All talking, laughing, crying, and remembering.
Angela had certainly touched many lives, he thought. She will always be with us.
He walked over to his wife, Helen, and put his arm around her shoulder.
“How are you holding up?” He asked.
“Better than I thought,” she said, her eyes glistening and her voice sounding thicker than normal.
She went off to greet another distant relative Frank vaguely remembered from a gathering of Paolottos.
He continued to wander through the mourners, listening to snippets of conversation.
“Remember when she prepared the entire meal …”
“She brought over clothes after the fire …”
“The Altar Rosary Society will have a hard time …”
“When my father died, she was there with cookies …”
“She put us up for two days during the ice storm …”
“She sat with me for hours at the hospital …”
“Every year, there was always a card with a special message …”
“She had 50 people over for Easter dinner …”
Yes, his mother-in-law had touched a lot of people. He had benefitted from her kindness many times, even when he was just dating Helen.
And yes, Angela certainly could cook and bake. He recalled the many meals at the old family home. The pasta dishes. The meats and fish. Grilled eggplant. The savory soups. Calamari al Forno. The pies and cakes. Almond cookies. The home-made breads. There was always more than he could eat. And there were always leftovers to take home and enjoy for days after.
Helen had inherited her mother’s gift for cooking. But whenever she cooked a big or complicated meal, she would call her mother multiple times for advice, or suggestions, or encouragement.
Following the wake, in the safety of home and after the children were in bed, Helen’s held-back tears finally unleashed. Frank held her. There was nothing he could say or do.
“It will never be the same,” she sobbed.
The next day at the funeral, Father Orlando, an old family friend, had the packed church alternately laughing and crying as he told stories about Angela. He ended by saying she has finally gone home to truly live up to her name.
Two days later, Frank and Helen drove over to Angela’s home. Marie and Julie, Helen’s sisters, and their respective spouses, were to meet them there to begin the process of deciding what to do with all of Angela’s possessions.
It was a crisp November day. The last leaves were dropping from the trees, and there was a hint of snow in the air.
Frank and Helen arrived first. They unlocked the front door, and were greeted by the sweet smell of olive oil and tomato sauce. Angela had been cooking the day she died. She had just finished a meal to deliver to a family with a new born child – one of her many little kindnesses – when she sat down in an easy chair in the living room to rest, and her generous heart, damaged by childhood illness, had simply given out. Doctors said it likely had been sudden and painless.
Helen looked around the room.
“Most of this will go in the estate sale,” she sighed.
Frank pointed to the bell on the mantelpiece.
The bell was a family tradition. It was an old hand bell Angela had used to summon Helen and her sisters home when they were young, and her late husband Tony from his workshop in the garage. In subsequent years, it was used to beckon the grandchildren and the assorted other young relatives at family gatherings to come in from play, or to signal the assorted visitors that whatever feast they had gathered to enjoy was ready.
“I think that should go with us,” he said.
Helen just nodded.
“Anything else you want to keep?”
“No, most of it is old and old-fashioned,” she said. “Maybe some photo albums, or some of her jewelry. I’ll have to see what everyone else wants.”
The other sisters arrived shortly thereafter.
They hugged and cried and hugged some more. Then they began to wander through the house to decide what to do.
The other husbands followed the women. Frank did not want to wander, so he went in the kitchen instead and sat at the kitchen table he had sat at many times before.
The kitchen was spotless – friends and relatives had cleaned up after Angela’s death. As for the meal for the family with the new baby, it had of course been delivered. A gift from Angela even after she had gone.
He decided to make a cup of coffee. He put the kettle on and looked in the cabinet for instant coffee.
He found it, and then spotted two old shoe boxes stuffed with papers and index cards.
He carried the boxes back to the table and looked through them while the water heated.
The first box contained addresses and all sorts of Christmas/Birthday/Easter/Get Well and other cards.
The second box contained recipes.
Hundreds of them.
He pulled out one for lasagna. As he looked at the ingredients, he could taste it in his mind.
His mouth began to water. He chuckled.
He sorted through other recipes.
Lentil soup. Spaghetti sauce. Pecan pie. Ginger snaps.
His water boiled. He made his coffee, and then returned the coffee and the recipes to the cabinet.
He sipped the coffee and looked at the wall above the stove. There was a small plaque with a poem.
Bless this kitchen, Lord,
and
those who gather here each day.
Let
it be a place where we can meet
to love and laugh and pray.
Amen.
He decided to ask if they could have it for their kitchen as a way to remember Angela.
He sipped his coffee.
For some reason, he remembered one particular visit many years ago.
He was a struggling first-year teacher. He wanted to quit.
He had come that day to pick up Helen, who was still a senior in college and was home for a visit. But she was not back from an errand yet.
Angela invited Frank into the kitchen. She was baking pies, and the kitchen was full of the sweet smell.
