Brooklyn Tales of an Italian-American Baby Boomer

Back in Brooklyn

2011-11-09T15:13:00.009-05:00

We just spent three weeks in Oakland and SF where our daughters live. Our newly "turned forty" year old went off to Thailand with her hubby to celebrate. We had our gorgeous grandson for two whole weeks to ourselves. We returned, tired but happy.

The very next day we went to Mom's house in Gravesend to do a little more sorting and discarding before the sale of the house. It was very depressing so afterward I went food shopping for a lift. Whenever I'm in the "old" neighborhood I often go to Meat Supreme for mozzarella, lard bread, rice balls and of course "meat". I also check out the vegetable stand across the street. I still can't believe that peppers in that neck of the woods can sell for $1.29. while the SAME peppers in my fancy Park Slope neighborhood cost $3.99.

I came home and cooked as if I were still working in a magazine's test kitchen. I made sausage and peppers, beef stew in the crock pot, gingered shrimp in sesame oil, brown rice pilaf with spinach and blueberry, pistachio granola with coconut flakes that have been saying, "use me, use me" for months!

I had defrosted chicken cutlets (from Costco) in the morning, not thinking about Meat Supreme. When I was finally ready to cook the chicken for dinner after my earlier cooking frenzy, I couldn't find any white flour so poured some oat bran and whole wheat flour, salt and pepper in a ziplock bag and shook the chicken until it was coated. Then I sauteed the cutlets in a bit of oil until they were browned on each side and added a handful of capers to the pan, slapped them into a ceramic quiche dish and added defrosted artichoke hearts that had been in the freezer a while. Topped the whole thing with olives (refrigerator is filled with them--Rob can't help himself when he goes to Sahadi's on Atlantic Avenue) and in a moment of inspiration added pickled jalapenos that had also been in the fridge a while. I finished by drizzling the concoction with olive oil, covered the dish with foil and baked it for 30 minutes at 350 degrees. Then I uncovered the dish, baked it another 30 minutes, and ended by squeezing the juice of half of a large orange over the top and broiling for a few minutes to brown. It was excellent as was the Stella Artois that Rob drank with it. I could barely get through the meal and went to bed exhausted but proud of my good work and the skills that I learned in a few test kitchens.

It Ain"t Brooklyn

2011-10-25T08:00:00.003-04:00

Last December while Rob and I were in Rome, we went to a Van Gogh exhibit at one of the museums. I discovered a few of the writers whom Van Gogh read and admired during his lifetime.

I ordered two of the books on my Kindle and just finished Guy de Maupassant's, Bel Ami, written in 1885, five years before Van Gogh's death. I had a number of reactions. First, the movie, All About Eve came to mind. Guy's novel could have been subtitled, All About Adam. The book is about a social climbing, unscrupulous character named, Georges Duroy. Next, Jane Austen's novels, although of an earlier period and set in England rather than France, popped into my mind.

Unlike some of Jane's female characters who become social outcasts when they break the rules, young George just gets richer and more dissolute. It was quite telling for a novelist who slit his throat and died a year later at the age of forty-three from syphilis.

Back to Brooklyn. The whole, marry well, move up the social ladder, lie, cheat or steal to get there didn't exist in my consciousness as a romantic teen. Most of us Brooklyn damsels met someone in school or at a church dance and the deal was sealed! We didn't even know any doctor's, lawyer's or architect's sons. Brooklyn was mostly blue-collar. Not to say we didn't aspire just a little. I knew that I would never marry an Italian. The neighborhood guys were cheaters and thugs and many had mistresses. I went for an Irishman whose father was a civil servant. It's kinda funny because my Dad was a business owner. In nineteenth century England or France I guess you might say that my husband, Rob, married well!

Fried Zucchini Flowers

2011-09-10T16:56:00.010-04:00

This morning I went to the best Brooklyn Green Market (Grand Army Plaza) and bought what I was told would be the last batch of zucchini flowers called "blossoms" by the non-Italian community who sell them. Rain has decimated the crop.

When I was a kid these flowers were never sold on the street. Every household was growing zucchini in the backyard. When the crop exploded and those who weren't canning got sick of eating zucchini, the flowers were picked to limit the vegetable overload.

Big Grandma dipped them in batter, fried them in sizzling oil, and we ate them in her kitchen right off paper bags laid down to absorb excess oil. Mom would even come downstairs to join us (a temporary truce between these two battling women.)

A side note: In Rome the flowers are stuffed with mozzarella and anchovies before they're fried.

I made a video with Mom last year cooking zucchini flowers. It makes me so sad that she's no longer here to enjoy them. You can find the video on this blog page.

Here's the recipe:

1-1/2 cups flour
1 teaspoon baking powder
3/4 teaspoon salt
1 cup milk (any kind will do)
About 12 large flowers

1. Combine flour, baking powder and salt in a medium bowl; stir in the milk until a batter form (much like pancake batter).
2. In a large skillet heat about a 1/2-inch canola or peanut oil (do not use olive oil--it will burn) over medium high heat until a drop of water sizzles when it hits the oil.
3. Gently dip a flower into the batter; use a spoon to cover any bare spots. Place in hot oil. Cook about 2 minutes or until browned: turn, cooking an additional minute or two. Three or four flowers may be cooked at one time. Just don't overcrowd the skillet.
4. Drain on paper towels or cut-up brown bags (inside up). Serve warm.

Note: I'm going to a dinner party tonight, so I made these ahead. I'll let you know if it's o.k. to reheat them which I've never done!

Lethargic in Brooklyn

2011-08-24T09:56:00.003-04:00

As I sit in my kitchen crowded with file cabinets, desks and my dining room china closet, I'm gearing up to cook in this chaotic space. During our five weeks away, I dreamed of coming home to a finished duplex and a lovely kitchen. It never happened. In spite of penalty clauses, and heart-to-heart talks with our contractor, we've still got only one guy working. What was supposed to be finished on July 20th probably won't be finished until October 20th.

