Soul Food

More and more, scientists are using DNA to explain everything from shopping patterns to how you vote.  I come from a time when upbringing and environmental factors had a huge edge in the “nature vs. nurture” debate.  I firmly believe that I would be very different today had I been adopted by California hippies, or raised by wolves--genetic code notwithstanding.   I am not denying that my recycled genes are responsible for everything from my green eyes to my musical ability, but beyond these phenotypic expressions I put a lot of stock in the power of upbringing.

I offer food preferences as my scientific evidence.  There are foods that I learned to eat in my own home growing up that would be a tough sell on any outsider.  These are things that even my own husband—who will eat anything from the stinkiest of cheeses to haggis—will not touch.  Nonetheless, I crave them on occasion, particularly when I am sick or in need of a hug. My husband, on the other hand, revels in foods that I cannot abide.  We are forever trying to get each other to enjoy foods from the other side.

Take the eponymous “Weiss-burger.” This is an unlikely concoction that my father would fix for dinner on Saturday nights before he and my mother went out, leaving us home with a babysitter.  It has its origins in his own childhood home, where his very thrifty and culinarily-challenged mother attempted to make dinner for 4 on half a shoestring.  It is made by spreading a thin layer of chopped hamburger meat on toasted white bread, much like the way you would smear peanut butter.  (If you do not toast the bread first, it will break apart as you spread the meat.) An open-faced sort of sandwich, it was then broiled until the meat was brown and cleaved to the bread. 

A decade into their marriage, my father’s palate became enlightened by my mother's cooking.  The version of “Weiss-burger” that he prepared for us included a little seasoning (garlic salt) that, no doubt, my grandmother (she of the bland hand) would have omitted.  For presentation, my dad squeezed ketchup over the top of the finished product in the shape of a W, emphasizing its name.  This dreadful-sounding meal should have been off-putting, but my father sold it to us as a treat to be desired, later adding a slice of American cheese to make it more “luxurious.”   It was as fun and casual as eating a slice of pizza.  Today I find the idea of this burger to be somewhat ridiculous, yet I confess that even while I write about it my mouth is watering.  It evokes more than a certain flavor.  It brings back images of well-groomed children, freshly bathed in printed pajamas, making promises to behave that would never be kept.

Contrast this with mincemeat, one of the flavors of my husband’s youth that I find so disgusting I nearly gag just thinking of it.   I have only known mincemeat to come in jars—once assuming it to be some waste product of the industrial food revolution.  Apparently, there are people who make mincemeat on purpose, boiling up suet and dried fruits with brandy, mace and cloves.   My husband dreams of mincemeat pie, placing it high above chocolate and other confections on his personal dessert-meter.  I have tried mincemeat pie and it is most definitely an acquired taste, needing to be imprinted on a child in his formative years in order to be palatable.  My husband’s lingering appreciation for mincemeat stems from indoctrination early in his youth and a sensory connection to holidays.  It does not prove the existence of a genetic predisposition. 

Take for example my husband's relationship to foods "of the tribe."  My husband has a general distaste for gefilte fish and matzoh brei, foods that I learned to eat from early childhood. On the other hand, he has a particular love of borscht, chopped liver, and tsimmes (stewed root vegetables with flanken and prunes)—foods of the Diaspora for which he could have no genetic predisposition.  I give him credit, as I would not let any of those "treats" touch my lips.

On a simpler note, I grew up with a particular affinity for noodles tossed with butter and cottage cheese.  This dish has its origins on my maternal side.  My (other) grandmother prepared this as a side dish to salmon croquettes—pancakes of canned salmon fried in oil.  In a kosher household, salmon croquettes were a common dairy dish (fish is considered a non-meat, or pareve, food that can be consumed with dairy).  She would make sea shell noodles out of a sense of culinary irony, the seashell shape making an apt thematic accompaniment to fish.

As a kid, I learned to love the creamy texture of buttery noodles tossed with cottage cheese, or "noodles and cheese," as my mother called it.  In college, I would occasionally make myself this dish by tossing cafeteria line noodles with cottage cheese from the salad bar.  After college, it was a staple in my apartment and to this day there are seashells tucked away in my pantry.  My husband decided early on in our relationship that this dish had no redeeming value (or taste, for that matter), so it remained a solitary pleasure until my kids came along. Although son refuses to partake, my daughter discovered the power of this dish to sooth and comfort.  As a result, it is known as “girl noodles” in our home—a treat to be enjoyed when the guys are off doing guy stuff and the girls are home watching Pride and Prejudice. 

The foods of my kitchen have always spoken volumes to my children, instilling in them a sense of love and worth far beyond that which can be communicated with words.   These, and other unique foods from my kitchen, shaped their values as adults even though those values expressed themselves in different ways.  My daughter is vegan; she places great emphasis on freshness and the farm-to-table qualities that I have tried to instill.  My son, by contrast, is a big fan of the bacon-double-cheeseburger, and yet he has high standards for seasonings and complexity in the foods he chooses and cooks.  Neither of them has tastes that would suggest a genetic connection to their parents.  Both were raised raised thousands of miles from their grandparents.

I am constantly hit with proof that there is no hiding from your DNA.  Judging by the “déjà vu” comments that appear each time I post a photo of my daughter, it is clear that there is much about my children’s destiny that was determined by a genetic road map.  On the other hand, I reject the notion that our children’s tastes and moral code are inherited, rather than nurtured, traits.  Along with my genes, I hope my kids appreciate that I have taken the time to pass down my experience and my wisdom—along with a few of their favorite recipes.

Happy Little Google

In these last few days of October, America remains sharply divided.  In a tie too close to call, about half of the population understood today’s Google Doodle of Bob Ross, while the others didn’t have a clue.  In our household, we have avidly supported the guy with the anachronistic afro.  We frequently tuned into that socialistic mainstay, PBS, and watched while the plaid-clad man with the gentle voice transformed a plain white canvas into a beautiful vision of a pristine planet.  With willing suspension of disbelief, we let him transport us to the snowy mountaintops or to a remote cabin along a winding creek.

Bob Ross was a one-man industry, demonstrating an oil painting method that obviates the need for art school or drawing talent.  His techniques of pumping, pushing and pulling paint across canvases is legendary among artsy wannabes.  I have spent hours, literally, watching him turn X-motions into cloudy skies, gentle scrapes of moody colors into mountain peaks, and tickles with a fan brush into majestic pine forests.   He used no photos or actual physical sites; he would place his “happy little trees” wherever he wished.  In his world, there were no mistakes, just “happy accidents.”

