I've begun dreaming in Spanish, not full sentences but words here and there, some my subconscious must have picked up. Sleeping is not one of the things I do well, from my earliest childhood I've been a terrible sleeper. Now dreaming in Spanglish has added another layer to my fitful wakefulness. During the sleep gaps I think, I also remember. Some of it not such easy stuff.
I was thinking about the menu for my class, which brought me back to summers on Myles Ave. My childhood home. When Anita passed away we sold the house furnished the only thing missing was the hutch, and tea table. Larry and Pam took those, we divided the china, crystal and good stuff. I was in the middle of selling my home in Spring Hill due to another change in financial circumstances, there was a question as to where I was going to live. Needless to say, I did not need to inherit any large pieces of furniture. At the time I just didn't realize I wasn't going to go home again. There was too much chaos in my life, there had been really since dad died.
My other family home, the one where my children grew up was sold during my divorce, a really lovely home with a very peaceful aspect to it. I know my children have a need for a family home, and I have moved so often now I can't supply that continuity for them, and it's a real shame. No gathering place with the familiar scents and ghosts of their childhood. Just let's go visit mom and now mom and Barry in their new home. I grieve for my lost old home and for my children's.
The last two years I find I dream more and more about the house on Myles Ave. Sometimes it looks just as it did, other times I just know I'm there. We had a difficult childhood, there was a lot of tensions, anger and more than a little insanity. Yet I find myself drifting back, pining for so many things lost. Summers were the best at home, my mother was more balanced. If it wasn't the warmth maybe it was the sunlight. There was no air conditioning for years, then my dad installed a unit in the wall of the master bed room and a door that closed off the hallway from the bedrooms. In winter my sister and I froze, our bedroom was over the uninsulated garage and our pipes would freeze, no amount of bleeding them could keep that room warm. We often woke up and saw our breath in the morning. The old windows leaked like a sieve, we placed rolled up towels as draft barriers everywhere. It was never comfortable, too cold too hot. And yet...
Summers we spent every waking moment out doors. As a little girl I would roam the neighborhoods with impunity, gone from morning until I heard my mothers whistle or later the bell. She had an old fashioned iron bell installed on the pillar of our front porch, so unlike the other mothers who screamed the names of their kids to fetch them home, my mom rang the clapper that could be heard for miles. I installed one for my kids , I also taught them the family whistle. We could play Marco Polo in the stores or find one another in a crowd. Still can. We knew where to look if someone left a note where they were going, and when mom pulled up after shopping we all ran out to help her with the groceries. She didn't have to beep we knew the sound of our cars. Most of them were old, a few clinkers even the Comet as it aged had a unique universal joint gone bad sound. We could hear it squeaking as she turned onto our street and stoped what ever misbehavior we were involved with in time to meet her at the door or the driveway. We were always in fear of breaking my mothers rules, there was hell to pay and her rules changed daily without notice. You had to be on your feet as it were, in my house, always ready to detect her moods. It's taught me to be a very shrewed judge of character,as well as a good negotiator. I am also very easy to get along with, although the last twelve years or so I have been learning about boundaries and self preservation.
Back to summer, when Anita worked, summers it was half a day while we were still young. We'd do our chores in the morning and then get the beach stuff together and when the car pulled up there we were towels et all ready to go. Sunken Meadow or Jones beach, parking lot number 9. One summer we belonged to Monaco beach club, where we shared a cabana with the only non Jewish family at the club. Our cabana consisted of a shower at the back a small changing area cum storage after, swinging doors to a covered patio where tables and chairs for eating and playing games were set up. On the strip of sand in front there was a communal chaise lounge gossip arena. Two chaises to a family umbrellas brought by the cabana boy. I could swear ours was named Stu. Now if you had real money you literally owned your cabana and had both sides, it was decorated and was very cozy. Then there were the half shares like ours, and then there were the families and singles who had lockers. We only did the beach club one season.
When they diagnosed my sister Pam with Scoliosis some how my parents scraped the money together and bought an 18x8 foot, eight shaped steel and aluminum above the ground pool. It was thought that being in the water and swimming would help her back. She could be out of her brace as long as she was swimming otherwise it was 23 hours in her iron maiden. That's when my dads BBQ history really took off. Dad loved to be out side, stripped to the waist in some sagging old shorts mowing, gardening, spraying our trees planting vegetables. He was a man of the land, and loved to putter and cook. Harold was a very maternal man which was very good for us as we had a non maternal mother. He even taught us how to sew a button and fix a hem. I need to say here he was also a man with a temper and a tough customer. Dad was however a good guy, with a lot of energy and was wonderful with his hands. He lived in Brooklyn his whole life before joining the Navy in WW11 with a falsified birth date. He was 16 and six foot tall 119 lbs and Uncle Sam looked the other way. It was always a marvel to me that a guy who had lived in apartments his whole life knew how to fix and build and garden. I inherited my dads fix it Gene, I am also very good with my hands and love to garden. His dad Herman was a sportsman fisherman who didn't have time for his son. He was always running off to their camps on Eastern Long Island where they kept boats and cabins or playing poker with his cronies. I think as a neglected son my father decided he was going to be there for us. That wasn't as easy as it sounds he often worked two jobs and his career was very spotty until his very later years. Then there was the Anita factor.
Way back, there were block parties, everyone got together, the streets were closed off and grills and back yard cedar picnic tables were carried on to the street. Lights were strung back and forth and everyone brought stuff. I most remember the one where I got to sleep over Kathy Harbus' house. I didn't get a lot of sleep overs and this was special she was my very best friend. We slept in her brothers room on the trundle bed. They had these cool round fans you could sit on, before they installed air conditioning. I slept over her house twice more later on and one time her mom Harriet made us rock lobster tails.
During the week on very hot days all the women got the kids together in someones back yard with a oscillating sprinkler and they'd drink iced coffee and smoke cigarettes while we ran around the sprinkler or kiddie pool keeping ourselves amused and cool. They'd drink their iced drink in these colored metal tall glasses, that always tasted just a bit funny to me. They kept it cold, and the sound of ice clinking around those metal glasses evokes something in me. Ice cubes from metal ice-cube trays with water from the tap. Our refrigerator had a tiny box with an insulated door where you placed those trays and your frozen foods. When we sold the house four years ago it was still up and running, over fifty years. It was a squat white GE affair with a large slot machine style handle a small interior and the tiny freezer compartment that needed defrosting constantly.
When I think of summer foods I have to acknowledge dairy. In those days before meat become inexpensive and a larger part of our diet, we ate a lot of cheaper "dairy" meals. I am aware that every kid in America was eating peanut butter jelly, or cream cheese and jelly sandwiches, we had three ways sometimes. Sandwiches of Cheese wiz or Velveeta and as a gourmet change, Pimento cheese. My dad was a fan of Spam from the war and you could not get cheaper than that. When we were flush kosher salami. Either the block roll sausage sized Hebrew National or the really good stuff the large fresh deli sliced Chicken salami. This was also beef where it got it's name Chicken I don't know. Dairy in the summer was it. It was just too hot to eat a heavy meal and as mom didn't cook at the best of times, hey. Let's start with Cottage cheese and Sour cream with garden vegetables, I think this is very Jewish, so let me know if you at this in a non-Jewish home. Large curd cottage cheese with dollops of real sour cream to smooth and moisten, add finely chopped or diced scallions, radishes, cucumber, celery and sometimes carrots, salt and pepper. We had Iceberg lettuce with tomatoes and cucumber and Green Goddess dressing my all time favorite. A lot of Tuna fish was eaten at our house also very cheap with onions, pickles diced and mayo. Egg salad was as unadorned as can be mashed with a potato masher mayo salt and pepper. Later on we started seeing salad olives and three been salads, chick peas with pepper and a dash of creamy dressing, very later marinated artichoke hearts in the salad. Gefilte fish was a dairy staple with a slice of buttered bread, and of course cheese. My mother and brother were partial to Munster, I loathed it. Mom would indulge me every so often and buy Swiss. Although not part of the dairy meals later on sliced boiled ham and Turkey showed up on our table. Now egg noodles and cottage cheese was a winter/ summer cross over. We just boiled up a pot of wide egg noodles put it in a bowl with a pound of large curd cottage cheese and a little butter, salt and pepper. When corn was in season boiled corn on the cob with butter showed up with dairy and with BBQ.