All my excitement about writing up our trip from San Francisco to Vancouver and testing some wonderful recipes that we tasted along the way, is gone. I have a folder with notes, stories, and menus which is sitting under a pile of other unattended paperwork in my basement, where, by the way, we're living.

I even have a story that I'm going to pitch to the NY Times food editor, IF I can ever get it finished. I know that Harry Potter was written in cafes but I'm not a laptop type. Right now I'm on a stool with my legs spread apart so that I can reach this computer keyboard which is sitting on a counter top with no underside leg room.

Since the kitchen is sealed off from the rest of the upstairs renovation, we have go through the basement to the backyard and up the stairs to get to it. I'm still grateful to be back in Brooklyn and to have a tiny outdoor space, but I feel like I'm dragging myself through my busy days.

I'm hoping that once I hit the "paper" I'll get out of this funk. So I'm committing next Tuesday to working on it. Please hold me accountable.

Casa Mia

2011-06-12T11:41:00.007-04:00

Rob and I have a Florida tradition. We go to Buona Sera for "il pranzo", lunch, every time we're here. It's a little slice of Italy--fresh pasta, exquisite food and wine. The primary reason we lunch here is so that I can have some wine (remember--night-time drinking sends me into post-menopausal sweats?) The second reason is that dinner is damned expensive.
The very first time we ate here, our table was at an angle that allowed us a partial view of the kitchen. We dined for two hours and saw a guy in the kitchen making pasta the entire time.
I knew they were open for lunch but I wasn't sure if they were open on Monday. I called and the person who answered said, of course we're open for lunch. I changed my shorts and got a little gussied up for this outing. We arrived to find that they're CLOSED on Mondays! Yes, they're open for lunch except for Mondays. Rob and I laughed because the response to my question was so Italian.
Although disappointed, we drove around looking for a new restaurant, preferably on the water, and a new experience. We found it accidentally at Casa Mia.
From Indiantown Road we saw a center called Fisherman's Wharf--no wharf, no water. But there was a great looking restaurant--The Jupiter Grill. It was closed. Tucked away inn a corner of the lot was Casa Mia. By now it was 2pm and Rob was ready to eat the steering wheel so I acquiesced although unwillingly. I wanted to drive around some more to find the "perfect" place.
I was apprehensive about Casa Mia because there weren't many people dining and I was hoping it was because we were having a late lunch in an early-bird town.
Norberto, our server, was fab. He greeted us enthusiastically, probably thanking God for customers.
The menu looked good, the prices were half of Buona Sera and the owner, Stephano, was candy to the eye. A blond, blue-eyed, tall Italian with a British accent, he added to the mystery of the place. It seems his Dad owns Scalino, a restaurant in London. My guess is that's were Stephano grew up and learned the business.
Now to the food. Since this would be dinner, we started with appetizers. Rob had Linguine al Pesto Genovese, fresher and better than the pesto we had in Genoa last year. The pasta was perfectly, al dente.
I ordered what I knew would be a rich and possibly heavy dish for the summer months, Gnocchi Gorgonzola e Tartufo. I was glad I did because it was incredibly delicious. The gnocchi was pillow-light, made with ricotta and was topped with tiny arugula leaves and a drizzle of tartufo oil--a memorable dish. I had a half order and only ate half because my next course was Petti di Pollo alla Milanese. The flattened, fried chicken breast, was topped with a tasty salad and chunks of fried and seasoned potatoes--deliciosa!
Rob had Vitello Scaloppato con Funghi Porcini. Need I say more?
I had an unusual wine, Falanghini, Feudi Di San Gregorio (2009) recommended by Stephano. This wine was new to me and is from Naples. It was a find. Wines here are served in different size carafes. I had a "quartino" which is about a glass and a half.
During this meal we had lively conversation with Norberto who is from Portugal but speaks perfect Italian. We were going to skip the "dolci", but were encouraged to try the Panna Cotta (cooked cream). It was glazed with dried tropical fruits, an inventive version of this dessert. Espresso was expertly brewed and served "corto".
Our day, not at Buona Sera, was magical and yes, did bring us to Italy at its best. We've been back for dinner twice.

Charleston: You win some; you lose some!

