Chop Suey Summer

Chop Suey Summer

by Michele Bernstein

Jacknowitz family picnics , I remember a park with a lake. Everybody came, there was food and more food. Grates on fire pits filled with aromatic sizzling stuff. Family, Great Aunts and Great Uncles, Aunts, Uncles, and cousins to the fifth degree. A loud yelling mass of people, all with an opinion. The loudest no matter how convoluted the logic won. Always.

The men wore grey slacks, the older men's were baggy, I mean down to the knees baggy with belts and suspenders. They had to, these men were the roundest most barrel chested men you'd ever met. All had pug noses and pugnacious personalities. It seemed to me they were Lumberjack thick with big ham fists and fingers. I would look at my Great Uncle Jacks hands with five sausages on one hand and four on the other. His thumb was missing a fascinating mystery to me. Bald, all the old ones were strands of hair away from shiny baby bottom bald. When they spoke their voices were gravely, deep, heavily laced with a New York-Queens dialect. All sucked on cigarettes and cigars constantly, while the woman sported cigarette holders. Some of these were down right funny looking, like sawed off chop sticks with rhinestones and fake seeded pearls embedded. There were real ivory exotic Marlena Dietrich styles and maybe a few tortoise shell and Bakelite. It was supposed to keep the face from looking like a smoked white fish, but they were a Kabuki sign language prop. Punctuations, Grunts and sneers, silent curses and poxes swirled from these smoking sticks as surly as Merlin swung a magic wand. Body language experts would have cried and thrown in the towel, the HOLDERS said it all.

Now, my G-Uncle Julius fit the physical description, although his body was softer and he hadn't the power. He was the artistic one. Everyone in the family marveled at his vision, his art, and they all made sure he could follow his talent. In this family of blue collar workers, with a pharmacist thrown in he was an anomaly. He had a light voice. Often he crooned little songs to us with a soft trill. His most memorable tune with lyrics of "al a lululu, al a lululu...Lu lu lu lu loo..." On rare occasions my Grandmother Etta was heard to croon this as well. It is my secret put the baby to sleep weapon, never fails. Julius told the best stories, I can remember half listening, my whole being drawn towards his pink tongue forming the words with a delicate swirl and flourish, he seemed to relish and taste every word. He imitated every character with vocal cues. Even his animal sounds had a special artful panache to them. This tongue, was a moist river bed of fissures and cracks. All the Greats had them. I wonder how many Doctors fainted when they exhorted,"stick out your tongue". I have one also, my fissions are small and relatively simple. I don't know if any other cousins sport this, I also have the family allergy to Cinnamon.

The men's ears were big as well, with wonderful lobes, rounded mounds, free from any attachment to the head. They were not handsome, their faces were strong and dogged, their intelligence shining through. Their bodies contained undiminished vitality, and you knew who you wanted with you in any kind of emergency or fight. When ensconced within the pack a feeling of safety, caring pervaded.

My family argued over politics, possessions, cards, money, the weather, food, anything. G-Uncle Julius argued always with his sister Great Aunt Eva. Everyone argued with Eva. She was the youngest. In a family of twelve youngest was something. Julius's voice would get higher and higher as they insulted and shouted at each other. "You're full of hot air, you don no what you're talking about, believe ME I KNOW. Wher'd ya hear that, you don know what..." He'd pleat and fold a napkin in the most intricate designs over and over as his pink tongue spit his words at her. His beautiful artists hands fingers tapered. He wore his nails just a little longer, the tips filed to a discrete point, they fairly quivered with sensitivity. When he was put out he'd open the napkin and smooth and smooth.

Julius and Eva were prodigious eaters as was most of the family, with a few out-law exceptions. G-Uncle Izzie, was a tiny thin man who shook with nerves. He had the kindest eyes, sweetest disposition. A gentle soul with a voice that any Cantor or Chazzan would cry for. Izzy's tiny body would render this enormous voice, his delivery had so much emotion it would transport you out of your body. His heavy Austrian/Jewish accent sounded so different. My Greats were Yankees, New York through and through. I listened carefully to his inflection and rhythm. My mother thought it crazy that I loved opera and Classical music, but it was G-Uncle Izzy who handed me that love.

My dad and Grandpa Herman out-laws both, wore smart cloths, pants with knife sharp pleats and narrow stylish belts. They were both tall and lean, each had a full head of hair. I thought them snappy. The others wore white shirts long sleeves. As a concession to the heat, or open fires, eventually they rolled the sleeves up. I never saw Uncle Izzies arms, not once no matter how hot.

The women were mostly beautiful, with their snub noses and lacquered hair. They wore nail polish and makeup. Thick penciled brows sometimes two shades darker, sometimes three shades lighter. This may have been a political statement, I was too young to fathom it. Like President Reagan parting his hair first to the left and then while in office parting it to the right. Mascara, was applied liberally out of a dry cake with lots of spit and swirling a stiff black brush around and around. Some of the women's hair had gone a funny reddish color, (my mom still a stunning brunette at this time) Many were fair a few even blond. Grandma Ettas' eyes were hazel, Aunt Pats' blue. My dad and Herman's eyes were blue the former Robins egg blue the latter a deep blue. The ladies all seemed to have extraordinarily wide tiny feet. These extra wide feet were in cased in the smallest and most up to date shoes. A few wore Granny type shoes but these were the rare unsporting ones. Poking out of the top of the shoes was the hump of foot that could not fit. Looking closely you'd see around the toes the outlines, of corns and thickened blisters. My Grandmother and her siblings trilled their threes, sticking the tip of their tongues out against the palette and upper lip. Then it would snap back into it's little house. My Grandparents did not have the tell tale accent. The Jacknowitz/Jackman (Anglicised) clan said earl for oil and berl for boil.

