Do We Ever See Anyone? is an experimental film with a very simple premise. The piece consists of a single stock footage shot of pedestrians in Manhattan. I slowed the footage down so the viewer could study the faces of the people walking on the busy street.
I wanted to share a recent Thanksgiving tradition in our family. During Thanksgiving week, my wife, Pamela, and I make Italian pizzelles—both anisette and chocolate flavored—according to the recipe of my late mother, Carmella DeCosty Ruane. This simple Italian cookie pairs well with a cup of coffee; it’s also one of the few things I can make from scratch, along with pasta fagioli (fazool), lentil soup with ditalini pasta (box version) and marinara sauce (pronounced madinad in Rome, New York). The pizzelle tradition is even more meaningful as this time of year always reminds me of my mother, since she passed away seven years ago on Nov. 22, 2011.
You will need a pizzelle maker in order to cook up a batch of your own. Here’s a snapshot of our final product:
And here are the instructions from Carmella’s original recipe, with some slight modification by Pamela and me:
1 Tsp. Anise Flavoring
1 Tbsp. Vanilla Flavoring
2 Tsp. Baking Powder
2 Cups Flour
½ Cup of Butter or Margarine, melted
1 Cup Sugar
Beat eggs and sugar. Add cooled melted butter or margarine, and vanilla and anise. Sift flour and baking powder and add to egg mixture. Batter will be stiff enough to be dropped by teaspoon. Makes 30 Pizzelles.
Before the first pizzelles of the day only, use a pastry brush to carefully coat the entire surface of the both halves of the pizzelle maker with vegetable oil or melted shortening. Spray shortenings work very well for this purpose. Do this only at the start of each day that you bake pizzelles. Wipe excess shortening off the grids. The first pizzelles may not come out well. These directions are for my pizzelle maker. Your pizzelle maker may not require you to do this.
Pick up about one heaping teaspoon of batter and place in the center of each grid pattern. With some experimenting, you will learn that placing the batter slightly behind the center (that is, away from you) can produce full-size pizzelles. You may also prefer to use half as much batter to produce smaller pizzelles with a snowflake border. Baking will take approximately 30 seconds depending on your preference for browning, or the consistency of your batter. Remove pizzelles with spatula and place on a flat tin. Once pizzelles are completely cool, put in a plastic container or a plastic bag so the pizzelles stay crisp.
Use 1 ¾ cups of flour (not 2 cups), add 3 heaping tablespoons cocoa and add 3 tablespoons sugar to the basic pizzelle recipe. If desired, you can substitute chocolate flavoring instead of the vanilla. Do not add anise flavoring.
Please forgive my terrible alliteration, but I couldn’t think of a more accurate headline.
While getting some blood work done at the Upstate University Hospital patient blood draw lab, I spotted this message written on the back of an issue of Upstate Health magazine (Winter 2018):
I am so Glad
you have a friend
like reily (or reilly). I hope
you have fun tonight.
I Love You!
You deserve to have fun!
The message was dated Saturday, Sept. 22 and was written with a black Sharpie and adorned with two red ink hearts.
I hope Meadow had a fun weekend.
I have a short nonfiction piece published with St. Dominic’s Media. You can read the story here, and thanks for taking a look.
Here’s a speculative poem that seems to fit an autumn theme.
The trees are haunted with ten-thousand eyes,
hanging in the place where leaves should be—
the remains of those who came this way before,
but did not survive in the forest.
They study me as I hike along the path,
searching for an opening to the other side.
I grow weary and stop to rest.
And then ten-thousand eyes blink in unison.
It seems like a signal.
And as I look around,
buzzards and crows fly at me,
then peck away at the flesh.
I fall to the ground and
the birds snatch pieces of me
as they take off in flight.
When I wake up, the sun is shining
and my eyes are now hanging in a tree.
Another man is walking on the path.
I look down on him and
when he looks up at me,
I give him a wink and then close my eyes,
as the birds circle him and dive in to attack.
©2017 Francis DiClemente
(Sidewalk Stories, Kelsay Books)
Here’s a short poem I wrote about the shift of seasons, as we transition from late summer to fall.
