~Good Friday: A Mother's Grief~

There hasn’t been an Easter Season I can remember, that I didn’t grieve for Mary. Even when I was a little Catholic girl kneeling in church on Good Friday so many years ago. Long before I knew what it was like to be a mother. To know that inborn, maternal love that could surpass anything wordly. That feeling that you would freely give your own life, to save your child’s.

With swollen eyes she wept, huddled at the foot of the cross….looking through tear-stained fingers at her son’s lifeless body. The body she knew only too-well.

This lifeless corpse was once the baby she rocked in her arms. He was the toddler whose bloodied knees she had very tenderly bandaged.

He was her twelve-year-old boy who had disappeared for three days only to be found in the temple preaching to the elders.

She was living a nightmare that Friday long-ago….never dreaming that in three-days-time her Son, this bloodied lifeless body, would rise from the dead and save the world.

Mary is an inspiration to all mothers. She was part of the enormous sacrifice that Jesus had made for us. As His mother, she was with Him on His last journey. Her presence told her Child that she would never abandon Him. As she was with Him in the beginning, she would be with Him in the end. God had given His Son the gift of a beautiful mother, and she would ease His burden with her love until He took His last breath.

As mothers, we watch our children carry their own crosses. My children may stand alone with their cross, but like Mary, my love will always be there to help ease their burden.

And so, each Easter Season, my thoughts always turn to her mourning the loss of her beloved Son. I cannot imagine her grief as she watched Him die on that Friday so long ago.

~Easter Baking: Hot Cross Buns~

Hot cross buns,
Hot cross buns,

one ha' penny,

two ha' penny,

hot cross buns.

If you have no daughters,

give them to your sons,

one ha' penny,

two ha' penny,

Hot Cross Buns

There's lots of baking that goes on in the Italian kitchen around traditional holidays, and Easter Week is no exception.

Hot Cross Buns are first made on Ash Wednesday and eaten throughout the six weeks of Lent. In Italy, they are traditionally eaten on Good Friday, with the cross signifying the crucifixion.

According to tradition, Hot Cross Buns were the only food allowed to be eaten by the faithful on Good Friday. Made from dough kneaded for consecrated bread used at Mass or Holy Communion, and thus representative of Christ’s body, Hot Cross Buns were also credited for miraculous healing and for protection.

This tradition suffered attack during the 16th century. During Queen Elizabeth I’s reign, when Roman Catholicism was banned, ‘backward - lookers’ were reportedly tried for Popery for signing the cross on their Good Friday buns. The accused often claimed that it was necessary to mark a cross on the dough, to ensure that the buns would rise. However, the popularity of the buns prevailed, and the Queen resorted to passing a law which limited the bun's consumption to proper religious ceremonies, such as Christmas, Easter or funerals. So go ahead and try your hand at making these traditional Hot Cross Buns for your Good Friday or Easter meal! This recipe makes eighteen buns. Enjoy!

EASTER HOT CROSS BUNS

Dough:

5 cups all purpose flour, divided
2 pkg active dry yeast
1/2 cup sugar
1 teaspoon salt
1 teaspoon ground cinnamon
1/4 teaspoon ground cardamom
1/4 teaspoon cloves
1/4 teaspoon nutmeg
1 1/4 cups milk
1/2 cup butter
2 eggs, beaten
3/4 cup currants or raisins
1/3 cup candied orange peel
1 egg yolk mixed with 2 tablespoons water

Combine 2 cups of flour, yeast, sugar, salt and spices in a large mixing bowl.

In a separate bowl, heat milk and butter to very warm (125°F). Add to flour. Beat on medium speed of mixer for 1 minute. Add eggs. Beat another minute. Stir in currants, orange peel and enough remaining flour to make dough easy to handle.

Turn dough out onto lightly floured surface and knead until smooth and elastic, about 5 minutes, adding additional flour as needed. Try not to add too much flour; dough can be slightly sticky to the touch. (Put oil on your hands to prevent sticking if necessary.) Place in a buttered bowl, turning to butter top. Cover; let rise in warm place until doubled in bulk, about 1 hour.

