When we were young, this week was the time we were on vacation. I remember vividly sitting on the beach, the grains of sand sifting through my fingers like so many leaves of warm, green, spinach wafting wildly like fresh baked challa on a nippy Twin Cities Friday afternoon.

My mother came over from Italy as a child, with nothing in her pocket except for the family pizza recipe (cheese, dough, sauce), two dollars worth of S & H Green Stamps and a hard rubber hockey puck. Within hours, she’d traded the puck for a night’s lodging in a rooming house on the Lower East Side. I’ll never forget the name of the rooming house.

The very next morning, she stepped out onto Orchard Street, weaved through the push carts and fruit stands and wandered into a Starbucks for a Peppermint Mocha (this was in 1998, before there was a Starbucks on every corner). The barista was a young swarthy poet/actuary by the name of Greg Maddox. They struck up a conversation, Mom speaking in broken Italian (her first language) and Greg listening and translating one word at a time on his Treo. (Barney Fife – where are you when we need you?)

Within five years, they were married. Within fifteen, they had kids. My sister Debbie came first – but not without incident. In fact, Debbie was so unwilling to come out of the womb the doctor had to grab a knife blade and rock a C-section.

It all worked out. Cut to today: Debbie is completely grown up, but cannot find a husband. She celebrates her birthday every year alone at her fold-out kitchen table, with a Hostess cupcake a single wax candle. After she blows it out and makes a wish (“May I find a husband this year…”), she settles into bed for a night of television and Ambien. Happy new year, Debbie!