Florentine lace cookies and almond brittle ice cream

 

 

 

 

 

Thump. Thump. Thump.

With every step I get closer. And with every step I go farther.

Closer to home, farther from her.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

Just keep running. Keep your mind on your breathing, on the beautiful moon, on the vans delivering boxes and boxes of goods to stores.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

My watch reads 6.35am. If I run a little faster, I might just make it home before she gets into the taxi to leave. Maybe, but probably not. I know her well enough to be pretty certain that she is already downstairs with her luggage, waiting. As soon as the taxi arrives, she will get in and they will drive away.

So just keep your rhythm, stay with the others, chit chat about your day. Get rid of your blues by keeping your body and mind busy.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

As I approach my street, I look over to see if the taxi is there. It isn't, as I suspected. It is 6.40am on the dot, the time the taxi was due, but I know they always come early hoping to make and extra buck or two. They left, she is on her way to catch her plane.

 

 

 

I run on, no point going home right away anymore. I still have five minutes to spare. I watch the sky turn from pink to grey-blue. Then I say good bye to my running companions and sprint across the street.

Thump, thump, thump.

I enter the apartment. It is dark and quiet. The kids and F are sleeping behind closed doors but it feels empty. I smell her perfume, or something more subtle, perhaps her face cream? I glance into her room, see the tousled sheets. She has been gone for so little that her pillow might still be warm, but probably not. I smile remembering how much I had to insist last night for her to leave the bed undone... no bed making allowed before 7am when you have a flight to catch.

I am sad I missed her on my way back from my morning run. I would have loved to have said goodbye again. I am glad I missed her on my way back from my morning run.  Good byes are hard.

It does not matter who you are or what you have achieved in your life, whether you have a career, whether you have won a Nobel prize, whether you are a mother, a father, a husband or a wife... when you are with your mother you are a daughter, you are a son, you are her child.

It takes time to readjust, to go back to being an adult with responsibilities and a family of your own, to protecting others instead of feeling protected.

We spent some lovely days together, the two of us alone and the two of us with my children and F.

We spoke, we laughed, we remembered, we ate, we drank. We went to museums and shopping.

We spent a decent amount of time in my kitchen chatting, looking through recipes and planning meals. I cooked, she watched and took note. She researched and suggested and I listened.

I may have mentioned before that growing up my mother was not a woman to wear an apron and cook up a Sunday roast. Having lunch out and seeing an exhibit was a more normal way for us to spend a Sunday. That does not mean we do not have our share of family favorites or that she does not know how to cook up a feast. And even if I do not have childhood memories of tinkering in the kitchen with her, I have her to thank for my love of good food and cook books, my fearlessness of trying pretty much anything.

We came up with this recipe together (and I created a new Pinterest addict in the process).

This, in short, is how it went:
1. Mom tastes friend's failed (friend's words, not mine) delicious cookies and is reminded of her love of florentines.
2. Mom starts obsessing about florentines.
3. We decide to dedicate an afternoon to baking together.
4. We make florentines, love them, but both agree they should have baked a little darker.
5. I want to show off my ice cream making skills and machine to her.
6. I decide to crumble the florentines and use them in said ice cream.
 

  

 

The florentines were truly delicious on their own, but the ice cream was sublime: each custardy, rich spoonful studded with crunchy morsels of caramelized nuttines. I am sorry I did not get a better picture of it, just to get your taste buds going, but there was none left the next day to photograph in day light.

Cheerio ice cream

 

 

In Italy, September is more than the Back-to-School-month, which as all parents know is taxing enough. It is the dreaded "inserimento" month (unless you are so unlucky as to be pushed back until October because of the long waiting list). I have thought long and hard about how to translate this word into English, but it is quite impossible given the concept itself does not exist in the Anglo-Saxon world. Integration? Admission? Orientation? I guess it is a sort of orientation multiplied by a thousand.

 

An interesting article on this process written by an Italian journalist, who is the mother of twins, was published in the leading Italian newspaper just a few days ago. It is a spot-on analysis on why the stereotype of the Italian 30-year old still living at home with his mamma actually exists. As the author rightly states, after a very different experience enrolling her children in a British school this year after several inserimenti, the best gift we can give our children is the gift of indipendence, the confidence to stand on their own two legs.

 

But I digress, back to the inserimento.

 

Basically, when your child starts nursery school, pre-school or pre-K, the child and his/her parents have to go through a grueling process that lasts anywhere from ten days to three weeks, during which the parent slowly (and let me repeat this, slowly) gets the child accustomed to his/her new surroundings, teachers, classmates, routines etc. Needless to say I have been through this several times over the past 6 years with my two kids and it always involves endless hours of organization, guilt, massive financial expenditure and patience.

 

A traditional inserimento goes somewhere along these lines: 

 

Day 1 - child and parent spend time in the classroom together from 10:30-11:30

Day 2 - parent accompanies child to classroom at 10:30, leaves after a few minutes and waits outside the room until 11:30

Day 3 - drop off at 10:30 and pick up at 1:00pm (parent is on call and has to arrive immediately if child has a crisis). Child stays for lunch

Day 4 - drop off at 9:00 and pick up at 1:00pm (unless you are unlucky, like us, and Day 4 is on a Monday, which means you drop off your child at 10:30 again because he may be traumatized after a week end at home)

Day 5 - drop off at 9:00 - pick up at 1:00pm

Day 6 - drop off at 9:00 - pick up at 3:00pm, if child survives napping at school

Day 7 - drop off at 9:00 - pick up at 3:45-4:00 (general school hours)

Day 8 - as above

Day 9 - as above

Day 10 - if child is enrolled in pre-school/after school activities, drop off 8:30am, pick up 5:30-6:00pm

 

During this period of time, it is desirable for one of the parents to be present, preferably the mother. If a baby-sitter/nanny is suggested,  eye rolling and muttering ensues and she/he is usually only allowed after the first few days. If your child is doing really well (i.e. my daughter in her day), the process may be accelerated, but usually a minimum of a week is standard, even if said child is literally shoving you out of the classroom when you drop them off.

 

Then again, if your child is not dealing well or simply has caught on and is aware that every time he cries you will be summoned (i.e. my son at present), the process can take much longer.

 

Today my son is on Day 4. I took two days off of work for Day 1 and Day 2. My husband took 2 mornings off for Day 3 and Day 4. It is not going well. My son has turned into a koala bear that does not want to enter class, that hangs off of our legs and whimpers when we so much as try to stretch our back after kneeling on the floor with him for an hour. After Day 2, that ended really badly after I was practically forced into lying about having to go to the bathroom to leave him (he realized after a few minutes that I still wasn't back and bawled the whole 45 minutes I was gone), I was told he probably wouldn't be allowed to stay for lunch on Day 3. Yesterday he actually did stay for lunch, with poor F, the only parent left, standing quietly in a corner watching him as he ate. When F had to move away for 5 minutes to take a work call, he came back to a crying child.

 

 

 

 

So no, it is not going well. Our son does not want to go to pre-school. We feel guilty when we are in school and when we are at work. We have been paying a baby sitter since we got back from vacation and will probably have to hire her for another week if things don't change today, Day 4.