When my daughter was born, the paternal instincts kicked in. I feared for her safety. It became my responsibility to protect her and to provide for her and see that she was happy. About a year and a half ago she got married and I turned those responsibilities over to her husband. That's a tough, emotional transition for a dad.
But I kept one heavy burden to myself. It was up to me to make sure she had mince pie every year on her birthday. Don't question our choice of pie filling, it's a family tradition that we both love. And it brings me great joy to bake it for her.
Then, in June this year she and her husband moved 7 hours away. A few weeks ago I realized that I would not be able to be there to bake her pie. So I did the only thing I could do. I turned over to her husband the charge of serving my little girl pie for breakfast on her birthday. I emailed him the recipe and let go of my last responsibility so that she could have happiness on this day.
That's what a great dad I am.
Late For the Sky
Hot Freak Style
Sunday, October 4, 2015
Sunday, August 30, 2015
good Opening For My Novel?
As Liz pressed the clutch firmly to the floor and put the car in gear,
musing about how like making love with Richard this was, the way he would
ignite an internal combustion within her, clutch her tightly, setting her
passion into gear and sending her blood racing as she shifted under him,
cruise control off, until she hit a wall of rapture and Richard collapsed
against her like an air bag, little did she realize that Richard was
siphoning the fuel of their romance into another vehicle at that very
moment.
Monday, April 27, 2015
It was a nice apartment but not the Ritz
Ritz crackers are comfort food. Perhaps only my sister will understand this. Yesterday I had Gouda cheese, Ritz crackers, and Thompson seedless grapes for lunch. It incited a Proustian bout of nostalgia. I was taken back to the Hyde Park apartments in Inglewood, California. (Whether it was actually named the Hyde Park apartments is open to question. I think I was called that and was on Hyde Park Blvd., around the corner from the house we eventually moved into on Beach Avenue; but I could be misremembering this and everything that follows.). My mother was at work and my sister and I were home alone. We had been latchkey kids from way back and way before that term was coined. Sue was going into 6th grade and I was going into 4th, so we weren't so young anymore to be on our own. I picture us sitting on the floor in the living room area of the sparsely furnished apartment. We were eating Gouda cheese and Ritz Crackers; there was surely some Bob's Big Boy brand blue cheese dressing for dipping the crackers into. I remember there being green grapes, but, again, maybe I'm mixing memories. This was a great meal for us. We were also capable of fixing ourselves some hot meals: minute steaks, frozen vegetables, Kraft macaroni and cheese. (All on the stove - there were no microwaves. It was primitive times.) Even though we were mostly on our own, we did sometimes go to a neighbor's apartment. I'm going to say it was a young couple who lived there and the wife "babysat" us and introduced us to twilight Zone on TV and Peter Paul and Mary on records. We also met Pam Plumbeck who lived downstairs and would be in my class at school; I promptly fell in love. But this post is all about Ritz crackers; that was the brand my mother always bought. When I grew up, I was persuaded to buy whole grain crackers, lower fat crackers, and fancy crackers. Recently I decided that I can buy whatever the hell crackers I want and I wanted some Ritz. The memories are better when they sit on a Ritz.
Saturday, December 27, 2014
Wax On, Wax Off
Hanukkah candles that burn for one hour leave wax Residue on a menorah that takes eight hours to get off. The easiest way to get wax off your menorah is to use oil instead. After all, the miracle of Hanukkah is about oil, not wax. We eat potatoes and doughnuts fried in oil, we don't eat wax fruit to celebrate the miracle. Why do most American Jews burn candles. How did the candle industry push out Big Oil in America? That's the Hanukkah miracle I would like to know more about.
Friday, April 11, 2014
IMAGINE PASSOVER
By John Lennonstein
Imagine there's no leaven
No yeast to make bread rise
No rolls or doughnuts,
Absence of the pizza pie
Imagine eating only
Matzah for 8 days...
Imagine there's no chametz
For Ashkenazis, no legumes
(But at least there’s matzah brie or
Matzo balls in chicken soup)
Imagine all the bowels
Backed up for a week...
