When Mark and I started dating, he was training to run a marathon. This was twelve months after his first wife died. And four long years after my husband died. About that same time, I had sent out queries to publish my first book, I’ll Be in the Car, and joked I’d rather write a book than a run a marathon.
Why train over weeks with running clubs, at night in the dark, early morn in the dark? Why post times on a “Clock My Run” sort of app? Or practice for marathons by running half-marathons?
As a writer, I would never undertake a marathon, right? Never write without some sort of light (see: laptop light)? Post a word count on an online platform conveniently titled, “Clock My Words.” Never pen a half-novel, to train for the whole thing (despite my drawers full of them)? Right?
*
Four years ago this week, in May of 2020, I sent a job offer letter to my niece, Gia. In the midst of the pandemic, she’d lost work as a counselor. I proposed to pay her to scan my mother’s recipes into the computer. All three binders full. All 400-plus of those handwritten missives from beyond. She performed this work admirably—with a few timeouts for lunch too.
All I really wanted out the deal was to “write a few family stories” to go along with the recipes. This is what everyone thinks when they begin that writing that thing they don’t call a book.
A few family stories turned into a list of twenty subjects I wanted to address. Everything from messes in the kitchen to the origin of my fennel obsession. The pandemic slid toward some resolution. That list morphed into a collection of essays. Some published, some still buried deep in my archives for a publisher to be named later. Gia graduated from high school. And over the course of three years, the family anecdotes, the essays, the drive to find roots in Italy, the sepia-toned pictures, became something else, maybe even something Italian, to borrow a phrase from the book’s tentative title.
I knew the narrative spine of this work. Historical fiction writer Erik Larson says its like a Christmas tree. Or for me, metaphorically, a family tree. Whatever it was, there were so many ornaments to hang on every branch. How would one choose? How could one pen (or laptop) bring them all into focus?
*
The same way a marathoner runs. Avanti.
Onward through darkness, rain, doubts. Through drafts that never seemed to end. Would there ever be a finish line? For writers, I’m not sure.
That’s how I felt. At least with a marathon, there is a banner awaiting the finish.
The University of Akron Press accepted my work, with astericked feedback: more cookbook, more history of immigration, of place. This was alkin to incurring an injury a few weeks before the big day. Would I have to hobble the rest of the way? Or give up altogether?
Avanti, avanti. Forza too.
*
Last Sunday, the Flying Pig marathon runners whirled like dervishes around me. Our home was not on the race route. But dozens of runners trotted up and down our street. On their way to, or home from—a real finish.
I too circled around Introductions and Afterwards, until I hit that writer’s high, landing on the right word at the right time. I floated off to my kitchen. To eat? No, to test and taste. To try again.
*
Earlier, a long list of grocery items had accompanied me to the store. Now at home, my butcher block island was barely detectable beneath the morass of papers and flour bags. I owned this mess, lived inside it. And something about the chaos transported me to another kitchen, one with less mess. That of Mom’s.
For two days, I repeated seven recipes, then five, and three that would come later, ensuring each could produce consistent results. I put on a one-woman “great” Italian baking show—for myself. Only sharing them later with my husband, my sisters (and brother), a few friends in my orbit that week. I had made them all in the past, the nut horns, the Cavicun, but trying to instruct someone via words on how to make a single strand braid for the Twists is like running in circles toward a finish line. (Hint, begin with small letter “e”).
The notes my mother and grandmothers left behind made me laugh. This one made a big mess. Came out too greasy. Don’t use. My mother kept recipes she tried and didn’t like. She was never one to throw any lesson away.
My hands swelled from time on my feet, from an overconsumption of sugar and wheat. But my warped mind was no longer looking for words. My floured hands no longer seeking a shape I couldn’t mold.
*
Later in the week, my colleague and I led a writing workshop. One prompt was based on a meditation about a bowl, in a kitchen. Of all things. Only one came to mind. That of my parents’ on Lincoln Street. Exhausted, I didn’t want to go there again but…
I cannot. I cannot trudge through that kitchen one more time.
I cannot step where giants once did, in grease or on waxed floors, in red Keds, crushed Hush Puppies, in high heels or shined Florsheim’s, when guests finally came.
Don’t make me stretch for the wooden spoon, its long handle that measured the length of my arm, of hers, of our growth together. The spoon’s smooth contours worn down from ouches of spankings and ounces of suds.
