It’s been a rough week.  Cinder was sick, I had fight with my best friend who isn’t handling my leaving very well, and shipping my belongings cost way more than I thought it would due to an unforeseen tax on the Italian side.  So when my friends said they were throwing a party for me on Friday night to say goodbye, I just hoped I would be in a good enough mood to appreciate their efforts.

In my time in New York, I’ve hosted a lot of gatherings, game nights and holiday festivities.  The same core group of people always attend, with a sprinkling each year of new faces and new friends.  So when I arrived at Bonny and Paul’s home on Friday night and saw all my people who have become my New York family over the years, the cares and stress of the week melted away.  Some of these people I see every day in the park.  We know all the intimate details about each other’s lives and dogs, and we know if we need help, we can call and we’ll be there for each other.  Some of the people who attended weren’t from my dog world, but were relationships developed in other ways over the years, bookclubs, neighbors.

Everyone brought food.  We drank margaritas all night, and just talked.  We reminisced about game nights, park horror stories, and our shared memories.  Most of all we laughed.   It was just so great to have one more chance to connect with everyone…with the added bonus of not having the responsibility of hostess.  My friends even raised some funds to help me on my way with my new adventure and I was extremely touched by this since most don’t have much money themselves.

I didn’t cry last night as I hugged goodbyes with these people who I know I won’t see for a long time, but the tears are flowing now as I write, and, as the end of this week draws near, they will surely be on free fall.

Even though my path is leading me in a new direction and new adventures await, I am sad to leave behind good friends whom I care about very much.   People who have seen me through the death of my first dog, Miranda and the death of my friend Susan.  Friends who have encouraged my writing and never fail to ask how each project is going.  Friends who can tell when I’m stressed, happy, worried, sad or joyful.  Friends who know I love margaritas.  Friends who share my concern over Cinder’s health.  And friends who truly wish me the best in my new life.

At the end of what was a very special evening,  I joked that the Christmas party would be in Italy this year and that the first person to book can have the sofa bed.  Everyone promised to come and visit.   I truly hope they do.

My stomach is in knots.  This is a little better than Cinder’s which has been gurgling with unnatural emphasis this week as she’s suffered from very bad diarrhea.  I had hoped her stomach issues were just the stress of seeing our house in chaos, but I soon realized there was more to it.  I had refilled her arthritis medicine from a new online pharmacy (chosen because they were cheap and ship to Italy), and I don’t know what was in those pills but it definitely wasn’t arthritis medicine.  Lesson learned: Pay the exorbitant price charged by your vet for prescription medications to avoid the exorbitant price charged by your vet for treatment.  I spent the week alternately packing and watching my dog.  “We have two weeks,” I told her repeatedly.  “No pressure, but I need you to be healthy.”  As soon as I stopped what I’m now calling the counterfeit medication Cinder seemed to be improving.  Then my best friend, Cheryl, called to tell me Cinder had puked in her clothes when she had been staying there for the afternoon.  ERGH!

Packing and watching my dog was now supplemented by praying and cooking lots of chicken and rice.  My apartment did not look like I would soon be leaving it.  I was way behind schedule.

On Wednesday I discovered the miracle of Space Bags and things started looking up.  I began vacuuming out the air of linens and clothes, reducing them to a fraction of their original size.   When I shipped the first load of my boxes to Italy on Friday, I was perhaps a little too gleeful.  It was the first thing I had checked off my to-do list all week.

Cinder is on the mend, and the apartment now looks like someone is leaving.  In fact, it kind of looks like someone came in and repossessed all the items of value.  I still have my tv, but I just unloaded the club chairs so Cinder isn’t thrilled that we are now sharing her loveseat.  “What are you doing for Easter?” my mom asked when she called this morning.  I thought of my pots and pans winging their way to Italy and my one fork and plate in my barren kitchen.  The huge brunch I’d prepared last year was a faint memory.  “Um, you know the usual.  Mexican Food with Cheryl.”

