Growing Up Without a Mother

I can still see her hands scattering flour in a circular motion to form a “well” on the kitchen counter. I see her add water, olive oil and yeast to the hollow center, then throw in a pinch of salt before whisking the ingredients together with a fork. I see her reach for some more flour, which she sprinkles all over the big, sticky mess. Then she begins to knead. She applies powerful motions with her soft yet strong hands, rolling the dough away from her, then pulling it back, taking one side of the mound, then stretching it and folding it over the other. She does this with the other side, and repeats these motions over and over until the dough starts to take the shape of a ball.

That’s the vivid image I still have of my mother making pizza dough so many years ago. She had no recipe books, yet she knew exactly how much of each ingredient was needed and had a natural confidence that everything would turn out delicious. She had learned to make pizza by watching her older sisters. She didn’t learn from her mother, whom she lost when she was only 2. And I lost her when I was 13.

Yes, I’m a motherless daughter. And now that I’m the proud parent of two teenage boys here in Northern Italy, there are certain aspects of motherhood that I am winging. I am a motherless mother. … //READ MORE