I cannot open the freezer to find the white waxed boxes cascading downward off shelves of ice burning everything—green peppers stripped of their earth, strawberries extracted from deep in a local patch, a father frozen in time mid-pick of a zucchini or eggplant bulb from his garden plot.
I cannot scrub the burners on the stove that scorched a thousand soups, lopped up a spill of tomato puree, scraped off an errant pancake batter drop.
I will not dig into the pantry stores – the chocolate chips hidden from our reach behind Ritz or Triscuits we never ate.
I cannot sit at the desk where the late 70s intercom system sizzled with our voices and theirs. The surface which coddled the pink reading glasses, the church calendar marked with her own personal saints, and pens that accumulated until she needed one.
I cannot turn off that light over the sink, still shining with pride, on the kitchen that rolled me, molded me, loved me so.
This past week, Gia completed her sophomore year at college. She’s off to Italy for a three-week summer study program. Lucky gal!
And me, I’m reminding myself how plenty of writers forced themselves back to the drawing board by way of editorial choices or personal ones. This is the book the universe told me to write as it clocked my words.
Maybe when the cookies, cakes, and pies disappeared, I’d find a different sort of finish line. By then, I’d set one cookie aside. No one can contain all the joy experienced in savoring the last crunch of a walnut ground into a dark chocolate, the mixture oozing out of the honey and sprinkle-slathered pastry formed as Christmas flower—its own metaphor for ornaments hung on a tree.
No, there is no finish line for me.
It sure has been nice to be in this lull, get back in touch with friends, family, and other writing-related “stuff” as my husband calls it.
Pauletta Hansel and I knew in-person writing experiences were important to many of our participants, so we’re happy to continue them in partnership with Giving Voice Foundation and Jewish Family Services.
Our next in-person is August 9th, 10-noon. Watch this space, email bwilliams@muchmorethanameal.com, or visit givingvoicefdn.org register.
Our FREE, VIRTUAL writing experiences for caregivers will continue. Dates include November 14th, 10-noon. Registrations details above. Or email: bwilliams@muchmorethanameal.org.
May 14 - TONIGHT
Kensington Senior Living of Virginia/Maryland will host a virtual caregiver writing workshop for attendees. You can register HERE. Also, if you have interest in hosting a writing experience with my colleague and me, message me here.
Other summer workshops include writing for care partners, art museum workshops, and more. Message me for details as they become available.
June 11 - Mercantile Library Science and Nature Lecture - Music & Memory with Stefan Fiol & Rhonna Shatz
University of Cincinnati Professors Stefan Fiol (CCM) & Rhonna Shatz (College of Medicine) will discuss their groundbreaking collaboration on Dementia and the Arts, a joint effort between UC’s College of Medicine and the College-Conservatory of Music (CCM).
Register NOW and don’t miss this groundbreaking and heart-healing work.
June 26, 6 - 8 p.m.
Gugel Alley Writers Readout. Our weekly meetup gathers to share their summer work with the public at Roebling in Newport.
July 30th
Twin Lakes Retirement Community. Caring for the Caregiver Writing Experience.
July 30th from 10:30am-11:30am, Twin Lakes Game Room. 9840 Montgomery Rd., Cincinnati, OH 45242. Message me for details.
Upcoming Workshops
Lloyd Library – It’s all Backstory: a presentation on memoir and writing, in partnership with Fotofocus 2024, October 9th. Sign up for the Lloyd Library newsletter for information when it’s released. www.lloydlibrary.org.
Women Writing for (a) Change. Recently, I met with Christine Wilson, recently-hired executive director of Women Writing for a Change. Some new creative energy will be flowing from upcoming partnerships with WWfaC, so stay tuned for writing salons and other craft related workshops.
Annette, great story. I am writing more than ever before and would love a one hour counseling session sometime this summer at the lake. I am headed to Spain with my five colleagues to present “GodLight” at the World Conference of Religion in Society this week. I will bring back some vintage wines for us to share at the Lake. We plan to be there on Memorial Day, so, hope we can connect.
I never want things to end...I love this it warms my heart to read...i look forward to making and trying recipes with you and reading some of Moms and grandmas notes! I'm excited for all of this. i jsut read this today and how fitting:
great piece as always!
You never get it done, and you cannot get it wrong. Life is supposed to be fun: you are creator, and you are here in an environment that is very conducive to that. When you get hold of an idea, play it out for the pleasure in it!