaine’s by myself the night she died, on my way picking up a bouquet of white roses. It was mobbed, people waiting outside to go through those doors under that yellow sign. She would have loved the crowd. Inside, people shared stories, drinks, tears and hugs.

Elaine taught me so much. But on the night she died, I realized that family comes in many forms, and that in my heart, she was a cherished member of mine. I never got to say thank you to Elaine. So here goes.

“Thank you, Elaine, for your kindness and time. You taught me not to give up, to be strong and accept life’s disappointments. You are a little voice inside my head that grounds me from time to time when I need it, and I promise, as hard as it is sometimes, I’m gonna keep trying for ‘that kid.’ And hey, if it’s a girl…..I may even name her Elaine.”

Tortellini with Peas and Prosciutto

Served 4
1 package of fresh cheese tortellini
1 package frozen peas
1/2 teaspoon butter
1/2 onion, minced
1 cup heavy cream
2 tablespoons freshly grated Pecorino Romano
2 ounces prosciutto
salt & pepper to flavor

Bring water to boil add tortellini. Add peas during last minute of cooking. Drain pasta and peas; set aside.
While pasta cooks, melt butter in a pan. Add onions and prosciutto; sauté until brown. Slowly add half and half to pan. Cook until mixture becomes thick.
Add sauce and grated cheese to tortellini.
Season with fresh black

Last weekend, we catered my Cousin Brian’s wedding. I choose to serve a Family Style dinner service. This is very similar to how Italians have Sunday dinner. Food is placed on the tables in bowls and shared and enjoyed while your cousins throw meatballs at each other. It was a beautiful wedding and watching the guests partake in this ritual made me reflect on time spent with my family at our dinner table. So, instead of writing the Halloween Party Tips BLOG I was prepared to….here goes.

Confession….

Growing up, I longed for another family. I remember being very young and wishing that our house had more chaos in it. I wanted my parents to fight more so that we would have to put that big white piece of tape down the center of our living room (like they did in an episode of The Brady Bunch).

I wanted my Dad to work late and my Mom to yell at him when he walked in the door. I wanted my Sister to have tattoos and drive her car through our garage door after a long bender at The Limelight in NYC.

None of this EVER happened….

Instead we ate dinner together as a family…every night. I remember watching TV and doing my homework (while eating a Stouffer’s Mac & Cheese. I always ate dinner before dinner) and hearing the click of my Mother’s makeup bag as she applied her lipstick to greet my Dad at the door and give him a kiss. My Dad worked hard to keep my sister and I in white leather but always made it home in time for dinner.

We spent Sundays together cause that was Family Day (often 15-20 people come to dinner).

As for that fantasy of my Sister driving her car through our garage door? No such luck. She was valedictorian of her class and never missed a curfew.

Don’t get me wrong. We were not perfect in any way shape or form, plenty of things happened that I will have to save for the VH-1 Behind the Caterer Special (there will be one…I just know it) but when I look back now I am filled with nothing but love and gratitude for them and realize just how important those dinners were on molding the person I was to become.

It was where the four of us and my Grandmother (she had Alzheimer’s disease and lived in our basement. She spent most of these dinners vacuuming the front lawn in her housecoat. Hey, if you can’t laugh you would just cry……so we choose to laugh.) got together and shared the successes and failures of our day. This was also a perfect venue for my mother to impart her wisdom on us.

Some highlights…

“Always save two meatballs after you fry them before throwing them into the tomato sauce for someone you love.”

“Don’t drive on Sunday’s…everyone is drunk!”

“Mary, I read an article (she was always reading articles about kids dying from drinking or drugging to much…not sure what this periodical was…but let’s go with it) A young girl tried drugs at a party and guess what??

“Her head blew up and she died!!”

And my favorite “Put Your Socks and Your Panties on”. Her advice when my Sister and I found a mouse and expressed at the dinner table that we were scared to go to sleep with an awol mouse on the loose. I guess having our feet and our lady areas protected would make it all better!??

