Four months after my husband’s funeral and I still couldn’t believe my Bob was gone.
I wandered through our house, unable to do anything but cry. Every room was bursting with memories. I stood in the kitchen, our favorite spot, wiping my cheeks. I could almost see him standing by the stove while I cooked, ready to do his job, testing the macaroni.
“It’ll be perfect in another half-minute,” he’d say, shooting me a smile, his deep brown eyes crinkling. I turned away, only to find my gaze settling on a portrait of us hanging nearby, yet another painful reminder of my loss.
That night, in bed, I felt so lonely and hopeless, I begged God, “Take me! My life means nothing without Bob. What am I supposed to do now?”
Fifty-four years we’d been together. We met in Providence, Rhode Island, when I was still in high school. We both came from tight-knit Italian families. My parents didn’t allow me to date. But there was something special about Bob, a warmth that made me feel at home.
A childhood bout of polio left him with a limp and a leg brace, but he never let that get him down. I would slip out at night and meet him at the Moose Head diner, where we fell in love over fifty-cent cups of hot cocoa. Eventually, I worked up the nerve to introduce him to my family. It didn’t take long for them to love him too.
After we married, Bob studied at New York University and became an orthotist—designing splints and braces for folks like him. We opened our own business. Bob worked with the patients; I kept the books and arranged fittings.
We were a great team at home too. I loved to cook and Bob loved to eat! “Honey, you can cover anything in red gravy and I’ll eat it,” he’d joke. Bob made me feel like I made the best food in the world.
We had six children and held tight to the traditions passed down from our families. Meals were for bonding, a time for all of us to be together.
Weeknights I made everything from prosciutto with melon for an antipasto and braciola or chicken Marsala with boiled potatoes and salad drizzled with olive oil for supper. Sundays were for meatballs. I’d roll a hundred or more before church, my daughters helping me just like I used to help my mom. To us, food was love.
The kids grew up and started their own families. Bob and I retired to Florida. After 50 years of marriage we still had candlelit dinners every night. We’d laugh, and make little lists of things we wanted to do, movies to see. With Bob, there was always something to look forward to.
Two years ago everything changed. Bob had a cough that just wouldn’t quit. It turned out to be stage four lung cancer. Doctors gave Bob four months to live.
He made it three.
Now here I was, all alone, crying myself to sleep, my life feeling as empty as the house we once shared. The plea I made to God was still on my mind when I woke up the next morning: What am I supposed to do now?
Okay, I asked myself, what do I like to do? Cook, of course. But who would I cook for? I called our pastor. He suggested I make a welcome-home dinner for a group returning from a mission trip. At least it would keep me busy.
I cooked our family classics—stuffed peppers, pizza, sausage and meatballs. The food was a hit. Soon I was making eggplant for neighbors, stuffed shells for high-school graduations and chicken cutlets for children’s parties. Cooking for people dimmed my grief a little, but still, something was missing. Lord, you’re going to have to knock me on my head and let me know what more I can do.
An idea hit me faster than I could roll a meatball. Why not truly share what I loved and not only give people a taste of my food but also teach them to make it for themselves?
I called my daughter Kathy, who lives nearby. We rounded up friends and neighbors, photocopied recipes, bought name tags. Within a few days, I had 10 women standing in my kitchen.
Kathy started the class by reading from Jeremiah. “For I know the plans I have for you, declares the Lord. Plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.” At the end of the evening, everyone wanted to know what we’d be cooking in our next class. “Annie’s Apron Strings” was born.
My girls (that’s what I call my students) gather in my kitchen each Monday evening. We cook, we laugh, we eat! And I tell them all about Bob. Every recipe seems to lead me back to a story about our years together. I love knowing that his favorite recipes live on, and I think Bob would be happy to know that our house—especially our kitchen—is full of life again.
So far, I’ve taught more than 100 of my girls and I donate their class fees (10 dollars a week) to help needy folks in town. It’s the perfect recipe for overcoming my grief, a recipe that gives me new hope and a future, and helps others find one too.
Try Annie’s Stuffed Peppers!