I had a party this past weekend to get rid of most of my stuff.  I didn’t price my belongings, but asked people to make donations when they filled their shopping bags.  It’s amazing how much stuff you actually have when you start cleaning out closets and cupboards.  Because I’d already eliminated anything of no value, I was faced with the decision of what to take to Italy and what to leave behind.  At first it was difficult and I began filling box after box with kitchen essentials that I was pretty sure I couldn’t live without.  Then I calculated the shipping costs.  I Immediately began unpacking boxes and putting stuff out on the now-designated “I can live without it” table.

It is weird to have people in your home picking through your belongings, but I found after I’d put an item out, I let go of some of my attachment.  About twenty friends came in and out on Saturday night.  I provided lots of wine, pizza, some rigatoni and a big pot for donations.  I put a photo of cinder on it with one of her more pathetic expressions which said, “Please give generously.  My survival depends on it.”  Shameless, I know.

About half way through the night, I surreptitiously took a peek in the pot and saw three lonely $20 bills.  Not good.  Lots of bags were exiting the apartment and not much money was being left.  At this rate, I figured I might just recoup the cost of the pizza, but my shipping costs were not going to be touched.

Then, as if by magic, some of the bigger furniture items started generating interest.  People were vying over my drop leaf table and various mirrors.  I began demonstrating the usefulness of all of the pieces with the flair of a carny, emphasizing the antiques and embellishing stories of the furniture’s existence.  Oh and, of course, I kept the vino flowing.

By the end of the night, I’d raised about 1/2 of what I need to ship my boxes and I still have people coming through this week looking at the bigger pieces.  This plan may just work.  My house is a wreck and Cinder and I are down to a few utensils and “her” loveseat.   But roughing it for a few weeks is a small price to pay.  And at least I know my stuff has gone to a good home…or twenty.

Usually I’m not a total wreck when it comes to cooking for friends.  In fact, I do it fairly regularly.  Dinners, Holiday parties, brunch and lazy weekend lunches.  But this particular Sunday, I planned a meal for my Italian friends.  These are the same friends who were so wonderful to me on my recent trip to Italy and whose mom is a pretty fabulous cook.  All week long before their arrival my mantra was “The Italians are coming!”  I planned a menu, organized friends, both Italian and English speakers and basically got myself mentally prepared like I was about to summit Everest.

I decided to make a meal with all the courses like I’d seen Laura’s mom prepare for one of the pre-wedding parties.  Antipasto, a soup, pasta course, meat, and salad.  And of course, dessert and cafe.  The latter I was pretty confident about since desserts are usually my specialty.

I shopped at all my favorite local markets, ordering in fresh ricotta for the manicotti, and hunting for frozen porcini mushrooms for the soup.  The zuppa di funghi was actually the only recipe of Laura’s mom that I decided to try and replicate since I’d watched her make it.  She let me chop the mushrooms for it and gave me credit for helping in the same way my mom used to when I was a kid, and my contribution was to peel potatoes or grate cheese.

The kitchen of my Manhattan apartment is about the size of a port-a-potty.  Not a lovely image I know, but accurate.  I have it well organized and can churn out all manner of confections and meals, but it takes some planning.  The hardest part is the refrigerator.  Loading in all of the groceries in my half-sized fridge requires dexterity, packing expertise and some foresight as to what will need to come out first.  Nothing worse than getting everything in, wedging the door shut and then realizing that you put the marscapone in the back and now can’t get to it.  The other challenge is of course, finding a spot for the things you are cooking.  After simmering the ragu for the manicotti the day before, I was forced to unload the whole bottom shelf to put the pot in overnight.  Cinder heard a lot of cursing at this point.

On the day of the lunch, I was getting nervous.  I’d taken Laura and her new hubby to dinner the night before and she’d commented on how poor the pasta had been on their trip across the country.  I willed the crespelle I was making for the manicotti to be as light and delicious as they usually were when I was just cooking for my regular, we-eat-everything-you-make-and-love-it friends.  Most of my friends don’t cook so the fact that I do automatically gives me status as the best cook in the crowd.  Sadly, this is not going to be the case in Italy.  I’m definitely going to be the “she’s okay for an American” cook.  The little pesce in the big pond of Italian cooking.