Dads BBq's were legendary. When he died there was a giant jar of his BBQ sauce that's base had to be a dozen years old, that he was keeping for the coming years q's. It was hard to toss out his secret babied sauce of wonder. Chicken, ribs,Skirt steak dogs and burgers. More meat than you could shake a stick at. Dad had a gas and a charcoal grill and used both graduating to an electric grill starter after years of dousing his coals with lethal amounts of fire starter jells and noxious liquids. Salad was also there but the meat was King, when we were older we made the side dishes, but my mom bought tubs of everything as more and more foods became prepacked. It was a boon to us kids who thought a side dish was canned peas or asparagus on rare occasions and white bread was a second vegetable. Harold lived for summer floating in the pool working on his small cottage garden, shlepping the hoses around with the sprinklers. He loved the house and tried to keep it up as best he could with the little funds available. We had a barn red house with white trim and a four foot hedge around the front yard for privacy, that hedge got higher as my mother hated more and more of our neighbors. No more block parties no more ladies visiting after chores were done. Mom didn't house keep, so keeping the neighbors at bay helped hide the riot that was going on inside. There were suburban jealousies and rivalries that tore our post war community into the haves and have not. It affected my sister and I deeply in so many ways. Larry was an athletic kid and that made a big difference for him socially.
Summer meant listening to every sound at night as the community settled down, garbage cans clanking as they were deposited on the curb, music wafting from indoors along with the scents from the kitchens, dogs barking faintly in someones home, infants crying and the noises of domesticity clanging through the hot night air. Mr. Solomon screaming at someone about something and our own knockout drag outs must have echoed around from time to time. We all kinda knew each others business who got up when, who went to bed late all kinds of stuff, that we didn't really pay any attention to. Going to bed at ten when the sun finally dropped, laying with just a sheet for cover and hearing the bugs and birds do there nightly chorus. Calamine lotion, pink patches on our skin, heat rash, insect bites, waking up soaking wet with a limp damp feather pillow, SUMMER.
Sometimes we would head over to the boardwalk at Jones Beach. Watch the lightning over the water as we strolled along. Live bands played and couples danced at the band shell, people ate fried clams, hot dogs, and fries. I loved those nights they were the most special for me. I hadn't a clue until much later what was going on under the boardwalk later at night. Those were the bad girl stories we heard to keep us virginal. It only piqued my imagination and made it seem very European, sexy, in a way.
Drive in theatres, what can I say RIP. It is a terrible misjustice that an American pastime that was affordable and a hug piece of the history for the boomer is gone. I am claustrophobic and I hated the movie theatre experience, drive-ins though...Ahh sigh.
Reading books, and the mobile library every other Thursday parked at the head of Myles Ave. Without that I would have been miserable maybe suicidal. Other memories crowed themselves and wait to be sorted during my waking moments at night. Pablo licks my face and kisses me as Callie moves to accommodate my nightly restlessness, Piper settles deeper on his pillow next to my head, and poor Barry subliminally aware of my wakefulness stirs. Summer now is insulated, I stay in the air conditioning mostly, even baking bread once or twice a week. No sounds of my neighbors, I have none just empty lots, no cricket sounds or chirrups no far off sounds of the trains and whistle , just lots of tropical bugs to kill in the house as the air conditioner pours forth spreading its chill and white noise. I am no longer close to the sounds and rhythms of summer. But my recollection of it sharpens every year I get older.
The gourmet meal I have to plan will be a poor thing compared to the memories of summer meals past, no matter that they were plain or meager, and not my fathers BBQ.
Wednesday, June 25, 2008
Monday, June 23, 2008
Bits and Pieces
"Life is not measured by the number of breaths we take, but the moments that take our breath away." George Carlin
Barry said last night that we are going to see a lot of people choose to leave now. Before it gets worse or before it gets better? What did George and Tim know that we don't. I haven't done my Tarot lately, maybe it's just as well. Now George was the conscience of our generation. As a keen observer of our culture he always hauled us on the carpet for being too pompous, too over the top. He also gave it to us, when we didn't have passion or lacked spine. George hated mental and emotional laziness. His whit and court jester antics helped to get stinging messages across. Like Tim Russert in his way, they gave us the straight poop. Something else to note, the white supremest sites have quadrupled their hits since Obama became the Democratic nominee. This does not surprise me nor does it bode well.
"There has never been a statue erected to the memory of someone who let well enough alone." Jules Ellinger
I just reread Spencer's The Faerie Queen and Epithalamion. What a poet, what a guy, now that's what I call unfettered Romanticism. The whole divine marriage concept has fallen out of fashion and with it, the idea of bringing heaven and earth together to produce love ever lasting. Shame that, disposable marriage and all it stands for. I rather like the idea of blessings on ones union from above, and the whole romantic/passionate true love. The very dark down side to Spencerian poetry was his politics. Working with and abetting Lord Grey in the English reign of cruelty in Ireland, his English Protestant hubris ultimately helped foment the Irish rebellion of 1598. Thus loosing everything and fleeing with his family back to England. He passed away shortly after, and was buried near Chaucer his poetic ancestor in Westminster Abbey . There is however no monument to the man who was THE influence for the best English poets, yet to come. I would recommend his poems before tackling the like of Keats, Milton, C.S.Lewis or Dante, they all borrowed heavily from him .
There is a personal battle I wage with certain artists, that is, to love the works of men/women who's politics or actions I find abhorrent. It's been tough to love Wagner, Lena Wurtmuller, Evelyn Waugh, and hosts of others who are the epitome of prejudice and staunchly anti-semitic. Is there room for admiring genius, works, someone can produce without embracing them or their ideals. Is there a place in my philosophy where I can safely separate the two.
It looks like I will start a cooking class here on Lovers Lane. I have quite a few
willing participants. As it's summer, I want to work on a menu featuring only summer produce. Here in TX we have some really beautiful fruits and vegetables that come to us from over the border as well as local. We've been enjoying really good Texas honey and just a month ago the Texas Sweet onions. Tomatoes have been off my menu for awhile and I miss them. I love to save all my left over bread and make a bread and tomato salad (Panzanella) with lots of fresh basil, personally I like to add red onions, roasted garlic and lots of curls of Regiano Parmisano.
Cold soups with dashes of sweet wine or Champagne, topped with a good Yogurt. I have in the fridge Cucumber Yogurt soup resplendent with limes and very green rich olive oil. As I can't get my Greek yogurt here I do have a nice Bulgarian one. Sometimes I use sour cream. I am toying with starting my own culture again, but as the air conditioner may keep it from growing it'll have to wait until late fall. Shrimp can be gotten on the Island and they are huge, pink, and from the Gulf. The local cactus bloomed all spring and on our way to the Island yesterday I saw that the fruits look ready for picking cactus "pears" are deep red on the inside, really sweet and juicy. I just need Rossana to aid and abet harvesting.
