The Yeah, Yeah Sisterhood

While attending a baby shower for a young friend, it was a bit disconcerting to realize that I was among the oldest women in the room.  Although my youngest will turn 20 in a few weeks, I still think of my kids as children, remembering their entrances into the world as if they occurred only yesterday.  Surprisingly, I was not depressed by this realization that I have now logged so many years; I was merely amazed by the persistence of nature and tickled by the joy that life brings as it renews itself.  Mothers know, as no man could, that this rhythm of life is our immortality—a continuous sisterhood that reaches across the globe.

It was surprising to see how much has changed since I was a young mother.  Many of the gadgets and devices upon which I depended to sooth, comfort, cradle, and rock my children have now been struck down as unsafe.  We strapped our babies into tight carriers of thick cotton—an outer womb, of sorts—sacrificing our backs as the little ones grew to toddlers.  Now, these products come in breathable materials with ergonomic features and back support.  But despite all the new technologies and wonder-fabrics, a pair of hand-made booties still brings us all to our knees.  Nothing conjures the ‘oohs’ and ‘ahs’ as the mental image of one experienced mother working her needle to feather a nest for an expectant grandchild.  With each stitch, we feel not only the promise of love for the next generation, we recognize the continuity from generations past—a magic thread that connects mother to child and mother to child.

The lovely brunch was an interesting counterpoint to a new BBC showed that premiered on PBS later that night.  Call the Midwife is a fascinating chronicle of a young girl, set in the East End of London during the 50s, who has recently completed her training as a midwife.  She is sent to what she thinks is a hospital, only to find herself—an Anglican—living in a convent.  There, she and a few other young midwives, serve the fertile women of this socioeconomically-strapped community. 

Through the young midwife Jenny, who rides her bicycle through the fog and squalor, we are shown the power of women to overcome their circumstances.  Featured was a beautiful Spanish woman, Conchita, who was a souvenir of her husband’s tour of duty in the Spanish Civil War.  She speaks no English and he no Spanish, but this has not stopped then from producing 24 children—the current pregnancy making 25.  Jenny attends her labor after Conchita falls and suffers a concussion—forcing her into labor at 30 weeks.  Another young mother of three (her son pisses on everything because he has no pants) discovers a special gift from her husband—a large syphilitic lesion that spells disaster for the baby she is now carrying. 

Every home these midwives visit is strewn with sheets and diapers, suggesting that in addition to feeding their broods, these women are enslaved by the endless chores that surround the children they must bear.   It is interesting to note the prevalence of cigarette smoking among these young mothers, a detail that adds to our sensory overload as we imagine the layers of dirt and practically smell the pervasive odors (remember the child who pisses on everything).

As we admire these young midwives for their strength and their calling—a gift of the National Health Service, we are told—we are encouraged not to think of them as the heroes of the story.  It is the mothers, they tell us, who are the real heroes.  These women, who make the best of the domestic situations they are dealt, endure the wills of their husbands and the limits of their finances to bring forth life under the most challenging circumstances.  They are inexhaustible, radiant lights in the lives of innocent children, doing for them what no others would accept wages to do.  It is this strength, found uniquely and magically in motherhood, which keeps the world going.

Wireless Has Its Wires Crossed

Wireless service carriers seem to encompass an economy all their own, exempt of most standards of fair play.  I was an early adopter of portable phone technology, having been graced with a car-phone-in-a-bag as a present for a thirty-something birthday.  Over the years, these phones have become untethered, smaller, lighter, and smarter.  The one thing they have never become is cheaper.  Despite spiraling technological advances that make nanochips virtually free, the promise of “more for less” cannot seem to win a battle against the need to continuously increase corporate profits.