Whereas I watched Bob Ross with fascination, enthralled with his process, my husband became a Bob Ross “user.”  In fact, when he needs to nap or to decompress, Bob Ross is his drug of choice.  The low gravelly voice is sufficient to lull anyone into a deep coma.  My husband is highly sensitive to its effects, hitting the point of unconsciousness in approximately 4.5 minutes.  He now keeps a full set of CDs in the basement (he thinks I do not know that he has them or where they are hidden), whipping them out surreptitiously and disappearing into oblivion for hours at a time. 

About 20 years ago, my husband—newly infatuated with Ross landscapes—decided that I needed to try this oil painting technique.  I think he believed that I would become a world-famous landscape artist spontaneously.  For my birthday, he bought me a complete set up, including an easel, a full set of Bob Ross signature paints and brushes, and a how-to video.  It was a very sweet gift, and I really appreciated the time he spent considering a hands-on gift that I would enjoy.  He set up a television and VCR in our spare room so I could paint alongside the video.

Earnestly, I set out blending Phthalo Blue with Titanium White to create a clear blue sky with the gentle hint of clouds.  I merged Sap Green with Van Dyke Brown and loaded up a 1 inch brush, attempting to create a horizon.  Grabbing some Alizarin Crimson with a palette knife, I pressed in some Phthalo Blue to create a dark color for my “purple mountain’s majesty.”  Switching to my handy fan brush, I grabbed some more of the green-brown mixture, teasing out a lacy pattern that resembled tall trees.  I then touched the loaded brush with a little Cadmium Yellow to create trees in the foreground that pushed the other trees back into the canvas.  I was giddy with my ability to mimic Ross’s movements, creating a stream through the middle of the painting and using the brush to pull the paint from the landscape elements down into the water, creating a reflection.  I even cleaned my brushes in the coffee can of paint remover and banged it dry along the legs of the easel. 

This was, in fact, as easy as he made it.  In about 45 minutes I had completed my first canvas.  The colors blended naturally and the brushes were designed to create the images and effects as promised.  Until I stepped back to admire my work.  There on the canvas was, indeed, a mountain landscape with a progression of trees that moved closer and closer to the eye.  But it was flat and lifeless, appearing more like the cardboard cutouts of ducks set at a carnival shooting gallery, elements set in parallel tracks at different focal lengths.   It lacked the misty photographic values of Bob Ross’s own paintings, mine completely devoid of painterly quality.  Note to self:  don’t quit your day job.

I was surprised to discover that Bob Ross died very young—a few years younger than I am now.  For about a decade, we tuned in to PBS regularly on Saturdays to enjoy his creations and his sedating manner.  I remember when he introduced the squirrel he rescued and returned to health, keeping it as a domestic pet.  I remember when he thanked his audience for the outpouring of sympathy that followed the death of his wife.  He clearly had a dedicated following, accomplishing what many of us can only hope to do—leaving a mark on this world in a unique way.  He did this without putting anyone down, without being divisive or controversial, and without raising his voice.  Seeing him featured on Google today demonstrates that even a quiet man who lives in a world of his own making can make an indelible impact. 

Waiting for Frankenstorm

Growing up in Miami, we were always bracing for hurricanes.  Remarkably, they are rarer than they seem.  Only a few times were hurricanes serious threats to our home and property, but the devastation from a few direct hits makes repeated precautionary efforts well worth the effort.

As a kid, I loved going hurricane shopping with my parents.  There is something soothing about the productive hum of activity—people with grim faces filling their carts with essentials while the cash registers click and ring with purchases.  It is a sure sign of trouble when store shelves are wiped clean of their stock.  Oddly, there was a unifying force in the threat itself.  People were unusually stoical, even while racing to get theirs before you got yours.   We sprinted for our standard emergency items:  bottled water, batteries, yahrzeit candles (Jewish memorial candles that burn safely in a glass for 24 hours), paper towels, canned soups and fruits (hooray for cling peaches in heavy syrup!), bread, fruit, and peanut butter.  Woe be to the procrastinators or storm deniers; hesitate and you were certain to find yourself without the necessary provisions when the power inevitably ceased.

In New England, hurricanes are not an expected occurrence.  Indigenous New Englanders are equipped to remove several feet of snow in the dead of winter without breaking a sweat, but tropical weather is a challenge of a different sort.  For one thing, during the peak of hurricane season, New England is dominated by the whims of deciduous trees.  Falling leaves are a significant hazard in high winds and heavy rains, clogging rain gutters and adding to the treacherous conditions on flooded roads.   For example, we had our “fall clean up” on Tuesday of last week.  A crew of men came with leaf blowers to gather and remove the fallen leaves from the century oak trees that tower over our house.  By the time my husband returned from work that evening our property was blanketed again with a fresh coating of leaves to the extent that the driveway and the lawn were no longer visible.  Despite the heavy leaf-shed and removal we have already experienced, there is still significant foliage remaining on the trees.

We are also not built for hurricanes.  Every time I see a new home go up in the neighborhood I recall the tank-like construction of homes in South Florida.  I contrast the wooden framing common around here to the laying of concrete blocks that I witnessed when my parents added a room onto our family home.   Of course, in the aftermaths of Hurricanes Andrew and Wilma, it became clear Florida residents weren’t as well fortified as they thought.  Corrupt contractors and inspectors-on-the-take played loose with the South Florida building codes, leaving residents without securely strapped down roofs.

One consolation of hurricanes—whether in the tropics or up here in New England—is that they announce their arrival well before they hit.  We have known for days that a “perfect storm” is on its way, leaving us all feeling a little like sitting ducks.  Right now it’s the calm before the storm.  There is hardly a breath of wind, yet the town is buzzing with excitement.  The parking lots at the local markets and farm stores are packed to capacity.  People are stocking up on food and provisions, remembering all too well the mighty blizzard that occurred on this day a year ago.  It knocked out power for five days.  In that case, the heavy coat of snow fell upon trees that had yet to lose their foliage, crusting them with ice until they could bear the weight no longer, forcing them down across dozens of power lines.  With no electricity we had no heat, yet the biggest challenge to most was not staying warm or cancelling Halloween—it was keeping the computers and cell phones fully charged.