I will post my class menu when I've worked it out. It's a funny blog today a little of this and a little of that. Well enjoy the summer evening, the sky here is robins egg blue and cloudless for a change. I see a nice evening walk in my future, so saith the sage of the valley...
Barry said last night that we are going to see a lot of people choose to leave now. Before it gets worse or before it gets better? What did George and Tim know that we don't. I haven't done my Tarot lately, maybe it's just as well. Now George was the conscience of our generation. As a keen observer of our culture he always hauled us on the carpet for being too pompous, too over the top. He also gave it to us, when we didn't have passion or lacked spine. George hated mental and emotional laziness. His whit and court jester antics helped to get stinging messages across. Like Tim Russert in his way, they gave us the straight poop. Something else to note, the white supremest sites have quadrupled their hits since Obama became the Democratic nominee. This does not surprise me nor does it bode well.
"There has never been a statue erected to the memory of someone who let well enough alone." Jules Ellinger
I just reread Spencer's The Faerie Queen and Epithalamion. What a poet, what a guy, now that's what I call unfettered Romanticism. The whole divine marriage concept has fallen out of fashion and with it, the idea of bringing heaven and earth together to produce love ever lasting. Shame that, disposable marriage and all it stands for. I rather like the idea of blessings on ones union from above, and the whole romantic/passionate true love. The very dark down side to Spencerian poetry was his politics. Working with and abetting Lord Grey in the English reign of cruelty in Ireland, his English Protestant hubris ultimately helped foment the Irish rebellion of 1598. Thus loosing everything and fleeing with his family back to England. He passed away shortly after, and was buried near Chaucer his poetic ancestor in Westminster Abbey . There is however no monument to the man who was THE influence for the best English poets, yet to come. I would recommend his poems before tackling the like of Keats, Milton, C.S.Lewis or Dante, they all borrowed heavily from him .
There is a personal battle I wage with certain artists, that is, to love the works of men/women who's politics or actions I find abhorrent. It's been tough to love Wagner, Lena Wurtmuller, Evelyn Waugh, and hosts of others who are the epitome of prejudice and staunchly anti-semitic. Is there room for admiring genius, works, someone can produce without embracing them or their ideals. Is there a place in my philosophy where I can safely separate the two.
It looks like I will start a cooking class here on Lovers Lane. I have quite a few
willing participants. As it's summer, I want to work on a menu featuring only summer produce. Here in TX we have some really beautiful fruits and vegetables that come to us from over the border as well as local. We've been enjoying really good Texas honey and just a month ago the Texas Sweet onions. Tomatoes have been off my menu for awhile and I miss them. I love to save all my left over bread and make a bread and tomato salad (Panzanella) with lots of fresh basil, personally I like to add red onions, roasted garlic and lots of curls of Regiano Parmisano.
Cold soups with dashes of sweet wine or Champagne, topped with a good Yogurt. I have in the fridge Cucumber Yogurt soup resplendent with limes and very green rich olive oil. As I can't get my Greek yogurt here I do have a nice Bulgarian one. Sometimes I use sour cream. I am toying with starting my own culture again, but as the air conditioner may keep it from growing it'll have to wait until late fall. Shrimp can be gotten on the Island and they are huge, pink, and from the Gulf. The local cactus bloomed all spring and on our way to the Island yesterday I saw that the fruits look ready for picking cactus "pears" are deep red on the inside, really sweet and juicy. I just need Rossana to aid and abet harvesting.
I will post my class menu when I've worked it out. It's a funny blog today a little of this and a little of that. Well enjoy the summer evening, the sky here is robins egg blue and cloudless for a change. I see a nice evening walk in my future, so saith the sage of the valley...
Monday, June 16, 2008
Brownsville June 2008
I wanted to just take a moment to acknowledge the passing of Tim Russert journalist, writer extraordinaire. As a lover of the written word and an admirer of straight shooting, plain talking, no phony baloney people, I was in love with Tim. Through his interviews and forums he educated me and lifted me up with his stories. His lilting impish smile and warm crinkled eyes belied his intelligence, but couldn't hide the warmth and happiness he carried from within. These few that carry on the non partisan tradition of informing and cutting out the crap in the news are shrinking and the demise of real journalism I fear is immanent. Goodbye Tim and thanks .
Well now Brownsville is indeed very hot and still the wind off the dessert blows. We have made a few trips to S.Padre Island and the beach is everything a beach should be. Soft sand, unending horizon, and depending on the prevailing wind some very nice wave action. We even encountered a beached man of war.
I dropped Barry off at the airport in Harlingen the other day, we had been hosting his family for a few days and they'd left earlier. I was on my way back, when I saw the crazy golf ball water tower in Rancho Viejo. I felt a lift to my spirit and thought gee Brownsville is getting under my skin and it is now really home. I usually call Rossana and say I'm waving at you, as they live on the golf course, near the golf ball, on the street with the clock house, but they are in Steam Boat Springs on vacation.
We took the Goldsmith clan to Matamoros Mexico, spent some shopping time at Garcias and then took the free open window cooled jitney to the market. Our driver a sweet man warned us where to go and not to, passing out little flyer's for shops and restaurants. Since I'd made a few trips with Rossana I was our guide, although I hadn't been to the "market" before. It was very much like a Souk or Medina in Turkey or the Arab sections of Israel. Tiny shops crammed with all kinds of merchandise: leather goods, cotton Ropas, pottery, jewelry, nick knacks, liquor 40 kinds of tequila. Botas or boots are big here, leather, skin both fake and real. Western hats and belts and buckles of every size and description. Crosses of every material and value adorn every inch of wall space. I suspect they are holding up the walls of these buildings by their spiritual auras alone. Paintings of every skill level and price and yes even a few velvet ones along side of sombreros of every size and description, Mexican rugs and corn husk dolls. The riot of color and scents almost over whelm the sense's as all the store owners try to entice you inside with their deals and of course the golden words air conditioning. Muy caliente, muy. The couple who have the first stall are lucky everyone stops there and then the rest are lucky to catch you as you flee the heat and claustrophobic conditions. We went out into the open streets walking along looking very out of place and very much the tourists. Can't hide the Anglo. We had a good time although walking in the heat was very over powering. We made our way back to where the jitney was going to meet us and found the Paris cafe for comimos. A large space with booths and cafeteria style tables, chandeliers and a Greek frieze running along the border of ceiling and wall. The columns were mirrored, the walls covered in tin tile all painted a mud brown. I think the only thing missing was a disco ball. The food was very good, not memorable and we lucked out as there was no memorable "afters."
Our reentry to the states cost 40 cents and a swipe of the passaporta.
A few weeks ago we flew to Atlanta for a family party. Flying from here is expensive and time consuming, as we need to fly to Houston before we head out anywhere else. Our second leg was with Airtran, and they charged me 29.00 for an over sized bag that on the leg back was miraculously half an inch under the limit! I was scammed and make no mistake, very upset. We'd been to Atlanta three years ago for a quick trip also another family mitzvah. I enjoyed it there, although I must confess I just couldn't imagine the scenes from Margret Mitchell's Gone With The Wind. War torn, corpse strewn and burning. Nothing could be further from that, as modern Atlanta's skyline zooms upwards and outwards and the suburbs rub cheeks with the urban centers. The Metro is very nice and we took it to the Aquarium one afternoon. I really enjoyed it although, it's not very large. Another site was Stone MT. Save your money and just take the gondola up, the train ride was a huge nothing on it's own. We however were treated to a rare performance of "Who let the dogs out" by a group of 5&6 year olds on their duck kazoos. A wonderful spontaneous event I caught on my cell phone camera. The view of Atlanta was obscured by smog and a low ceiling that day. Before leaving though we did make a pilgramage to The Varsity, yes Barry and I, the organic health food nuts piged out on chili dogs with the works, onion rings and french fries! Worth every freeking free radical.
