Post Dolly; a beautiful Sunday, sun shining and insects buzzing. Laundry rolling around the dryer and cats snoozing in various positions and locations.
A week ago we were on the beach at S. Padre Island. It was a perfect beach day with the surf beginning to rise, the scent of suntan lotion, beer and salty breezes gently lifting and snapping the umbrella skirt adding to the surf sound the rhythmic beating of material. All the bikini clad elders and their slender nubile younger counterparts parading up and down the shore line. Young men with mini fros and crazy torn hats or stick straight hair, cigarettes dangling from slender almost girlish fingers furtively checking out the glamours girls with hats and headbands winding through their beautiful dark hair. Joggers with and without sneakers, boogie boarders, ladies in Jewelry, all made up with Dixie cup Margaretta's. Older men sucking up/in impossible bellies as they stroll with obvious eye candy enjoyment. Young and old posturing, swimming, squealing, eating, drinking and enjoying a Sunday on the beach. Barry is checking his e-mails and the Internet storm data trying to relax while his body burns in the exact same places it always burns. Talking storms and weather until Rossana is cross eyed. He gets calls from everyone for updates, yet he is soaking in the nirvana of the beach. It was a perfect day, later on I'd begin to get my storm headache, that would last through Wednesday. Later I would worry that maybe we should have boarded up because as the storm approached I didn't see anything of Barry but a few hours after.
Monday I went on a storm buying spree, no one else was stocking up no one else in a frenzy to remove outside things that could be broken or become projectiles. Jeral the Sio (science officer) at the office was stoked and lowered his Metal shutters battening down with $400. worth of water and emergency food. Battery operated cell phone chargers, and what else. He has been banging the drum all season that we will get the big one this year. Their house is armed and ready, I am sitting with a 20thousand gallon yet to be pool hole in the ground. No word from my builder, no sounds of cement trucks at my yard. I tuck a few things into my emergency go to closet round up the cat food and take two Aleve and clench my teeth.
I hear from Ernesto finally, he is at the inspectors office and won't leave until he is delivered home to my pool with the OK to pour. Ernesto, has two cement trucks of immense volume standing ready. Relief sweeps through me, and I text Barry the news. True to his word the inspector, Ernesto and cement all arrive close to 3 or 4 I've lost track of time as I move more things to ready for the storm. Aunt Pat has been calling about up dates as well as Adam, from Ft. Knox, friends and family.
Tuesday, and sounds from my neighbors boarding up richochet around The Woods, people are paying attention and are begining to stock up more huge trucks of materials arrive from Home Depot to the Lower Rio Grande. Rossana comes for lunch, I baked a frozen veggie pizza as I try to cook and eat my way through our freezers and fridge as not to have too much in case we loose power. We gorge on cake and coffee as well, both of us jittery and nervous she wants me to stay there, but I won't leave the cats. The captain will go down with her ship and not abandon her crew. B said he'd come home about 3 put up boards and then go back he is not here.
I had taken pics as my pool took shape while the men wrestled the spitting snake that spewed forth cement in vast furious quantities. Three men held on to her and guided her as two other formed and smoothed her into shape; sides, steps and floor begin to appeared carved in wet stone. They went on this way till nearly eight at night. Barry came home around nine and he draged our patio stuff off to the garage and tightens down what ever he can but we do not board, and he is now covered in mud and cement. Our fence has a huge gap, he weighs down the foundered section and we pray the rest of it does not become a sail.
Dolly day;
It is beginning to sputter rain. Barry is gone by 2:30 a.m. I packed sleeping bag, pillow, blanket, towels, into his car before the rains really started the night before.
The morning is dark, dismal and the winds are high, water is lashing and spinning around the barrel tile roof. I check the house all is well, watching the news, I look at the radar it's jogged a bit north and west but we are 10 miles from the projected land fall when it does land. She, Dolly, is stalled taking her time. I move the cats food and boxes into the hall way away from windows and outside walls. I fill our garden tub with water and put batteries in the portable TV radio, all the candles are out and ready. 10:20 we loose our electric, my bed is made and the house is clean, the cats are alternately badgering me or sleeping fitfully. Pablo is running around like a vildachia. I down two more Aleve and turn on the radio only to hear my husbands interview about the storm. Another reconnoiter, I eat some cereal sin milk and marvel at the wind and rain, it's 1:30 my radio blaring, I see Pablo scooting into the kitchen hind quarters soaked I am on the phone with my Uncle Mark and I have to investigate. Water on the floor of the dining room, the root is the front doors my gorgeous front hall is awash. I quickly move the furniture and breakables out and begin sweep moping the flooding waters towards the door as I gather rags and towels to stem the tide. I have to hold the doors down with my full body weight as the wind pounds and pummels the front of my house. After so many hurricanes in Tampa and New York I have to tell you none of them sounded like this one. The rain is driving straight at my home unrelenting, trees are bent sideways and debree skips along the empty lots. My deep end is filling up with water and rises along the slanted pool towards the shallows.