And while Nance was imparting this type of wisdom my Dad was spewing out self help quotes like “The Best is Yet to Come” or “If You are Not Living on the Edge, Then You are Not Living”.

A mixture of this type of parenting could either make a kid crazy or force her into serving pigs in a blanket for a living….hmmmmm

And now my point….

While I know today life is harder than it used to be with so many more distractions, I think the ritual of sharing meals with others is a good one. Even if it is pulling your chair over to a stranger at the Diner who is also eating alone, have a chat, share some grub, ask how their day was.

And anyone who wants to come to our house for Sunday dinner….come on by…..just don’t drive your car though our garage door after I “over-serve” you too much wine.

Love,
Mary

PS. Ina Garten’s book FAMILY STYLE is filled with great recipes.

http://www.barefootcontessa.com/cookbooks_details.aspx?CookbookID=6

I must admit that most of my education has come from watching television.

An avid fan of the TV show “The Monkees,” I once pulled out a dictionary (remember those?) after Frank Zappa appeared on an episode and he used the words “banal” and “insipid” (he was in fact referring to The Monkeess’ music, which I had no idea was an insult until after I pulled out the old Webster’s). PS – when banal appeared on my SAT, I had Frank Zappa to thank for getting that one correct!

Growing up in a strict catholic household, everything I learned about sex was also from TV. I thought all people kissed like Victor did on that soap opera and when HBO aired Revenge of the Nerds my world was rocked. I spent half of my post pubescent life waiting to make out with someone named Stan in a Darth Vader mask on one of those blow up bouncy space things. Hmmm…

So, as I wrote, television has been a touchstone for me, for better or worse and not too long ago, I was watching a Riveting Television Program (as my grandmother would say) called The L Word. Yup, the show about the uber chic LA lesbian social scene — the show that caused my husband to walk into the room and say “Do I have anything to be worried about?”

On that weeks L Word, there was an episode where the ladies are at dinner (they always went to the hot spots) and one says to the group, “Did you know that male lobsters, when thrown in a pot, build a ladder to help each other out but female lobsters actually pull each other down from the bottom so they can all die together?”

(Cue the audience – where is Mary going with this story?)

Now, I will state for the record that, I have NO IDEA if this is actually a true, scientifically proven fact, but what I will tell you in that it forced me to think about my female relationships in a wholly different way.

I started to observe my female friendships more closely and look back at the ones from long ago. Have I been in a pot with female lobsters? Is this theory true? Sadly, I felt like there had been times where I was not behaving like a very good lobster myself and gave into the petty gossip or the pulling down of others.

Think about those dinners you have had with girlfriends, ones that become sessions of conspiring theories about a girlfriend who is absent. “Her husband cheats on her!” “Did she get Botox?” “She is so unhappy!”

These dinners just don’t not feel right to me anymore. The relationships that were built on this type of camaraderie don’t feel like places I want to be. Listen, I’m not professing total innocence but I am making a conscious effort to be more dude-like (or male lobster-like) in my new fangled approach to female relationships.

I’m choosing to be kinder, to listen more to the needs of my girlfriends and to encourage rather than to pull down. It is so much easier to build someone up and support them than it is to pull them down and the more I do that, the more kind actions are bestowed on me by other “Lady Lobsters” living up to their status. I’ve even begun to meet amazing new Lady Lobsters that I don’t think I would have encourtered if I stayed in my old patterns.

It is in our human nature to look at what others have and covet their lives and I think women do that more than men. The old adage “the grass is always greener” is one of the most overly used terms out there. But if there is one thing my career has afforded me, it’s the ability to see over many great lawns and let me tell you, unless you are happy with YOU, everyone’s grass will appear greener.