2011-06-03T23:55:00.007-04:00

Restaurants are like people--you like some and you don't like others. Let's start with Ed's first recommendation, The Hominy Grill.
After walking and shopping for three hours (without Rob)my sandal broke and I had to buy a pair of shoes to walk eight blocks to the hotel. Since I had already dropped a bundle on a pair of Stuart Weitzman sandals at Bob Ellis, Charleston's premier shoe store, I was hoping for a pair of five-dollar thongs. Couldn't find them and dropped thirty bucks on platform thongs at Aldo's. They looked o.k. but were a little uncomfortable where I slid my toes in.
When I got back to hotel, Rob was ready for lunch. Since my new, cheap shoes looked o.k. with my sun dress I decided to break them in. The three block walk to the restaurant turned out to be ten blocks. By the time we got there my feet were bleeding.
Lunch was so good, I forgot about my feet for a while. The Hominy Grill is a small, local place far from the main part of town. We struck up a conversation with the couple next to us (about six-inches from our table!) It was fake love at first sight. I like talking to strangers.
Finally we focused on the food. I had pinto bean cakes with roasted green tomato sauce, chow chow, jasmine rice, sour cream, corn bread and a rum and coke! Rob started with a very dry a martini, sauteed shrimp with mushroom, scallion, and bacon over grits.The collards were to die for. Couldn't leave the South without chocolate peanut butter pie. It was a divine afternoon, until I realized that I was still bleeding and couldn't walk in those shoes. Rob wrapped the bands of my shoes with tissues so I was able to get to waiting cab. Collapsed until dinnertime.
I was thrilled with Ed's recommendation for dinner because this was THE restaurant that I wanted to try: Slightly North of Broad (SNOB).
Couldn't get a reservation until 10pm but was told if we stopped by around 7:30 we might get one of three tables that they keep open for walk-ins. Well, we walked in and were seated immediately at the chef's table facing the open kitchen. You would think this was a good thing. Wrong.
I ordered a bean soup (o.k.) and Rob had crispy local port belly with clams, potatoes, leeks, and peppers in tomato broth and loved it. My second course was to be a grilled chicken and vegetable medley with pesto and fried cheese balls (not very Southern). Can't even remember what Rob had because it was forgettable and pedestrian.
We chatted while we watched the kids cooking until I became transfixed by what was happening. I watched a young woman grill vegetables and drop them in a drawer while grilling fish right next to the vegetable station. She then used the same tongs for turning the raw tuna to turn the vegetables, my OSHA instinct took hold. I sat up straight in my chair as I then watched her grill chicken on the fish side. If I had been an OSHA inspector this restaurant would have been shut down or least fined. Thoughts of salmonella poisoning swirled in my head and I knew I couldn't eat the dish I had ordered.
I asked the waiter to change my order to a salad. He said it was impossible because she had already grilled my vegetables (remember there were a bunch sitting in the drawer beneath the grill). My dish came, I ate the cheese balls and left the rest. Our seemingly well-trained waiter didn't even ask what the problem was. This was no way to spend our last night in Charleston.
SNOB sucks. Skip it when you're in this fabulous city.

Dinner in Charleston

2011-06-03T15:26:00.007-04:00

Yesterday, still suffering in our very hot car, we stopped to try to get the A/C fixed. We were told that Goodyear would be able to do it and sent on our way. We never found Goodyear on those country back roads but we did find a garage in the middle of Nowhere, North Carolina.
I love traveling because you never know who you'll run across. Well, it was our good fortune to meet the Gran-daddy of the mid-thirties owner. I immediately judged this guy for being very obese.
Everyone was concerned about Gran-daddy, a WWII Vet in his eighties. He didn't look like he'd be here much longer. We started talking to him about the war and from there he reminisced about the lack of A/C when he was a boy and sleeping outdoors. He had fond memories of his daddy who was long gone but still very much alive in his memory. It became obvious to me that you never quite get over losing a parent and brought my Mom to mind.
The owner looked at our car and said he could put a couple of cans of Freone in the A/C compressor but it would only be a temporary fix. He charged $35 for a job that would have been $80-100 in NY. We started talking and I forgot that he was fat, followed by guilt at my first assessment of him. It's amazing how we can all connect if we don't bring up politics or religion--made my day. Driving to Charleston in a air-conditioned car was delicious.
Speaking of delicious, that evening we went to Magnolia Restaurant, a tradition for over nineteen years since our first visit to Charleston. We almost moved here at that time and some days I'm sorry that we didn't. It's our second favorite American City (NY is still #1).
The menu hasn't changed much in all these years, but some standards are still terrific. But first, I must mention our waiter, Ed. We were sure that we had seen him on previous trips and yes, he confirmed that he had been working at Magnolia for twenty years. He also gave us a delightful history of the restaurant, local characters and Charleston. Did I say that I love traveling?
Now for the menu: Rob started with fried oysters and yet again, I had fried green tomatoes layered with goat cheese, topped with tomato chutney and placed on the best grits that I've ever had (not finished) surrounded by melted tomato butter!
Rob's entree was massive--Sauteed shrimp and sea scallops over plantation rice, hominy, corn and peppers. Sorry to say that my entree was a mistake-- spring pea and summer squash ravioli in a vodka butter sauce topped with a mound of wilted watercress and a roasted tomato vinaigrette. The watercress stems were woody and fibrous, in short, inedible. The dish looked bad when they set it down in front of me. I should have sent it back, but didn't. However, one not so great dish in nineteen years is acceptable. The key lime pie made up for my disappointment. In fact, I ate half of it before I realized that I hadn't taken a photo.
Ed told us where to have lunch and dinner today. He's a treasure and I can't wait to tell you about the Hominy Grill.

