Friday, October 31, 2014

In the Corner of the Pinewoods

my forestThe following story is one I’ve been thinking about writing for years. It’s not really my usual genre of writing, but since it is Halloween and there was a sort of challenge for bloggers to write a short horror story, I thought I’d give it a try. It’s more fantastical than horrific, and since there is more than a single grain of truth to it, my protagonist’s name will be Melody. In the woods outside the town of Mistretta in Italy, there is a particular corner…


Melody looked at her watched and gasped. It was a quarter of five, and she’d now been gathering chestnuts for three hours. She had two huge bags full, but there were still chestnutsso many lying around that she hated to leave them; if she didn’t gather them now, someone else would and that would be so many less than what she could have for the rest of the fall and winter. And yet, she had to get home, and quickly. Today was Halloween and they had the party that night.
She had ‘trained’ the girls well; they had been busily preparing for the party, putting up the decorations and preparing costumes and scripts for the ‘haunted house’, but she was the witch. And the Halloween party was not Halloween without her witchiness. Why, just the other day, as she was passing a group of children one of them came up to her and asked, “Mrs. Witch, are we going to be having the Halloween party this year?” When she’d answered in the affirmative, the little girl had skipped off to join her friends, nodding at them and giggling. A sense of satisfaction had gone through her that day: if she was to be remembered for something, at least it would be for providing fun for little children.
But now, it was late. She had meant to go home at least half an hour earlier, but when she was alone in the woods, gathering chestnuts, mushrooms or pine nuts, she usually lost all track of time and today there were so many chestnuts, probably resulting from last night’s tornado. Fortunately, she’d already made her famous poisonous mushrooms – the amazingly delicious pumpkin plus cookies that resembled the product they were named for – so all that was left to do was get herself ready for her bewitching role. But, before she could do that, she had to get past that corner…
It was on the fastest route out of the woods from the position she was in, and most of the time she had no problems taking it. Indeed, any other time of the day, she could take a short-cut across the corner, and take off a good ten minutes from her travel time. But it was almost five o’clock, and in just a few minutes… She had no other choice, though, because going the long way would add on an extra half an hour that she couldn’t allow herself today of all days.
And so, she walked. She couldn’t run, but even if she could, she wouldn’t because the ground was so uneven, with rocks and tree roots sticking up at odd spots. She hoped the strange feeling she got passing that spot wouldn’t grab her as badly as it usually did at this time of day. Had she left when she’d planned on, there wouldn’t have been a problem, because the eeriness of the corner appeared only at five o’clock. It wasn’t just the lighting – or lack of such – because the same sense was there in the summer, winter and spring, too, at five o’clock, rain, fog or shine. And, of course, the last rays of autumn sunlight filtering through the the yellowing leaves on the trees, caused oddly shaped shadows to ripple along the grassy slopes, hinting at things unknown and unseen. Witchy Me
Melody was almost there; although she could see it just around the bend, she would have known even with her eyes closed because of the cold tendrils of panic that gripped her heart. Today, though, the closer she drew to the spot the more she decided she would fight the usual tendency. She would teach them who would frighten who. Because, you see, Melody had a secret power; it was hers only on Halloween, which helped her be the best Halloween witch ever, and was the reason little children referred to her as Mrs. Witch. It was her laugh. Not an every-day-of-the-week laugh, but an evil-sounding, authentic witch’s laugh, the kind that causes children to hide their faces (which was why they loved it) and adults to tremble. And it only worked on Halloween.
And so, fighting against the corner’s chill (even Spike refused to chase any rabbit brave enough to run across that corner at that time of day), Melody gathered up her energy and laughed. The evil sounding, witchy laugh rang across that corner, issuing a challenge to those frightening, unknown forces of the pinewoods’ corner. As though by magic, a change came suddenly upon the corner. The mist drew back it’s chilling tendrils, the shadows drew back and though the sun had begun to go down behind the surrounding hills, its warmth slid easily in place of the misty cold. The birds began to sing in the branches, the raucous crows stopped cawing and peace returned to the beautiful corner of the pinewoods.
Melody smiled as she skipped through the woods, actually crossing the corner instead of going around it. Today, she could. Tomorrow? Tomorrow was another day.


© October 31, 2014 Mary Purpari . All Rights Reserved.

Saturday, October 25, 2014

Christmas Delights from Mistretta: The Cannolo Siciliano*

 

The world-renowned Sicilian pastry has been a tradition in Italy for centuries. Now, with this recipe, it can also be yours, to happy cries of “Mamma Mia!”