In many areas, storm surges and high winds are so extreme that people are ordered to evacuate.  Strangely, the majority opt to weather it out, refusing to leave their houses and possessions behind even as dangerous flood waters rise.  It turns out it’s not a matter of any port in a storm, but rather, there’s no place like home.

The Entropy of It All

I have never cared much for physics, or more precisely, for studying physics.  I take it for granted that gravity makes the world suck and that when my body is at rest it likes to stay at rest.  To me, thermodynamics is more interesting as a spelling word than a concept.  That’s why it is so unusual that I have been preoccupied of late with entropy. 

Everywhere I go, decay calls to me.  Perhaps it is a side effect of getting older that I am tuned in to signs of deterioration and decline all around.   My husband was oblivious to the surface sheen on his favorite sports coat, but the telltale signs of having undergone too much dry cleaning drove me to distraction.   My gleaming granite countertops assault my senses, calling attention to every scratch and chip.  I have become as sensitive to sagging seat cushions and flattened pillows as the princess was to her pea.   And every crack and creak in my house leaves me fearful that the entire structure will come toppling down upon us.

I find that my life is quickly transitioning to “maintenance mode.”  Whereas I was once a creative, forward looking person with boundless energy, today I operate from a list of reparative to-dos.   My house is a constant generator of activity--not as old as me, but with far more invested in it.  Most people do not notice the gentle signs of age that they face every day, eventually blinded to chips in the paint, a loose tile here or there, or the spidery pattern of crumbling asphalt in the driveway.  I cannot seem to allow these imperfections to become “next guy’s problem”—I want to them resolved.  And I want it done now.

Just recently we undertook a project to replace a wall of windows and sliders that had long ago lost the seal in their double-paned glass.  The foggy build up between the glass layers was approximating the way the Wall Street Journal looks to me without my reading glasses.  It cast a blurry haze over the beautiful view of my yard, where endangered wildlife frequently shows up for a photo opportunity.  The new French doors were a revelation, replacing an eyesore that predated our tenure in this house with a bright shiny gaze upon acres and acres of Nature.  But the second the paint on the trim was dry I could no longer stand the rough-hewn, water stained boards that lined the walls around the doors.  Painting these boards—with which we had lived for 15 years—was now a priority that kept me awake at night.  I managed to convince my favorite handyman to spend his day off with us, priming and painting this room.  Unfortunately, he got a glimpse of the rest of my lengthy to-do list and will no longer return my calls.  Thanks to a DIY father, when it comes to home repairs I can be somewhat self-sufficient.   I am forever raiding the local Home Depot for grout and spackle and caulk as I attempt to erase settling cracks, remove dents and secure lose tiles.  Out, damned spot!

It does not take a physicist or a therapist to figure out that my obsession with keeping my house looking new mirrors the fear of my own advancing age.  It is so easy to replace a rotted window sash, or upgrade a kitchen faucet.  But what can be done about the knobs that are beginning to appear in my arthritic finger joints?  Unlike the leaky toilet, or the drywall patch after repairing the frozen pipes, there is no “handyman” that can promise to make my sticky knees good as new.   I am resisting the awareness of my body's perpetual state of decay.  If I cannot restore my own ravages of time, at least I can repair the ones that envelope me.

So, dear husband, indulge me while I strip the front door of its seven layers so that it can receive a fresh coat of paint.  Don’t fight me when I assign you grease-stripping tasks that are near the ceiling where only you can reach.  Forgive my need to replace all the wall switches so they reflect more modern equipment.  Pardon me when I start an improvement project on the weekend and drag you into it with me.   These are not idle tasks; they are necessary ones.   I am waging a personal war against the laws of physics.  I am determined to prove, one way or another, that deterioration is not inevitable.   I will bring order to that which is in disarray.  The laws of matter do not matter--because ignorance of physics is bliss.   

Keen Wah

Because I have several vegan readers, I thought I would offer an additional recipe. 

We are trying to eat lighter these days, substituting whole grains and farm-grown products for meats and over-processed foods.  During this food revolution, I discovered a variety of new whole-grain products, including wheat berries, faro, and quinoa.  Quinoa is one of the ancient grains that is now very popular.  Discovered by the Incas, it is high in protein and fiber, making it an ideal fortifier in a low-fat diet.  This recipe uses my favorite southwest flavor profiles, making it a great accompaniment to our household go-to:  quesadillas.  Unfortunately, the one that does not translate well into whole-grain is tortillas.  I have sampled many store brands.  Whole grain tortillas are a sacrifice I am just not willing to make.

For the corn in this recipe, I “harvest” fresh corn in the summertime, cutting it off the cob and freezing it in Ziploc freezer bags in packages of 3 ears.  For those of you who haven’t planned ahead, I prefer frozen corn to canned.  It has a fresher flavor.

This recipe is good while it is still warm.  It is also good cold and will keep several days in the refrigerator.  Quinoa is an amazing budget ingredient, as 1 cup of dry drain will make about 3 cups of cooked product.

Southwestern Quinoa Salad

1 cup of quinoa

1 ¼ to 2 cups water*  (*according to package directions)

2 teaspoons cumin

¼ teaspoon cayenne

1 can black beans, rinsed well and drained

3 ears of corn, kernels removed (you may substitute 1 cup of frozen corn, thawed)

½ red onion, fine dice

1 scallion, thinly sliced

½ cup cilantro, chopped fine

Juice of 2 limes

1 teaspoon of salt

½ teaspoon of fresh cracked pepper

½ pint cherry of grape tomatoes, sliced in half

In a small pot with a tight fitting lid, place quinoa, water (in the proportion specified on the package), cumin and cayenne pepper.  Bring to a boil on high heat, then cover and reduce to low.  Simmer 12 minutes (again, check you package—some say as much as 15 minutes).  Remove from heat and let stand 5 minutes without removing the lid.  Fluff with a fork.

While the quinoa is simmering, place black beans, red onion, corn, and scallion in a large bowl and mix.  Add the prepared quinoa and toss to distribute evenly.  Season with salt and pepper, then add cilantro and lime juice and toss well.  Before serving, add halved cherry tomatoes. 

Store tightly covered in the refrigerator for up to one week.  Cool completely before refrigerating.

