Denise Marotta Lopes, Author at Denise Marotta Lopes

Grandma’s Elusive Apple Cake

by Denise Marotta Lopes on May 18, 2021 category Stories

Growing up as I did in the 1970’s, home cooking was the norm; eating out was the anomaly. Unless you counted Friday nights at McDonald’s, or breakfast at the pancake house after First Holy Communion, meals were served at our rectangular Formica kitchen table. Accompanied by wooden chairs that we dragged across linoleum floors, it was my family’s gathering place.

In our home, Mom was the recipe-follower. She taught me to cook and bake by adhering to precise measurements. If the recipe called for a teaspoon of cinnamon, she used a teaspoon of cinnamon. The only variant she allowed herself was to add a dash of nutmeg to her crumb cakes and pumpkin pies. She is nearly 85 years old, and still does not deviate from this method. There is no need to try something new and ruin an entire batch of cookies with all that butter in there, when you could just follow directions.

Her recipes are written down, some on scraps of paper stuffed into backs of old cookbooks, others on index cards, still more in a green, flowered three-ring binder. A smaller notebook is only for Christmas cookies. Some she’s transferred to her computer, making it easier to share with friends. Many of these same recipes are on index cards in my wooden recipe box, written in my young hand, or in my mother’s original script: bracciole; corned beef and cabbage; date nut bread; deviled eggs; goulash; Irish soda bread; Italian meatballs; lasagna; pasta e fagioli; sausage & peppers. When I married, my husband and I sat down to meals suitable for six; all of my recipes were for my family of origin—Mom, Dad, my two brothers, one sister, and me.

Dad had his own method of cooking. He opened the refrigerator and created something out of whatever he saw in glass containers or Tupperware bowls. Leftovers were never just leftovers. Instead of simply using up the old, he created the new. A random carrot, a stalk of celery, a hunk of ginger, a piece of meat along with an onion, spices, and soy sauce became essential ingredients for fried rice. Consequently, asking him for a recipe was an exercise in futility. If I wanted to know, I had to watch. If I asked him how long to cook something, he’d respond, “Until it’s done.”

Mom’s mom didn’t write down recipes either. Instead, Mom observed and asked questions. Then she wrote. The one recipe she never did obtain, however, was for my grandmother’s apple cake with warm lemon sauce. Grandma made it in a yellow enamel 8 x 8-inch square pan. It was a small cake, narrow in depth, not necessarily dense, a little light. Grandma would peel an apple picked on a trip to upstate New York. Her favorite was Macintosh, but she used any apple she had. She’d stand over the cake with the apple and slice it right there with a fruit knife, placing the slices on top of the cake and pushing them down into the batter just a little. When it was still warm from the oven, she sliced the cake and placed a piece on each of four plates: one for Mom, Uncle Bobby, Grandma, and Grandpa Sparky. Each person poured hot lemon sauce—as much as they wanted—on top. There were never leftovers. Everyone loved that apple cake. “Even my father,” Mom said.

Over the years, my mother tried to duplicate this recipe. Even when my grandmother was still alive, yet no longer cooking, Mom would bake an apple cake using a recipe she found. She would bring it to my grandmother, who took one look at it and made a face. Mom would say, “Just try it.” Grandma took one bite and said, “That’s not it.”

I have two of my grandmother’s cookbooks which mom and I have scoured for that apple cake recipe. We found some which Mom has tried, but to no avail. The last time I visited Mom, she said she found a new recipe for apple cake which she is going to try. This one called for salted butter and she never uses salted butter in her baking recipes. Maybe the salt is what gives it the right flavor. She’ll try. Yet again.

I wonder if what makes a recipe special is its connection to the person who made it. Taste is memory. It is experience. It is love. It is a reminder of those who have gone before us. It is what keeps my mom trying to find an apple cake recipe like the one her mother made. The one that brought her whole family together in the kitchen until every last crumb was eaten. Maybe Mom will never be able to duplicate Grandma’s apple cake because it is not made in their kitchen on Lake Avenue in Yonkers, in that yellow pan, with apples from Upstate. Yet she’ll continue to try. And, hope.

