New Year, New Plan

As I watched the ball drop in Times Square, I thought about New Year’s resolutions. Ordinarily, I’m not a fan of absolutes. Like giving up carbs. Who cuts out a whole food group, cold turkey? Or vowing to work out five days a week. Does walking to the bus stop count?

Still, as confetti fell all over 44^th and Broadway, I got the same start-over-fresh feeling I had every September when the new school year began. New notebooks, new pencils… only now I use a keyboard.

It’s been one year since I started my blog, Dolce Zitella. And as the New Year begins, it’s the perfect time to thank everyone who’s read the weekly blog posts, responded with comments, and recommended the blog to friends. I truly appreciate your support.

For me, Dolce Zitella has been fun – like having a marathon conversation with the girls. In contrast, the non-fiction book I’ve been working on for the past several years has been a solitary labor of love. The subject matter is deeply personal to me, and I’m pretty damn passionate about it.

But here’s the rub – like many of you, my work life is demanding and working late has become the norm. Every night I work late is a night I don’t get to write. Between getting home late, keeping up with the blog, and attending to the myriad of things that make up the everyday, carving out enough time to work on the book has been challenging.

Finishing the book in 2017 is not a New Year’s resolution. It’s my goal. And with any goal, you need a plan. So here goes: moving forward, I’ll be writing a new blog post every other week, rather than weekly, so I can devote more time to the book. Dolce Zitella will still be posted on Thursdays. I know I can count on all of you to stick with me on this.

And what’s the book about, you may wonder? Well, that’s another story for another day.

Girl Talk

In Praise of Loungewear

Forget comfort food. I’m all about comfort clothing, better known as loungewear. Which any fashionista can tell you is just a fancy name for pajamas. Pima cotton, microfiber, silk, flannel – the season often dictates the fabric – but every gal has her favorite.

An old t-shirt and jeans may be the correct attire if you’re puttering around the house on a typical Saturday, re-potting a plant or rearranging your bookshelves. But to truly luxuriate, and sleep late enough some Saturday morning to call your first meal of the day brunch, after which you sit on your sofa reading a magazine, you best be wearing your favorite striped, paisley, or polka dot PJ’s and matching spa socks.

Me, I can’t wait for the weekend to wrap myself in my comfiest, coziest fashions. Seriously – I literally cannot wait. As soon as I get home at night, I slip into my loungewear. And when I dream of working from home, it’s not because of the commute. It’s because I’d be wearing my loungewear all the time.

So for the vast majority of us who spend our days in constricting garments and high heels, I encourage you to be kind to yourself. Loungewear is an affordable luxury. Put on your fancy pants and matching top and pamper yourself. You deserve it, girl.

Best of Boston, Girl Talk, Life Lessons

Taking Tea

Last Sunday was the scene of a Boston Tea Party, of sorts. Okay, it wasn’t exactly a party since there were only three of us. And technically, we were southwest of Boston. But there was tea involved.

With Christmas only a week away, we were exhausted, what with all the shopping, the cooking, the cards… and we needed to take a break. Which meant taking tea.

We met up in Walpole, Massachusetts, at a hidden gem called “Fancy That.” This unique tea room offers a wide variety of tea, delicious scones, tea sandwiches, and sweets, in an atmosphere that makes you want to trade in your tunic sweater, leggings, and boots for a costume straight out of Downton Abbey. We truly felt as if we’d been transported to another time and place.

For two luxurious hours, the three of us harried gals sat sipping tea, (I chose a jasmine earl grey called “Buckingham Palace Garden Party Tea”) nibbling on lady-like sandwiches with the crusts cut off, and delicate confections. We chatted and laughed and recharged our batteries.

My usual remedy for being overbooked, overworked, and overwhelmed is to drink more coffee which only speeds my heart rate as I rush around trying to do just about everything faster. Who knew I could find such serenity at the bottom of a tea cup?

The next time you’re feeling the pressure, take a few minutes, and take tea!

http://www.afternoontea.com

Mothers and Daughers

Cookie Day

“Gotta stop at the market on my way home and pick up some more butter,” my officemate announced. “The cookie factory is open for business.”

She was in the midst of a chopped pecan, chocolate chip, sanding sugar, pre-Christmas baking frenzy. I’ve been there myself many times. But I’m sitting it out this year. Because in a little over a week, I’ll be home for Christmas, enjoying my mother’s sweet and delicate holiday treats.

Every year, about a week before Christmas, my mother (picture an Italian-American Martha Stewart) puts on her apron and her favorite Christmas music (cue up Dean Martin singing “Baby It’s Cold Outside”) and embarks on a baking marathon known in our family as “Cookie Day.”