Dignity Trumps Stupidity

I had high hopes for Donald Trump’s big announcement this week.  I expected that this would provide fodder for another blog, giving me an opportunity to ponder, with a semblance of objectivity, the facets of some well-considered-though-conservatively-tipped plan.  I believed that his legions of advisors and sycophants would have helped him to vet his actions.  I would have thought that he could afford the best public relations professionals in the business.  I braced myself.

What we got, was a warmed over repeat of his tired refrain.  Blah, blah, blah about the president and his impeccable academic credentials.  Why is it so unfathomable to this man that our President could be his intellectual superior in every way?  After all, most Americans are his intellectual superior.   

For anyone who has been living under a rock, The Donald offered to make a $5 million charitable contribution if the President turns over his academic and passport records by Halloween.  I guess he thought that should the President choose to ignore him, he could then argue in the final week before the election that the President does not care about helping people.  He failed to consider that the thing that the President does not care about is Donald Trump.

The most amazing part of this story is that failed to gain traction.  In this world of sound bites and sensationalism, one would expect such a ridiculous story to float around the airwaves and Twitterdom for at least few hours.   But apparently, even our media has standards—and Donald Trump didn’t make the cut.  The reports of Trump’s gesture were perfunctory and remarkably brief, dismissed as nothing more than a sour footnote.  His announcement fell as flat as his comb-over. 

Of course it did not help that Trump released his huntless dog in the wake of Richard Mourdock’s declaration that unwanted pregnancy resulting from rape is “something that G-d intended to happen.”  Even the crazy mind of Donald Trump failed to conjure something heinous enough to steal the headlines from such a freak show. 

Still more curious is that Trump would put a Halloween deadline on his offer.   It gives his proposal a rather odd context—placing it in the company of howling screams, fake blood, and projectile eggs.  It makes it harder than usual to take him seriously, as we anticipate an evening where children disguise their youthful innocence, donning fantasy costumes and being granted the right to eat way too many Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups.  It is a night to laugh at our fears, allowing gruesome characters to stalk our homes, knowing full well that they are just our closest friends and neighbors.  Behind each mask, we are as we always are.

Stephen Colbert's great visual notwithstanding, my only response to Donald Trump’s offer was to laugh out loud.  Although he thought he could hide behind a human mask of charitable goodness, he nonetheless remains every bit the ass we know him to be.

Cedar-Plank Salmon

In honor of reaching 11,000 hits, it is time for another recipe.

This is my go-to recipe for special occasions.  It is a spectacular presentation and unequalled in flavor.  Even people who swear they don’t like fish find this to be succulent and delicious.  I am partial to Pacific salmon; even though we live currently in New England, we are able to get wild caught salmon at Whole Foods.  When selecting a salmon filet, I choose the deepest red color and the thickest (rather than broadest) piece.  To remove the tiny pin bones, which are hidden beneath the surface in a row running the entire length of the fish, I use a pair of needle-nose pliers (specially purchased for culinary use).  Feel the flesh with your finger about an inch from the edge to locate the bones.  These must be removed before cooking.  It is not unusual to remove 20-30 bones.

This recipe is easy to prepare in a conventional oven, however, to really impart a good flavor cook it on the grill.  We have experimented with both a charcoal fire and a gas grill, concluding that the gas grill is best.   It does not flare up and burn the cedar plank, allowing a more consistent preparation.

Cedar planks are sold near the fish counter at Whole Foods.  They have started selling other wood species, such as cherry and walnut.  Be careful to look for cedar, as it imparts a unique flavor to this dish.

To serve the cooked fish, I like to lift the entire filet off the cedar in one piece, allowing the skin to stick to the wood.  I have a special wide spatula for this purpose.  It is beautiful served over a platter or wild rice, or roasted vegetables.  And we always make an extra—it’s just that good!

My son loves to find leftovers in the refrigerators.  He swears they make the best quesadillas in the world.

 

Cedar-Plank Salmon

1-2 cedar planks to match the length of the salmon, soaked in water for at least 30 minutes before preparation

2 lb salmon filet, skin on, pin bones removed (removed from refrigerator 20 minutes prior)

3 Tablespoons high quality maple syrup

½ cup packed light brown sugar

2Tablespoons canola oil

1Tablespoons dried thyme leaves

1 teaspoon cayenne pepper

Preheat oven to 350 degrees, or gas grill to high.  Place waterlogged cedar plank(s) on a rimmed baking sheet.  Place salmon skin-side down, lengthwise along the cedar plank.  Brush with maple syrup.

Combine brown sugar, oil, thyme, and cayenne in a small bowl until well mixed.  Spread over the salmon, pressing it together until it covers the fish completely, packing it into a crust.  Roast in oven 20-25 minutes.  To check for doneness, take a fork and flake the flesh.  It is done when it is flaky.  Do not overcook.  (On a gas grill, remove the fish and planks from the baking sheet, placing the cedar directly on the grill.  Close the cover on the grill to promote smoke. )

Serve cooked fish immediately, lifting carefully to keep the entire fish intact.

For everyday cooking, you can use this recipe for salmon filets, placing them on the soaked cedar plank and dressing them individually with the sugar crust.

Kiss the Cook

With the exception of the occasional recipe (by popular demand), I have strayed away from cooking topics in this blog.  I wanted to avoid any semblance of aspiring to be a Julie Powell-wannabe.  So far I have succeeded in this goal, as evidenced by the publishers and movie producers who have kept a safe distance.  To be sure, my efforts this year are about writing and not cooking. 

That being said, cooking is an important part of my life.  It is one of my favorite past times, one that I enjoy sharing liberally with friends on a regular basis.    It occurs to me that cooking has been, for generations, one of the most powerful of oral traditions.  Young girls, for the most part, learn family and cultural traditions from their mothers and grandmothers.  And while standing as an observer at the elbows of my maternal forbears certainly piqued my interest, I realize that my cooking sensibilities are dramatically different.

My grandmother was a good cook, but not an inspired one.  A young newlywed during the depression, she could roast a chicken or turkey, make a pot of soup, and transform leftovers into casseroles and sandwiches to squeeze out extra meals.  I think of her as the war horse who dutifully produced ethnic favorites for the Jewish holidays.  No one begged to take away her chopped liver duty.  I used to love when she pulled out the ancient meat grinder, pulverizing cooked livers and hard-boiled eggs into a moldable spread.  Today it could pass for “pate” in a fancy restaurant, but to us it was just Nanny’s chopped liver.