It started with nearly-free phones.   Wireless service providers care only about recurring service revenue streams, so they started to give phones away just to get people to sign service contracts.  Then a funny thing happened.  People stopped using the phone part and started flooding every available inch of bandwidth with texts.  The phone itself became an important personal appliance, multitasking so many of life’s trivial details.  Eventually, the phone became a platform, the competitive feature that distinguished service providers.  Consumers chose providers by the coolness factor of the phones that were compatible with their services.  Even Apple was forced to give in to Verizon, marrying the most sought-after phone with the most ubiquitous service carrier.

Then, the technology of phones began spiraling out of control, creating new “must-haves” every fifteen minutes.  The business shifted away from capturing new cell phone users and signing up new customers.  The market is now glutted with people who swear allegiance to a preferred carrier lest they suffer a $175 termination fee.  All we want is the latest and greatest new phone.  That’s when wireless carriers got cocky.  Phones are no longer incentives for attracting customers.  They are torture devices with which to abuse existing customers, causing us to jump through whatever hoops they throw in our path just to get our hands on the latest phone.  We have all become slaves to the “eligible for upgrade” date on our contracts, counting the months and days until we can renew ourselves with the latest “precious.” 

This system works well enough for most people; but like all things in our society there is an oppressed minority lurking under the surface.  The moms of the world are suffering under a cell-phone-dominated regime.   Women like me, who anchor a share plan that extends to their kids, are exploited to their own detriment.  Until very recently, I carried an LG flip phone with 9-key texting ability devoid of smart features while my children sported iPhones and Blackberrys.  What could I do?  Their friends all drive Porsches!  

We had staggered upgrade dates on our phones, always anticipating an upgrade window in the near future.  Eagerly, I planned my ascent into modern times, hoping that when the next upgrade date arrived I could finally have a device with a colored screen and a full texting keyboard.  I always knew the exact date, counting silently and patiently as it approached and trying not to jinx it.  But without fail, when the date arrived, one of my kids would have a phone disaster:  this one had theirs stolen on campus, that one dropped theirs in the toilet.   My dreams were dashed, causing me to bury my dumb device deep into my purse with shame as I allowed my children to beam with joy at their hip new phones.  It was sad, but it was also my own fault.  There is nothing I won’t do for my kids.

Last year, as my baby was leaving for college with a cracked screen on her blackberry and intermittently-performing buttons, I called Verizon to see what was available.  All kids need to start college with a clean slate, I reasoned.  We were able to get a comparable phone for a reasonable price, but once again an upgrade slot was stolen from me, pushing out the next upgrade date deep into 2013.  Exasperated, I broke down, whining and whimpering to the sympathetic saleswoman about my dashed hopes and crushed dreams.  I so wanted an iPhone.  I had been a customer of theirs for 13 years, I argued, and I was still using a phone I acquired 8, maybe 9 years earlier.  I explained that every upgrade had gone to my children; while away at college I needed them to have capabilities that made it easy to receive frequent texts from me.  Surely I wasn’t the only mother in this predicament.  Surely they had heard this tune before. 

My pleas did not fall on deaf ears.  This sales person was a mother herself and she understood.  She put me on hold for a very long time, but when she came back on the line she told me that her manager had authorized an iPhone for me at the discounted price.  I was not entitled to an upgrade, but they made an exception.  The corporate giant had a momentary lapse into humanity.  I swore allegiance up and down as they explained that the new contract terms had upped the early termination fee from $175 to $350.  I did not mind the $30 per month charge for each smartphone on top of the $120 monthly service fee.  I paid an extra fee to buy unlimited text for us all.  I did not care what it cost; I wanted ‘happy’ and discovered that there was, indeed, an app for that!

But that was last year.  Now there is a new beauty in town and I want her number: “5”.  I bit the bullet and placed the call to Verizon to discover what fresh hell I must endure.  Whatever love I had for them a year ago was quickly forgotten as I was treated to a laundry list of can’ts and won’ts.  My existing contract, which I had agreed to keep until the next millennium, is no longer valid.  To get a new phone I must switch to a new plan with a new list of terms and conditions.  Gone is the unlimited text plan.  I must now purchase cyberspace by the gigabyte.  If I do not purchase a healthy enough plan, the cost for inadvertently exceeding the allowance is twice the price of purchasing the next level of coverage.  And now when you upgrade a phone on the allowed upgrade date, they charge a $35 “activation fee.”   This is basically a tax on exercising your right to purchase a new phone.  I guess Verizon figured out that while the hardware vendors were discounting the phones, the service providers were doing all the work of the upgrades.  And the most fascinating part of all is that while the discounted iPhone is only $199, they charge sales tax on the full retail price of the phone.