On the Road Again

2011-06-01T22:11:00.005-04:00

We're traveling to our condo in Florida because demolition on our apartment in Brooklyn was supposed to begin today. Didn't happen--the demolition that is. Our Brooklyn contractor works on Jamaican time.
When the work is done it will be a very nice duplex. To date the bottom half hasn't been finished. It's close but not close enough to have moved our house contents downstairs. For over a week we've lived on promises. Couldn't even pack up because upstairs was already filled with boxes, hundreds of books, piano, two desks, a ton of artwork and just too damn much furniture.
You might ask why we didn't put these things in storage. Simple, we already have two large storage units jammed to capacity. The downstairs storage closet was finally finished by 5pm yesterday. Rob and I packed as much as we could until midnight. He broke down our bed and off we went to Kevin and George's for a night of little sleep. This morning we went back to the house for a last minute roundup then Rob, my hero, drove to Richmond, VA.
This week he brought the car in for a major tune-up to the "tune" of $2,000. We had hot air blowing at us all the way to Richmond. The A/C wasn't charged and didn't work. At one point the outside temperature according to our "like-new" vehicle read 100 degrees! We were lucky. It was probably only 90 degrees inside the car!
I had forgotten until today our family road trips to Florida when I was a kid. Not only didn't our car have air-conditioning, but most of the motels didn't either. Once we stayed in a bungalow in Maryland that had a screen door and springs in the mattress. This was Dad's idea of adventure as he sang his way through the heat and our constantly asking, "Daddy are we almost there?" I didn't ask Rob any questions and was glad he didn't sing because I slept my way through the heat. When I woke did I want to eat lunch? No! I wanted a Dairy Queen Blizzard. But this week I got braces (another story to come) and couldn't "chew" my way through my favorite with Butterfingers so I had a peanut butter sundae. I resisted changing my wet clothes because we had another three hours in our Taurus "sweat box".
All was forgotten at the Lemaire Restaurant in the swanky Jefferson Hotel. Freshly showered and hungry, we had a terrific meal. My appetizer: Fried Green Tomatoes with Silver Queen corn, pea succotash, vidalia onion coulis and sunflower shoots was supposed to include gulf shrimp and apple wood smoked bacon. For those of you who don't already know, I hate seafood and don't eat meat. Rob had Crispy Tempura jumbo Virginia Soft Shell Crab(hugest that I've ever seen) with a Pineapple-mango Relish and Tabasco Butter. He was in heaven.
Did I mention drinking? Again for those of you who don't know, I never drink at dinner (only lunch). My body doesn't metabolize alcohol well in the evening. But considering the day I had had, to hell with that rule. I ordered a fabulous cocktail, The Jefferson Julep and for only fifteen bucks! Rob had a Stoly martini then a really excellent wine from Santa Barbara County, Au Bon Climat Chardonnay, 2009.
Entrees: more crab for Rob--Deltatville jumbo lump blue crab cakes with thistle honey mashed turnips, sweet onion marmalade, rainbow chard and lemon thyme pecan butter. I had Aaron's creamy vegetarian beet risotto with Firefly goat cheese, baby arrow leaf spinach, crispy shallots and preserved lemon--Yummmee! I'm embarrassed to even mention the dessert so I won't.
Tomorrow we'll be on our way to Charleston, one of our favorite Southern cities. I'm contemplating wearing my bathing suit for the seven-hour trip.

Sunday at Grandma's

2011-05-08T20:20:00.007-04:00

This Mother's Day, instead of writing about my Mom who recently passed, I'm letting my now thirty-something daughter speak about her Grandmother in a way that so characterized Mom and the Italian-American Brooklyn experience.

Sunday at Grandma’s (written in 1989)

Living in Brooklyn…wow! I don’t think I would ever be the person I am if I lived anywhere else. Every place has its own characteristics, but Brooklyn people are so down to earth, and different, I guess. My favorite part of living in Brooklyn, or even the taste of Brooklyn that I take pride in having, is my Grandma and Grandpa Romanelli’s house, it was an adventure for me. Now that I’m older, I love it because I know that I have a part of Brooklyn that is so hard to find now.
It’s Sunday, 2:00 in the afternoon. My mom, dad, sister, and I drive up Van Sicklen Street between Avenue W and 86th Street. We can see Grandma’s face peeking through the curtain awaiting us. Even though it’s pointless, we ring the bell, and within one eight of a second, the door is open. “Hiiii! How ah my little darlings!?! Ooh, my little sweethearts!!” That’s Grandma. “Hello! How are the gurlies today? That’s Grandpa. By this time we’ve all hugged and kissed thirty-six million times. Grandma is, as always, already up and off, dragging my sister and I to the kitchen. “Ya hungry gurls? How about a little something before dinner? A little bread and gravy?” Gravy means sauce. In the meanwhile, everyone else is either plopped on the couch, watching either some sport or the Sunday movie, or they are sitting around the dining room table. Wherever they are, they are making lots of noise, which Italians are notorious for doing. Five minutes pass, and my Aunt Patty and husband, my Uncle Val, ring the bell, supposedly the only other ones who are coming. Everyone gets up, and the whole hug and kiss process starts over—except larger. Then we sit around for a little longer, but everyone is starving (as always) so we all sit down at the table, except for my grandmother, who never sits. Salad, bread, and antipasto. That’s how it starts. Pass this, pass that; we’ve managed to become experts at eating and passing things with no problem. Even though a normal person would be sick from over-stuffing themselves, we know it’s only the beginning. Next, the meat from the gravy: hot sausages, sweet sausages, meatballs and pork. Both of my grandparents make sure to ask my sister and I at least six times if we’d had a meatball yet. It’s funny how we manage to be constantly eating and making so much noise at the same time; all of us talk at the same time, but somehow we hear everyone. And then…the infamous pasta whatever kind it might be. Veggies too, of course, and maybe some chicken she threw together—but no matter what pasta my grandmother made, the chief (Grandpa) has spaghetti and spaghetti only.
Now I’m full, and everyone has eaten like starving piglets, but there is ALWAYS leftovers: ALWAYS. Everyone finds some way to make it to the couch to recuperate, and to, of course, make room for coffee and pastries from Cuccio’s specifically (the chief’s orders).
Back to the table, this time with folding chairs stuck in any empty space available: coffee and cake, talking and screaming and laughing, of course. Everyone is full, but everyone is having a great time. I always look around and think to myself how proud and honored I am to be a part of such a great group of people, in such a great atmosphere.
After a while, we start filing out, but the good-byes take about forty-five minutes. Mom, Dad, my sister and I all get in the car and, as we drive away, my grandmother is at the window again, waving good-bye and throwing kisses. My sister and I throw kisses and wave back until we’re twisted around, mushing our faces against the back window. When we finally turn around, we wear big smiles with bliss written all over them. Then we’re homeward bound, at least until next week.
--Jennifer Leahy 1989
THIRD PLACE WINNER OF THE ST. FRANCES COLLEGE ESSAY CONTEST

Rob's Eulogy

2011-05-02T11:47:00.002-04:00

I knew Edie Romanelli for 48 years. It took a little while to get to know her and for her to know me because we both didn't say anything until we had to, while we watched to see what was really going on. She was suspicious of me as a pursuer of her first born, a foreigner (Irish) and physically unlike the rest of her family. But we were more alike than anybody else in her family and we respected each other.
I know about respect and was taught by her extended clan and my own, but Edie was worthy of a deeper more total respect than anybody I have ever met. She was truer to herself and tougher than any man or woman I ever knew or met.
She was always there for everyone without fanfare and helped everyone that needed help, family and friends alike. She loved her family above all others and refused to leave this life until everyone had visited her and she was sure that they were O.K.
It was a tough couple of months for her and us but her grace and character shined through and we all received a gift from her at one time or another at the end. We will miss her greatly and only have solace in the hope of an eventual reunion with her and her beloved husband, Joe.