I am sweating in the eighty degree hall way as wringing and moping goes on unabated. Callie and Piper are holed up in the den where you can't hear a sound of wind. The hall is a tower with barrel roof tile and the wind sounds like someone pounding bass drums. Every so often Callie girl pokes her head around the corner and lets me know just what she thinks of the whole thing. Pablo brings me his toys and stays as close to me without getting too wet as he can. All told nearly seven full buckets of water. At some point I text B the news and he texts back that as soon as it's safe he'll try to get home. I tell him to just stay put as I'm afraid he won't get into the front door, flooding and high winds make it too dangerous to travel in our little Honda. Barry as good as his word comes in at 7:30 p.m. but the wind is shifting around and the moping up is not as great. I am so afraid that my porcelain tiled floors will buckle. I eat a can of cold soup and we trundle off to bed, I check on the door once during the night as all three cats sleep as close as they can to us in the close muggy heat of the night.
Barry is on at 6 I am pretty sure he just put on a cap brushed his teeth and shaved. I never heard him leave. Heavy soaked masses of towels and rags greet me at my door but a light mop up and all is as good as new. I move the cats stuff back into the laundry room and turn on the radio listing to aftermath coverage. Around 10:30 Rossana arrives and helps me with moving the wet towels to the laundry. She is here to help me disconnect my garage doors so I can pull out my car and charge my phone etc. Flashlight in hand we open the door and she says in amazement Michele the lights are on in your garage! So they are, and we see the lamp on in the kitchen and my led clock flashing its violent gummy green glow. Power blessed power. I wait awhile before turning on one of our two air units and keep it at 78 just in case. I began rescuing stuff out of fridge and freezer and had meatballs in sauce and Hurricane soup bubbling in a flash. The cats are acting as if nothing at all untoward has happened and they don't care that we have power. They eat and nap and lick at appropriate body parts and Pablo dunks his toys in his water bowl like a Raccoon washing it's food. He has tried to dunk everything into the jacuzzi tub but I have rejected this practise vociferously. So he contents himself with the little body of water.
Rossana checks out the Temple and there is massive flooding and ceiling damage. Irwin the president has his shop vac and is cleaning up. Mesmerized I sit and watch the storm through the medias eyes and see the damage to S.Padre, Harlingen, and Los Fresnos, all areas just north of us some less than 10 miles away. So thanks for all those whose energy protected and gave me the strength to keep the house from flooding. I even got to the Hairdressers Friday for a much needed touch up, I am going grey! My hairdresser Mary had her baby on Wednesday at the height of the storm something I was very sure would occur. No, I was reassured she did not name her Dolly.
Barry, Geoff, Rossana and I celebrated the successful work they did as well as B's birthday Saturday night with obscene amounts of sushi, cold Saki at Uchi, and finally compliments of Rossana dessert at Tres Fratelli. My dear friend Sandy Crocker admonishes me when I don't blog, I really didn't think anyone read this, I've been treating it like a think piece. Anyway, yesterday she said blog it! So here it is by popular demand.
Sunday, July 27, 2008
Tuesday, July 22, 2008
Hello Dolly
I was hoping to post something else, but as the T.S. soon to be Hurricane Dolly approaches I figured I'd just quick blog. The pool was poured yesterday nothing short of a miracle, Ernesto practically dragged the inspector here and then did a marathon pour until nearly eight last night. This means no sink hole in our yard with yards and yards of mud caving in.
Yesterday I did a quick water /food run and the cats are set for their food needs. I've got my batteries NOAA weather radio, and ice. I baked a cake for the crew at Barry's NWS office. It's a quarter to one here and the wind is definitely picking up. Barry is going to try to get home and board up some windows and secure the outside before going back to the trenches.
I have been battling my Hurricane headache since Sunday night, I don't need no stinking radar.