Nanny was also a great source of cheese blintzes and potato latkes—foods that required such major productions that she would close down all other cooking activities for days in advance.  Blintzes required dozens of thin pancakes (crepes, really) to be thrown down individually on her threadbare white baking towels.  Once enough were fabricated, she would turn to fillings.  Cheese blintzes require ‘farmer cheese.’  The product is sold in a wax-wrapped brick, filling the evolutionary gap between cottage cheese and cream cheese.   It is curds drained of the whey, imparting the dry creaminess that makes a perfect filling without creating a soggy crepe. 

My own mother enjoyed cooking as well as my father’s appreciation for her efforts.  Her style was a mixture of traditional Jewish techniques from her mother (‘always shake the pot; don’t stir’) as well as French cooking techniques gleaned from public television and the occasional cooking class.  My father was raised on bland foods, so my mother enjoyed introducing him to the joys of garlic and melted cheese.  My mother also enjoyed the time-saving benefits of culinary science and industrialized food products; she loved frozen foods and microwave ovens.

Today, I have distilled my ‘joy of cooking’ down to three main aspects:  the process, the ingredients, and the love.  Process has been a recurrent theme in my life.  I love problem solving and program planning—whether it is corporate strategy or implementing a surprise party for my husband.  I enjoy taking a large task down to its basic elements, making lists, and crossing things off one by one.  Nothing excites me more than a Thanksgiving dinner or a Passover Seder, meals that can take weeks of shopping, research, and yes--cooking.

Over the years I have also adopted a high standard for ingredients.  Living in a semi-rural suburb with access to farm-fresh fruits and vegetables has changed my tastes.  I love being able to ‘see’ everything that goes into the dishes that I make.  It is exciting to unpack a harvest of vegetables from the local farm, laying them out and arranging them on the kitchen counter like a vibrant still-life.  For me, the purity of ingredients elevates cooking to an art form.

But the best thing about cooking is the way it translates into love.  My kids know that when they arrive home from college the house will be filled with the tastes and aromas of their favorite home-cooked meals.  It is a signature act that I do for my kids--something that cannot be replaced or reproduced by anyone else.  There is no app for that.  I will put hours into shopping and peeling and chopping and simmering, just to convey how glad I am to see them and how much they mean to me.  And when my labors all disappear in an instant, leaving behind nothing but a few crumbs and a pampered glow, I know in that moment that they love me back.

First World Problems--A Fairy Tale

It was a sunny day.  Mommalina woke with the sun.  She could not get herself out of bed, not because she was ill, but because she had no particular plan for the day.  The plush mattress and stack of soft pillows created a luxurious cocoon; the Fall day made the high thread-count sheets the perfect temperature.  It was not too warm and not too cool; it was just right.

Mommalina stared at her fingers, wondering how she managed to chip her pricey manicure.  Without moving from her comfortable position, she reached over to her nightstand and pulled her cellphone from its charger.  Finding the spa number on speed dial, she booked an appointment to restore perfection to her evenly filed and painted nails.

No longer able to find a cool side on her pillows, Mommalina arose and headed for the shower.  It was a Fall day that left a chill in the house—too warm for heat and too cool for air conditioning.  She was annoyed to discover that her husband had neglected to turn on the switches for the radiant floor system and the heated towel rack in the bathroom.  The marble floor was a shock to her bare feet, giving her an unwelcome case of goosebumps.

She brushed her teeth, making a mental note to nag her husband for the umpteenth time not to squeeze the tube in the middle.  Standing in front of her closet, she sighed, not knowing what the day would bring.  Should she put on her old jeans and a “chore shirt,” or the good jeans with a washable silk top?  She hates when she can’t decide what to wear.  As if in response to her dilemma, the phone rings.  It was her husband reminding her that old friends were in town and she was to meet them at the restaurant at noon.  She was relieved to find a focal point for her day.

She spent the rest of the morning applying make-up and styling her hair.  Glancing at her watch, she realized that she should have left fifteen minutes earlier to make it into town for her lunch date.  She stuffed her iphone 5 in her Gucci bag while stepping into two different Tori Burch flats, deciding at last on the brown suedes over the black patent leathers.

Once in the car, Mommalina cursed out loud at the Talk Radio blasting at her from every direction.  She hates when her husband changes her radio station.  Why can’t he simply listen to her Top 40s station on those rare occasions when he drives her car?  At least this car remembers her personalized seat settings so she does not have to fumble underneath to slide forward to reach the gas pedal.

Pulling up in front of the restaurant, the valet attendant opened the driver’s door and handed her a ticket.  Quickly, she ran inside hoping she was not too terribly late for lunch.  As she stood in the vestibule, trying to straighten her outfit and shake out her hair, she found herself cornered by the valet, who needed the key fob for her car in order to drive and park it.  Frightfully embarrassed, she foraged in her purse until she found it.

Finally seated, she apologized to her guests for holding up their lunch.  Scanning the menu, she sighed deeply when she did not find the specific pasta dish she had the last time she dined here.  This was the reason she had suggested this restaurant, setting her heart and her palate on that tasty dish.  Biting her lip in frustration, she pointed to something on the menu, but repeated her disappointment to the server.

Back at home, Mommalina stretched out in a comfy chair to read a book.   Within a few minutes, the phone rang.  Cursing to herself for the interruption, she closed her eyes until the ringing stopped, and then resumed her place, thankful for a quiet afternoon.

As dinner hour approached, she was glad for the large lunch, allowing her to simplify meal preparation.  Checking the refrigerator, she was pleased to find enough leftovers to put together a casual meal but dismayed at the poor job her husband had done covering the food.  Opening the pantry, she was furious at the disorder that she found.  Although her husband had made dinner the night before, he put all the spices and condiments away randomly. 

After dinner, Mommalina sprawled out upon the couch and clicked on the television, irritated to discover that her favorite shows had been pre-empted, replaced by channel upon channel of news shows spouting statistics and pointing at maps.   The fact that it was Election Day had escaped her notice.   She had meant to vote, but having failed to do so, she merely shrugged it off.   

 

 

 

Well-Heeled Opposition

Well-Heeled Opposition

What strange convention beckons women’s feet,

To amble high atop such threat’ning heels,

Impossible to make a quick retreat,

From those who lack the sense for how it feels.

The limits of the physical must stretch--

Say Jimmy Choo and Christian Louboutin,

But pardon me, I must needs whine and kvetch,

If artificial stature is the plan.