First Fruits

by Denise Marotta Lopes on May 10, 2021 category Furry Friends, Uncategorized

It’s become tradition to hang the hummingbird feeder on my son’s birthday at the beginning of May, and then wait. It’s a labor of love, as there is often a delay between the preparation and the sighting. I clean the feeder with soap and water; then sanitize in a mixture of water and bleach. I prepare the nectar—4 parts water to 1 part sugar—dissolve and cool. I pour the nectar into the feeder, attach the top, hang it on a shepherd’s hook in an area I can see from my porch, and wait.

This time it took six days, but this morning I saw it. Stealth in nature, it appears, it hovers, wings flapping to the point of disappearance. It dips, it hovers, it lands, it drinks. It hovers, it zips away.

I find myself smiling, holding my breath, as I witness another first. This hummer is likely passing through as it migrates to its summer home. He is merely a migrator—resting, refreshing, reinvigorating. A welcome visitor.

There’s something about the first. There is a wonder in what has not been seen before. It sets the stage for what’s to come. It provides hope in the next thing.

Our beloved dog, Roger, died two years ago today. Last summer we planted a climbing rose bush in our front yard in his honor. This weekend, the first rose, red like wine, emerged, tall and straight, and with it, a reminder of hope and love that never dies.

Air Plant Infatuation

by Denise Marotta Lopes on Apr 30, 2021 category Uncategorized

I have a love affair with air plants. They require no soil, no special food. They ask very little, other than for the correct sun exposure and a weekly watering. What they give in return is raw beauty.

Each weekend, I gather them together at my kitchen sink and gently shower them. Similar to what they would experience in a rain forest, they are accustomed to the dousing and are designed with little crevices to hold the water during dry spells. I allow them the luxury of a soaking for 20 minutes and a brief drying period prior to returning them to their happy place.

That place began on my kitchen window sill above the sink. The morning sun and indirect light was just right and they were thriving. I was surprised to see some of them develop a deep purple flower, and have since learned that this happens only once in their lifetimes. I have also seen them produce a growth which soon matches the original plant. I separate them and each flourishes on its own.

As I collected more air plants—some purchased, some gifted—I began to place them in small decorative vases, part of a monthly collection that once belonged to my uncle. Apparently, I was not the only one intrigued by the sight of these beauties. I began to find them missing from the sill and when searching for them, discovered the remnants in a corner or in the basement. Our cat was jumping on the counter, snatching said plants, and sharing them with my dog. Some I was able to nurture back to health; others were too far gone. It feels like a death to me.

So, I decided to place the vases and plants in a decorative wooden cabinet, hung on the wall above the counter near the window. But, alas, my determined cat will not be deterred.

As with all things, I recognize the ebb and flow, the life and death, the beauty and the beast. I do my best to protect and nurture; some things are out of my control.

Welcome Home

by Denise Marotta Lopes on Apr 20, 2021 category Stories

I was nine years and three days old. There were only two months left in the school year when my family left the bustle of city life to move to the suburbs.

Yonkers had been my home. In the city, the whole world was right outside my door. My friends were around the corner; my school and church were across the busy McLean Avenue which separated Yonkers from the Bronx. The park where my siblings and I played was adjacent to the school. Everything was a walk away: Boehringer’s Bakery with its jelly doughnuts sprinkled with real sugar; Nick the grocer where I bought ricotta cheese for my mother, and stuck my finger in the bag on the walk home to taste it its creamy goodness; Mr. Blackman’s candy store which once had a fire and his Cocker Spaniel, Blackie, had died.

It was a noisy, hectic world, but it was my world.

When I was told we would be moving, I was uncertain. I knew we’d be living near my cousins, and that was fun. But, I’d be leaving all my friends, my school, my apartment at the top of the flight of 16 stairs, my church, and most especially, my grandma.

It was raining on moving day. I don’t recall the truck packed with our belongings or even the two-hour drive down the New Jersey Turnpike to Exit 5. I remember the anticipation as we exited and drove on the country roads of this unfamiliar place. I knew my Aunt Mary and Cousin Anne were waiting for us at the new house. I remember the drive down the street and looking out the window of the car, over the heads of my younger sister and brothers.