Someone asked me the other day about living in Brownsville, and I have to admit I love it really. It's a very small town not a lot going on seemingly but we've been scratching the surface and finding some nuggets. We went to a great musical event at the funky art gallery in town 409, and were just blown away by the talent! Blues and Blues/Jazz fusion with a hint of the Latin. What a joy to be sitting in a historic brick building with these great Tin soaring ceilings and old wood floors that vibrated with the bass and drummers. Free booze, and an upbeat eclectic crowd. The walls are hung with art of a very Mexican nature skeletal Hells Angels, dancers, one painting featured a Mogen David, another even a skeleton riding a bicycle with two tornadoes in the background. I found that one very apropos of Barry but I am not sure he'd want it hanging in his office at home aka the cave.
Rossana and I went to Mexico Friday for a quick stop at the pharmacy, and we had a great appetizer, mushrooms au gratin and hot Tortillas at the Irish pub with a two fer Margaretta's. Then we wobbled back to Brownsville replete and ready for the weekend. So far I've eaten four Mexican meals in Montamoros, one in the Paris cafe and the other in the Irish pub.
We had planned to "do" the museums here this week, and one exhibit is the tools of torture with an emphases on the Spanish Inquisition. Personally I am not ready for that one Rossana though, has a personal connection to this and I think I may have to be a very good friend and keep her company.
It just started to rain and the sky is darkening and so it begins. It continues to rain lightly intermittently.
Barry's birthday is on Saturday, and depending on this storm, if we are up and running again we are taking him to WINKS a Bar dance hall out in the wilds, that features a mechanical bull and a riding corral for real buckaroos. The music is pure Country Western & Tejano. I am not a big two stepper but will try to deport myself as well as I can.
This Saturday I was on a roll and baked my Blueberry Buckle, and Yogurt cakes. They both turned out to be nearly the best I have made so I am finally making friends with this stove and oven. If I could have my wishes granted though a gas stove and electric oven would be very nice if the kitchen genie is listening or ah reading as the case may be. All things are good at this moment and I have no complaints about my world, now if Dolly could just shpatzier much further south all would truly be well.
Yesterday I did a quick water /food run and the cats are set for their food needs. I've got my batteries NOAA weather radio, and ice. I baked a cake for the crew at Barry's NWS office. It's a quarter to one here and the wind is definitely picking up. Barry is going to try to get home and board up some windows and secure the outside before going back to the trenches.
I have been battling my Hurricane headache since Sunday night, I don't need no stinking radar.
Someone asked me the other day about living in Brownsville, and I have to admit I love it really. It's a very small town not a lot going on seemingly but we've been scratching the surface and finding some nuggets. We went to a great musical event at the funky art gallery in town 409, and were just blown away by the talent! Blues and Blues/Jazz fusion with a hint of the Latin. What a joy to be sitting in a historic brick building with these great Tin soaring ceilings and old wood floors that vibrated with the bass and drummers. Free booze, and an upbeat eclectic crowd. The walls are hung with art of a very Mexican nature skeletal Hells Angels, dancers, one painting featured a Mogen David, another even a skeleton riding a bicycle with two tornadoes in the background. I found that one very apropos of Barry but I am not sure he'd want it hanging in his office at home aka the cave.
Rossana and I went to Mexico Friday for a quick stop at the pharmacy, and we had a great appetizer, mushrooms au gratin and hot Tortillas at the Irish pub with a two fer Margaretta's. Then we wobbled back to Brownsville replete and ready for the weekend. So far I've eaten four Mexican meals in Montamoros, one in the Paris cafe and the other in the Irish pub.
We had planned to "do" the museums here this week, and one exhibit is the tools of torture with an emphases on the Spanish Inquisition. Personally I am not ready for that one Rossana though, has a personal connection to this and I think I may have to be a very good friend and keep her company.
It just started to rain and the sky is darkening and so it begins. It continues to rain lightly intermittently.
Barry's birthday is on Saturday, and depending on this storm, if we are up and running again we are taking him to WINKS a Bar dance hall out in the wilds, that features a mechanical bull and a riding corral for real buckaroos. The music is pure Country Western & Tejano. I am not a big two stepper but will try to deport myself as well as I can.
This Saturday I was on a roll and baked my Blueberry Buckle, and Yogurt cakes. They both turned out to be nearly the best I have made so I am finally making friends with this stove and oven. If I could have my wishes granted though a gas stove and electric oven would be very nice if the kitchen genie is listening or ah reading as the case may be. All things are good at this moment and I have no complaints about my world, now if Dolly could just shpatzier much further south all would truly be well.
Wednesday, June 25, 2008
Myles Ave. Summers
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.
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.
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...
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