You may say you like matzah
But passing it is pretty tough
I hope this Metamucil’s kosher
And it will let my people go
Thursday, November 28, 2013
Breaking Chabad
The series follows Walter Weiss, a Talmudic scholar who discovers he has cancer. To pay for his treatments he begins secretly making bacon in a mobile home and selling it on the black Hasidic market (the cure for the cure). He especially has to conceal it from his brother in law, a rabbi who certifies food as kashrut in the local restaurants. Walter works with Jesse Pinkus, a former student who dropped out and became a hog slaughterer in defiance of his Jewish roots.
Sunday, November 3, 2013
THanukkahsGiving
The first day of Hanukkah this year begins at sundown, the Wednesday before Thanksgiving, but ultimately overlaps Thanksgiving Day. Black Friday now begins at sundown on Thanksgiving, so the Thanksgiving meal starts earlier every year. Thus there's no reason not to combine your Hanukkah and Thanksgiving meals, even as early as Wednesday night.
There are numerous recipes for Thanksgiving Hanukkah fusion foods circulating the internet. Click here for the least appealing recipes I found. Sweet potato butternut squash latkes seems the perfect way to disquise the fact you are celebrating Hanukkah.
And there is a fine tradition of hiding your Hanukkah celebration. That is what the dreidel was created for. A game similar to the dreidel game was popular during the rule of Antiochus. During this period Jews were not free to openly practice their religion, so when they gathered to study Torah they would bring a top with them. If soldiers appeared, they would quickly hide what they were studying and pretend to be playing a gambling game with the top. Eventually dreidel expanded into craps and other gambling games, leading Meyer Lansky and Bugsy Siegel to create Las Vegas.
So, go ahead and combine your meals and extend Thanksgiving for eight days while you're at it. And if you don't deep fry your turkey in oil, you don't understand the true meaning of THanukkahsGiving.
Thursday, October 18, 2012
GOP Campaign Songs
Mitt Romney today:
"Hey, girls, remember the words to that old Willie Nelson song? It's one of my favorites:
Maybe I didn't pay you
Quite as equal as I should have
And maybe I will not grant your
Lady parts health care I could have
If I made you feel second rate
Now my spin is: I was kinder
You were always in my binder
You were always in my binder
Remember I didn't hold your
Schedule between five and nine
Made flex hours so you’re
In your kitchen right on time
I’ll save you from that planned parenthood
Take control of your vagina
You are always in my binder
You are always in my binder
Tell me,
Tell me who treats bitches finer
Give me, give me
One more chance to keep you in a binder
Paul Ryan's song: Folks, remember Bobby Darrin and that old song "Splish,splosh"? It goies like this:
Splish splosh, I was washin' clean pots
Long about a Saturday night
A rub-a-dub, just pretendin' as I scrubbed
Thinkin' everything was alright
Well, I had intended to, pretend to feed the poor
Found a locked up, closed soup kitchen
Then forced in the door, and then, uh,
Splish, splosh... I took my photo op
What does it really matter if the homeless folks were gone?
I was a-splishin' and a'sploshin'
Simulating washin', draped in a white apron
Shameless photo fakin', ooh yeah!
Saturday, July 14, 2012
Road Trip With My Dead Mother
another rewrite:
Mom had been dead for a while, and we were driving to New York with
her in the back of the van.
In the rear view
mirror I saw 9-year-old Allie thrust her head forward, face flushed. “Why
does Grandma Margaret have to be right behind me!?”
My wife just showed me
her eyes that said, “Your mother. You
explain.”
“Allie, settle down,”
I said. “She’s in the storage area,
under ALL the luggage. At least after
this she won’t be on the shelf in the closet any more. And you can move up closer to us, you know.”
When I was little,
riding in the station wagon, I liked sitting in “the way back”, the third bench
seat that faced out the rear window - still in the car with my mom, but far enough away to be alone in my bizarre thoughts,
narrating my life to some imaginary friend.
My daughter chose the
very back seat of the van, and even her discomfort at being so close to her
deceased grandmother did not overcome her desire to maintain independence from
her parents.