Punch down dough; turn onto lightly floured surface. Divide dough in half; divide each half into 9 pieces.

Form each piece into a smooth round ball. Place balls of dough in two buttered 8-inch square baking pans. Cover and let rise in warm place until doubled in bulk, about 45 minutes to 1 hour.

Brush lightly with egg yolk mixture.

Bake rolls in preheated 375°F degree oven, 20 to 25 minutes, or until golden brown. Remove from pans.

Cool on a wire rack.

Drizzle frosting (see below) across the top of each bun in the shape of a cross. Makes 18 buns.

Cream Cheese Frosting:

3 oz cream cheese, softened
1 c confectioner's sugar
1 tsp milk

Beat cream cheese and sugar in a bowl until smooth. Add up to 1 teaspoon of milk or just enough so that the frosting is a good consistency for drizzling. (If it becomes too watery, add more sugar).

~This, too, Shall Pass~

I always find myself closer to God during difficult times. I first realized this during my senior year of college. Kneeling in a dark, musty confessional, I confessed to a priest that I was guilty of not being as close to God as I should have been. Hey...I was a Dean's List college senior carrying 21 hours & finishing up my student teaching, a Resident Advisor on a dormitory floor of 40 freshman girls, and working part-time. Yup...I wasn't praying as much as I could have been. The priest said something that set me on my heels: "The fact that you are worried that you're not as close to God as you should be, tells me you are MUCH closer to Him than you think." I've never forgotten that. He was totally spot-on.

As I travel through these difficult days with my Mom, I find I am leaning on Him for dear life. Is there any other choice? Faith is easy in good times. It's brutally hard in bad times. But those are the times I am the closest to God. He's the last thing I think of when I fall off to sleep, and the first thought I have before I open my eyes. I wake up many times throughout the nite, and pray that He is holding my Mom...and us....in the arms. She can't do this alone. Neither can we.

Mom is still in the hospital. Her delusions continue. She imagines she is at work. Everyone's left and she has no way home. She says someone's stolen her purse, and she has no money. This scene is played over and over. There are no phones, so to make calls, patients have to convince someone at the nurse's station to call for them. They try to control the frequency of these calls, and as you can imagine, they have many more important tasks to perform in the busy geriatric unit. But she convinces them to let her 'call her daughter' whenever she can. These phone calls are heart-wrenching. They asked me if I wanted them to stop the calls. I told them, "Absolutely not". Can you imagine how you would feel 'locked' in with no way to reach your loved ones?? And so, whenever the phone rings, I find myself praying that it's not Mom. Sad. Very sad.

The unit is locked. No one in or out without a code. No phones, tvs, no cords, strings, foods outside the dining room. You have to 'check' eveything in when you enter. They ignore the patients' questions. Many of them babble incessantly. It's like a white-walled prison. A giant padded 'cell'. Depressing for sure. We've all agreed that any of us would go crazy if we had to stay there as a patient.

But Mom's already in her own kind of 'prison'. There's a monster raging inside her that the doctors have yet been able to calm down. They've tried 3 medications so far. They haven't worked. She is still in this fantasy-hell. She begs to be taken 'home' every time we visit. Visiting hours are limited: 6-8:30 each evening. By 7:00, Mom is exhausted. Exhausted from the delusions. From the begging. From the monster. It's pointless to try to visit with her after that hour.

We did get a smile from her on Sunday: We brought her a Frostie!

And so....we continue on, fervantly praying that today is the day they will figure out how to help her calm the monster. It's been 7 days. Will they succeed? And what happens to this dear woman if they don't? Will she ever be able to go back to the assisted living facility she knows as 'home'? What if she can't?

At certain moments of the day or night....these questions become monumental, depressing unknowns. Eating is near impossible. And when I do....it comes right back up, so what's the sense? Praying is the only calm. The rock. God is here. I know He will make things okay. I just wish He'd hurry.