The car slowed halfway down the street, and my dad pulled over in front of a two-story colonial home. It was painted gray with light pink shutters. I thought it was so big. But, more than that, what immediately drew my attention, was the lawn. The grass. And, the flowers. The yellow flowers. I remember calling out the beauty of those spectacular flowers.

Those flowers, I learned, were dandelions. Common weeds. Invasive weeds. But, to my nine-year-old self, they were a wonder. I did not see them as something to eliminate, but rather, something to treasure. They were, in fact, my welcome home.

The Good Old Days

by Denise Marotta Lopes on Apr 11, 2021 category Uncategorized

Thirty-four years ago today, I walked down the aisle holding on to the strong arm of my father. Waiting at the other end was the man I would spend the majority of my life with. Reflecting on that day, I returned to the hopes and dreams I placed on our marriage. Most were unrealistic; some were beyond expectation. There are things I would say to that woman if I had the advantage of years. I do; and, I will.

The worst of times are often the best of times.

Don’t give up on your dreams. Don’t morph. Remain independent. Don’t expect someone else to make everything right. You are capable.

Be supportive. Laugh. Dream. Stay in the moment a bit longer. Stop planning. Leave the dishes in the sink. Have a little wine.

Play. Stay up late. Go to bed early. Don’t compare.

Reflect; don’t dwell. Be alone. Make plans with friends. Money isn’t everything. Your grass is just as green.

Appreciate all of it. Trust yourself. Continue to walk side-by-side. Look for the good. Plant flowers.

Get a dog. Bake a cake. Watch a bad movie. Go to a ball game.

Laugh at the same jokes. Appreciate. Hope. Wonder.

These are the good old days.

Good News

by Denise Marotta Lopes on Apr 4, 2021 category Uncategorized

There are signs that precede good news.

Today is Easter, and what better way to bring in the day than at the park with Ivy, watching the sun rise over the river. The universe had other ideas.

We arrived too early, for one thing. I walked; Ivy ran. I constructed sentences in my head; she sought out deer scat. I looked to the sky, then to my phone to see the time. The sun should have been up by now. We continued to wait, Ivy chewing sticks, me imagining them in our fire pit.

There are sounds that precede good news. The whistle of a train, the rat-a-tat of a woodpecker, the ringing of a church bell. There are sounds that seem to start too soon: the cry of the robin while the sky is still dark.

The sky began to lighten, and yet there was no breakthrough. I felt anticipation, contemplation, aggravation. I’m not good at waiting. Realizing the clouds were preventing my Easter sunrise, we headed for home, past the blushing tulip tree, the lemon-yellow forsythia, the purple-and-green-tipped hosta. None were in their complete fullness, and yet they shone.

Perhaps the clouds tempered the fullness of my sunrise. Perhaps fullness is not what I anticipated. Good news comes in all forms.

A Golden and a Priest

by Denise Marotta Lopes on Mar 29, 2021 category Furry Friends

One from the archives (2015)—missing both my Roger and this beautiful priest.

Father Michael Szupper’s room is second on the left, in a quiet wing of the Oblates of St. Frances de Sales’ Annecy Hall. I gently knock on his door, which is slightly ajar, and say, “Good morning, Father Szupper, it’s Denise and Roger. Would you like a visit?”

I wait for the sound of his voice, which is often too faint to discern. Roger, my ten-year-old Golden Retriever knows the custom, and at my request, sits and waits along with me. Sometimes, through the crack in the door, I see the back of the priest’s motorized recliner move as he positions himself to welcome us. After a time, I hear him indicate he’s ready.

Leaving the dark hall, we enter the room. Roger instinctively knows to be calm here. I whisper, “Gently,” but he already knows. Maneuvering around the black wheelchair, Roger approaches Father from the front, putting his head right near the man’s hand.

“Roger Dodger! Hey, buddy. Working hard?” he asks.

Though movement is difficult for Father Szupper, he places his fingers on Roger’s forehead moving them back and forth in a gentle massaging motion, and uses words I don’t understand. They seem to speak the same language.