Christmas in Sicily is a wonderful time of the year: Midnight mass, the presepio (manger scene), Christmas dinner with the extended family and mountains of traditional Christmas pastries: buccedate3530912_com_cannolo_siciliano_with_chocolate_squares (made with ground dried fruit and nuts), cream puffs, almond brittle, pasta reale and the world famous Cannolo Siciliano.

Fresh ricotta, one of the Cannolo Siciliano’s main ingredients, comes into season during the winter months, just in time for Christmas. Although originally from Palermo, the cannolo has also become a highly prized tradition in Mistretta. The following recipe comes from one of the best cannolo makers in the city, Rosetta Tamburello.

Ingredients for the Shell:

  • 1 Kg. (2.2 lbs.) White Flour
  • 100 gr. (1/2 Cup) Sugar
  • 100 gr. (1/2 Cup) Shortening
  • 400 ml. (15 oz.) Red wine
  • 1 egg white for gluing the points

Ingredients for the Filling:

  • 1 Kg. (2.2 lbs.) Drained fresh ricotta
  • 550 gr. (1.5 lb.) Sugar
  • 100 gr. (1/2 Cup) Coarsely cut dark chocolate
  • Powdered sugar mixed with a hint of cinnamon

Equipment:

  • Pasta Machine (optional)
  • Rolling pin
  • Several metal cannolo tubes
  • Deep Fryer with abundant vegetable oil or melted shortening
  • Diamond-shaped cookie cutter with rounded corners (5”X4”)

Procedure for Making the Shell

Combine the flour, sugar and shortening together, rubbing it between your hands until it is completely mixed; add the wine and knead until it is a uniform ball. If it is too soft, add more flour: it should be dry; if it should be too dry, add a little more wine, until it reaches the desired consistency.

Extend the dough with a rolling pin or the pasta machine, until it reaches a thickness of 2mm (about 1/8 inch). Cut the dough with cookie cutter until all the dough has been cut. Roll the formed pasta around the cannolo tubes, fixing the points by brushing with egg white and lightly pressing. Fry in hot oil or shortening until a golden brown is reached. Remove them from the oil, and cool.

While the cannolo shells are cooling, prepare the ricotta filling as follows:

Take the drained ricotta and sugar and mash together until creamy. Mix in the cut chocolate.

Place the ricotta mix into the cooled cannolo shells and sprinkle lightly with powdered cinnamon sugar. Place on a tray and serve.

In our home, these cannolos were fought over, and a tray of 30 usually lasted less than 5 minutes after serving. As they say in Sicilia, “Buon Appetito”!

*This article was first published in Suite101.com in 2012 by ©Mary Purpari  All rights reserved

Friday, October 24, 2014

I Will—the Encounter

JFK airport“First call for TWA flight number 163 for Heathrow Airport now boarding at Gate number 67.” Twenty-six year old Melody McDonald picked up her pace. She’d been lucky; there weren’t many passengers on the flight and so her standby ticket had gotten her on the first flight out. The song playing over the intercom was mournful, with an Irish lilt to it. She wished that they’d put up the volume so she wouldn’t have to strain so much to hear the haunting tune; she was dividing her energy between that and running to get to the departure gate before the flight took off. She knew that if she didn’t figure out what it was, it would probably drive her nuts during the entire eight-hour flight. Such was her concentration that she didn’t notice the tall, thin young man with the walrus mustache until she plowed into him, knocking both of them onto the hard floor.

Jack shook his shoulder-length, shaggy light brown hair out of his eyes as he tried to regain his composure. The impact with the cute blonde had surprised him; he’d been listening to the song on the intercom, trying to place it. It had sounded vaguely familiar, slightly airy with a more serious cello undertone threading through it, although he couldn’t remember who had composed it,Jacksonville Sun hat or even the name of the piece itself. Of course it was a canned, instrumental version, but so intent had he been that he hadn’t seen the girl until they had literally fallen at one another’s feet. Had he seen her coming he would have moved out of her way; but then again, he thought, focusing his sapphire-blue eyes more closely on her, maybe not. She looked kind of cute with his baseball hat – which had ended up on her head during the collision – as though wearing baseball hats was a normal habit of hers.

Sitting there on the floor of the airport, in the middle of the gangway, her luggage strewn all around her, Melody could finally hear the music, perhaps a little too loudly, now. Had she possibly knocked something loose in the collision? She’d heard about people being able to receive radio stations straight to their brains after knocking a tooth loose. Of course, she could never tell anyone about this – they’d think she was nuttier than she really was. The song… She thought maybe it sounded a little like the Moody Blues – that slightly bittersweet song they had done in ‘72 – but there was that cheery Irish lilt running through it. Suddenly, the intercom broke into her reveries. “Last call for TWA flight number 163 for Heathrow Airport now boarding at Gate 67.” Oh dear! how long had she been sitting there? And she hadn’t even apologized to the young man yet! Che scema! Flustered, she jumped to her feet, gathering her belongings. Running to the boarding gate, she shouted behind her, without turning around, “I’m sorry, I have to run – that’s my flight. It was really nice meeting you. See you around!”