Choking down the remorse I knew I would feel and rationalizing that my birthday is just around the corner, I agreed to everything and ordered my new iPhone 5, determined to enjoy the status of having the best phone in the family (when it finally ships next month).  I added up the list of charges and considered what type of car such a monthly payment could secure.  I thought of the poorer neighborhoods through which I have driven, noting how often I see kids with better phones than mine.  What does it say about us as a society that we put so much emphasis on these little power boxes?  What power does technology wield to defy all reason, to upend priorities, to shift our human values?  It was then I realized that I do not need this silly toy.  I picked up the phone to cancel my order.  As I slid the lock open and searched the recent call list, I planned a graceful retreat that would restore order to my life and self-respect to my aura.

But just as quietly, I hit End before the call went through.  I shook my head, took a deep breath, and went back to work.

Disaster Nodes and the Elusive Vacation

Vacations are overrated.  By that I mean that I haven’t had one in---well, years.  I have taken lots and lots of trips; however, most are either filled with family obligations or marred by my husband’s business commitments.  Don’t get me wrong.  I love visiting my husband’s family in the far reaches of Oregon.  They are a diverse and entertaining bunch and Oregon has much in the way of beautiful terrain and farm-fresh dining to offer.  It’s just that when it comes time to choose between setting course for a new destination and visiting family—Oregon usually wins. 

In a similar vein, I enjoy accompanying my husband on his many business trips.  In recent years, these trips have included such mainstay venues as Chicago and Tampa, as well as more exotic locales, such as Turkey and Scotland.   As much as it is exciting to venture to new worlds and explore new cultures, it is a bummer to be left alone in a foreign land while my husband disappears into his conferences, or even worse, to be stuck in a hotel room waiting for his return.

Finally, I have convinced my husband to take me on a trip of our own making.  In celebration of our 30^th anniversary, he has agreed—initially under much duress—to take me to Italy.  Italy is the one country I have been longing to visit since college, having endured a year’s worth of slides, three days per week, of paintings, frescoes, sculptures, and architectural wonders in the once-obligatory-and-now-defunct course, Fine Arts 13.  Art history is a passionate hobby of mine.  I spend a lot of time paging through art books, and researching artists and architects.  But as a musician and a performer who was trained to appreciate the creation of art “in the moment,” I derive as much joy from standing in the presence of great masterpieces as I do from discovering their beauty in books.  To put it bluntly:  Watch out, girls, that David sculpture is MINE!

As much as I look forward to the exciting trip we have planned—a few days each in Rome, Venice, and Florence—I confess that there is a great downside to this journey.  Traveling these days is a lot of work and a lot of stress.   Certainly, it is an improvement now that we can search for our own hotels and air fares without going through a third-party travel agent.  I no longer feel like I am being compelled to stay somewhere because kick-backs have been arranged, or because the agent’s knowledge is limited to certain venues.  After my exhaustive Googling and an assortment of email conversations (that, despite being carried on in English still contain the charming lilt of an Italian accent,) I feel confident that I have chosen well.  On the other hand, my micro-management of every detail demonstrates just how many things can go wrong.  Our romantic second honeymoon is really a collection of planned events connected by a series of “disaster nodes”—endless opportunities for our trip to become a FUBAR. 