Eulogy: My Mother

2011-04-25T10:17:00.003-04:00

My mother once told me that as a young girl on the Lower East Side she loved going to the park. Being on swing made her feel free and she said that she could swing so high and fast that she could almost reach the treetops and she could swing higher than anyone else. As she revealed this glimpse of her childhood that sense of freedom and pleasure was palpable. She smiled as if this was one of the great accomplishments in her life.
Mom thought of herself as just a housewife. She didn’t measure up to society’s idea of success. She didn’t have a high-powered career with a large income, wasn’t a celebrity, and never climbed Mt Everest. But in the last two months of her life, I’ve clearly seen how shallow society’s goals are for us. To some, Mom’s life may have appeared limited. But love is limitless and Mom had plenty of it. Although she loved movies and theater, raisinettes and chocolate mints, pizza and spumoni above all, she loved people.
Eda, as her adoring husband, Joe, called her was mother to many in and outside of her family. When she became ill, the phone rang off the hook. I was asked to kiss her, hug her, and tell her that she was the best Aunt, friend, sister. Before she died everyone who was significant in her life came to visit. I was shocked since Mom, who kept her emotions close to her breast, said in a weakened voice, one day, “Everyone I love is in this room”.
Over the years I watched my mother change. She was volatile, sometimes her anger turned to rage, she was unhappy. But she and my father rebuilt their life together after her nemesis, my sometimes wicked grandmother, died. She let the young girl who wanted to be a nun, emerge again. She had a hilarious sense of humor that I hadn’t known existed. Her idea of a fun day was to go to the local diner with Aunt Tess and Uncle Lou, and share large portions of the meal with her sister leaving no crumb behind. Afterward, the gang of four would go food shopping then back to Mom’s for more coffee and cake. Mom’s pleasures were simple and gratifying. She could even laugh at Uncle Paulie’s jokes though he’d told them a hundred times.
Mom's friends, Chris, Rosie, Mary and Bette Coed, were much loved and loving through the years. Their get-togethers were lively and they had lots of laughs. After the death of my father, her great-love and life-partner, a new friend, Marcia, came to take care of her. Mom referred to Marcia as her best friend. I loved watching their camaraderie. Often they acted like schoolgirls, laughing hysterically. Marcia gained weight during this time because Mom didn’t like to eat alone and she ate often. For every tiny bite she had, Marcia had three. It was a beautiful relationship.
The night before she died Aunt Josie and Uncle Nicky came to say goodbye. The tenderness and love they spoke was poignant. Uncle Nunzi held Mom’s hand for half an hour and Aunt Josie promised they’d all be together again.
My daughter, Katherine had a dream that same night. She found herself by her Grandmother’s bedside and once again saw the tiny, frail woman she had left only days before. Excited by another chance to see her Grandmother, she kneeled down to kiss her and instead found the familiar face of a smiling, young girl looking back. “Grandma, is that you?” she asked. “Yes,” this girl with shining dark eyes replied, “It is my soul.” “Do you believe?”
I believe that Mom, free from the pain she endured, finally got on that swing and went higher than she ever could have in this life. She touched the heavens.

A Little Bit of Sunshine

2011-04-11T22:51:00.003-04:00

In the last two weeks all the important people in Mom’s life have come to say their goodbyes. Some did it by ignoring her, others by laughing loudly or eating inordinately, a few by holding her hand and sitting with her, both speechless.
Mom can’t talk anymore, but she keeps trying. It’s unbearable not knowing what she’s saying and if she’s recognizing anyone. Ashley, the last grandchild to visit today, was so upset that she couldn’t stay in the room with the Grandma she loves. She disappeared to the other side of the curtain that gives Mom privacy. Kate and I listened to her sob, which helped Marcia finally let go. For a while we sat in a house of tears.
I asked Rob to take everyone out to lunch. Marcia and I wanted to be alone with “Eda”. I told Mom that it was 75 degrees in her beloved Brooklyn and if she wanted we’d take her outside to the backyard. I didn’t imagine it would happen since she had spent the morning crying in pain. Thank God for drugs. When they finally kicked in, Mom, emaciated and worn, tried lifting herself off the bed. I told her to shake her head if she wanted to go outside and she did. Marcia and I got her into the wheel chair and headed for the back door as Rob came in the front door. To the rescue, Rob and Ashley’s father lifted the chair holding my tiny mother straight into the sunlight. She sat with her face to the sun, a look of bliss surrounding her beautiful features. Sunglasses hid the eyes that could barely open, but for thirty minutes, nothing seemed to matter except her serene delight to be outdoors.
This was a beautiful parting gift to her grandchildren. Ashley left for Maryland and Kate for San Francisco, both with a happier memory than when they arrived.
Mom’s strength has fortified me. Tomorrow we’re making funeral arrangements even though Mom is still with us for a little longer.