Farewell Summer (Apologies to Bradbury)
The death of summer—
as the season wanes.
No more soft-serve
ice cream cones,
baseball games and
giving way to the
birth of autumn.
And you know
what comes next.
pulls Old Man Winter
down from the attic,
sharpens his dentures
and deprives him of food—
until she’s ready
to set him loose
on the world again.
©2018 Francis DiClemente
My late mother’s handwriting. Black Sharpie marks on masking tape stuck to an old Tupperware container.
She wrote this out on August 30, 2011, less than three months before she died from lung cancer. I claimed the Tupperware from my stepfather’s house after her passing and never had the heart or the desire to peel off the tape.
This summer I cooked my mother’s zucchini and green bean stew with onions, Italian seasonings and crushed tomatoes. I don’t have a recipe of hers to follow, but I winged it and it came out edible. For the full effect you need to dunk fresh Italian bread in the juice.
And it was fitting to dump the leftovers in my mother’s Tupperware and stick the container in my freezer. Marking this date, I thought I would defrost the Tupperware today to honor my mother’s memory and enjoy the last zucchini stew of summer.
Yet when I pulled out the container from the freezer this morning, I saw another one, filled with the same stew I made, with my mother’s handwriting on masking tape (also dated 8/30/11), tucked in the back of the freezer. I think I’ll save that one for a frigid night in the middle of winter.
While waiting for an MRI on my left wrist at Upstate University Hospital, as a follow up for my rheumatoid arthritis, I spotted a cheap Van Gogh print hanging on a wall directly opposite from me. The image displayed was Vincent’s Irises (1889), and the text read:
Van Gogh in Saint-Remy and Auvers
The Metropolitan Museum of Art
November 25, 1986-March 22, 1987
Inside the small waiting room, on a wall-mounted TV set, local broadcasters recited the morning headlines and a meteorologist gave the weekend forecast. I paid little attention, instead choosing to focus my eyes on the Van Gogh painting. From far across the room, and taking my weak eyesight into consideration, the slanted vertical green leaves looked like snakes writhing in the dirt; even so, the longer I stared at the image, the calmer I felt. The one word that came to my mind was placid.
I don’t meditate, but I have discovered that good art, like classical music, has a way of centering my thoughts and ushering a sense of peace in difficult and stressful situations. And even a minor MRI can start the brain working on all of the “what if,” worst-case scenarios. So I was thankful that Vincent spent a little time with me in the hospital waiting room before my procedure.
Here’s a better image of the painting.
And after I left the hospital, inspired by Vincent, I captured my own “still life” image.
While perusing for books in the library, I spotted a large volume entitled The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath, 1950-1962. In the few moments I took to scan the 700-plus-page book, I felt like I peered into the troubled soul of the confessional poet and author of the novel The Bell Jar. Plath struggled with depression much of her life and committed suicide in 1963.
The intensity of the language in one of the passages from a section dated 22 November 1955 – 18 April 1956 captivated me, and I thought if you rearranged the sentences in verse form, they would construct a splendid poem. I had no sense of context from where Plath’s agitated emotions sprang, and standing in the library stacks, I felt a great sense of loss about Plath’s life and sadness that she took her unique voice with her to the grave.
Here’s an image of the passage I read:
Plath, Sylvia. The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath, 1950-1962. New York: Anchor Books, 2000.
I recently spotted this scrap of legal pad paper on the ground in the parking lot of a medical complex in Liverpool.
When I picked it up, I read a list of items needed for a kids’ party. Some of things jotted down included: hot dogs, water, sunscreen, juice box, ice cooler and plastic spoons and forks. There was also a reference to yard games, e.g. potato sack races.
On the flip side of the paper were the following notes: “order sheet pizza, order cup cake cake. Emoji. Approx 15 kids. Adults?”
I love stumbling upon these little notes because I feel like I get a glimpse into the person making up the list. Also, I know that if I were planning a party for 15 kids, I would do the exact same thing—make up a detailed “To Do” list. I was curious, however, about the absence of a “bouncy house” on the list.