Take, for instance, our airline tickets.  We purchased our tickets almost a year ago.  As part of our planning, we took pains to avoid New York’s Kennedy Airport as a connecting city.  We have made many trips to Europe that involved connections at JFK.  Almost none of them worked smoothly.  On one trip to Paris, our flight from Boston to JFK was so delayed due to air traffic that we nearly missed our connecting flight to Paris.  They offered to put us on the next flight out; however, they could not provide the business-class upgrades that we had purchased with zillions of frequent flyer miles.  On another flight back from Istanbul, our connecting plane in New York back to Boston was missing in action.  They projected a 6-7 hour delay just to get an aircraft queued up for the short 80-minute flight.  Because my husband had to work the next day, we ended up taking a 4-hour limousine ride all the way home.   We have learned not to allow connections through JFK; it is the ultimate travelling penalty box.  Yet, for some reason, the airlines always want to force us to connect there.  Even on a recent trip to San Diego, when our return flight through Minneapolis was oversold, the gate agent called our names, offering us $1200 in future vouchers if we would relinquish our seats and fly first class back through JFK.  If it had been through any other airport we would have jumped at the opportunity, but because it was JFK, we flatly refused.

Another potential disaster node is the hotel.  Hotels are the ultimate blind purchase.  You book a hotel after seeing luxurious photos and reading online reviews.  But seriously, how many of us put realistic photos online?  For this trip, I chose to take advantage of advance purchases on hotel stays.  Prepaying translated into savings of up to 20%.   Given the weak trading of the dollar against the euro, this turned out to be a pretty good deal.  In addition, there is something nice about knowing that your entire trip is paid in advance, leaving you with “only” the bills for meals and shopping upon return.   There is only one catch:  prepaid hotels are completely and irrevocably non-refundable.   This is fine, as long as everything works according to plan.

I had a lengthy email exchange with a hotel in Venice after reading a review from travelers who, despite reserving in advance, were bumped to a secondary property.  Their reservation was honored, but not in the building they were expecting.  The hotel has guaranteed me a particular suite in the main building.  It remains to be seen where they put us.

Years ago we had a sticky situation with a hotel in London.  We booked a week at a hotel that my company used frequently.  As we were traveling in June and I was very pregnant, I called ahead to ensure before booking that the rooms were air conditioned.  Of course, of course, they promised.  We arrived in London to record heat, the temperatures well over 100 degrees.   When we arrived at the hotel, they informed us that we would be placed in a “very nice room” over in the annex.  “It’s air conditioned, of course?” I inquired, somewhat rhetorically.  “Well, no,” he explained.  “Those rooms have no air conditioning.”  Conjuring the anger of a hormonally-compromised female, I recounted the conversation in which I was guaranteed an air conditioned room.   The gentleman tried to explain that it was Wimbledon week—in fact, John McEnroe and other US tennis players were staying at the hotel—and there was nothing he could do.  Enraged beyond reason, I could think of nothing more to do, so I planted myself on a seat in the lobby and refused to move until they produced the promised air conditioned room.  Eventually they did, but I have always wondered if one of the US tennis players suffered on my account. 

Even if you manage to make your connections and arrive on schedule, and if the hotel proves adequate, there are so many other unknowns that can become disaster nodes.  Like the thief that tried to lift my wallet in front of the Mona Lisa, or the taxi driver in Istanbul who managed to help himself to some of my husband’s cash, or the complete rainout during five days in Glasgow.  One year, my husband arrived in Vancouver, BC for an annual meeting only to discover that his bags did not make it.  He had to give his presentation in a hastily arranged outfit that I negotiated by phone from Boston with a local purveyor of fine menswear—including directions on how to alter the pants and jacket to his specifications without a fitting.

These days, disaster nodes go far beyond the known entities influenced by human error and acts of G-d; there is the potential for the unthinkable.  If we are lucky, we will only be inconvenienced by a long line at security, or the ransacking of our luggage in Customs.  A flight delay is fine; the hotel will not let us check in as early as we arrive anyway.   A rainstorm while touring the Coliseum is a small price to pay.   If my luggage is delayed, I won’t mind shopping for a few outfits to tide me over.  I remain determined to be content in knowing that, finally, my husband and I are taking the trip I have dreamed of taking for over three decades.  There will be no work, no meetings, no presentations, and no responsibilities—except to each other.  And as long as we are together, it will be the best trip yet.