I enjoy my visits with this kind man. There is a quiet strength about him that needs no words to convey. There is a television in his room, but I’ve never seen it on. On both sides of his chair are tables piled with books; often he sets down the German Bible he’s been reading when we arrive. A Charlie Brown Christmas tree with one red ornament sets on a TV tray against the wall. Next to it is an empty bird cage.

Our conversations are about the weather, his love for football, and his past experience as Chaplain at the University of Delaware. He tells me about his sheepdog—Tiel von Eulenspiegel—whom he would set free among the college students during study time and announce, “Okay, study break!”

He shifts slowly, but with purpose. Each movement is measured. When I ask how he’s feeling, he minimizes the obvious pain in his arm by saying, “It hurts, but no one is going to take away my food.”

Inevitably the conversation reverts to Roger. He gets quiet as he watches me interact with my dog. In his peaceful room, I sense contentment, and an equal amount of longing. He stares out the window and speaks of the birds that he views from his chair.

“They’re very large black birds with big wing spans,” he says. “They fly above the tree line out there, and they just soar.”

“Turkey vultures,” I suggest.

I wonder if he considers their freedom. I look at the newly-hung feeder in the tree just outside his window, and notice the way in which his eyebrows raise, and his eyes widen when a Dark-eyed Junco lands for a meal.

On this day, I ask him something I’ve never broached before: what do our visits mean to you? He takes a moment to consider his response, and says, “It reconnects me with the real world.”

I was quiet, meditating on the significance of his words. Before that time, I hadn’t considered that his only experience of the outside world was through the windows in his room—and by our weekly, Tuesday visits. When Roger enters his room, a change occurs. Father shares about their unique way of communicating.

‘It’s like an friend who says, ‘How are you doing, Buddy?’” he explains. “I don’t have to answer correctly with words. Words clog everything up.”

He continues, “Here, there are questions, ‘Did you eat your breakfast?’ Here, we are well-organized and on time. But when he comes in, who cares about hair or dirt? Snow or ice?”

When Roger and I visit we bring the outdoors in. By feeling Roger’s fur, Father Szupper knows if it’s rained. He knows the temperature because we bring it with us. The routine stops when we arrive.

I was moved by the way the priest spoke of my dog as a companion.

“The bonds of friendship are stronger than the barriers of society,” he says. “With friends, the fences come down, and you come as you are.”

As we rise to leave, Roger backs himself away from Father’s recliner, much as a tractor trailer
removes itself from a tight spot, and he navigates around the wheelchair. We make our way toward the door and I say, “It was good to see you,” to which he responds, “It is good to be seen.”

Spring Through the Lens

by Denise Marotta Lopes on Mar 20, 2021 category Uncategorized

My fingers tingle after this morning’s walk in the 31-degree temperature. It’s the first day of spring, and my anticipation of warmer weather did not meet the reality. Ivy and I set off toward the park this morning. I wanted to see the sunrise.

We started through the neighborhood toward River Road. The robins were busy and boisterous. We entered the park detouring into the assisted living facility where I hope Ivy and I will visit one day. The grounds are meticulously kept; the fountain in the retention pond greets us in an array of droplets. There were no ducks there today.

At the end of the walkway, we turn and I give Ivy a treat. We leave the grounds of the facility, past the signs that thank the essential workers for their heroism, and make a left into the park. It is more gritty than the facility. Sticks litter the ground and I anticipate returning to collect them for a fire pit. Trash from weekend soccer games litter the area. Cigarette butts from the heroes are strewn at the grass’s edge.

We are not deterred, and after reminders to Ivy that we don’t eat that, we proceed toward the river. We do not reach the river. There is an interstate highway that separates us, but we still take in its majesty. We observe the red gathering at the water’s edge. There is still time.

I allow Ivy to run freely inside the fenced baseball field. I call her back occasionally and give her a treat. The last time she returns, I attach the leash and we leave the field. It’s almost time for the sunrise.

We walk to the hill, the river to our backs. I keep turning around in order not to miss the orb seemingly rise from the water. It never fails. I always seem to miss that moment. There it was, already partially risen. Still magnificent. I am not disappointed.