Her butter cookies are made with a cookie press and decorated with chocolate or brightly colored sugar. Her almond crescents are rolled in confectioner’s sugar while they’re still hot. The thumbprint raspberry linzers and Italian sesame seed cookies are especially labor intensive. And the pizzelle are painstakingly made one at a time on the stovetop.

As a teenager, I loved assisting her in this holiday tradition as she prepared the various types of dough, then decorated, and baked the cookies. Once we got into a rhythm, there was no stopping us. The moment a tray came out of the oven, the next one went in. Carefully, the oven-hot cookies were set on the parchment paper lined kitchen table to properly cool. When we ran out of space on the kitchen table, I got the idea of using the ironing board, so we lined it with parchment paper, and placed the overflow cookies there.

Since he retired, my dad helps out on Cookie Day. At least he calls it helping. But my mother’s on to him. She makes him whistle, so he can’t sample too many of the homemade Christmas treats.

Girl Talk, Life Lessons, Pop Culture, The Brownstone

My House, My Rules

When you live alone, you can do whatever you want, whenever you want. For instance, you have complete 24/7 control of the remote. You always get to eat the last piece of cake. And you can decorate your bathroom red – which I did.

My friends who are married are limited when it comes to home decor. They paint their walls “mushroom” and choose stripes and solids for drapes and upholstery. I can use colors and patterns no man would ever agree to have in his home.

I inherited a kitschy 1970’s styled bathroom when I bought my condo. Picture a man cave. Now picture the polar opposite. The tub, toilet, sink, and even the floor tiles – pink. Calamine lotion pink. But since the fixtures were in such good condition, instead of gutting the whole thing, I decided to keep the pink. Remember the number one rule of living alone: you can do whatever you want.

That’s when those iconic red poppies came to mind.

“This is either going to be the most brilliant thing I’ve ever done,” I confided to the Marimekko salesgirl, “or else it’s gonna clash so badly that it’ll make me dizzy.” She assured me I could return all of it: the shower curtain, the matching storage tins, the accent towels, if I passed out. Once I knew I was on to something, I bought an armful of solid red towels and a lipstick-colored soap dish, tissue box, and waste basket set. In the end, the pink ran and hid under all that red.

As a single woman home owner, I took on a big responsibility. But with that responsibility came great freedom. Recently, I looked with new eyes at the kitchen counter tops I also inherited. Then I took a trip to that big home improvement store just to look around.

Girl Talk

Coffee Date

After batting around a few impersonal emails with an on-line dating prospect, the coffee date is what you do. It may seem old-fashioned, but I miss the blind date. There you had a genuine connection. A good friend would fix you up with her husband’s old college roommate. Two things were guaranteed: someone who knows you and knows him thought you might just hit it off – and he’s not a sociopath. Even if you didn’t find your soulmate, it was safe to let your guard down, and maybe even enjoy yourself. Not so with the coffee date.

We met after work at Starbuck’s. From our emailing, I knew he was a financial analyst and although I didn’t know his last name, that he was Italian-American like me. I was hoping for a Renaissance man…

My date was tall and attractive in his charcoal gray suit. And he was all business. After we sat down with our coffee, what I can only describe as my interview commenced:

“So you mentioned that you like to cook,” he began.

“Well yes, I do.”

“You make your own tomato sauce?” he prompted me.

“Ah huh.”

Then he fired off a series of follow-up questions:

“What do you put in it? Do you slow cook it? How do you make your eggplant parm? You do make eggplant parm, don’t you? And stuffed artichokes? What about steak pizzaiola?”

I was on a job interview all right, and the job under consideration was wife. Turning the tables was tempting.

“How are you with plumbing and electrical work? Can you unclog a sink? Install a ceiling fan? Do you do your own house painting?” I could ask.

But I didn’t. I knew he wouldn’t get it. Instead I just smiled and sipped my latte.

Zitella's Favorite Recipes

Let’s Talk Turkey

Whose idea was it to make turkey the traditional Thanksgiving dish? Do you think the pilgrims actually served turkey stuffed with cornbread and celery at their feast? After all, Plymouth is right on the ocean, so they probably ate fish. Maybe we’re all supposed to be dining on the Thanksgiving Lobster. I’m just saying…

Okay, so I’m not crazy about turkey. One or two slices of the bird, and I’m good. The next day, you open the refrigerator and remember just why they call it foul.

For me, turkey day is all about the sides. I can’t wait for the mashed potatoes, the green beans with the onions, cranberry sauce made from scratch, and kernel corn slow baked in a ramekin.

One of my favorite sides is an easy sweet potato casserole with a hint of vanilla that can be made ahead and reheated in the microwave. I’m happy to share the recipe with you.

sweet-potato-casserole

Whether you like apple, pumpkin, chocolate, or my personal favorite – lemon meringue – I’ll bet the expression, “life is uncertain, eat dessert first” was coined with pie in mind. In fact, instead of nicknaming Thanksgiving “turkey day,” I’d opt for “pie day.” And the next morning while all the shoppers are jockeying for a parking space at the mall so they can get in on the Black Friday sales, I gonna sleep in and eat leftover pie for breakfast.