On Tuesday we went up to the Gangs mountain home up in the Smokey's. Thanks Barry and Stef it was just beautiful. A really impressive home site and log home. I'd loved to be snowed in for just a day or two with those views and fireplaces!
Pablo continues to amuse and amaze all. His love of life and exuberance are so endearing. He still has not lost his kitten big eyed tilted headed wonder, nor his ability to defy gravity. I'm not sure how big he"ll be but he is definitely still growing. Callie has lightened up a bit with him and only yips at him for show. He does torture her though, hiding and jumping out at her playing Pablo tag. It's amazing how really gentle he is. His reputation spreads among the workmen who come and go. They all know Pablo, and even if not a "cat" lover they love him. My housekeeper Hilda was a great source of amusement for him and he was her shadow at every step. When our sofas were returned from being recovered today, they went to look for him. I had shut the boys up in the den, it has a glass paneled door. And Luis was talking to Pablo and cooing at him through the door with a funny grin. "Ah, Pablo look at you!"
That's Brownsville in June, hard to believe Barry and I are married two years, July 4th it will be our ten year anniversary. No talking food today too hot and I baked bread so the scent over powers my brain cells. Maybe manana.
Well now Brownsville is indeed very hot and still the wind off the dessert blows. We have made a few trips to S.Padre Island and the beach is everything a beach should be. Soft sand, unending horizon, and depending on the prevailing wind some very nice wave action. We even encountered a beached man of war.
I dropped Barry off at the airport in Harlingen the other day, we had been hosting his family for a few days and they'd left earlier. I was on my way back, when I saw the crazy golf ball water tower in Rancho Viejo. I felt a lift to my spirit and thought gee Brownsville is getting under my skin and it is now really home. I usually call Rossana and say I'm waving at you, as they live on the golf course, near the golf ball, on the street with the clock house, but they are in Steam Boat Springs on vacation.
We took the Goldsmith clan to Matamoros Mexico, spent some shopping time at Garcias and then took the free open window cooled jitney to the market. Our driver a sweet man warned us where to go and not to, passing out little flyer's for shops and restaurants. Since I'd made a few trips with Rossana I was our guide, although I hadn't been to the "market" before. It was very much like a Souk or Medina in Turkey or the Arab sections of Israel. Tiny shops crammed with all kinds of merchandise: leather goods, cotton Ropas, pottery, jewelry, nick knacks, liquor 40 kinds of tequila. Botas or boots are big here, leather, skin both fake and real. Western hats and belts and buckles of every size and description. Crosses of every material and value adorn every inch of wall space. I suspect they are holding up the walls of these buildings by their spiritual auras alone. Paintings of every skill level and price and yes even a few velvet ones along side of sombreros of every size and description, Mexican rugs and corn husk dolls. The riot of color and scents almost over whelm the sense's as all the store owners try to entice you inside with their deals and of course the golden words air conditioning. Muy caliente, muy. The couple who have the first stall are lucky everyone stops there and then the rest are lucky to catch you as you flee the heat and claustrophobic conditions. We went out into the open streets walking along looking very out of place and very much the tourists. Can't hide the Anglo. We had a good time although walking in the heat was very over powering. We made our way back to where the jitney was going to meet us and found the Paris cafe for comimos. A large space with booths and cafeteria style tables, chandeliers and a Greek frieze running along the border of ceiling and wall. The columns were mirrored, the walls covered in tin tile all painted a mud brown. I think the only thing missing was a disco ball. The food was very good, not memorable and we lucked out as there was no memorable "afters."
Our reentry to the states cost 40 cents and a swipe of the passaporta.
A few weeks ago we flew to Atlanta for a family party. Flying from here is expensive and time consuming, as we need to fly to Houston before we head out anywhere else. Our second leg was with Airtran, and they charged me 29.00 for an over sized bag that on the leg back was miraculously half an inch under the limit! I was scammed and make no mistake, very upset. We'd been to Atlanta three years ago for a quick trip also another family mitzvah. I enjoyed it there, although I must confess I just couldn't imagine the scenes from Margret Mitchell's Gone With The Wind. War torn, corpse strewn and burning. Nothing could be further from that, as modern Atlanta's skyline zooms upwards and outwards and the suburbs rub cheeks with the urban centers. The Metro is very nice and we took it to the Aquarium one afternoon. I really enjoyed it although, it's not very large. Another site was Stone MT. Save your money and just take the gondola up, the train ride was a huge nothing on it's own. We however were treated to a rare performance of "Who let the dogs out" by a group of 5&6 year olds on their duck kazoos. A wonderful spontaneous event I caught on my cell phone camera. The view of Atlanta was obscured by smog and a low ceiling that day. Before leaving though we did make a pilgramage to The Varsity, yes Barry and I, the organic health food nuts piged out on chili dogs with the works, onion rings and french fries! Worth every freeking free radical.
On Tuesday we went up to the Gangs mountain home up in the Smokey's. Thanks Barry and Stef it was just beautiful. A really impressive home site and log home. I'd loved to be snowed in for just a day or two with those views and fireplaces!
Pablo continues to amuse and amaze all. His love of life and exuberance are so endearing. He still has not lost his kitten big eyed tilted headed wonder, nor his ability to defy gravity. I'm not sure how big he"ll be but he is definitely still growing. Callie has lightened up a bit with him and only yips at him for show. He does torture her though, hiding and jumping out at her playing Pablo tag. It's amazing how really gentle he is. His reputation spreads among the workmen who come and go. They all know Pablo, and even if not a "cat" lover they love him. My housekeeper Hilda was a great source of amusement for him and he was her shadow at every step. When our sofas were returned from being recovered today, they went to look for him. I had shut the boys up in the den, it has a glass paneled door. And Luis was talking to Pablo and cooing at him through the door with a funny grin. "Ah, Pablo look at you!"
That's Brownsville in June, hard to believe Barry and I are married two years, July 4th it will be our ten year anniversary. No talking food today too hot and I baked bread so the scent over powers my brain cells. Maybe manana.
Monday, April 14, 2008
Zman Heruteinu, Hag He'aviv, Pesach, Passover. A very special time of year, a very emotional Holiday. Here in the Lower Rio Grande Valley, spring came and went, without a real splash or flourish. Back up north Spring is a riot of color, scents and the song of returning birds hearkens us to the mad cleaning frenzy that precedes Pesach. I never did the whole hunt the chometz, but I did feel the three thousand year old call to throw open the windows and spring clean the house.
The last few years a few stray fellow Jews, Barry and myself have made a small and hamish seder. Every time I crack open my frayed and yellowed old Passover recipes and the special Super Supplement Passovers' with Newsday I've collected for over 35 years I can only sit quietly and remember Seders past.
Most of my memories center on the very formal white damask cloth clad and sparkling crystal china laden table my Grandmother Etta would set. Her dining room was an artistic mix of blond and cherry wood with a fabulous chandelier that bounced it's prismatic light off her cut and etched mirror. In the center of all this sparkle and gleam was placed a huge vase of white Gladiolas.