A longer limb is sexy, argue men,

Whose dreams of thin stiletto spikes abound,

But when it comes to legs, I stress again,

I’m lucky just to have mine reach the ground.

When shopping shoes, discomfort thwarts each pair--

I think I’ll paint my toes and leave them bare.

Jet Blue, Good for You

I have been wondering whether air travel will ever be pleasant again.  After eleven years of heightened security with a series of increasingly humiliating restrictions—confiscate your liquids, take off your belt, put your hands over your head, submit to pat down—I am afraid of what will happen next should there be (G-d forbid) another “event.”  Of course there has been little improvement in the usual and customary variables of travel.  The airlines still lose baggage, overbook, and understaff the ticket counters.  I try to avail myself of all the new technologies that are designed to streamline travel.  Despite advance check-in and barcodes on my iphone, I still find endless lines at the “bag-drop” while agents insist on issuing a paper boarding pass.

Today I was pleasantly surprised to board a Jet Blue plane for the opposite coast only to find that my low expectations were vastly exceeded.  The head flight attendant greeted us with an extemporaneous outpouring of enthusiasm and welcome.  Rather than the expected vapid airline script, he just spoke to the passengers.  He let us know that there were two other airlines with planes leaving for the same destination at the same time and that he was glad that we chose his airline.  Furthermore, he indicated that it was his personal goal that the 150 passengers on this flight would never choose to fly those other guys.

How did he expect to earn our loyalty?  With fabulous service and an array of amenities.  He described the entertainment system, including the wide range of movies and TV shows.  He indicated that most of the food items on board were free, and that we were entitled to as much and as many of the choices as we pleased.  To facilitate this they would serve us in the early hour of the flight, and then he would set up bar carts at either end so that we could simply help ourselves.  He made these announcements while making strong eye contact with passengers throughout the cabin.

As the flight attendants passed through the cabin to ensure that personal items were properly stowed, they were pleasant and personable, carrying on conversations that brought passengers together in a convivial way.  It was infectious.  Late boarding passengers were polite, apologizing when they required an aisle passenger to stand to allow them to squeeze into an interior seat.  My neighboring passengers, as well as those in the rows ahead and behind me, were all exchanging pleasantries as they helped one another to stow items safely and comfortably. 

I contrast this with other flights I have taken lately.  I am a Million Miler on Delta, which tells you something about my allegiance to that airline—particularly in their non-unionized, pre-9/11 glory days.  But my last Delta flight horrified me.  They have replaced the human touch with video deliveries of all pertinent information, allowing the flight attendants to busy themselves with paperwork and other administrivia in the cabin.  The passengers all but ignored the video, which starred a sad looking botox-and-collagen-injected creature of indeterminate age.

Maybe I am just slightly elated because the serendipity of strong tail winds has our flight arriving a full hour early.  Maybe the inconvenience of air travel has hit such a low that any ray of sunshine seems like a meteor shower.  Or maybe we are so starved for real customer service these days that any effort to make a human connection is a salve to the spirit.  All I know is that it feels good to be treated like a valued customer.  The next time I need to go somewhere I will start with Jet Blue.  And if they don’t go where I am heading, perhaps I will consider a different destination.

Politically Wise, Potentially Foolish

Election seasons are complicated times.  Party lines divide friends and families like the Mason-Dixon Line divided a much younger nation during the Civil War.  Despite deep-rooted differences in philosophies, we are still fortunate to live in a country that embraces the concept of “one man-one vote.”  I lament the number of people who choose not to exercise these rights, whether out of ignorance, indifference, or a perceived sense of futility.  Frankly, those who opt out have no right to complain.

This time around we are seeing divisions over women’s issues, healthcare, how and where to cut taxes, the right to marry, the debt ceiling, and foreign policy.  There are also dramatically different approaches being proposed for energy.  What surprises me is the fact that these proposals are being touted as economic issues.  One camp suggests that we have enough domestic sources of fossil fuels to be energy independent.  Open the pipelines, drill the wells, and we can control our own supply and subsequently lower prices at the pumps.  The other camp wants us to think long term, investing in alternative energy—hydroelectric, wind, solar—in order to break our addiction to fossil fuels.  Proponents of this approach are too quick to concede to detractors, allowing their plan to be characterized by their opponents as “increased spending.”

What is missing from the debate is a more fundamental dialogue about the environment.  Energy is not just a real-time economic issue; it is an environmental one.  The decisions we make now will affect our children and our children’s children.  There are compelling reasons why we should bite the bullet and fund the development of clean energy sources.  We should have done it a generation ago.  Economic recession notwithstanding, I would think that investing in the environment would go hand-in-hand with pro-life doctrine.

I am disappointed that the environmental rhetoric is being drowned out by partisan rancor.  We cannot allow the economic crisis to obfuscate the importance of environmental impact embedded in the proposed solutions.  It is time to set alternative energy development plans in motion as part of a comprehensive economic recovery plan.  If we succumb to “quick and dirty” increased domestic oil production, we will commit our nation to a future of continued environmental hazards.  Furthermore, we will continue to reinforce the dominance of the automotive industry by Big Oil.

Prudent investment in a cleaner future is not optional.  We should not allow it to be categorically shot down with a pejorative cry of “government spending.”  The environment is a social good that has long fallen victim to corporate profit mongers, who have allowed production short cuts to threaten the future of the planet.  Their actions have traded environmental safeguards for executive bonuses.  This is more than an argument of self-reliance over big government.  This is a matter of whether or not we have a future.

We will continue to argue about the size of government and the role of government.  When the free market favors profit over planet it is time for a little nudge.  If existing corporate giants cannot make a profit by doing the right thing, maybe it is time to let someone else have a try.

 

A Tiny Rosebud Blossoms

To my beautiful and talented daughter,

Today you are twenty years old.  I get a lump in my throat just thinking about it.  You came into this world such a tiny and vulnerable thing, the cord wrapped so tightly around your neck that we feared we had lost you.  But with one barely audible cough, you shook off your trauma and charged onward.  Since then, this has been your way.  You stare down obstacles and prove you are made of stronger stuff.  Doubters eat your dust.

A lot of people like to compare us.  I suppose it is natural, because we look so much alike.  I have never wanted or needed you to follow in my footsteps.  I know you to be an original of your own crafting.  I envy your ability to know your own mind, to pursue your own interests, and to push yourself to your own high standards.  I love sitting on the sidelines watching how you approach choices and challenges.  You are inquisitive, analytical, tenacious, and adorable.