Ivy and I position ourselves so that we are looking directly east, directly into the magnificence of the promise that the sun will rise each morning. I am aware of the raucous cries of robins; of the banging of the hungry woodpeckers; of what stands between me and the sun at that moment: the bare branches of trees; the space between two apartment buildings; the cyclone fence of the baseball field. But, none of it deters the glory of the sunrise.

I am reminded of the lens through which I see the world, of the lens through which we all see it. Someone on the other side of the river saw that same sunrise in a different way, and yet it was still the same sunrise.

Upon returning home, I noticed a single impatien popping its head through the soil of last year’s pot on my front stoop. It is still a living promise, though it shares the space with dried-out, (dead, perhaps) plants. It is not always the setting that declares the beauty. Or, perhaps it is.

Accept

by Denise Marotta Lopes on Mar 16, 2021 category Uncategorized

Lent used to signify sacrifice. When I was a girl, I gave up hot chocolate. I longed for Easter morning when I could once again taste the creamy goodness of warmed milk and powdered chocolate. As I grew older I considered doing something nice for those 40 days beginning on Ash Wednesday. Maybe I could write in a gratitude journal or reach out to people I hadn’t spoken with in a while. Maybe give up cursing. Still later, I did nothing, considering the act of intentional sacrifice a waste of time, particularly if one’s heart was not in it.

This year I listened to an interview with Father Richard Rohr. Near the end of the podcast, he was asked what he was giving up for Lent. I listened. Then I played it again. And, again. These are my notes:

“Accept

Accept the little humiliations, the little disappointments that come your way every day.

Accept the little moments of lack of comfort, the times you don’t get your way.

All day, it’s a letting go of the comforts, the consolations, the lack of respect.

Learn to love that; Jesus did.

Accept the limitations (no dessert).

If you set out to heroically deny yourself that dessert, there is not a place for it.

Hidden heroism is hidden ego.

Instead, ‘I’m very happy.’ Accept.”

So, for Lent, and for every day, my goal is acceptance. I may not achieve that goal—likely, I will not. But, I will see it as an opportunity. And, I will try, fail, and sometimes succeed.

One Year Later

by Denise Marotta Lopes on Mar 8, 2021 category Uncategorized

We’re quickly approaching the one-year-anniversary of our world standing still. A year since the Utah Jazz basketball player, Rudy Gobert, touched the microphones in a mock attempt at humor, then came down with the virus, and the NBA suspended play.

A year since Rockland’s school closed down for “two weeks”. A year since my husband was sent home to work from a makeshift desk in our basement where he could spread out for a couple of weeks, a month, the summer, the rest of 2020. He remains home a year later, and while he still has a job, his company will be selling the building—it turns out they can save money having their employees work from home. And, thus, our down-sized home has become a little closer, a little louder, a little less cozy.

He went into the building to clear out his desk on Friday. He looked at his large desk calendar marked with activity—up until March 20. He said if that calendar were to be found years from now, people would say, “Oh, that’s when the pandemic hit.”

This week, my therapy dog, Ivy, and I will be visiting an elementary school where I once taught, and up until a year ago, still returned after school to tutor students. I haven’t been in the building in nearly a year. I have students I’ve never met in person; I simply know them from the neck up because that’s all I can see of them over Zoom.

Anniversaries can be hard. This one especially. As I consider the loss, I am reminded of what got me through: hikes with Angela and Rockland; Songs from Home videos by Mary Chapin Carpenter; brown butter caramel lattes at the Scission Coffee (now Sleeping Bird Coffee) truck; neighborhood walks with Ivy; take-out from local restaurants in an effort to be supportive, and receiving our food in brown paper bags on which the staff wrote our names and thanked us for remembering them; weekly visits with my mom when it was safe to travel back to New Jersey; puzzles; books; coffee with my son, Joey; flowers; birds.

I look forward to being on the other side of this, to the day when I can invite friends to my table again. And, in the process, I hope to remember the value of the little things that brought me life this year. For my people. And, for their smiles.