On the other hand, if what we really want is to relax, we'd do better to plan a week off at home.

A Cold and Lonely, Lovely Work of Art

This week, the art world is abuzz about a second Mona Lisa painting.  It is a welcome respite from the tiresome political and world news.  Knowledge of this painting is not new; the art community has known about it for years, but it has been kept in hiding for half a century.  Only recently was the painting revisited, allowing Italian experts to test its authenticity with modern technology.  Among the opinions that have surfaced, many are quick to point out how exactly this second painting—called the Isleworth Mona Lisa due to the English residence of the last owner—resembles the Louvre masterpiece in structure and composition.  The two are of different scales (the Louvre masterpiece is much smaller), adding weight to the conclusion that none but the master himself could have rendered such an uncanny likeness.

One fact that works steadfastly against the authenticity of the Isleworth painting is that it is painted on canvas.  Wood was the preferred “canvas” for daVinci, and the famous Mona Lisa is indeed painted on wood.  An artist’s habits are an important piece of evidence to consider.  As my husband is fond of remarking, "Common things happen commonly.”  Artists are creatures of habit.  It is harder to explain the use of an unexpected material than it is to explain a similar looking painting.

What is known is that such a painting was commissioned by a 16^th century Italian nobleman, but was never delivered.  The painting in the Louvre—believed to be of Lisa Gherardini, the wife of Francesco del Giocondo—was found among daVinci’s effects upon his death.  He lived the last years of his life in France’s Loire Valley.  But the most interesting part of this story is that the iconic smiling subject in the Isleworth painting  appears to be about 10 years younger.  Experts argue, therefore, that it is “the original” version, predating “La Jaconde” of the Louvre. 

I think the experts got this completely wrong.  Sure, they may have matched paints and confirmed the dates through scientific means, but they have neglected the most obvious evidence of all:  no woman would authorize a painting that makes her appear older.  It is far more compelling to argue that the Louvre painting is the original or even a prototype and that the larger Isleworth Mona Lisa was meant to be the final deliverable.  Thus, the fact that it was found in an unfinished state makes sense. 

Not convinced?  Consider the following dialogue:

Leo:  Hey, Lisa, so check out my painting!

Lisa: Oy vey, Leo, you made me hideous.  This painting makes me look fat.  And jeez—how old I look!  I can’t possibly look like that!  There’s no way I’m letting you show that to my husband!

Leo:  But this is exactly the way I see you!

Lisa:  Seriously, you must be blind!  My skin is flawless like alabaster!  I do not have spots and hideous bags under my eyes.  Make my bosom perky!  And get rid of that dowager’s veil.  It makes me look like I’m in mourning.  And what’s with that background?  I’m not put out to pasture yet!  Paint me as I am—mistress of the palazzo!

Leo:  I guarantee, in ten years you will love the way you look in this picture!

Lisa:  If you ever want to see a dime from this commission you will do as I say!  Make it larger than life so that whatever my husband is doing he will feel my eyes watching him.  And I want you to capture me for all eternity as a twenty-something babe.   No matter what woman catches my husband’s roving eye, I want him to see me looking prettier and younger.  It will be our little joke.

Regardless of what the so-called experts conclude, I will always believe that Leonardo daVinci was heeding the wishes of a desperate woman who was fighting to retain her youth and the attentions of her husband.  What we see was the result of a conspiracy between artist and subject.  We see it in her smile, but her lips remain sealed.

It's What's For Dinner--Part Two

I had to choose a special recipe to celebrate 10,000 hits on my blog.  (Can I say that again?  I've had 10,000 hits!)  This brisket recipe is so special, only a milestone like this would get me to share it.  After all, if someone else can make my signature brisket, my kids might never come home!