I will always think of you as the little girl who was armed with “girl power”—the confidence that there were no limits and that everything was possible.  I hope you always retain a bit of that juvenile spirit.  I am happy for you that you are growing up at a time when girls really can consider anything they wish.  It is a good time to be you. 

I wish for you never to doubt yourself or your abilities.  You take our breath away with the depth of your knowledge and the multidimensional power of your mind.  You are wired differently than most, but the world has enough people stamped out in the traditional mold.  You have the ability to see what isn’t there, to imagine complex solutions, and to bring them out to the concrete world.  This is a gift that is begging to be used. 

If I could do one thing for you, I would give you a magic carpet.  You are at your best when you explore new worlds, meet new people, and expose yourself to different cultures.  Every place you visit becomes a part of you, expanding your intellectual capacity and your cultural vocabulary.  You see everything and forget nothing.  Everything that touches you makes you bigger and better, enriching your innate powers of insight and synthesis.  There is a special purpose meant for someone like you.  I expect you to make your mark on the world in a very unique way.  And I expect you to have the time of your life doing it.

Please be careful always.  You are very trusting and sweet to the point that you are sometimes careless.  I still see flashes of the time you crossed the street in downtown Boston, nearly getting struck by the speeding, turning taxi.  You need to look both ways—not just in traffic, but in life, too.

Please don’t sweat the small stuff.  Keep your eye on the big picture, knowing that some of the smaller battles are not worth fighting.  Focus on the milestones, measuring your progress against the steep steps you have set in place for yourself.

Most of all, do not forget that your father and I are here for you—not just to pay the bills, but also to love you, to laugh with you, and to offer you the unconditional support that you have earned.  We are your biggest fans.  We hope to be cheering you on as you cross the finish line, arriving at your life’s destination.

And finally, remember that the thing in your pocket is a phone.  It allows me to hear your voice, which, more than anything, tells me that you are just fine.

I hope you have a wonderful day, sweet girl.

All my love,

Mom

The Joan Luck Club

My mother, Joan, was a professional housewife.  It was a status symbol of sorts, but it was also a tough job.  Personally, I would be unable to find happiness from a life that centered on dirty clothes, dirty toilets, and having to make meals that catered to my father’s particular tastes.  But my mother thrived on being a domestic goddess, thanks in large part to a few choice diversions.  For one thing, she was a slave to that mid-century throwback—the beauty parlor.  For as far back as I can remember my mother had a standing Friday morning hair appointment where she was rolled, dried and teased into a perfect pouf.  By noon, she was suitably coifed for whatever the weekend held. 

Her other diversion was a weekly game of Mah Jongg.  A tile game with origins in China, Mah Jongg played an important role in Jewish communities in the US, bringing women out of their homes into midday social gatherings.  The National Mah Jongg League was established in 1937—the year of my mother’s birth.  Paid members receive an annual card that specifies the legal hands for the year, which also handicapps the hands for betting according to statistical difficulty.  My mother learned to play at the age of 5 in the shadows of her own mother’s weekly game.  She and the other kids would interrupt the adults as they played, pointing out the dragons or chrysanthemums on the pretty bakelite tiles, thus destroying the competitive advantage of their mothers.  As a self-defense mechanism of sorts, one of the mothers brought an old Mah Jongg set, engaging the children in their own game.  My mother has been rattling May Jongg tiles since.

During my youth, my mother was always part of a regular “game,” which included four other women in addition to her.    Seats at their table were highly coveted.  The game rotated among the homes giving each woman an equal chance to host.  They played every Wednesday for as far back as I can remember, beginning mid-morning and playing until after school got out—around 3 or 4 o’clock.  There was a bit of excitement every five weeks when the game came to our house.  I do not think the women ever stopped for a lunch break per se.  There was a buffet of food where one simply noshed during the rounds when they were “out.”  I remember helping my mother make cute little sandwiches from canned date-and-nut-bread.   I loved removing both ends of the can and pressing out the bread, then making an even number of thin slices and spreading them with Philadelphia cream cheese.  This was also an occasion for a bowl of peanut M & Ms, or those wonderful Hershey’s miniatures.  If I was lucky, when I got home from school I would be able to choose from the leftovers before helping to clean up.

The best part of Mah Jongg for me was the sound.  There was a particularly glorious sound when the tiles clicked against each other while being mixed on the quilted cover of the old card table.  I always tried to do my homework as close to the action as possible just to indulge in that sound.  If my mother set up for her games the night before, I begged to be able to help mix the tiles around and around on the table.  It was fun to dump the tiles out of the fancy felt-lined case and then race to turn them all face down.  After mixing, it was important to set up properly, building a two-story wall of tiles, two rows thick, against each player’s tray. 

It was rare to be able to watch the women play; they were fiercely cutthroat and did not suffer intruders or spectators.  But it was mesmerizing to tune into the rhythm of the game as each player called their tile and discarded, depleting the stacked wall tile by tile as if unraveling stitches on a knitted sweater.  As the last tile was snatched from one wall, another player would instantly push her tray out to introduce a new wall, always going in a clockwise direction.  This was professional quality play without so much as a sip of coffee to contemplate the next move.  If a woman could not keep up with their pace, she was unceremoniously replaced by someone else.  There was always a waiting list.

The closest I get to Mah Jongg today is the solitaire game on my Kindle.  It uses the familiar tiles but bears little resemblance to the actual game.  I regret never learning to play Mah Jongg, if only to keep this tradition of my mother’s and her “Wednesday ladies’” alive.  It is something that my mother continues to do to this day, after 70 years, with sanguineous greed.  But ladies beware.  She is a shark with a bun and readers, ready to take the money of anyone who will dare sit at her Mah Jongg table.

Stone-Faced

It has been five days since I returned from a storybook trip to Italy, and five days of doing humdrum chores as I fight my way back to reality and to responsibility.  I do not want to clean and fold an endless supply of laundry.  I do not wish to sort through the stack of mail to find the bills in want of payment.  I do not care to apply the software updates that will grant me access to the network where my day job awaits.  I want to wake up far from here, where my greatest dilemma is to choose upon which priceless work of art I will cast my eyes.  I have stood in the presence of everlasting greatness; I just cannot bear to clean toilets or take out the trash.