We had picked up Mom from my sister in Las Vegas. Mom didn’t want a regular funeral – or, at least, hadn’t mentioned it recently - so we had a private memorial service around the coffee table at my sister’s house. My mother’s last years had been in this house where she helped raise my niece. Mom was then handed off to me and my wife and daughter. We were assigned to return her remains to her hometown of Niagara Falls to be buried.
We had picked up Mom from my sister in Las Vegas. Mom didn’t want a regular funeral – or, at least, hadn’t mentioned it recently - so we had a private memorial service around the coffee table at my sister’s house. My mother’s last years had been in this house where she helped raise my niece. Mom was then handed off to me and my wife and daughter. We were assigned to return her remains to her hometown of Niagara Falls to be buried.
First we had flown her to Cincinnati, which would have pleased her only because she loved airplanes and flying. We packed her in the big suitcase, because (even pre-9/11) we weren’t sure about the rules for putting a heavy, sealed, wooden box of ashes in the overhead.
But we didn’t take her immediately to Niagara Falls. I was gainfully employed so I couldn’t take time all at once to vacation in Las Vegas with my mother’s remains and then run off to New York with her; that’s why we left Mom in the closet of our house in Cincinnati for a year. Now we were driving her to her grave as the first leg of our tour around the state of New York.
Allie never had a
sibling and wasn’t used to competing or sharing. I hadn’t wanted her to start
distracting me from driving by yelling from the back of the van, “Grandma’s
looking at me!” or, “Grandma’s touching me!” or “Why does grandma Margaret have
to be right behind me?” I wished she
felt more affection for my mother.
One evening, eight
years earlier, when my niece was 9, she and my sister and my mother had gone
out to dinner. My mother had wondered
aloud if the bathroom in this kid-oriented pizza joint were clean.
“Sure, Grandma, you’ve
been in there before.”
“I have not,” mom said
with arms folded and mouth set firm.
An argument ensued
until my niece said, “Okay grandma, you always say that sometimes you forget things. You probably just forgot being in these
bathrooms.”
Mom had glared back,
“I may forget the things I’ve done, but I never forget the things I haven’t
done.”
That was one of the
first clues - a few years before Mom was diagnosed with dementia. Allie had never gotten to spend much time
with her because of the distance between Las Vegas and Cincinnati. As Mom
spiraled down, she still knew who Allie was, but Allie didn’t know who Grandma
really was.
Until she got sick, she
was the grandma that, when visiting, fell asleep in our living room while
reading and snored really loudly. She was the grandma that revealed to Allie
where Dad had learned to make those horrible puns. But she was also the grandma
that taught Dad to make delicious mince pie.
When I was little, Mom told stories about growing up in Niagara Falls during the Depression and about her dad who worked on the railroad and her brother who became a big deal at G.E. in Syracuse, NY.
When I was little, Mom told stories about growing up in Niagara Falls during the Depression and about her dad who worked on the railroad and her brother who became a big deal at G.E. in Syracuse, NY.
She told us, “When I
was 16, my mother walked into my bedroom, said, ‘Margaret?’ and then died from
a stroke. Mom told us that then, anxious
to go into the world, she was resigned to taking over housekeeping for her dad
and brother. She told us how her dad liked mince pie. She told us about her
best friend, Helen, whom she still kept in touch with “back home”. Mom told
us she had bought a plot to be buried in there.
So Allie sat in the back of the van with her dead grandma behind her, traveling to Niagara Falls, New York. This was the US side, not the touristy, honeymoon destination in Canada and it looked like it had not changed since the 1930s. Best Friend Helen was still living in the house she was born and grew up in. Some of Mom’s other friends also still lived in town.
So Allie sat in the back of the van with her dead grandma behind her, traveling to Niagara Falls, New York. This was the US side, not the touristy, honeymoon destination in Canada and it looked like it had not changed since the 1930s. Best Friend Helen was still living in the house she was born and grew up in. Some of Mom’s other friends also still lived in town.
We bought a grave
marker and buried Mom while everyone told a
few stories of the old days. “Margee always made us laugh. She was smart but had to work to help send
her goof-off c-student brother to college because he was a man. She got stuck in this town an extra couple of
years – kind of like she got stuck in Cincinnati this past year. Margee was adventurous and eventually traveled
around Europe after WWII while we all stayed safe here.” They told us Mom was a
good friend and beloved.