Traditional recipes are composed of half ingredients, half cultural narrative.  My brisket is a two-day affair that requires great patience.  For this reason, I have spread the story of my brisket across two days.  This blog will detail the procedure for making my brisket, but please do not attempt to prepare it without reading its background story in yesterday’s blog.

Now that I have frightened you into thinking this is an elaborate and difficult undertaking, I confess it is very easy to make.  But following the protocol for cooling the meat before slicing will ensure that you have an outcome that is as appealing visually as it is gustatorily.

Low-and-Slow, Oven-Roasted Beef Brisket

¼ cup extra virgin olive oil
4 large cloves of garlic, peeled and smashed
½ t kosher salt (plus more for seasoning)
4 sprigs rosemary, stems discarded, chopped

1 (approx. 4 lb.) “first cut” beef brisket (sometimes called “flat cut”), trimmed of excess fat, but leave a thin layer across the meat
4 large carrots, peeled and cut into large chunks
3 stalks celery, ends removed, cut into large chunks
4 red onions, peeled and halved
2 cups of a dry red wine
1 28 oz. can of whole San Marzano tomatoes, crushed by hand
1 large handful of flat-leaf parsley
3 bay leaves

Preheat the oven to 325 degrees.

In a small bowl, add 2T of extra virgin olive oil.  On a cutting board, use a knife to mash garlic cloves and ½ teaspoon kosher salt into a paste.  Add chopped rosemary and continue to work the ingredients into a paste.  Place in the bowl with the olive oil and set aside to infuse the flavors.

Place a large roasting pan (or Dutch oven large enough to hold brisket in a single layer) on the stove on high, using 2 burners.  Season both sides of the brisket with salt and pepper and brush with remaining olive oil.  Sear brisket—first on one side and then on the other—to form a crust.  Place carrots, celery and onions around the brisket in the pan.  Pour the rosemary paste over the meat and vegetables.  Add red wine, crushed tomatoes, parsley and bay leaves.  Cover tightly with heavy aluminum foil and transfer the pan to the hot oven.  Roast 3-4 hours, basting occasionally with the pan juices, until the meat is fork tender.

Remove the brisket and rest at least an hour on a cutting board.  When cooled, slice the brisket across the grain into neat slices.  Return slices to the pan, submerging them in the juices.

[At this point, you may return the meat to the roasting pan, cover, and refrigerate overnight.  The next day, about 2 hours before serving, remove the pan from the refrigerator and let sit for 30 minutes to come to room temperature.  Preheat the oven to 325 degrees and return the pan to the oven for 45 minutes.]

Place whole chunks of carrots, celery, onions and tomatoes in a serving bowl and keep warm.  Carefully transfer the sliced meat to a serving plate and keep warm.  Place the roasting pan back on the stove and heat the remaining liquids to boiling, allowing to reduce or thicken slightly.   Remove pan from the heat and, using an immersion blender, puree the pan juices into a thick gravy.  Pour some of the hot juice over the sliced brisket on the serving plate.  Serve remaining juices on the side.

Serve sliced brisket, roasted pan vegetables, and pan gravy immediately.

To store leftovers (who are we kidding?) place sliced brisket in an oven-proof container and pour over pan juices.  Add vegetables.  Cover with oven-proof lid or aluminum foil.  To reheat, place directly  into oven at 325 degrees.

It's What's For Dinner

There is nothing that says “Jewish mother” like a good brisket.  Over the years, I have experimented with different styles, flavors and cooking apparatuses.  One of my favorite versions is my friend Flo’s.  She cooks brisket in a slow cooker with a bottle of mesquite BBQ sauce, a can of cranberry sauce, and a dry package of Lipton’s Onion Soup Mix.  It is delicious and easy!!  But the version of brisket that gets my kids to cancel their plans and stay home for dinner--even causing my vegetarian daughter to risk filling her  lungs with the fragrant waft-- is my low-and-slow, oven-basted version. 

