My spoon folded the egg whites into the zabaione when my throat tightened and my eyes started to sting. I didn’t want to start crying. Not here. Not in this beautiful moment. Not in the Tuscan kitchen where our chef, Cristiana, buoyantly guided us in a blend of English and Italian through the art of crafting a tiramisu.
I folded the egg whites again and was suddenly back in the kitchen with my mom, standing next to her as a teenager while she instructed me on how to properly fold egg whites into waffle batter. “Start from the bottom and fold it over like this,” she said. “It’s a fold — not a stir. You want to keep the air in the egg whites. That’s what makes it fluffy. If you get impatient and stir, you’ll lose all of the lightness. Look. Like this.”
I scraped the side of the bowl, folded again. Probably one more fold and it’s done.
Cristiana looked over my shoulder. “Buonissimo! Buonissimo! You have done this before,” she said.
I had. Because of my mom.
There I was, beside my family with Siena tiles coloring the floor, ceiling, and archways of the warm kitchen. Cristiana and her 88-year-old mama were sharing the recipes of their family while unknowingly returning me to mine. Her mama spoke only in Italian — and yet I understood everything.
My mom always brought us kids into the kitchen. She wanted her two boys and daughter to know how to cook and do it well, but even more than that, to love it like she did. The kitchen was the place where she might experiment with something challenging or bounce around and toss in a little bit of this and that.
Gratitude for her doesn’t quite cover it. She gave me my instincts and my hands in that moment.
I just wished I could call her and tell her about the farmhouse in Tuscany, about Cristiana holding Olivia’s face in her hands like a mama and hysterically telling Steve to use some common sense, and about knowing exactly how to fold egg whites because of her.
There are these moments in loss when, in a single second, it feels like a lifetime passes. All of the memories, all of the gratitude, all of the love, all of the longing, all of the heartache — her hand tremor, hallucinations, the diagnosis, the wheelchair, her inability to speak — the imagined phone call I wish I could make, and the one I’m unable to. It comes like a full-length movie played in an instant. And I do everything I can not to weep into my bowl of dessert.
I still talk to my mom, though.
I believe that in the field of consciousness, we can still connect. It felt like she came into the kitchen with me, and I could feel her enthusiasm as I let my spoon rest and took in where I was and what I was doing. This joy — the happiness that comes from experiencing life fully — was everything my mom wanted for her children. My experience was her accomplishment. My joy, a tribute to her.
Mother’s Day is one of my favorite days of the year — I feel like a queen for a day. And it makes me miss what I had with my mom. Her soul is there, but often behind a brain with dementia. I’ll visit her, and miss having a full conversation about it all.
While my mom is still living, I share the feeling of loss that comes from losing the parent you knew. And I know for many, it feels hard for different reasons — because they never got the mom they wanted, or because they’re missing her deeply, or because they’re wishing they’d had a mom to miss at all.
Wherever you are in that, there is still a way to pay tribute.
Whoever has mothered you in this life, including yourself — pay tribute through your joy. Fold egg whites into zabaione and taste the sweet, creamy delight of the moment. Get your hands in the dirt. Laugh with your friends. Write a letter to someone you love. Do what brings you joy. That is the tribute.
We started layering the zabaione into our bowls. Tiramisu is two layers, Cristiana emphasized — never three. I held back from telling her I’d seen at least five layers served in the States. We dipped ladyfingers into espresso, nestled them into the zabaione, then chocolate shavings, and another layer — finished with a dusting of cocoa.
“Make it look pretty,” she told us. “Be creative. Make it look delicious.” And then she gave us options. A strawberry sliced into a flower, tiny edible flowers from Cristiana’s garden. Each bowl its own work of art.
What made it even better was watching my daughters’ hands transform the eggs, add the sugar, and catch drippings with their fingers. Their eyes widened as they tasted and did that little dance that says “yum” better than any word. They made that with their own hands. They shared this experience with fellow travelers and their new Italian aunties.
My mom’s legacy runs through the veins of travel she never experienced.
Each bite, sweet and delicious.
Her love, still present.
Perfect.
With love,
Sarah
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