The Call

2011-04-02T09:42:00.004-04:00

I wrote this least week right after the hardest call I've ever had to make.
The Call

I expected my Dad to die years before he did. In fact, it was often a topic in therapy. His diet was terrible--no vegetables or fruit except bananas and mostly fried food. He had mild heart problems, prostate cancer, smoked Cigarillo cigars and had “coffee and” (coffee and cake) all day long. During the last five years of his life he lost fifty pounds and his skin took on a bluish tone making him look more Arab than Italian.
Dad expected to die by the time he was sixty-seven like his father. He was shocked when he turned eighty. He couldn’t imagine why he was still around but was confident that God had a plan. He was also pleased with himself believing that my brother now had a better chance at longevity. He was adamant that no one should suffer long at the end, that passing didn’t have to be like his father’s who was in a coma in his bedroom for a week, and that a strong will could make it so.
Dad died within eight hours after being admitted to Lutheran Hospital in Brooklyn. They aided and abetted his death through neglect, a fact confirmed by the Joint Commission of Hospitals. It was a nightmarish time for us, his children, but he got his wish at eight-two—a relatively quick exit. I was prepared.
Since Dad’s death seven years ago, Mom has rarely been unattended. For months my daughter, Jenna, lived with her before we hired a five-day a week, twenty-four hour companion, Marcia, whom Mom thinks of her as her best friend. Parkinson’s started taking its toll on Mom’s mind more than her body and last year we added two more caretakers for the weekends. Mom was clear that she didn’t want to be alone for a minute, and she wasn’t.
Two months ago she fell at home and fractured her pelvis in two places and her tailbone. She was hospitalized for a month. During that time, my husband, Rob and my brother, Anthony, moved her dining set to the basement and the upstairs beds to the first floor. A shower was installed in the pantry in the kitchen and numerous changes were made so that Mom could stay at home. She always said that the only way she wanted to leave that house was “feet first”.
The first couple of weeks at home after the hospital stay were touch and go. We ordered a hospital bed, a gel mattress, commode, bumper guards and anything else that would add to Mom’s comfort. When she moved the pain was terrible. At times we didn’t think she’d last the night. I suggested hospice care, but my brother and sister weren’t ready to hear it. Friends in the know kept urging me to call hospice and even gave me the number. They assured me that it didn’t have to be “the end” for hospice to help. I kept talking about it to my siblings and they finally agreed.
This morning I made the call. When the intake person responded, I couldn’t speak. I babbled through my tears so she knew someone was on the line. She told me to take my time that this was an emotional time and she’d wait until I could talk. I sobbed for a while, caught my breath, spoke intermittently and finally got through the interview. They’re setting up an appointment for today.
I now realize that like my siblings, I didn’t want to make the call. I hope to pull myself together while I’m at Mom’s. Although she’s not always mentally present, at times she’s very sharp and is aware of her deterioration. She keeps seeing my Dad and tells him to “Go away. Come back tomorrow, Joe.” She’s said that she’s afraid when he appears. It says to me that she’s ambivalent about dying and isn’t quite ready to go and neither am I ready to let her. There’s no doubt in my mind that hospice is the end of the road and making that call was crushing. Denial is a gift for a while but it’s time to prepare myself for the inevitable. Today is the beginning of that process as I watch my mother fade in the same room as Grandpa.

Restaurant Review: BARBAMBINO

2011-02-24T00:46:00.007-05:00

When we arrive in San Francisco, my daughter, Kate, usually picks us up at the airport and our first stop is lunch. Kate has a fabulous palate and always finds good restaurants. My new favorite is BARBAMBINO, a café and wine bar. Of all the restaurants I’ve frequented on this trip, this is the best.

The Piedmont seems to be a theme in many Italian restaurants around this City. We started with a cheese plate with two Piedmontese cheeses--a very fresh goat cheese and a blue-veined cheese whose names I didn't write down! The third was a surprise—a delicious cheddar from the West Coast of Scotland near the Irish Sea. These were served with walnuts, almonds and cardamom pickled pears. A bottle of Gavarini Nebbiolo 2009 was the perfect wine choice even though we were tempted by the forty glasses of wine offered.

Our lunch choices, to use an old phrase, were to die! A Shredded Chicken Panino with fontina and caramelized onions was smeared with grainy mustard. It was the tastiest sandwich that I've had in a long time. Egg, truffle salt and Parmigiano-Reggiano bruschetta left us drooling. The Topfenknodel (Goat cheese, mascarpone and semolina dumplings) with wilted Lacinato kale and crushed walnuts practically had us swooning it was so good. If I can recreate this dish at home, it will be a culinary triumph. Where I can buy Lacinato kale is a mystery at the moment.

Torn by two desserts we ordered both--Tcho (local chocolatier) Chocolate Crème Caramel with Caramelized Chocolate Nibs and Amaretti Brittle and Spiced Chestnut Cake with Caramel Apples and Brandy Cream. Rob had a Caffe Affogato --Vanilla Ice Cream "drowned" in espresso. Are you salivating yet?

BOTTOMLINE: Run, don’t walk to this restaurant.

Oakland Restaurant Review: PLUM

2011-02-21T12:22:00.007-05:00

I'm in the land of "organic"--Oakland/Berkeley/San Fran. Since this is an R & R trip I've hardly cooked. Sitting by my computer is a pile of menus from the many restaurants that I've been to this week. I had planned to write a review a day, but I mostly stayed in bed watching last season's episodes of "Dexter" that my son-in-law, Chris, taped. In between, I'm watching Scooby Doo movies with Quinn. This is definitely a slothful period of my life, and boy do I need it.

The first restaurant I'm reviewing is Plum, a hi-ceiling, hi-tech looking place painted a blackish hue in downtown Oakland. This restaurant got rave reviews from Jenna's clients who mostly come here for dinner. Since I was there for lunch, instead, my review may be skewed.

