When we married, I confess I didn’t warn my husband that preserving tomatoes for sauce is serious business in my Italian family. The tomatoes have to be the correct size, ripeness, and variety. Access to large quantities of quality tomatoes in an isolated Northern Ontario town, 500 miles away
A number of years ago, my husband, our son, and some friends, formed a Celtic band. Their repertoire consisted of Irish and Scottish music and collectively they played highland bagpipes (the loud ones), shuttle pipes (a quiet, easier on the ear bagpipe), guitar, fiddle, and percussion. They welcomed opportunities to
Sewing became a passion for me when I was working full-time, teaching part-time, and trying to keep up with a toddler. I ignored my fatigue and thought nothing of handling sharp objects late in the day after my son was hopefully tucked in for the night. But my mother, who
It was an angry mob that put the thought of teaching in my head. As a conflict averse introvert, this was an uprising I would rather have avoided. However, I agreed our teacher had gone too far. The college curriculum of our computer studies program was challenging enough without our
I love parties thrown in my honour, even if they’re surprise parties (as long as someone discreetly steers me to the appropriate wardrobe choice). In particular, I look forward to milestone birthday and anniversary parties. It was a warm sunny June in Northern Ontario. Not only was our daughter
As with most things my mother forced me to do when I was a teenager, I found a way to comply while ensuring I got my way or at least making sure she hadn’t gotten hers. A major concern for a traditional Italian mother of daughters was guaranteeing we
I wanted to learn how to play guitar so badly when I was eleven but the Italian kids took accordion lessons if they learned any instrument at all. And it was often only the boys who had the option of taking lessons. It was unfair. My brother had no interest
I was the kid in high school who never did well in anything requiring athletic ability. I invented creative excuses to miss gym class, was the one left at the end when teams were picked, and perfected sneaking around the vaulting horse rather than jumping over it. Instead of trophies
I’d meant to organize my photos – twenty-years worth that lived in shoeboxes in closets and cupboards throughout the house. I hadn’t thought I’d be organizing the history of me and my mother. When I undertook this great task, I expected it would tax my organizational skills, and
“No, you have to hide the egg!” my twenty-two-year-old daughter demanded. I was covered with flour, had been up since dawn and my hands were starting to go numb. I didn’t need my twenty-two-year old acting like a two-year-old unless she was planning to help me with the bread
While on a family vacation in Italy, I listened to my Uncle Angelo and Uncle Leo discuss one of their favourite topics – wine. They were born in Southern Italy but Angelo settled in Motta di Livenza, a small town near Venice, where he was chief of police for many years.
I came home from university in early November to attend the Artillery Ball, an annual black-tie event, hosted by the 49th Field Regiment, of which my boyfriend Rob was not only a member, but a kilt-wearing one. He was a drummer in their pipe band and they were performing at