Jack sat there for a few moments, stunned by the preceding events. So astonished was he that he even forgot everything but the unknown girl running off with his baseball hat. He hoped she would take good care of it – it was the last one left from his days on the diamond. A grin spread across his face as he stood up and dusted himself off; he recognized the music now – Handel’s Water Music, with a little Bach thrown in for good measure. It seemed to fit.

 

For those who may be interested, this is a prelude to I is for I Will a Long story shortened.

 

© October 24 2014 by Mary Purpari all rights reserved.

 

 

Tuesday, April 29, 2014

“Y” is for Yearnings

YDecember 28, 2013 was without a doubt one of the worst days of my life. The doctor had told me just the day before that Russ was doing so much better after his heart attack, that his vital signs had improved to the point that he would get well; the doctor even said that it would take a long time, but he would eventually be normal. That same evening his breathing became labored, and I wanted to stay with him, but the nurses ushered me out because I didn’t have permission to stay over the night. I wish now that I had asked for permission earlier—I had meant to, but it somehow slipped my mind and then it was too late. I had spent the last two nights with him and I was so tired…

The next day, I was there a little later, and when I saw him he was so different; honestly, he was already on his way out. The ventilator wasn’t helping, and his eyes were opaque. She left at 4:00, but I didn’t want  him to be alone. I put on his music and held his hand until he flat-lined… The doctors tried to bring him back—they tried for 20 minutes and then, they asked me if they should continue. I asked if he would come back and they said no; I told them to let him go. At that moment, I wanted to go with him, I yearned to be with him, or better yet, to go back in time, so I could make him call an ambulance when he said he didn’t feel well. I just didn’t know it was that bad; hindsight let’s us see what we should have seen before.

And now, four months later, I yearn for the days before his heart attack; I miss him so much and though that limbo land feeling is still around, days like today still come around, where my heart is so heavily empty. I do what I need to do, but the tears are never far away. I miss his cooking (unless someone else cooks it, I’ll never eat another steak, because his was perfect and I can’t cook it like he did.), I miss his stimulating conversation, I yearn for the music he would regale me with: from opera to rock, from Tommy Makem to Bach and more…I yearn for his hugs and his jokes that were so terrible that they made you laugh. I just yearn for his caring and his encouragement and support. Insomma, I yearn for his love, for him.

His last words in this life were, “You know, you’re really becoming more New York everyday; you’re becoming more impatient, but that’s not necessarily a bad thing.” I didn’t know that I was impatient, but now, I don’t know… Maybe I am, because I yearn for the time when it’s my time to go meet him again. When it comes, in a year or forty, I’ll be ready, but only then, not before.

© Mary Purpari April 29, 2014 “Y” is for Yearnings

Thursday, April 24, 2014

“U” is for Undercover(s)

UThe Collins Reverso dictionary defines the word “undercover” as: done or acting in secret; it lists the following as synonyms: clandestine, concealed, confidential, covert, hidden, hush-hush, intelligence, private, secret, spy, surreptitious, underground.  Usually, when I think of undercover, I think of spies, or the police or the FBI; you know, the stuff thrillers and cop shows are made of. It would also be (to my romantic mind) a great adventure of secret trysts (they met undercover of the cloudy night, hidden from indiscreet watchers as they explored the depths of each HPIM1168other’s eyes. As they were thus engaged they didn’t notice the thin man who had also been working undercover at the same time, disguised as a tree…) 

But lately, I, too, have been undercover a lot of the time. Well, okay, let’s make that under covers. I admit it (she says, hanging her head, looking all the world like a forlorn basset hound) I have been carrying on a hot and heavy love affair… with Morpheus*. I am so in love with Morpheus, that every morning, when I KNOW I should slide from his warm, under covers embrace, I find I am completely powerless to do so. Usually, only Little Kitty can get me out from under covers with her penetrating stare. Even this morning when I had somewhere I had to go, leaving at a certain time, I slid out from under covers a hour later, and only because I didn’t want to miss the subway and because Kitty was staring at me. It’s a phase, I’m sure of it. Now, though, all I can do is hope that warmer weather comes soon to Brooklyn, so it will be too hot to stay under covers with Morpheus.