Girl Talk, Pop Culture

Mad for Plaid

My disdain for plaid began in childhood. While most of my neighborhood friends went to public school wearing whatever they wanted, I attended parochial school dressed in a hideous Catholic School Uniform. These frocks all look the same: a plaid jumper with a pleated skirt, a white blouse with a peter pan collar, and a nerdy crisscross tie. The only possible variation is in color. Mine was hunter green.

As if all that wasn’t bad enough, I was forced to wear profoundly ugly black oxford shoes. I’m not talking hip Doc Martens, or timeless penny loafers. Try old-lady orthopedic clodhoppers.

I remained trapped in that get-up for six long years. It was more than a crime against fashion – it bordered on child abuse. To this day, I do not own a single hunter green garment, my contempt for plaid is legendary, and pleats of any sort literally give me a case of hives. Really, I’m not kidding about the hives.

During the nineties, plaid flannel shirts were a staple of the grunge look but I ignored them along with the Seattle Sound. Now plaid’s back again. This time, the inspiration’s come from the Scottish kilts worn in the runaway television hit Outlander, based on the Diana Gabaldon books. And while watching the show has become my guilty pleasure, I’ve continued avoiding plaid like the plague.

Until a few weeks ago, when an unexpected parcel arrived from my mother. She’s a skilled seamstress, and I’m always the lucky recipient of her handiwork. I quickly opened the package and to my surprise, it was a plaid wrap.

What was she thinking? She knows I hate plaid.

Ooh, me likey…

This wrap has become my go-to outerwear piece for the fall. It’s easy and comfy, and it looks great with everything in my wardrobe. Disdain finally removed. Now I’m mad for plaid.

Life Lessons, Writers and Writing

A Room of One’s Own

The four of us met several years ago in a “Writing a Non-Fiction Book” class. We shared a great respect for each other’s work and the tenacity to keep at the writing. So when the class ended, it was a no-brainer that we should form a writing group. We began meeting bi-monthly at a funky café in Harvard Square.

Our group is the literary equivalent of having a “gym buddy.” When you don’t feel like going to the gym, you force yourself because she’s counting on you. And so, the writing group keeps us all on track.

We are diverse women; the writing is our common thread. We lead very different lives, with demanding work schedules, multiple family responsibilities, and community commitments. Add to that the everyday tasks of cooking and laundry, and how much time is left for writing? For me it always comes down to this: sleep or write. Which would explain my consumption of caffeine and the circles under my eyes.

In the spirit of Virginia Woolfe’s essay “A Room of One’s Own,” we recently planned an intensive weekend of writing. We drove to Vermont, holed up in a carriage house that overlooked the Green Mountains, and we wrote. No household chores, no television, no distractions. Each of us structured our time a bit differently, but the bottom line was writing and receiving feedback in real time. Alright, I’ll admit it – there was a small side trip to the Eileen Fisher outlet store located a few miles away. But I promise, it was a very productive weekend.

Living communally reminded me of my college days. These amazing, supportive women have made a crucial impact on my life. We left Vermont with a deep sense of accomplishment. Next time – and there will be a next time – we’ll go to the ocean.

Girl Talk, Life Lessons

Inked

When I was a kid, it seemed like the only people with tattoos were guys who’d been in the military or who rode motorcycles. Getting tattooed is painful and it proved these guys were strong, tough, cool. In other words – badass.

Once in a great while, I’d see a woman with a tattoo but it was usually a dainty little red rose on her ankle or shoulder. Still, I never considered doing it myself. For one thing, I didn’t feel strongly enough about anything to have it branded into my skin. Then there was the pain factor. And a badass? Definitely not me.

But getting tattooed has become so commonplace that it hardly seems the act of courage or rebellion it once was. These days, it’s more about artistic expression and individualism. That being said, getting tattooed remains a painful endeavor and, you have to be gutsy to let that needle go at your skin.

Full disclosure here: I got inked.

Like far too many women, first I was cut. Next, pumped full of poison. Then came the tatts, and finally they nuked me. I guess that makes me a badass after all.

You see, my tatts are radiation markers. I am a breast cancer survivor with four small permanent black dots on my chest. But I’m also a hockey enthusiast, a devoted Boston Bruins fan, so I choose to think of my tatts as small hockey pucks. Four little pucks in honor of the greatest hockey player that ever was: Number Four – Bobby Orr!

It’s October. Hockey season started last week and my Bruins are back on the ice. It’s also Breast Cancer Awareness Month. Have you scheduled your mammogram?