**Thank you all for your prayers, your comments, emails......for your support. We are so so grateful for them***

~Angel In the Kitchen~

‘She’ first came to me very late at nite in the summer of 1993. I say ‘she’ because she had a strong, feminine voice. I may be wrong. But it’s how I think of her. I couldn’t sleep. I often find myself sitting in the kitchen in the middle of the nite on those kinds of nites.

My business had really grown since its start in 1989. I was doing over 20 art shows, as well as wholesale shows in Philidelphia, Atlanta and Chicago, twice a year. I had hundreds of shop and catalog accounts. I had eight employees. Several sales reps out in the field around the country. I was working 16-hour-days. You could say I was on “auto-pilot”: so revved up on caffeine and adreneline, there was no stopping me. Until that nite in the kitchen.

I was sitting on a stool at the island. Drinking iced tea. Just sitting. Tired. But content. At 17 and 10, both boys were doing well in school. Jim was quickly climbing the corporate ladder. Life was good. Her loud voice permeated the dimly-lit room. “WHHHHHOOOOOOO ARRRRREEEE YOU?” it boomed. I jumped. My heart was beating fast. I wasn’t really scared. Just startled. She filled the room with her presence. I knew what she meant. I had NO idea who I was. Yes….I was a mother of two sons. A wife to a man I adored. But had I lost ME??? Was there any ‘me’ left?? I sat there for a long time. She never said another word. She didn’t have to.

I was a great goal-setter. I’d set them each December for the upcoming year. When they were met, I’d set the next year’s goal higher. I’d always meet them. And so it continued. Like Topsy, the business grew and grew. One of my oldest friends, Babs, asked me then, “When is it enough?”. Why, it was never enough. There were always higher mountains to climb. Until that nite in the kitchen. I knew I was on the wrong path. I needed to make changes.

I got rid of my sales reps, and cut down my wholesale accounts to just my original shops and catalogs. I dropped my shows down to half the number. Much more ‘doable’. And I made time for me. I re-joined a health club, signed up for aerobics classes….and actually went to them! I was much healthier. And happier.

That wasn’t her last visit. She speaks much more quietly now. She knows she needn’t ‘yell’. I know when she’s here. I can almost predict when she’ll come. Like last nite. She knew I needed her visit.

It’s been a hellacious week with Mom. And we’re all so tired. And scared. Specially Mom. I pray that Mom has an angel that will fill her with the peace that my Angel gives me. I know she has one. It’s an Archangel. I know because of Mom’s description of him. Very very tall with HUGE wings showing past his shoulders and reaching down to the floor. I hope he’s with her this week. She needs him.

Postscript: Mom was admitted to the Geriatric Psychiatric ward at a nearby hospital yesterday for observation. Taking her there was the single, hardest thing I've ever had to do. She is very confused and scared. And very angry at me for taking her there. Please keep her in your prayers.

~Fried Memories~

St. Joseph, the husband of Mary and the earthly father of Jesus, is said to be the patron saint of home, family and laborers. His Feast Day is celebrated on his birthday: March 19th. It's a Sicilian tradition to make Fritelles or Fried Dough on that day. Depending on the region of Italy you are from, they may be called zeppole, or sfinges instead. For an interesting picture collage of fried doughs from all over the world, click here.

My Nonna always used her homemade raised bread dough to make Fritelles, as did my Mom, but I've found that the frozen Rhodes bread dough works quite well....and is way easier!

All you do is tear off about 2 inch pieces of the raised, raw dough, and fry them quickly in about a 1/2 inch of hot canola oil. Drain them on paper towels, then roll them in granulated sugar. My Mom often tucked raisins into the raw dough before frying. I make one batch with raisins for the boys, and one plain batch for Jim. One bite into the sugary, doughy delicacy will have you hooked. They rarely have time to cool before they've all disappeared...no matter how many I make!