There is an important trick to making brisket.  I find that it is most successful if you do not attempt to eat it on the same day that you make it.  This takes a great deal of resolve, as we are not a people known for patience and delayed gratification.  The smells generated by the slow-cooking meat and vegetables will drive you and the other inhabitants of your house insane.  Thus, it is mandatory that you procure tonight’s dinner before you begin preparing tomorrow’s brisket. 

The reason for this routine is not simply to heighten the expectations.  A good brisket is not a feat of taste alone; one must take care to get perfect, even slices.    About 45 minutes before done time, I remove the meat from the pan and place it on a large cutting board.  There, I let it sit for AT LEAST an hour—sometimes longer—allowing the juices to redistribute back into the meat.   Only when the slab of meat has cooled considerably to the touch, looking almost shriveled and dry, is it then OK to slice.  Always slide thinly across the grain.  Remember to wait patiently until the brisket is cool, or you will end up with something resembling shredded barbeque.  It is important to monitor the brisket, both before and after slicing, as it tends to attract husbands and other wild beasts.  There is nothing worse than going to all this trouble only to have your prize brisket disappear as a midnight snack. 

My brisket gets a run for its money during the Fall-Winter holiday season.   I usually get a call from my son at college a few weeks before exams asking if we can have brisket when he gets home.  He uses the anticipation like a magic carpet to help him soar through his exams.   Every Jewish Mother has her own version of brisket.  My mother makes a darn good traditional brisket, however I prefer the layered flavor profiles I have been able to develop in my version.  And unlike my mother, who always threw potatoes into her brisket pot for something that resembles Yankee Pot Roast, I leave them out.  When I am ready to serve, I remove the large chunks of stewed vegetables (carrots, onions, tomatoes, celery) for use as a side dish (my family fights over them), then take the remaining juices and solid pieces and blend them into a pan gravy to serve with it.  What’s nice about this is that it is a completely natural thickened sauce made without added butter or starch.

About the potatoes:  I agree that every flavorful piece of meat needs that accompanying spud.  In our house, a good brisket is an occasion for potato latkes—those delicious, crispy fried pancakes of seasoned, shredded potatoes.   Latkes are a production all their own, causing the smell of hot grease to linger in the house for days.  This is why I make latkes in bulk and freeze them, placing them individually on a sheet pan in the freezer until they are frosted, then piling them into a large Ziploc freezer bag for long term storage.  Latkes retain so much oil after cooking that they reheat beautifully, providing a “just cooked” result after only a few minutes in a hot oven. 

After all this, you are probably expecting a brisket recipe.  Tune in tomorrow. . .

Nostalgia, Extra Large, With Cheese

I grew up in Miami during its most unremarkable years.  My time was not during its Golden Age, when movie stars and their entourages flocked to luxurious landmarks like the Fontainebleu or the Biltmore.  Those were the years before Hollywood hit it big and sucked the "filmerati" westward.  In those long-forgotten days, Miami was as good as luxury got for spending a hiatus between films—a haven where a start's solitute was certain to be captured by the tabloids.  Nor was I there for the Miami Renaissance of the last generation, the post-Miami Vice years when South Beach reestablished its cool, creating grand destinations such as the Delano or the Mondrian. 

My Miami—North Miami Beach, actually—was an unincorporated stretch of northern Dade County where businesses popped up as fast as the small ranch-style dwellings could multiply.  The name is a bit of a misnomer as we were situated a good mile or two from the ocean, north of North Miami.  The landscape was flat, dotted by a healthy supply of cultivated palm trees, criss-crossed by perpendicular roads, and populated by chameleons.  It was hot.  Oh, how it was hot.

As a child, a neighborhood of about 20 square blocks was my universe.  We had everything we needed:  a shopping center (the word ‘mall’ wouldn’t be introduced for decades), a supermarket or two, a couple of synagogues, the correct number of elementary schools feeding into a single junior high, and a short ride to Baker’s Haulover Beach.  We had a strange attraction for such a nondescript suburban area:  an authentic Spanish Monastery that was purchased by none other than William Randolph Hearst and reassembled in North Miami Beach in the 50s.