Without asking, she had poured him a cup of coffee, and put some cookies on a plate in front of him.
She sat down.
“Helen is so proud of you,” she said.
“Proud?”
“Yes, a teacher. That is a noble career. She says you are very good with the children.”
He shook his head, and suddenly out poured all his fears and struggles. Classroom management. Keeping on top of the papers and tests. Planning lessons. Taking night classes to finish his Master’s Degree. The struggles of a naturally shy person to be always “on” when in class. The constant state of tiredness.
“I just don’t know if it’s the right thing for me,” he said softly.
Angela reached across the table and touched his arm.
“I can tell how much you love the children. And you love to write. Angela showed me some of your things. They’re very good. She says you share that love with the children. That is good. A caring teacher can touch so many lives. Keep writing and teaching, if that is what you are called to do. If not, you will find a way. I can see that in you. Just keep doing the best you can. That is all anyone can do.”
She squeezed his arm and smiled.
That was 15 years ago. He was now the chairman of the English Department. And very happy in his career.
He sighed and finished his coffee. He washed the cup, and set off in search of his wife and the others.
They were all sitting on the bed in the master bedroom looking at photo albums.
The three women were all crying and laughing at the same time.
Frank decided to wait to ask about the prayer.
They spent the rest of the day looking through the house. By day’s end the daughters had all decided who was going to get what, with items being scattered far and wide among relatives and family friends. The rest would go in an estate sale.
They also decided that the family Thanksgiving gathering would be at the McCarthy home.
That meant weeks of cleaning, and shopping. Helen was in her element, organizing and planning, calling her sisters and the cousins who would also be cooking, doling out assignments.
Frank had his duties, too. Mostly, they involved runs to the store, hauling tables and chairs, and staying out of the way.
Thanksgiving morning, he ventured into the kitchen. Helen was crying.
“Honey?” He asked.
“I know I’m being stupid,” she said. “About now I would have been calling mom to ask some cooking questions.”
He kissed her on the head.
“Nothing stupid about it.”
Soon the relatives arrived. The house was full of laughter and compliments on the food, and talk of previous celebrations with Angela.
It was fitting that Angela came up at such a feast, he thought.
Later that night, while on dish duty, he looked above the stove and suddenly remembered the prayer in Angela’s kitchen.
And that’s when the idea hit him. He smiled. Then he wondered if he would have time.
The next few weeks were busy with packing up of the house and getting ready for the estate sale. They had decided to wait until January, after all the holidays.
He helped when he could, but he also stayed at school extra late many nights, and even going in on weekends. Helen was used to that. He was involved with so many student groups and clubs. Only now, he had gotten the students on the school newspaper he moderated to help with a special project.
In between sessions on the computers, he made many phone calls. He also stopped by Angela’s house when he was sure no one else would be around.
Still, he was afraid that his special project would not be completed in time for Christmas.
But when he submitted the last section the week before Christmas, the last of more than 200 pages, he breathed a sigh of relief. The printer with whom he worked for the school newspaper was in on the nature of the project, and assured him it would be done in time.
The next week, he waited, anxious every time the phone rang.
Meanwhile, Helen was caught up again in her role as Angela’s heir, preparing for a feast on Christmas Day and the arrival again of many hungry relatives.
When the call finally came, he said he had to go out for some last minute shopping. Helen was so busy she barely noticed.
Christmas Eve, they went to the Family Christmas Mass, then returned home to ready for the next day.
In the morning, Frank, Helen, and the children opened their gifts. Squeals of pleasure. Wrappings piled high. Hugs all around.
After cleaning up, and leaving the children to their new delights, Frank and Helen headed into the kitchen to finish preparing the food.
The sisters’ families, and several of the cousins and their families, arrived shortly after noon.
They were talking in the living room, snacking away, laughing, when Frank came down from the attic carrying a box. He also had Angela’s hand bell.
He stood at the living room entrance and rang the bell. Everyone turned to him in surprise.
“Before we eat, I wanted to give out some special gifts,” he said. “Please don’t open them until everyone has one.”
He distributed packages to his wife, her sisters, and all the cousins.
“Okay,” he said. “Open them.”
They all started unwrapping. Suddenly there were gasps, and “Oh my Gods.”
Each person held a book. On the cover was a picture of Angela in her apron, above the words, “Recipes for Love.”
Inside were many of her special recipes, interspersed with pictures of Angela cooking, with her three daughters, with Tony, and of family gatherings. There were also many stories of her kindnesses that he’d collected by phone.
And on the first page was the kitchen poem.
“Merry Christmas from Angela,” he said.
Helen rushed over to him and fiercely hugged him.
Around the room people were tearing up and laughing as they looked through the book.
Yes, he thought, Angela will always be with us.
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