While my ethereal self lingers a bit longer in the memories of relics and fresh pasta, I drag my lazy ass back to work.  In my mind’s eye, nonetheless, I am still standing before Michelangelo’s Pieta, its backlit glow rising up behind the bulletproof glass to caress the Carrera marble.  By my mother’s report, I have seen this sculpture before.  It was transported from Italy only once since Michelangelo himself placed it in St. Peter’s Basilica in the Vatican.  It was displayed at the New York World’s Fair in 1964.  I have only a bare wisp of the memory of visiting this masterpiece; a 5-year old Jewish girl would have attached no meaning to such a vision.

Today, however, this sculpture beguiles me and will not leave my mind.   Having had the opportunity to explore several Michelangelo works up close in the last couple of weeks, I have a fresh understanding of the art of sculpture, of the choices that are made deliberately, and of the challenge of communicating through the form and composition of the work itself.  There is a reason that we use the expression “set in stone” to mean something that is permanent and specific.  Sculpture takes more careful planning and execution than painting, and it is because of this that it is unique among vehicles for artistic expression.

‘Pieta’ is a term applied to all artistic representations of Mary grieving over a dead Jesus.  Michelangelo’s Vatican Pieta is remarkable for the choices that the master made, conveying multiple meanings. It is almost editorial in nature.  For example, Mary, who was in her fifties when Jesus died, is depicted with the face of a young girl.  Many critics hypothesize that this symbolizes her virginity.  Perhaps Michelangelo is representing her as she appeared at her moment of motherhood, underscoring the unique loss that is hers alone.   On her right side, she is grasping the lifeless body of her son, her grief evident through the tight grip on his rib cage.  It is a heart-wrenching portrayal of that greatest of all sorrows: the loss of a child.  For her, this is a private moment.

On the other hand, Mary’s left side tells a different story—one of her sacrifice.  Rather than clutching the body, her left palm is stretched upward, resigned.  On this side, the legs of Jesus do not hang lifelessly across her lap; rather, they are carved in full relief, floating unassisted, as if weightless.  Perhaps Michelangelo means to represent Jesus’ own divinity.  Or perhaps through her stoic acceptance, Mary’s burden is at last relieved.

You need no religious faith to appreciate this masterpiece of storytelling in stone.  The beautiful depiction captures the conflict of this central figure whose own human life is caught in the divine birth of a new faith.  She maintains a visage of humility and a gesture of sacrifice even while indulging her private moment of loss.  She looks neither left nor right, concealing to the observer whether her own inclination is toward one or the other.

Many artists, both before and after Michelangelo, have created interpretations of the Pieta.  Some have tried to emulate the gestures of Michelangelo’s sculpture (he actually created 3 different Pietas) but fall short of capturing the grace of this masterpiece.   This is a work of art that speaks to all, whether you are looking for the religious inspiration of martyrdom, or simply feeling the bonds between mother and child.  It is a testament to the power of art to move, and to the power of genius to be everlasting.

Global Warning

I can endure harsh winters, three feet of snow, ice-driven power failures, plowing and high energy bills because of the October beauty in New England.  Growing up in Miami, I had little understanding of what fall was all about.  It was not until I came to college in Boston that I experienced my first color show of autumn foliage.  There is something so poignant about the mighty oak trees as they begin to yellow—leaf by leaf.  Finally, a delicate dried leaf is captured by a cool breeze, plucked from the branch and floating gently and circuitously to the ground.  One by one other leaves follow suit until they coat the walkways and gutters.  But first, before the quickening of the season, there is an all-too-brief moment of unequalled yellows and reds that gives us pause. 

Fall is a reminder of the persistence of Nature to mend its wounds and to nurse itself back to vibrant health.  It represents the orderly shut down of Nature’s production cycle, shedding the excess of its busy season in order to regroup, renew, and reseed.  Before it turns inward on itself and disappears for the winter, Nature gives us one last appeal for respect and kindness.  Remember me, it begs, so that I may continue to feed you and shelter you and live harmoniously in your presence.   No one who is witness to a New England autumn can doubt that the Earth is a delicate, organic being.

Those who argue that there is no perceptible climate change, or that Global Warming is not a scientific fact, do not deserve to enjoy the bounties of this beautiful planet.  There is a certain ignorance implicit in the argument itself.  Why try to prove that we have not systematically destroyed the Earth unless you plan to justify its continued desecration with toxic waste and depletion of its resources?  The Earth is not here to service our needs; we are all part of a larger closed biosystem.  We have what we have until there is no more.  I fear for a world where increasing populations, increasing industrialization, and increasing ignorance cause us to outstrip Nature’s ability to renew itself.  

Already, I see my trees do not grow as full each spring as they did 15 years ago.  Beautiful Walden Pond is not as high as it was when I swam in it as a college student.  The majestic Multnomah Falls on the Columbia River was a trickle this summer compared when I first saw it nearly 30 years ago.  The glass Farnsworth House in Plano, Illinois now floods frequently—not because there is more water, but because there has been so much concretization of the surrounding lands that the natural run off has become choked off.  When Mies van der Rohe first built this structure over 60 years ago, he situated it over 12 feet above the 100 year recorded high water mark.

The beautiful cycles of Nature fool us into believing that we can do anything to this planet with impunity.  Not so.  Like other forms of disease that attack from the inside out, the outward manifestations of life continue even as the foundation shrinks from within.

Nothing in my life has taught me a more important lesson about the environment than a simple family trip we took in 1993.  It was the 150^th anniversary celebration of the Oregon Trail.  My husband is a descendant of Oregon Trail pioneers, so we returned to his ancestral home in Baker, Oregon, once a terminus for the Trail itself.  We visited many sites where ruts from the covered wagons are still visible today.  There are places where these wagon ruts run through private farms, and farmers have tried again and again to plow under them to reinvigorate the soil.  It begs the question:  If something as simple as wagon trains crossing the plains can create such an indelible scar across the Earth, what hope do we have for the planet as we pour toxic waste into our rivers, and blight our forests? 

We have all seen police dramas on television where a child has been kidnapped and forced to live in a basement or boiler room in her own filth.  Or post-apocalyptic dramas where survivors are left to ration the small supply of remaining food products.  These are not extreme stories; they are lessons for the here and now.  We are already living on a planet that has more people than it can reasonably sustain.  We have a partner in Nature that we have shortchanged to our own detriment.  We need to do a much better job taking care of the environment around us.  We do, indeed, live in our own filth.