Ours was a simple family.  My mother was a housewife cast in the mold of a 50s icon with poofy hair and pink lipstick.  My father was a working class engineer who threw himself into his work until he rose through the ranks of sales and management.  We did not live lavishly but we had plenty—good cars, a pool in the back yard, a boat for fishing and waterskiing, and most important to me, piano lessons.

My parents went out frequently, leaving us kids home with the latest pick from an assortment of babysitters.  Mom and Dad loved the theater and fine dining; and boy, could they dance.  As kids, we never accompanied them “out to dinner” unless it was to Burger King or Coney Island--someplace with no table service.  The only opportunity to "go out fancy" was the occasional Bar Mitzvah or wedding, or that rare occasions where a large extended family dinner was staged at a family-style restaurant.  That's when going out for spaghetti or Chinese food took on celebratory significance.

Pizza, however, held a special place in my family’s culinary taxonomy.  My father was late to discover pizza, having been told by his mother that he hated cheese.  When he realized how much he loved pizza, he spent the rest of his life trying to compensate for his pizza-free childhood.  To say he was a pizza aficionado would be an understatement.  He was the undisputed supreme arbiter on what constituted good, better, and best among pizzas across the globe.  

One of our family’s favorite pizza escapes was a festive North Miami dive called Myers Pizza Parlor.  My earliest memory of pizza comes from Myers, a place my father discovered and worshipped for years.  He befriended the owners—who I think were named Joel and Harvey—so that when we arrived we received special treatment.  Joel would come out of the kitchen to sit at our table and share a beer with my Dad.  I felt like pizza royalty.

But while the pizza was the main attraction at Myers, I was dazzled by what went on at the other end of the restaurant, far away from the kitchen and the blazing pizza ovens.  In the corner, elevated slightly on a small platform, was an upright, honkey-tonk piano.  This out-of-tune junker was played, all night long, by a down-on-his-luck, aging soul named Milton.  Milton dressed in a festive red-and-white striped shirt and a straw boater, giving him the appearance of a disenfranchised member of a Barbershop Quartet.  He worked keyboard side out, his back to the audience, with a microphone stand between his legs.

I would not realize until much later in life what Milton’s true economic circumstances were.  To me, all that registered was that this man was playing a piano—in public.  It was incredible to me that one could have a job like this, and that people came over to fill his sad jar with their quarters and dimes.   It had been only a short time ago that I had started piano lessons.  I felt this bonded us—Milton and me—in that we shared this skill that was obviously lacking among everyone else at the venue.  When he took his breaks, Milton allowed me to play his piano.  He would announce my name into his microphone and people clapped, showing appreciation for insipid pieces just mastered from my John Thompson piano method books.  It was my fifteen minutes of fame, cut short by the man’s limping form emerging from the Men’s Room.  When he returned, he said his classic, “That was just lovely, dear heart.”  Milton called everybody “dear heart.”  He would then take over, returning to his harmonically-abused renditions of Golden-Oldies:  I’m Forever Blowing Bubbles, By the Light of the Silvery Moon, Swanee River, and Dixie.  (For the latter, he would ask everyone to please stand and face Ojus.)

Through the years of my adulthood, I would seek out pizza establishments in the cities where I lived, trying to find exceptional examples that my father might like during his occasional visits.   It was a personal challenge to uncover pizza greatness, if only to see whether it could rank among my father’s all-time favorites.   On a few occasions, I was able to make my father ooh and ahh—though he was easy when it came to pizza, his favorite of all foods.   But one mention of Myers Pizza Parlor and my father’s eyes would turn misty, the creases that came with age softening just a bit.  I suspect that my father remembered Myers the way one remembers a first love.  Although I have no lingering recollection of how the pizza tasted, I still feel the same way about Myers.  It was as memories should be—filled with friends and family, loud music, good food, and a little bit of magic.