Another Rainy Day...

I'm not even sure why I got out of bed this morning. It's so rainy and gloomy again, I just feel like curling up and taking a nap, even though I've been up for less than an hour. Enough already! The pond is full, the basement is damp, the well isn't salty, so we don't need more precipitation right now.

But rainy weather is fine for things like wrapping Christmas presents and baking cookies. Bill misses the "Cookie Exchange." In NY, our group of friends would each bake batches of 3 or 4 different treats and then swap them, so everyone got a plate full of joy with a dozen or more candies and cookies to see Bill through the holidays. I won't get quite that ambitious, but I always enjoy trying a few new recipes each year, and I want to tuck some gingerbread into the packages for the kids, just so they can taste Mom's love from afar.

When I was 10, my great-grandmother "Ma" came to our house and made raviolis, noodles and an Italian cookie called "gesh-pel" (Sorry Mom, I know I'm not spelling it right, so I went for the phonetic representation). The cookies were simple rolled out rectangles, slit in the center and then one end was pulled through the hole. They were fried in Mazola oil until bubbly and crisp and then sprinkled with powdered sugar.

The raviolis took a lot of preparation. Ma brought a traditional filling of brains and spinach (at 10, I thought this was gross) that she had made in her home, and I think we also did one with the usual ricotta cheese too. The stiff dough had to be rolled paper-thin. I remember being amazed at my ancient great-grandmother's arm strength! With her one pass of the wooden rolling pin, you could see your hand through the dough, while I struggled with the springy blog and failed to make any progress. There were special tools--a frame to make the little pillows and a zig-zag cutting wheel to separate them (my default job, after the dough debacle). The dough scraps were made into noodles, which we draped on clean cloth towels to dry over the backs of every chair in the house.

While we were busy with the ravioli/noodle asssembly line, a big pot of my mother's tomato sauce was simmering on the stove, filling the house with the smells of garlic, oregano, fennel and basil. I loved the smell, but I didn't eat the sauce. As a child, I ate my pasta "naked," as my mother's sauce was always too spicy-hot for my young taste buds. And as I recall, my dad didn't eat pasta at all, except for the special occasion of Christmas raviolis. Mom must have despaired over both of us!

I pull these memories out in December, spooling them through my mind, and trying to remember the tiniest details. Replaying the visual pictures of long-gone, much-loved family and happy times of cooking, laughing and of course, eating, makes this time of year very special to me.