We started with soup and salad: Lentil Soup with torn bread, nettle and leeks and Ham Hock Soup with savoy cabbage, heirloom beans and onions. Sounds good? Wrong! They were terrible. Both soups were water-based and I felt as if I was eating in reform school--not gruel, but watery, bland, tasteless, bland food--get the picture? Luckily, the Maitake Mushroom Sandwich with cauliflower and local greens was totally delicious as was the Pork Reuben with savoy cabbage and mustard. The Chicory Salad with bulgur, radish, fennel, pecorino and sherry vinaigrette was terrific. There were only two desserts and we opted for Cheesecake In A Jar with sour cherries, and almond teeccino crumble. It looked a little silly, but was fabulous. Teeccino is a caffeine-free herbal coffee substitute--only in "Granolaland"!

I must note that Plum only uses organic vegetables and pastured meat, poultry and eggs from small farmers.

Bottom line: Despite the soup, I'd give dinner a shot.

Old Dog Learns New Tricks: Pasta Machines and Gorgonzola

2011-01-26T11:25:00.006-05:00

Neither my Mom or Big Grandma ever had a pasta machine. Pasta dough was rolled out, cut and laid out to dry on a clean sheet which covered Grandma's already made bed. Mom never made pasta upstairs--four kids and Dad in 3-1/2 tiny rooms the size of my former Hampton's kitchen, was just too much to ask. But occasionally she helped Big Grandma downstairs with the job. It was a rare occurrence because after the Great War, Ronzoni was the "macaroni" of choice.

During my years as a food professional, Marcella Hazan changed my "Ronzoni" brain and I bought a pasta machine imported from Italy. Feeding the dough through a roller several times then through cutters took a bigger kitchen than I had at the time. Watching Giuliano Bugialli roll the dough at a Macy's cooking class, was so intimidating that my pasta machine grew mold from lack of use. His sheets were six-feet long. The Master lost the Student on that occasion.

This week I relinquished my "techno-phobia" which also includes new mechanical devices. My daughter, Jenna, gave me a Kitchen Aid pasta attachment that was an unused wedding gift eleven years ago. I recruited my buddy, George, for this new pasta-making experience. Loathe to read instructions, Rob took on that task and set up the machine for us.

Unlike my authentic pasta maker, the Kitchen Aid extrudes the pasta through a round plate. It seemed easy except that the fettuccine strands that we were making were sticking together. The process eventually got better, God knows why, but until then we were pulling apart the noodles and placing them on clean towels. Since my linen towel supply is limited, I used pillow cases and knew that this was something Big Grandma would have done. She never got to see either of my pasta machines and I doubt that she or Mom would have recognized the sauce that I made for these noodles.

Gorgonzola is a cheese that never made it to our table. My family was from Southern Italy and this blue-veined cheese is from Northern Italy, a region made famous in America as George Clooney's home away from home.

Let me tell you about the recipe that I developed. I used Gorgonzola Dolce which is a creamier, and less pungent than it's sister. The recipe calls for 10-ounces of the cheese because that was the size of the piece I bought. The amount of cheese leaves room for a little flexibility--8-ounces for a milder sauce, 12-ounces for a cheesier flavor. It's up to you. Marcella said to remove the cheese from the refrigerator six hours. I forgot and hoped four hours would be sufficient and was glad that Marcella, the autocrat, wasn't in my kitchen!

I am recommending that you use fresh pasta for this recipe. I can't guarantee the outcome with dried. It sauces differently. The reason I used 1-1/4 pounds is because that's what the Kitchen Aid recipe made and the sauce was developed for that measurement. Most stores sell fresh pasta now. But if you're a New Yorker, Raffetto's is still the best place to buy it.

Buon Appetito!

FETTUCCINI WITH GORGONZOLA SAUCE
4 servings for main course
6 servings as a first course

3 tablespoons unsalted butter
10 ounces Gorgonzola Dolce cheese, at room temperature
1 cup heavy cream
1/2 teaspoon salt
1-1/4 pound fresh fettuccine
½ cup grated Parmigiano-Reggiano cheese
Salt and freshly ground pepper to taste

1. Melt butter in a medium saucepan over low heat. Add cheese and cream and cook about 5 minutes, stirring occasionally, until the sauce is smooth and slightly thickened.
2. Meanwhile, bring a large pot of water and 1/2 teaspoon salt to a boil (Don't add more salt because fresh pasta is porous). Cook the fettuccine, stirring frequently, until it floats to the top of the water and is tender, about 2 minutes.
3. Drain the fettuccine and in a large bowl, toss with the sauce. Add Parmigiano cheese, salt and pepper and toss again. Serve immediately.

Big Grandma's Chocolate Ravioli

2011-01-05T18:00:00.006-05:00

Video at bottom of blog list.

I have never seen ravioli shaped like half moons, but that's exactly what Grandma's pastry looks like. Where the name of this pastry comes from is a mystery just as Grandma's mother-in-law's recipe was.

It seems my proud, newly married grandmother wouldn't ask her mother-in-law how to make this Christmas confection. So, like any good recipe developer, she watched her making them one day then went home and experimented until she felt she'd replicated the recipe.

This very special family favorite is over a hundred years old and my great-grandmother's recipe is older than that. Years ago I called a cousin to talk about the recipe and discovered that grandma's version may have been different from my great-grandmother's. Big Grandma, being a thrifty soul, replaced shaved chocolate with cocoa powder. I'm not sure why there's a half cup of chick peas in the recipe, but I've chalked both changes up to the war years, when chocolate was scarce and chestnuts probably expensive.

I've researched this recipe over the years and have never found one like it. There is a Chocolate Ravioli from the Abruzzo area of Italy, but it's made with grape must and raisins. Another version, supposedly from Campagna (Naples area), is filled with chocolate, chestnuts, raisins, pine nuts and orange zest. They're fried and covered with honey like Strufoli. This recipe sounds suspiciously Sicilian not Neapolitan. Then there was one filled with chestnuts, almonds, bitter chocolate and cinnamon and rum. Giada De Laurentiis makes one with WONTON wrappers and Nutella! Now that's NOT Italian.

