A St. Patrick’s Day Tribute to My Mother, Florence
Every year on St. Patrick’s Day, I’m going to do this.
Find a photograph that leans into green…
and see what kind of gold it’s hiding.
This year, it didn’t take long.
Because when I saw this—
these sprays of yellow rising out of a sea of green—
I didn’t just see a plant.
I saw Mom.
Florence.
Proudly Irish—her father made sure of that.
But she married an Italian.
Which meant I was raised with the best of both traditions…
and, quite possibly, the most dangerous kitchen in Rhode Island.
Let’s start with the “gravy.”
(Yes, I know. It’s sauce. But not in our house.)
Mom’s gravy was not a side note.
It was an event.
There were pork chops in there.
Chunks of beef.
Sausage that had clearly made a life decision to stay forever.
This wasn’t something you poured.
This was something you committed to.
Now somewhere around hour three—when the aroma had fully taken over the house, the neighborhood, and possibly low-flying aircraft—Dad would begin his slow, deliberate migration toward the kitchen.
Not a walk.
A drift.
He’d pretend he had a reason.
Open a drawer. Close a drawer.
Check something that didn’t need checking.
Then… the lean.
A casual, highly strategic lean over the pot.
Followed by the “test.”
Not a spoon. Oh no. That would be too obvious.
A piece of bread. Torn just small enough to claim innocence.
Dipped. Swirled. Evaluated like a man judging a fine vintage.
Mom, without turning around:
“Don’t you dare.”
Dad, already chewing:
“Mmm… just checking.”
Checking what, nobody knew.
But somehow, quality control required multiple passes.
And the smell?
You didn’t need a calendar.
You didn’t need a watch.
You just knew…
it was Sunday.
Sunday dinner at Mom and Dad’s house was less of a meal
and more of a gravitational force.
It pulled in all six of us kids, our families,
and anyone who happened to be in the general vicinity and looked even remotely hungry.
And here’s the thing—
no matter how many showed up…
There was always enough.
Always.
Which, if you think about it, is its own kind of miracle.
Right up there with loaves and fishes—
but with better seasoning.
And then… there were the pies.
Epic doesn’t quite cover it.
Mom spent years perfecting her crust.
Not casually.
Not “let’s try this and see.”
No. This was disciplined. Intentional.
A direct inheritance from her French-Canadian mother—
my grandmother—
who clearly believed that if you’re going to make a pie,
you might as well make it unforgettable.
Flaky. Golden.
The kind of crust that made you pause mid-bite
and reconsider your entire understanding of dessert.
And here’s one that still makes me smile—
Mom spoke Italian.
Fluently.
Better than my Dad. Which, honestly, isn’t hard to do.
But better than all his siblings!
So when they all went to Italy…
guess who was leading the conversations?
That’s right.
The proud Irish girl.
Somewhere, I’m sure, there were a few confused Italians thinking,
“Wait… how is she the best one at this?”
That was Mom.
Quietly extraordinary.
Warm.
Welcoming.
Capable of feeding an army and translating for one at the same time.
So today, on St. Patrick’s Day,
I look at this patch of green—
and the gold rising out of it—
and I think…
That’s exactly how she lived.
Rooted in tradition.
Surrounded by family.
And somehow always producing a little more gold than anyone expected.
Happy St. Patrick’s Day, Mom.
Or as you might say—
Top of the morning to you!
And save me a seat at the table.
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