Aside from the ascetics that set off my own desire for interior design, was my grandmothers food. We always arrived after everything was set and the kitchen preparations were just a memory. It was the one time of year we entered the house on Maytime Drive through the front door. All other visits were through the garage, shoes off upon entering, or through the sliding glass doors in the den. We trooped up from downstairs on old sheet covered stairs carefully avoiding the Living room, and headed straight into the kitchen. We were only allowed to sit in the formal blue and white living room on very special occasions. When Grandpa (Pop) played the Steinway& Sons black Mother Grand we were allowed to sit near him on the carpet, watching his slippered feet work the petals and his beautiful spatulate fingers glide and tickle the key board. Pop liked to nap on the thick plush carpet behind the piano that was placed in the pocket of a giant Bay window. If we were very quiet we also could lay down on sacred ground.
It's Pesach, my sister and I have a brand new outfit usually topped off with a hat designed and made by my Aunt Gertie. My brother his blond hair brill creamed to spiky peaks, bow tied with his jacket buttoned in the middle. We never had much in the way of material things in our house and our cloths budget was next to nothing, but when called for I must say we had some ripping outfits. My sister Pam was more the cloths horse and lamented my mothers choices often and loudly. Our Great Aunts and Uncle would make us coats, hats and outfits for the dressy and holiday occasions, on these moments we could really hold our heads up and shine.
Arriving we received our rare kiss from Pop and were seated in the Living room until called to the table. Pop read the service in breakneck Hebrew until the responsive bits and we dutifully told the tale of the Hebrews exile and soujourn as slaves to Pharoh in Egypt. Patifar and his battle with Moses as g-d sent a new message and plague with each demand to free the people of Israel.
Each year we drank the Manischewitz Concord Grape wine and every year my sister found a way to drink more than her four sips and got a wee bit shicka. Erupting in cascades of giggles in appropriately. One of the men hid the afikomen. Reading the Haggadah and singing the songs brought us continuity, and tradition in an other wise traditonless family.Our Da Da Yenu was very rousing. We didn't attend Temple until just before my brother was to be bar-mitzva and the day after we didn't step in the Temple again. Maybe our temple going lasted 3-4 years. My sister and I were out to sea we didn't have a clue but we both felt a connection. Our jewish/yiddishkite roots did not run deep. Passover was our chance to really remember who we were, who our children would ultimately be.
The Four questions were passed down to the youngest and so it went. Grandma disappeared in to the kitchen at some point and no sooner had the men washed their hands and the Hillel sandwich was just a bitter memory then food began arriving. Gefilte fish which I will not apologise for loving, with crain or horseradish hard boiled eggs and salt water, chicken soup with Flanken. My sister and I had Flanken wars, as we both vied for the precious pieces of meat that helped to strengthen the soup. Frankly, I would have been happy to stop the meal right there.
We had at least two meat dishes with roasted chicken, several vegetables and a Potato Nick or kugel and baked Sweet Potatoes. We never ate Tsimmis, or so many of the other dishes I have come to know at other Seders. So my dilemma besides not making matzo balls like my mothers canon balls, was that there was never any real holiday recipe to be gleaned from my grandmothers table. The food was fantastic as she was a fabulous cook, but it was never really the stuff of handing down generation to generation. Etta was also a solo cook no one in her kitchen so as a child I never saw her cook those holiday meals. When I began to take over the Passover from my mom and dad, I had to go in search of Passover. So my collecting began in ernest.
So I opened my tattered collection today and I will share a few of my gems. I wet matzo, so here is my passover "bagels"
2/3 cup water
1/2 teaspoon coarse salt
1/3 cup oil
1 cup matzo meal
3 eggs
Bring the water, salt and oil to the boil. When bubbling add matzo meal, stir remove from the heat and cool. Add the eggs 1 at a time, mixing well. Drop by tablespoons on a greased pan wetting hands carefully shape into a bagel form with a hole in the middle.
Bake 350 F 40-45 min.
Passover Carrot Pudding
8 eggs, separated
1/2 cup matzo meal
1/4 tsp salt
1 1/2 cups powdered sugar
2 cups grated carrot
1 tbsp wine
1/2 cup ground almonds
1/2 lemon rind grated
Beat together yolks and sugar till light, add remaining ingredients
Beat whites till stiff peaks and then fold into yolk mixture. Bake in well greased and matzo floured pan 300 F 1 hour
Mashed Potato Pie
4-5 Potatoes
1 onion diced 2 lbs chopped meat
1/2 teaspoon salt, pepper garlic powder ( I add a few grates of nutmeg to the mashed potatoes)
Boil potatoes and mash well putting through a ricer
Brown onion in oil then add chop meat s&p garlic powder
Grease baking dish well and beginning with potatoes layer meat and potato alternately.
Bake 350 F 1 hour until nice and brown on top
Sometimes I add mushrooms to the onion browning process for a richer beefier flavor.
Almond Hills
3 tbs cakemeal or matzo meal sifted
1/4 lb. blanched almonds
1/2 lb. powdered sugar (1 2/3 cups)
5 egg whites
Roast blanched almonds and sliver, beat egg whites stiff, sift in powdered sugar and meal. Add almonds and mix thoroughly. Grease cookie sheet dust well with meal, and drop Tablespoons of mixture onto sheet. Keep room for spreading between hills.
Bake 275 F about 20 minutes cool before removing from sheet.
Many years ago I stopped making apple Haroset. I am allergic to cinnamon and I personally loathe apple anything. So I adopted a wonderful Sephardi recipe and never looked back.
1lbs, pitted dates
2 cups dark currents
1 cup chopped walnuts ( I prefer Pecans)
enough sweet red wine to moisten
a touch of honey or brown sugar
Alternatively Sephardi do not use wine but I would add 1/2 cup honey or brown sugar and lemon juice along with the soaking liquid.
Soak dates and currents over night reserve liquid after draining
Coarse chop fruit add chopped nuts, wine and honey
add back any soaking liquid if mixture begins to dry too much
I find this works the best, if I make the mixture the night before and then adjust for moisture before serving. After all, dates and honey what could be bad?
My spell check had a nervous break down with all of the foreign words, being the notoriously bad speller that I am if I have miss spelled any Yiddish words etc. forgive me.
The highlight of the evening was always watching that rascal Elijah drink from the Kiddush cup and no one can tell me he didn't. The boys ran around looking for the Afikoman and then we were summerly sent down to the den to amuse ourselves till we drooply trooped off home.
The last few years a few stray fellow Jews, Barry and myself have made a small and hamish seder. Every time I crack open my frayed and yellowed old Passover recipes and the special Super Supplement Passovers' with Newsday I've collected for over 35 years I can only sit quietly and remember Seders past.
Most of my memories center on the very formal white damask cloth clad and sparkling crystal china laden table my Grandmother Etta would set. Her dining room was an artistic mix of blond and cherry wood with a fabulous chandelier that bounced it's prismatic light off her cut and etched mirror. In the center of all this sparkle and gleam was placed a huge vase of white Gladiolas.
Aside from the ascetics that set off my own desire for interior design, was my grandmothers food. We always arrived after everything was set and the kitchen preparations were just a memory. It was the one time of year we entered the house on Maytime Drive through the front door. All other visits were through the garage, shoes off upon entering, or through the sliding glass doors in the den. We trooped up from downstairs on old sheet covered stairs carefully avoiding the Living room, and headed straight into the kitchen. We were only allowed to sit in the formal blue and white living room on very special occasions. When Grandpa (Pop) played the Steinway& Sons black Mother Grand we were allowed to sit near him on the carpet, watching his slippered feet work the petals and his beautiful spatulate fingers glide and tickle the key board. Pop liked to nap on the thick plush carpet behind the piano that was placed in the pocket of a giant Bay window. If we were very quiet we also could lay down on sacred ground.