*Morpheus is the god of dreams and slumber.

 

©Mary Purpari, April 24, 2014, “U” is for Undercover(s).

Wednesday, April 23, 2014

“T” is for “These are a Few of My Favorite Things.

TThere are a myriad of things that I consider my favorites, but I would like to talk about a few that start with the letter ‘T’.

First, time. Time is always of the essence and sometimes I think I never have enough, and yet, it also seems to crawl. When I’m trying to work, it seems that time seems to fly; and yet, something that happened just four months ago seems to have happened a hundred years ago. I guess that time is not only of the essence, but is also relative.

Another favorite ‘t’ is trees. I love trees. as a child, when I wasn’t busy running around like a wild horse, I was climbing trees. Trees can bring me out of the deepest funk. Trees are homesHPIM1147 to lots of wonderful creatures that are also among my favorite things, but most don’t start with ‘t’ so I’ll consider them another time. I love the many shades of green found in trees, and the coolness they provide in summer. I love watching their branches dance in the wind and the sound of the ocean they make. When I lived in Mistretta, my favorite place to be was in the woods, in the coolness of the pine trees. I always felt so close to God near those trees, with their branches uplifted in prayer.

Taste buds. I know, it sounds weird, but how could I know the wonderful taste of chocolate or pistachio nuts, peanut butter or strawberries without taste buds? I am so glad I have taste buds to enrich my life.

Traveling is another of my favorite things. I used to love flying before terrorists had to ruin it for everyone. Now, my favorite choice would be ‘t’rains or the bus. I have crossed the United States several times with the bus – stopping whenever I want to and seeing whatever I want. I’ve traveled to Europe, to Mexico and Canada. I’ve met new people, tested my languages and seen cultures so different from my own.

I cannot forget true friends. True friends are what have made me life livable during the last few months; without them, I don’t know what I would have done or if I would have even tried. My true friends have listened as I’ve talked on and on; they’ve loaned me their shoulders when I cry; they’ve helped me know it wasn’t my fault; they’ve made me laugh (a great deed, indeed); they’ve bucked me up when I was down, even when their hearts were breaking, too. They’ve encouraged me when I was ready to give up. I love you guys.

And now, since time is of the essence, and space is short, I’ll mention one more favorite (at least in theory) thing; it’s a combination of the first and last favorites mentioned: time travel. It’s probably the only part of quantum physics that I partially understand, but it is something I would find fascinating. My blog would be full of my experiences as I traveled through time to carry on a conversation with Marcus Tullius Cicero. Or to take art classes from Michelangelo Buonarotti. And how about the idea of Knights in Shining Armor jousting and fighting for my honor. I could go and watch as the pyramids were being built. Or, I could go back just a few months and… never mind.

I have so many favorite things that start with ‘t’, and these are just a few, but perhaps the best one right now is being plumb tuckered out, so tuckered out I sleep the night through.

Do you have some favorite things that begin with ‘T’? Would you like to share?

© Copyright Mary Purpari April 22, 2014 “T” is for These are a Few of My Favorite Things

 

Tuesday, April 22, 2014

“S” is for Spiraling Stars and Galaxies

Messier 100

SI would like to share two of Russ’ poems with you in this blog entry. The first, Spiraling Stars and galaxies, shows Russ’ great love for astronomy. He told me that his mother was one of the first women in the United States to build her own telescope, and though he only learned about this as an adult, he inherited this love from her.

                                                                                                                                                                                                 The Spiraling Stars and Galaxies

                            The spiraling stars and galaxies

care not one whit if you or I

survive, prosper

or were never born.

 

The python. Tiger and bacterium

In equal share

Have similar intent

 

And so it falls to us

formed by God and nature impelled

to care, or merely exist.

 

3/02 

The second poem, although it doesn’t begin with ‘S’ is still a very beautiful poem; in fact I think it may be the most beautiful of all. He wrote it shortly after 9/11, where he lost two of his best friends. He has shared this poem several times, but I believe he would be happy to share it here with you.

HANDS

 

I am the Old one

The one of many colors

I speak with many tongues

I speak with one voice:

I am the giant once sleeping

my steel-slit eyes now focused

beware!

For on this day now done I rise

I rise with many ready hands

full  firm

lament!

 

And, to my fallen children I say

God has many more hands than I

and with His hands He will lift you

 

As my hands, my many colored hands

squeeze and shatter

Those who took His children…

 

 

9-16-01 (29)

 

©Copyright by Mary Purpari and Russ Kelly April 22, 2014 “S” is for Spiraling Stars and Galaxies