My other worry for the lunch was my lack of dishes.  I learned on my last trip to Italy, that you don’t serve anything on the same plates.  Laura had offered me salad one day at lunch after we’d had our pasta and had looked horrified when I’d said I could use the same plate.  So my first order of business was to enlist best friend Cheryl to bring her soup bowls.  Plates would just have to be washed between courses.  I was so not looking forward to that.

I set a pretty table, telling myself that my mismatched dishes had a bohemian air.  I bought bread and flowers and went about preparing the meal.

By the time my guests arrived, I was exhausted but ready to go.  I served bruschetta and an arugula pesto for the antipasto, then my zuppa di funghi.  It tasted nothing like Laura’s mom’s, but it seemed to be a hit.  By the time the manicotti came out, I was on my second glass of wine and my confidence was growing.  I was getting a round of “Buono” from Laura and Gianni.  Friend and Italian tutor, Alessandro, gave everything rave reviews as well, but his wife doesn’t cook so he is always really effusive about my cooking!

The meat course was a bit of a disaster.  I’d made this pork tenderloin recipe a bunch of times and it had always come out perfectly, so the fact that it was a little overdone really bummed me out.  No one said anything, but I was  feeling deflated when it was time for the dessert.

Laura who is the confection maker in her family makes a wonderful tiramisu.  Mine is pretty good, but after two bites Laura pointedly asked me what kind of ladyfingers I’d used.   Apparently she uses something different.  Gianni must have seen my crestfallen face because he immediately took a second serving.   As did Cheryl and Alessandro.

All in all it was a success.  And more importantly, I did it.  I cooked for Italians and they left well-fed and happy.  It may not have been like mama used to make, but I’m going to keep my own style as I incorporate the recipes of traditional Italian cooking.  As my friend Carol says, “Once they taste your carrot cake, they’ll be eating out of your hand.”  They may have to since I don’t have enough plates!

I’ve done it before.  Moving, I mean.  My parents moved around a lot when I was a kid, so I got used to paring down my possessions and deciding what was really important to me.  The things that didn’t make the cut were usually put up for sale at a yard sale, which typically preceded our moves.  And for the most part, I never looked back.  Other than the complete set of Nancy Drew novels that I sold, which I wish I’d saved to give to my niece, most things were easy to say goodbye to.

It’s harder as an adult.  I don’t have that Buddhist quality about me that makes shedding the material trappings of this life easy.  I like my stuff.  My kitchenaid mixer, all my cooking and dining accoutrement, books, etc.  It’s just stuff, but it’s stuff I’ve grown attached to over the years.  Stuff which has meaning to me.

Unfortunately, moving to another country means making decisions about what stuff to keep and what stuff to get rid of.  I can’t rationalize the expense of storage, and I can’t afford to ship everything with me.  So I’ve just spent the weekend sifting through my belongings, making hard decisions, and clearing out stuff.

Papers were the easiest to get rid of–recommendation letters from college, stuff from my days as a lawyer–it was satisfying to shred them.  Old manuscript copies were a little more painful, but necessary.  Then came the clothes.  For me, sorting through clothing is always the easiest.  If I haven’t worn it in two years, it goes to Goodwill.  As for shoes–do I really need those fancy heels that killed my feet, which I’ve only worn once?

My struggle is with books and kitchen stuff.  I had already pared down my books a couple of months ago, giving 15 bags  to one of the guys on the street who sells them on Broadway.  But there are so many more.   And that’s not including cookbooks!

I’ve decided that I will ship five boxes of stuff and the rest I will give to friends.  I’m doing a “Everything must go” party and hopefully any money raised in donations will assuage the pain of letting things go.  It’s far more important for Cinder and me to have survival money for our new journey than to hang onto martini glasses, fondue pots and sushi plates.

As I watched the sanitation guys haul away six black garbage bags of the junk I’ve managed to accumulate, I felt a strange feeling come over me.  Liberation.  I may not be Buddhist, but I’ll definitely have more space in my closet during these last months in New York.