A few of the Aunts, in -law Aunts and Cousins, were soft spoken and serene. Most were liberated outspoken women who were given a birth rite and mandate to be heard (loud), often, and to not obey held consequences beyond Dante's grasp. My mother included. I do remember that Aunt Paulie and Uncle Izzie had a serenity and peace as a couple that was enviable. The others firebrands. Eva and Gertie never married as two of the brothers George and Julius stayed single. It is rumored that George had a clandestine relationship with a married woman. My Great Grandmother Mollie was I believed a force to be reckoned with and acid tongue when needed. These beautiful woman had a propensity to being heavy, the proverbial beautiful face etc. Aunt Gertie stayed slim all her life, after a surgery she developed a tiny pooch, that she fretted over. Pictures of my Great Grandmother show a tiny multi chinned woman hair scrapped back no nonsense, of strong mettle and a twinkle of humor. Etta was a true beauty, although matronly later in life she retained a regal and elegant look. With her light hair and her butter scotch gold jewelry, slave bracelets, chunky watches, and heavy bangles, she had a refinement and polish the others never acquired. I've been told the King of Spain Ferdinand, thought so too and chased her all over a trans Atlantic crossing to Europe.

Grandpa Herman and Grandma Etta were a matched pair both beautiful people, passionate, stubborn and very much in love. They were obsessed with each other, leading to a marriage fraught with tensions and problems. Pop was as handsome a man that ever crossed the stage or screen. Black haired, white skinned, pale blue eyes, a very natty dresser. He was a straight shooter, and a fabulous billiards player. Their arguments were legendary ah, but that's another story.

Gunny sack races, potato passes and men trooping off to play soft ball in their wool slacks. Heavily oiled mitts in hand, young boys in tow with unwieldy bats. The women would sit on the benches and beach chairs yelling and arguing their hands flashing with jewels, fingers at the ready to point or crook at an offending child. Always ready to climb the next verbal rock wall with relish.

Now Uncle Julius and cousins Davey and Toby would be sweating in the center of all this with a one mindedness. Tweaking and playing the fire like a fine instrument, on the top of which a great cauldron brewed. This year there was an addition of a great garbage can sized pot namely a wok. Mind you this home made colossus looked to me like the lid of a big metal garbage can. Julius' baby. He sweat over it as a doctor does a breach birth. With finesse and an almost balletic choreography, masses of vegetables were tossed sputtering and sizzling as slowly everything was added. Celery, onion, cabbage, carrots, broccoli, chicken, broth, cornstarch, soy sauce. Finally the most exotic of ingredients, bean sprouts. This was new it was fantastic, no big slices of meat, everything chopped all the same size with pains taking care. First this and then that. Nothing gedempted here, no Kugel grated oiled baked. No, this was science, and timing, all tossed together quickly. Thin bits of white meat chicken added to the melange. A tsimmis in definition if not in practise. Chop Suey, straight from Hong Kong.

I was really little, standing transfixed as I would later when a raw boned six foot two woman on T.V. wielded a cleaver like Uncle Julius'. Eyes round watching this new kind of alchemy, the smoke fires burning my nostrils, the sounds of chaos a din in my ear. I stood shuffling from foot to foot, pine needles sending up their resin dark smells underfoot mingling with Chop Suey. In the cauldron bubbled fluffy white rice, no hot dogs and beans. It was a gastronomic awakening, an epiphany.

My G-Uncle Julius figured again in my gastronomic awaking with his Fish Souffle. Mrs. Paul, not! My Grandparents took me often when I was also very young to a French restaurant, La Champlain, Ice Cream at Schrafts for afters. Lobster was a rare gourmet treat back then and I acquired the taste at a very tender age. Fresh squeezed Orange Juice daily, Coconut from Florida in winter and Perrier water a rarity in those days, were among the many things introduced to me on Maytime Drive.

We were handed bowls, and began to line up, so many Oliver Twists with great anticipation. Licking lips and sniffling the air I shuffled along with my bowl and large spoon. Julius and Dave stood aproned and hot mitted, with giant ladle's. Toby with her rice ladle first, and then the mound of gleaming vegetables with a kind of shiny blond sauce. Gently cradling my bowl, deftly stepping over tree roots, ant hills, twigs and pine cones to finally perch somewhere. My spoon dug in, hot, hot, hot, blow, blow stick out the tongue lick the bottom of the hot child friendly spoon and tilt it in. Flavors, not just onions, it must have been garlic, ginger, bless Julius' heart. Light bulbs in my head pop, pop, pop.

Now I was never a real fan of Chop Suey but my little road map tongue got the taste for something and was never quite happy with just peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and Velveeta again. Oh, as far as the rest of the family picnic, kids got spanked, and picked up from the dust, younger ones got rocked and passed around. Bottles of blowing bubbles were handed out, bubble gum blown and later roasted marshmallows. The adults yelled and insulted one another as they laughed and played cards, smoked their cigarettes and cigars, topped off with tons of fire roasted coffee out of giant enameled pots.

Eva always got the last word. Or maybe it was the mosquito's.

Baby doll jammy clad I dreamt of fires and cauldrons in the sticky heat of my room, and waited for next summer and a family picnic by the lake.

By Michele  Bernstein