When I was little, I knew some of that, but mostly Mom was just Mom, going to work after my dad left and stuck driving the station wagon, making pies, telling me to eat my vegetables.
When I was little, I knew some of that, but mostly Mom was just Mom, going to work after my dad left and stuck driving the station wagon, making pies, telling me to eat my vegetables.
Literally and
figuratively our family members have not been all that close. I’ve tried to stay close to my sister and secure Allie’s
relationship with her aunt as well as her one cousin on that side. As we drove away from Nagara Falls, I vowed I would pass on these new stories of Mom to Allie so that
Grandma is more than that box of ashes haunting her from the back of the van.
Wednesday, July 11, 2012
Street Accounting
The first
week that I did street accounting down by Fisherman’s Wharf in San Francisco,
it did not go well. The problem was my location, or, really, the location
of the juggler who deposited himself beside me.
There was equity.
I arrived just after dawn on a Monday morning
when the chill of the fog enveloped the wharf and when the seafood and
sourdough vendors were just setting up.
In a sunny spot I set up a black metal card
table and folding chair. I put a solar
powered calculator on the table and laid a fedora, gray with a black band,
upside down next to it.
A Chinese man, setting out trays of ice, which
would later hold rows of crab, came over and said, “You are too early. No
tourists come by now.”
“I need time to warm up,” I said, spreading my
payments and flexing my annuities.
Before, when I did office accounting, I was always early. Street
accounting deserves the same dedication.
I sat and listened to the gulls cry and the
water lap against the piers and the fog horns bleat. I smelled the ocean
salt and seaweed. I watched the fish
being laid on ice, their scales shimmering and balanced.
An hour later the other performers started to
show up: a few mimes, a human jukebox, a magician, a contortion attorney. I don’t know if the juggler picked the spot
right next to me as a challenge or because he always set up there or because it
was shady.
The juggler set up an eye-catching red
table. I took this as a negative
sign. I extended some friendly terms
and he ignored me.
The tourists got out of bed, had breakfasts
and began to tour around; some bundled against the chill air, some went about
in shirtsleeves. I felt comfortable in my charcoal suit with a starched
white shirt and gray tie with black stripes.
The juggler wore seersucker slacks and a loud
purple shirt.
Families, couples, and groups stopped and
surveyed the clam chowder, crab salad, grilled fillets being offered.
Some bought snacks, some bought loaves of sourdough, some pondered what they
would come back for later.
People stopped and watched the
entertainment. They threw money in guitar cases, hats or cardboard boxes
for the ones they enjoyed. The juggler had put out an antique cash
register that was filling up with bills.
My fedora remained empty.
I did not let it stop me. I
balanced books and ledgers left and right, debit and credit, asset and
liability. I gracefully cascaded numbers from the gross receipts to the
bottom line. No one looked.
Everyone is drawn to the juggler because
juggling books is illusion and fantasy. The juggler took 10 liabilities
and 1 asset and made them appear to balance. He produced impossibly large
and heavy bottom lines that were unsupported by sub ledgers.
People applauded and filled the juggler’s
till. It went on like that the whole first week. On the third day,
when I showed up at dawn with my folding table, chair, calculator and fedora, the
Chinese man walked over once more.
“Why do you stay? You don’t get money.”
I took a string of numbers and fashioned a
pair of loopholes, trapping my index fingers as in Chinese handcuffs. “Karma brings equity,” I said.
Saturday and Sunday were busier and the people
covered the wharf. There was such a crowd watching the juggler that some
people were forced to the margin and could see only my ordinary street
accounting.
I amortized a loan and made balloon payment
animals. A child begged her mother to give me a dollar and the women did
with a scowl as she edged toward the juggler.
The child’s eyes glowed; her mother’s were vacant. The juggler made some debts seem to disappear.
On Monday the police came; they cuffed and
arrested the juggler for fraud. They asked if I would make a statement
and I produced a quarterly report.
The Chinese man came over and shouted to the
tourists, “This is a true street accountant.” A woman looked over and
then brought me her checkbook. I balanced it effortlessly. Her face
shone as she settled a dollar in my fedora. More tourists followed.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)