Whenever I fry them up, I'm transported back into time......standing in my Nonna's or my Mother's kitchen, swinging my tanned legs back-and-forth, long curls flying, licking every last bit of the sugary coating off each of my fingers, begging for "just one more".

I continued the tradition by frying up batches of Fritelles for the boys on Sunday mornings in March before mass all the years they were growing up. It's a tradition that we continue to this day.....whether it's just Jim and I, or the boys, Jackie, and the grandchildren. Fried Memories at their finest~

Buon Giorno di San Giuseppe – Happy St. Joseph’s Day!

~Dancing On Ice~

Mom had been doing so well....until last week. Wednesday nite I received a phone call from her. She was all out of breath. She was looking for her mother. Frantically. To say good-nite to her. My grandmother died 32 years ago. I had to tell her that. Her reply: "Stop it, Carol! WHERE is she? Is she with you?".

And the dance begins again. That dreaded two-step. The one where you're no longer on the familiar dance floor. You're on ice. Cracked ice. In bare feet. Cold. Uncomfortable. Uncharted territory that is becoming way too familiar.

I was able to settle her down that nite. For about 5 minutes, after which time she said to me in her best, 'motherly' voice, "Carol....I have to get off the phone now and go find Mom. I need to say good-nite to her". sigh. I had failed.

Friday nite I got a call from the head nurse. Mom was frantic. Even after been given a Xanax. "Carol....I'm still at work. Everyone's gone. I missed the bus. I have no money. What am I going to do?".

Nothing calmed her. She wanted to go "home". I packed a very ill husband into the pre-heated car, and headed to her assisted living facility. She was finally calm....but insisted on my taking her "home". After a long while of trying to get her to remember we had sold her house 3 years ago ("I KNOW that Carol"), I couldn't get her to tell me where she meant when she said, "home". She didn't want to come to my house....she wanted to go 'home'.

Can you imagine the terror you would feel, when no one around you understood what you wanted? The heartbreak of feeling that even your own daughter didn't understand....didn't meet your needs?

This continued through the weekend. There were many moments when I questioned whether she meant 'home' to heaven. I don't think so. But then again, maybe that's what she wants. To go 'home' and away from this hell.

For right now, we are all there with her. Trying to help her navigate the ice. Depressing? Yes. Heartbreaking? Yeah. But it's her life right now. And mine. I thank God each day when I walk into my studio, turn on the lights, and create. Escape. Live. It drives me into a world that is safe. And free of pain. At least for a little while. Until the phone rings again.

~Yankee Peddler.....Here We Come!~

I'm excited to announce I've been accepted to one of the nation's premier shows, Yankee Peddler Festival. I did this show for 13 years, and only bowed out when my mom and dad became ill eight years ago. It is 3 weekends every September. This is the show's 37th year.

The show takes you back 200 years, visiting pioneer America with master artists and crafters "setting up rustic shops along streams and amid lovely wooded dales, with foods and snacks cooked over open fires, and with non-stop entertainment across the 75-acre grounds. Keep up to the hour and follow events with the Town Criers. Visit with the militia and mountain men, or learn crafts with hands-on instruction. Visit with the master crafters and artists while they demonstrate the way they transform nature into something unique for you and yours."

When I first participated in this fabulous show, Tom was 6. That was 20 years ago! I managed to create 500 dolls....and sold out that first year! Shortly after, I quit my teaching job!!

This has necessitated that I 'step up' my business and production plan for this year. As you can imagine, RoseCreekCottage is humming away quite early in the morning.....ending the days late at nite. The good thing: I LOVE it! As any artist knows, when you thrive on creativity, it's a 'drive' that you cannot ignore. It literally 'runs' you. (further explained in a future post!)

My show schedule is quickly filling up for this year. I've been accepted to 11 shows so far. That should keep me busy and out of trouble, don't you think?

The first and second photos were taken at YPF in 1989. Aren't my 'boys' beautiful??





This post was nominated for POST OF THE DAY over at David's authorblog. Thank you, David!