It's Pesach, my sister and I have a brand new outfit usually topped off with a hat designed and made by my Aunt Gertie. My brother his blond hair brill creamed to spiky peaks, bow tied with his jacket buttoned in the middle. We never had much in the way of material things in our house and our cloths budget was next to nothing, but when called for I must say we had some ripping outfits. My sister Pam was more the cloths horse and lamented my mothers choices often and loudly. Our Great Aunts and Uncle would make us coats, hats and outfits for the dressy and holiday occasions, on these moments we could really hold our heads up and shine.
Arriving we received our rare kiss from Pop and were seated in the Living room until called to the table. Pop read the service in breakneck Hebrew until the responsive bits and we dutifully told the tale of the Hebrews exile and soujourn as slaves to Pharoh in Egypt. Patifar and his battle with Moses as g-d sent a new message and plague with each demand to free the people of Israel.
Each year we drank the Manischewitz Concord Grape wine and every year my sister found a way to drink more than her four sips and got a wee bit shicka. Erupting in cascades of giggles in appropriately. One of the men hid the afikomen. Reading the Haggadah and singing the songs brought us continuity, and tradition in an other wise traditonless family.Our Da Da Yenu was very rousing. We didn't attend Temple until just before my brother was to be bar-mitzva and the day after we didn't step in the Temple again. Maybe our temple going lasted 3-4 years. My sister and I were out to sea we didn't have a clue but we both felt a connection. Our jewish/yiddishkite roots did not run deep. Passover was our chance to really remember who we were, who our children would ultimately be.
The Four questions were passed down to the youngest and so it went. Grandma disappeared in to the kitchen at some point and no sooner had the men washed their hands and the Hillel sandwich was just a bitter memory then food began arriving. Gefilte fish which I will not apologise for loving, with crain or horseradish hard boiled eggs and salt water, chicken soup with Flanken. My sister and I had Flanken wars, as we both vied for the precious pieces of meat that helped to strengthen the soup. Frankly, I would have been happy to stop the meal right there.
We had at least two meat dishes with roasted chicken, several vegetables and a Potato Nick or kugel and baked Sweet Potatoes. We never ate Tsimmis, or so many of the other dishes I have come to know at other Seders. So my dilemma besides not making matzo balls like my mothers canon balls, was that there was never any real holiday recipe to be gleaned from my grandmothers table. The food was fantastic as she was a fabulous cook, but it was never really the stuff of handing down generation to generation. Etta was also a solo cook no one in her kitchen so as a child I never saw her cook those holiday meals. When I began to take over the Passover from my mom and dad, I had to go in search of Passover. So my collecting began in ernest.
So I opened my tattered collection today and I will share a few of my gems. I wet matzo, so here is my passover "bagels"
2/3 cup water
1/2 teaspoon coarse salt
1/3 cup oil
1 cup matzo meal
3 eggs
Bring the water, salt and oil to the boil. When bubbling add matzo meal, stir remove from the heat and cool. Add the eggs 1 at a time, mixing well. Drop by tablespoons on a greased pan wetting hands carefully shape into a bagel form with a hole in the middle.
Bake 350 F 40-45 min.
Passover Carrot Pudding
8 eggs, separated
1/2 cup matzo meal
1/4 tsp salt
1 1/2 cups powdered sugar
2 cups grated carrot
1 tbsp wine
1/2 cup ground almonds
1/2 lemon rind grated
Beat together yolks and sugar till light, add remaining ingredients
Beat whites till stiff peaks and then fold into yolk mixture. Bake in well greased and matzo floured pan 300 F 1 hour
Mashed Potato Pie
4-5 Potatoes
1 onion diced 2 lbs chopped meat
1/2 teaspoon salt, pepper garlic powder ( I add a few grates of nutmeg to the mashed potatoes)
Boil potatoes and mash well putting through a ricer
Brown onion in oil then add chop meat s&p garlic powder
Grease baking dish well and beginning with potatoes layer meat and potato alternately.
Bake 350 F 1 hour until nice and brown on top
Sometimes I add mushrooms to the onion browning process for a richer beefier flavor.
Almond Hills
3 tbs cakemeal or matzo meal sifted
1/4 lb. blanched almonds
1/2 lb. powdered sugar (1 2/3 cups)
5 egg whites
Roast blanched almonds and sliver, beat egg whites stiff, sift in powdered sugar and meal. Add almonds and mix thoroughly. Grease cookie sheet dust well with meal, and drop Tablespoons of mixture onto sheet. Keep room for spreading between hills.
Bake 275 F about 20 minutes cool before removing from sheet.
Many years ago I stopped making apple Haroset. I am allergic to cinnamon and I personally loathe apple anything. So I adopted a wonderful Sephardi recipe and never looked back.
1lbs, pitted dates
2 cups dark currents
1 cup chopped walnuts ( I prefer Pecans)
enough sweet red wine to moisten
a touch of honey or brown sugar
Alternatively Sephardi do not use wine but I would add 1/2 cup honey or brown sugar and lemon juice along with the soaking liquid.
Soak dates and currents over night reserve liquid after draining
Coarse chop fruit add chopped nuts, wine and honey
add back any soaking liquid if mixture begins to dry too much
I find this works the best, if I make the mixture the night before and then adjust for moisture before serving. After all, dates and honey what could be bad?
My spell check had a nervous break down with all of the foreign words, being the notoriously bad speller that I am if I have miss spelled any Yiddish words etc. forgive me.
The highlight of the evening was always watching that rascal Elijah drink from the Kiddush cup and no one can tell me he didn't. The boys ran around looking for the Afikoman and then we were summerly sent down to the den to amuse ourselves till we drooply trooped off home.
Sunday, April 13, 2008
Food Plain and Simple
"Now that I've eaten I see things in a different light." Groucho Marx
It is too true that no matter what or when we eat, the aspect of mood is either creator or resolver of many things. In the simple act of mastication and swallowing we have created whole realms of emotional responses, rituals, making new retrieving of old. Whether our data banks overflow with useless and sometimes annoying bits and bytes, our food memory banks never fail to reunite self with self. Now mind you I have memories of food poisonings that are as vivid as my cherished foody moments. As a matter of fact I can remember where I was what I ate and my willingness to cross the Vail at those haunted memories. Vivid as they are, and great tales that they make my food catalog is vast and colorful. I do remember where and when I traveled each culinary crossroad. I can conjure the scent, temperature, texture, color palette and finally and most exquisitely my first taste.
From my earliest memories food, and the discernment of good and bad food has been my shadow. We have traveled together, we talk to each other, we dream with each other and connect on a level of art and artist. One could argue that my penchant for hoarding stems from a former life time of food deprivation, my pantry bursting with a resemblance to the Ark. This murky reincarnation also brings me to question my innate recognition of certain cuisines that had not been in my childhood. That instant almost teary eyed reunion with a palate from the past and the reuniting of two friends.
