Ask me about pasta and I'll tell you about grief

 The other day I was visiting with a good friend and was very excited to tell him about my new pasta blog. It seems like this blog project appeared with full force out of thin air, and with so much passion behind it - but feels like I have always done this. I have felt so energized about my cooking, writing and sharing my love for pasta, while holding tightly to the feeling that this project is weaving together the stories I have unraveled and the parts of myself that I have been healing simultaneously. In this pasta project, I am able to focus on a meal, and at the same time, process a feeling or memory and channel it into nourishment for my heart. 

My friend asked me "what does making this pasta mean to you"? He wasn't quite ready for the long winded answer I delivered, but he was along for the ride, as I hope you are, dear readers. 

In answering his question, something became crystal clear to me: Through making and celebrating pasta, I am processing my grief and trauma, and celebrating the loving memory of my late mother, grandmother, and myself. I am connecting our stories as I cook my way through the pain and heal myself with the most honest, truthful food I have ever eaten. 

After age 6, I did not grow up with many women in my life. I forgot what the attachment to my mom felt like - her hugs, her warmth and softness. I forgot what it meant to be unconditionally loved. I grew up through my kiddo, tween and teen and early adulthood years feeling this compulsive need to achieve and be good, but never feeling like I was ever enough, never feeling connected or attached. In that place of survival mode, I lived in a constant state of panic and insecurity, I never learned to recognize what I needed. While I developed an incredible tolerance for pain (hello resilience), I struggled with so many things. 

In making pasta, I am able to slow down all of it. I am able to spend time in a quiet, safe place of my own. I am able to make mistakes, practice, and get better simply for myself. I can hear my intuition tell me to add a little of this, or that instead of cooking, today I need a nap. I am able to slice onions and cry, an easy opener to let my feelings fall out and land gently on the cutting board. I am able to stir and knead and chop and move through these feelings slowly, purposefully and delicately. 

With each new recipe achieved, I feel myself connecting with the community of Italians I lost. Each time I approach my counter, I recover a lost memory; standing by my nana at her kitchen table as she rolled out crusts for apple pies, relatives passing serving dishes at the big holiday dining room dinner table, big Macaruso laughter filling the house during a game of Rummy at the dining table, and snuggling up next to my mom at the kitchen table for homemade pizza night. While I may be focusing on memories from 1994, I am also working out envisioning the kind of mother and grandmother I might be in the future, sometime in 2024 or 2064.

So essentially, for me, as it is for so many, food = family. And for me, learning to cook is learning to heal. Making pasta is making peace with my grief, and nourishing myself into the daughter/woman/nana I am choosing to become. 

I hope you enjoy this journey with me. I hope the next time you order a bowl of fresh pasta, you take a moment to remember a special meal with a loved one. I hope we can continue sharing special meals together, with special ingredients and lots of love. 

Love&Pasta,

Linda Marie, Marianne's Daughter, Teresa's Granddaughter