I know what you are thinking, shut it! Caterer Girl, just post a lobster roll recipe and attempt some witty banter but I was the recipient of some AMAZING Lady Lobster love this week and I feel like it is something that I so wished we could all pass onto one another as ladies and friends. Once you start this type of “pay it forward” thinking and behavior, it’s almost contagious.

What kind of lobster are you? What kind of ladies are in your pot? I think if we all pause and pass around some kindness to each other, we may just make it up that ladder and not end up on a plate next to the cole slaw.

(Cue audience applause – and not the canned laugh track!)

Love,
Mary

I love this recipe this lobster roll recipe from The Smitten Kitchen

http://smittenkitchen.com/2009/08/lobster-rolls/

Of course two minutes into the list, I allowed my mind to drift and began instead to write up my ultimate dream list of guests – dead or alive – that I’d love to see around my table.

And so…

MY DREAM PARTY GUEST LIST

No big shocker for my #1 invite….Micky Dolenz. Let’s face it folks, I am about 5 minutes away from either having a cardboard cut out of Micky seated permanently at our dinner table, or being committed.

Next up….Rip Taylor. Remember that guy from the 70s game shows that would toss confetti all over himself? I just think it would be great to have a guest at the dinner table who would sporadically do that.

Lucille Ball. A) ‘Cause I think she is amazing B) ‘Cause I heard she drank like a man

Steve Martin…but only if he agreed to play the banjo and sing the Thermos song.

Random one but, Mikey from the “Mikey Likes It” Life Cereal commercial. This would be fun, if only to show people that he really didn’t die from eating Pop Rocks while drinking a Coke (does that really happen anyway?) I would even urge him to do it in front of everyone in order to debunk that (sub)urban myth.

Gilda Radner. Would love to just sit on my back porch, look at the stars and laugh with her.

So then I guess if we had Gilda, I’d love Lorne Michael and the cast of “SNL” to come too, from 1975-1979 and 1984-1985, so I could do the Ed Grimley dance with Martin Short between the second and the third course.

Chuck Barris but only if brought his gong. I am really thinking about having a Gong Show brunch this summer. How fun would that be?

Brad and Angelina (not because of the obvious) but because I figure they have so many kids, chances are high after a few too many of my jalapeno grapefruit margaritas, they may leave one behind and then “POOF!”….Ryan and I have an instant family.

The two ladies from that show The Magic Garden. Could be fun to bring them out for dessert to sing a song and serve a chuckle patch dessert garden (we created this dessert for a client recently – Sweet ‘Shrooms and Berries.)

However, I’m just not sure if I would want them to stick around, post song. I guess I could ask Rip Taylor to confetti-bomb them and shoo them out the door.

The Captain and Tennille. I’m imagining that they would warm up to us rather quickly and at the end of the night, The Captain would give Ryan his hat as a symbol of his gratitude, and, going forward, whenever Ryan was asked “Where did you get that hat” he could respond, “The Captain.” When asked, “Which Captain?” Ryan would chuckle and say “Is there any other Captain?”

Jim J. Bullock from “Too Close for Comfort,” Joyce Dewitt and Ted Shackleford from “Knots Landing” but just for dessert and drinks, because I think Monroe would get on everyones nerves.

After dessert George Takei would suggests a game of charades and I would find myself conflicted if I should team up with ET (as in the alien) or Janis Joplin. I’m guessing I’ll go with Janis cause she holding the bottle of SoCo and anyway, Canned Heat is picking her up soon, but I would promise to hang with ET later as he has been eyeing me up all night for some face time.

And how great would it be if around Midnight, Dean Martin and Frank Sinatra stumbled into the barn, smelling of scotch and cigarettes, asking first to use the john and second if I’d be a doll and freshen their cocktails while they “see a man about a dog.”

And then finally Ryan would have to help me get everyone out casue he knows we have to prepare for our brunch guests the next morning. Yup, you guessed it….Liza Manelli and Joan Rivers.