As soon as I could master the stove in my mothers home I stood nearly eye to eye with the knobs and began a life time of passing on joy and love to all who would partake. I come from and interesting food lineage, Kosher in spirit if not practice when I was very young, and one parent with an adventurous palate and another parent who thought frozen food and white bread was dinner du jour. My maternal Grand-mother was a terrific cook who taught several of her nieces to cook, but failed utterly with my mother. Another maternal Great-Grandmother was a caterer and marvelous pastry maker. My father was a very good cook and a master griller. It was he who saved us from Oncor/Boil n bag hell. I remember the first time he brought home Kippers and sauteed them in butter squeezing lemons to finish. He taught us how to negotiate the bones and how to fillet a whitefish "chub". My mother stayed firmly in her bed on those rare but memorable Sunday mornings.
Cookbooks were read as a novel, each recipe stored and amended by my mental palate. My first breads, dried legumes, whole fish, new vegetable, each rung in the ladder I climbed. In the eighties I began to cater, a small party here and there. I didn't know a thing and had to cook from the confines of my then woeful kitchen. The children hands scrubbed sitting at the kitchen table rolling meatballs, or dough. I did well, very well, but I needed a partner, several friends offered to partner and after one party quit, it was too much work. Mind you no one was cooking in those days. I gave a cooking class to my NCJW women, they hugged and thanked me and then patted, all the while shaking their heads at my foolish waste of time and energy. Reservations and prepackaged foods were after all cleaner and easier. I was alone in the vast wilderness of the modern cook/woman. A whole generation who could not, would not cook. Without the help I needed, I let the catering dream fold, but soldiered on alone in my culinary quests.
Oh so many years later and the food world is so exciting, and everyone talks and walks food. Still to my surprise, I find even with Food network, PBS and the Travel Channel there is still a need for education and the exchange of recipes and techniques. I had a discussion with Jose my home builder the other evening about salt and different salts. Pulling out several jars we lined them up and he and his photographer did a salt tasting. He is the cook in the family, his wife burns water. We pulled out my pots and we talked about the different materials in relation to different types of cooking. We spent two hours nattering on about cooking and foods. I showed him my sour dough starter jar. He watches (the networks) religiously and yet his basic food knowledge was undeveloped.
It is my belief that food has become a spectator sport and without the stories and backgrounds , we don't identify with the foods we see the chefs prepare on TV. Over forty years of self education and a drive to conquer my inner hunger for new tastes and techniques, I find my self pulled back into the realm of food, and cooking. So often I have been asked why I don't get back into cooking, and my response has been I just can't be on my feet like that anymore. Yet there is another way I can step back in to the the world of food, and here it is. I hope through stories, anecdotes and education I can "feed" you all.
Now I have been asked repeatedly by friends and family for help and recipes. Despite all the food media and many blogs I am flattered and amazed that I have become the food maven. So yes, I will answer questions share and find recipes and of course have this forum for those of you who wish to jump in and share the traditions as well as the recipes of your own households.
As per your request Lynn and Ava here is my Eggplant and Rice Provincial, I was thrilled that you loved it. When I was a vegetarian it was a big staple bring a dish, dish. The original recipe is lost in my vast collection of cook books so here is the version that has stood the test of time:
When picking out Eggplants, unmarked deeply purple with a small calyx and small bottom dimple is best. They will have fewer seeds as I believe these are the males. I also no longer peel and seed my own tomatoes, I use Organic peeled plum tomatoes in the can, they taste better and save time. If tomatoes are in season however use fresh!
To peel fresh tomatoes, boil some water, wash tomatoes and slice a small x on the bottom, place 3/4 of the way up in boiling water for a second or so, remove and plunge into a bowl of ice water x down. If all goes right you can peel the skin right off and then proceed to squeeze gently to remove excess juice and pits. The rest is a fine chop. I like to do this for summer salads and when I make a fresh tomato pasta and olive oil.
Pre-heat Oven 400 F
2 Lbs of Eggplants Peeled, and cut into 1" cubes sprinkle with lemon juice to preserve color
4-6 Tbsp. of olive oil (Eggplants soak up oil so don't just pour more on keep the veggie moving)
3 cups finely chpd onions (Sweet if you can get)
1 red pepper cored, seeded cut into 1" cubes
2 garlic cloves smashed and chopped
3 peeled cored and seeded tomato's chopped (use at least six, plum canned without the juice)
fresh Rosemary, Sage, Thyme, crushed and chopped
2 bay leaves
1 cup long grain rice (I pre cook for a few minutes before adding to mixture)
3 1/4 cups of Vegetable stock
sea salt and lemon pepper
(dots of butter, make this better)
In hot saute pan add olive oil and saute eggplant moving the pan and egg plant vigorously. I like to caramelize this a little for the smoky flavor before adding onion, r.pepper,tomatoes, garlic, spices and bay leaves. This is a matter of taste but if using fresh you need to use quite a bit, if dried a 1/2 teaspoon each should do it. Lower heat and simmer until the liquid evaporates. Stir in par cooked rice and warmed stock adding salt and lemon pepper to taste. Here I use Royal Basmati aged Himalayan rice, and McCormick course grind Lemon pepper. It has no MSG and is fairly clear of anything nasty. Dot or not, with butter and bake covered for 30 minutes. Check the rice and moisture level. I usually uncover and cook another 15-20 min. Or if I intend to reheat and serve later I pull it out now.
Serves 8
I hope you enjoy this tried and true dish of mine.
Hey I'm hungry anyone want Foccacia bread? HMMMM...
It is too true that no matter what or when we eat, the aspect of mood is either creator or resolver of many things. In the simple act of mastication and swallowing we have created whole realms of emotional responses, rituals, making new retrieving of old. Whether our data banks overflow with useless and sometimes annoying bits and bytes, our food memory banks never fail to reunite self with self. Now mind you I have memories of food poisonings that are as vivid as my cherished foody moments. As a matter of fact I can remember where I was what I ate and my willingness to cross the Vail at those haunted memories. Vivid as they are, and great tales that they make my food catalog is vast and colorful. I do remember where and when I traveled each culinary crossroad. I can conjure the scent, temperature, texture, color palette and finally and most exquisitely my first taste.
From my earliest memories food, and the discernment of good and bad food has been my shadow. We have traveled together, we talk to each other, we dream with each other and connect on a level of art and artist. One could argue that my penchant for hoarding stems from a former life time of food deprivation, my pantry bursting with a resemblance to the Ark. This murky reincarnation also brings me to question my innate recognition of certain cuisines that had not been in my childhood. That instant almost teary eyed reunion with a palate from the past and the reuniting of two friends.
As soon as I could master the stove in my mothers home I stood nearly eye to eye with the knobs and began a life time of passing on joy and love to all who would partake. I come from and interesting food lineage, Kosher in spirit if not practice when I was very young, and one parent with an adventurous palate and another parent who thought frozen food and white bread was dinner du jour. My maternal Grand-mother was a terrific cook who taught several of her nieces to cook, but failed utterly with my mother. Another maternal Great-Grandmother was a caterer and marvelous pastry maker. My father was a very good cook and a master griller. It was he who saved us from Oncor/Boil n bag hell. I remember the first time he brought home Kippers and sauteed them in butter squeezing lemons to finish. He taught us how to negotiate the bones and how to fillet a whitefish "chub". My mother stayed firmly in her bed on those rare but memorable Sunday mornings.
Cookbooks were read as a novel, each recipe stored and amended by my mental palate. My first breads, dried legumes, whole fish, new vegetable, each rung in the ladder I climbed. In the eighties I began to cater, a small party here and there. I didn't know a thing and had to cook from the confines of my then woeful kitchen. The children hands scrubbed sitting at the kitchen table rolling meatballs, or dough. I did well, very well, but I needed a partner, several friends offered to partner and after one party quit, it was too much work. Mind you no one was cooking in those days. I gave a cooking class to my NCJW women, they hugged and thanked me and then patted, all the while shaking their heads at my foolish waste of time and energy. Reservations and prepackaged foods were after all cleaner and easier. I was alone in the vast wilderness of the modern cook/woman. A whole generation who could not, would not cook. Without the help I needed, I let the catering dream fold, but soldiered on alone in my culinary quests.
Oh so many years later and the food world is so exciting, and everyone talks and walks food. Still to my surprise, I find even with Food network, PBS and the Travel Channel there is still a need for education and the exchange of recipes and techniques. I had a discussion with Jose my home builder the other evening about salt and different salts. Pulling out several jars we lined them up and he and his photographer did a salt tasting. He is the cook in the family, his wife burns water. We pulled out my pots and we talked about the different materials in relation to different types of cooking. We spent two hours nattering on about cooking and foods. I showed him my sour dough starter jar. He watches (the networks) religiously and yet his basic food knowledge was undeveloped.
It is my belief that food has become a spectator sport and without the stories and backgrounds , we don't identify with the foods we see the chefs prepare on TV. Over forty years of self education and a drive to conquer my inner hunger for new tastes and techniques, I find my self pulled back into the realm of food, and cooking. So often I have been asked why I don't get back into cooking, and my response has been I just can't be on my feet like that anymore. Yet there is another way I can step back in to the the world of food, and here it is. I hope through stories, anecdotes and education I can "feed" you all.
Now I have been asked repeatedly by friends and family for help and recipes. Despite all the food media and many blogs I am flattered and amazed that I have become the food maven. So yes, I will answer questions share and find recipes and of course have this forum for those of you who wish to jump in and share the traditions as well as the recipes of your own households.
As per your request Lynn and Ava here is my Eggplant and Rice Provincial, I was thrilled that you loved it. When I was a vegetarian it was a big staple bring a dish, dish. The original recipe is lost in my vast collection of cook books so here is the version that has stood the test of time:
When picking out Eggplants, unmarked deeply purple with a small calyx and small bottom dimple is best. They will have fewer seeds as I believe these are the males. I also no longer peel and seed my own tomatoes, I use Organic peeled plum tomatoes in the can, they taste better and save time. If tomatoes are in season however use fresh!
To peel fresh tomatoes, boil some water, wash tomatoes and slice a small x on the bottom, place 3/4 of the way up in boiling water for a second or so, remove and plunge into a bowl of ice water x down. If all goes right you can peel the skin right off and then proceed to squeeze gently to remove excess juice and pits. The rest is a fine chop. I like to do this for summer salads and when I make a fresh tomato pasta and olive oil.
Pre-heat Oven 400 F
2 Lbs of Eggplants Peeled, and cut into 1" cubes sprinkle with lemon juice to preserve color
4-6 Tbsp. of olive oil (Eggplants soak up oil so don't just pour more on keep the veggie moving)
3 cups finely chpd onions (Sweet if you can get)
1 red pepper cored, seeded cut into 1" cubes
2 garlic cloves smashed and chopped
3 peeled cored and seeded tomato's chopped (use at least six, plum canned without the juice)
fresh Rosemary, Sage, Thyme, crushed and chopped
2 bay leaves
1 cup long grain rice (I pre cook for a few minutes before adding to mixture)
3 1/4 cups of Vegetable stock
sea salt and lemon pepper
(dots of butter, make this better)
In hot saute pan add olive oil and saute eggplant moving the pan and egg plant vigorously. I like to caramelize this a little for the smoky flavor before adding onion, r.pepper,tomatoes, garlic, spices and bay leaves. This is a matter of taste but if using fresh you need to use quite a bit, if dried a 1/2 teaspoon each should do it. Lower heat and simmer until the liquid evaporates. Stir in par cooked rice and warmed stock adding salt and lemon pepper to taste. Here I use Royal Basmati aged Himalayan rice, and McCormick course grind Lemon pepper. It has no MSG and is fairly clear of anything nasty. Dot or not, with butter and bake covered for 30 minutes. Check the rice and moisture level. I usually uncover and cook another 15-20 min. Or if I intend to reheat and serve later I pull it out now.
Serves 8
I hope you enjoy this tried and true dish of mine.
Hey I'm hungry anyone want Foccacia bread? HMMMM...
Monday, March 17, 2008
Chop Suey
Summer.
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' green. 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.
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' green. 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.
Wednesday, January 30, 2008
Hitting the Open Road
We did arrive on Saturday evening as planned, everything else was a bit of a bollocks. Be that as it may, the hotel is very comfortable, and Callie and Piper were troopers. I now know what music to play for a yipping sometimes howling cat to sooth her nerves. Frank Sinatra and Mel Torme, god bless them.
I have to have a moan here, actually more than a moan, a diatribe. I hope gas hits $6.00 or more a gallon. During the whole trip SUV's in particular with or without trailers, boats and cars hitched, on an average drove 85-90 miles an hour. We are talking over horrible bridges with speed limits (visibly posted many times) of 45mph, and 50mph construction zones. Not one person drove anywhere near the speed limits and the aggression on the road is breathtaking. We are in the middle of a protracted war and I am in particular very aware of this. We as Americans behave as if there is no reason to hold back or change any habits of excess. We complain about the cost of goods, gas etc. but we continue to drive and spend as if there were no crisis. No reason to obey laws, or be civil. As a nation we are spoiled and insulated to the realities of the world around us. What will it take before we become stewards, preservers and conscious of the finite resources our children are dying and fighting for. Where are the rationing lines of the seventies? Why don't they print the EPA standards on the ads for new cars, when they continue to feature big FAST cars and SUV's, when do we start to grow up, and smell the coffee. The gov't would have us still drink the cool-aid of complacency. Where are the gathering masses, who are ready for change who are willing to roll their sleeves up and get to work on being part of the solution not contributors of the problem. Please slow down, vote, give a damn.
Okay, you really don't know the half of it but I feel a little better. We went house hunting with Mary our broker yesterday, and I will go again on Wednesday. We were invited to spend Thanksgiving with Barry's boss and family bless her.
Counting my blessings and waiting for the Turkey...
I have to have a moan here, actually more than a moan, a diatribe. I hope gas hits $6.00 or more a gallon. During the whole trip SUV's in particular with or without trailers, boats and cars hitched, on an average drove 85-90 miles an hour. We are talking over horrible bridges with speed limits (visibly posted many times) of 45mph, and 50mph construction zones. Not one person drove anywhere near the speed limits and the aggression on the road is breathtaking. We are in the middle of a protracted war and I am in particular very aware of this. We as Americans behave as if there is no reason to hold back or change any habits of excess. We complain about the cost of goods, gas etc. but we continue to drive and spend as if there were no crisis. No reason to obey laws, or be civil. As a nation we are spoiled and insulated to the realities of the world around us. What will it take before we become stewards, preservers and conscious of the finite resources our children are dying and fighting for. Where are the rationing lines of the seventies? Why don't they print the EPA standards on the ads for new cars, when they continue to feature big FAST cars and SUV's, when do we start to grow up, and smell the coffee. The gov't would have us still drink the cool-aid of complacency. Where are the gathering masses, who are ready for change who are willing to roll their sleeves up and get to work on being part of the solution not contributors of the problem. Please slow down, vote, give a damn.
Okay, you really don't know the half of it but I feel a little better. We went house hunting with Mary our broker yesterday, and I will go again on Wednesday. We were invited to spend Thanksgiving with Barry's boss and family bless her.
Counting my blessings and waiting for the Turkey...
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