Ahh….just another weekend in the Country ☺

Jalapeno Grapefruit & Vodka Recipe
1 1/2 oz DeLeon Tequila

6 oz fresh Grapefruit Juice

Couple slices of jalapeno

Table Spoon of agave nectar

Jalapeno for garnish

Last Friday could not have started any better. It was sunny, warm and I was on my way to Woodstock.

Last August, Ryan and I purchased “that house”, the one that you both drive by and at the same time say, “if that house ever goes on the market we have to buy it.” We did that for 6 years and then last summer the day it went on the market, we made an offer and it was ours.

We have spent the last seven months ripping apart “our dream house” to make it I guess even that much dreamier? And while we definitely suffered all the ups and downs a first time home renovator goes through, the light is finally at the end of the construction tunnel and last Friday was the day to make all the FINAL decisions.

I spent the first part of the morning discussing paint colors, wallpaper and floor stains. The early afternoon I was in heaven discussing plans for the PARTY BARN, a separate structure that will become our ultimate party laboratory.

Distracted by the team of people I was meeting with, I did not notice that one of the gates on the property was open (The first thing we did was fence the entire property so that Stanley our 11 year old beagle could not run away) and yes Stanley our beagle got away.

Not even two minutes from his escape a woman pulled into my driveway (dressed in a wizard outfit…yes a wizard outfit….remember we are in Woodstock), she was shaken, very kind and spoke the words “I hit your beagle with my car, I know he is hurt, I heard him yelp but he ran off”.

Immediately, we all launched into rescue mode, our sweet builders tore off their tool belts and ran into the woods, the two talented designers up from the city (in nice shoes) did the same and I in panic and shock followed behind them.

For four hours we scoured the woods, four hours I had to think about Stanley and the last 11 years he shared with us. Practical things first, like I can’t believe the last thing he ate was a piece of my egg sandwich through his cage in the back of the car. How would he survive a cold night in the woods with just the bite of an egg sandwich? Each hour I began to loose hope. Finally a moment I was dreading, I called Ryan who was on the train up and said “I just can’t find him. He is gone”.

Ryan had always wanted a dog and the first year we got married Stanley was ours. We could barely pay our rent but Stanley had the best dog toys, bed and treats money could buy. We have moved 8 times since we got Stanley and he is our constant, our rock,ushering us though the successes and failures of life. Our 20-pound Sherpa always reminding us with his constant love that true happiest comes in the simplest forms.

Without Stanley being there to guide us into the next part of our lives, this house would not be our home.

When my dear friends Michael and Martha came by to help. I told them, this house is cursed, put it on the market; I’m never moving in here (I will admit my Sicilian does rear its head from time to time).

I had given up, but per the suggestion of my friend Michael, we took one last trip into the woods, I prayed (yes I pray) to Ryan’s Uncle Rudy (who we lost earlier that week), St. Francis (The Patron Saint of Animals) and to Stanley I softly said, “We still need you Stanley, please come home to us.”

And with the help of Michael and Harry (who I will forever call the Dog Whisperers) Stanley with a bruised paw miraculously popped out of the woods and into my lap.

Maybe he was teaching me a lesson. Perhaps my priorities have been slightly askew. The last year has been so fast and furious with wonderful distractions that perhaps it was time for me to take count, be present and appreciate it all. For without the people or animals around that we truly love, no tile or paint matters. All the stuff we stress about or think is important just becomes stuff.

And then as it always does my head went back to food.

I always thought people that cooked meals for their dogs were a little crazy. But hey I’m Italian and the best way to show your love and appreciation for someone or something is to cook for it, so guess who’s had three hot delicious home cooked meals since he came running out of the woods….yup….my Stanley, our Sherpa, our teacher and our home.

Turns our Rachael Ray has some amazing dog recipes. Grazie Rachael. Stanley and Hudson thank you too!

http://www.rachaelraymag.com/recipes/rachael-ray-magazine-recipe-search/pet-friendly-dog-recipes