My blond, blue-eyed grandson, Quinn, is only one-quarter Italian but the taste for Chocolate Ravioli, an acquired one, is in his genes. At three he would excitedly tell anyone who dropped in around the holidays that we were going to have a very special breakfast--that's when Quinn likes to eat them. I've got to say it's beats Pop Tarts.

When I was a kid, Grandma only made Chocolate Ravioli at Christmas which made them more memorable. They never lasted long because they were Dad's favorite. When Quinn was little he wanted them during the year, but I finally convinced him how special these are in our family and that this would be a Christmas tradition that he would carry on. This was the first Christmas that he was involved in cutting rounds, filling and sealing them and brushing them with egg wash. I hope in a few years he'll be making the dough and cleaning the chestnuts so that Nonna can sit with a cup of coffee and a "raviolo" made by Quinn and and thoroughly enjoy the holiday.

Hope you enjoy the video.

BIG GRANDMA'S CHOCOLATE RAVIOLI

Makes 36

PASTRY DOUGH:

4 cups all-purpose flour

½ cup granulated sugar

¼ tsp salt

¼ cup chilled vegetable shortening, lard or unsalted butter

2 large eggs, lightly beaten

¾ cup ice water

FILLING:

1/2 pound (1 ¾ cups) dried chestnuts (3 cups cooked)

½ cup drained canned chickpeas

½ cup granulated sugar

3 T Hershey’s Cocoa powder

2 T milk

2 T finely chopped citron

GLAZE:

1 egg, lightly beaten with pinch of salt

TOPPING:

Confectioner’s sugar

1. To prepare pastry dough, combine flour, sugar and salt in a in food processor fitted with a dough blade. Add vegetable shortening and pulse until crumbly and mixture resembles coarse meal. With processor running, add eggs, then a couple of tablespoons water at a time until mixture forms a ball. Discard any remaining water. Flatten dough to a 1-inch thickness, cover with plastic wrap and refrigerate for 30 minutes or overnight.
2. To prepare filling, cover chestnuts with water in a large pot and soak overnight. Rinse; add 3 quarts cold water to pot and bring to boil. Reduce heat and simmer about 2 hours or until tender. Drain and remove any remaining skins.
3. In food processor fitted with a steel blade add all filling ingredients; pulse until a chunky paste forms, scraping down bowl when necessary or like Big Grandma, mash ingredients together; set aside.
4. Preheat oven to 350.
5. Remove dough from refrigerator. Divide dough into 3 pieces and shape into rounds. On lightly floured surface, roll out one round to 1/8” thickness, sprinkling with additional flour when necessary. Using a 4” round cutter, cut dough into circles. Reserve remaining dough scraps and reroll to 1/8-inch thickness. Grandma always managed to get another two or three rounds. Repeat process with remaining dough.
6. Using a rounded tablespoon of chestnut mixture, spoon onto center of circles. Fold each in half and crimp the edges closed with a fork. Place on ungreased baking sheets and brush with glaze. Prick each pastry once with a fork. Bake 20-25 minutes until golden.
7. Cool in pan on rack 10 minutes. Remove with spatula onto large plate. When completely cooled, sprinkle heavily with powdered sugar. Cover with a clean towel until ready to serve. These may be left out for a few days. Do not cover with plastic wrap or they’ll mold.

2010-12-31T15:05:00.002-05:00

Lufthansa

2010-12-10T12:24:00.003-05:00

I've never used Lufthansa as a carrier before and was very pleased with our flight to Rome from NY. To call on a German stereotype, they are efficient, efficient and efficient. Everything ran like clockwork on board. Although I read for most of the flight, I got to watch Young Victoria on my own video screen.

Coming back to NY started out o.k. Transfers to Fiumicino Airport went smoothly then the new chapter began. Our flight to Frankfurt was an hour late. After boarding we waited another hour. This was due to weather problems in France and Germany--snow. We ran for a connecting flight to NY and arrived ten minutes before takeoff. The supervisor wouldn't even talk to us, just told us to sit down. We did. This was one guy no one wanted to cross. There were only about twenty of us in the lounge because everyone else was already on the plane. They were stuck there the next two hours!

As compensation, and because at 5pm every snack bar in the airport was closed, Lufthansa provided a meal--Potato Salad with a quarter of a hard-boiled egg on a quarter of a tomato and 2 mini bread sticks. To be fair, they did provide drinks and a cookie. Still, it was a come-down from the meals we had had all week.

Turns out this was not a weather problem. Somewhere outside, a cart crashed into the plane and damaged it. Eventually everyone on board "deplaned" while we waited another hour for a new aircraft. They provided an old 747 jet for what looked like a hundred people. The plane was de-iced, but we sat on the runway so long, that it had to be done again before takeoff. I finished The Girl Who Kicked the Hornet's Nest on my Kindle in the interim and had nothing to read except a bunch of magazines in German. All I could do was to look at pictures and make up stories to correspond!

Unfortunately, this plane did not have individual video screens. The screen for the cabin was about six feet away and up by the ceiling. Most of the time we watched where our plane was headed. No movies were available. With nothing to do, I finally fell asleep. An hour or so before arrival, all the lights in the cabin were turned on to wake us so we could have a piece of breakfast pizza which was awful At midnight! We got to our apartment by a circuitous route (NY and Rome cabbies have something in common). In bed by 2am wondering if we have any recourse with Lufthansa.

Vacation: Day 8: Savona—Genoa

2010-12-08T17:31:00.003-05:00

Savona, a lovely port city with beaches will have to wait until another time. We passed through on our way to Genoa, the capital of Liguria. When time is an issue, hard choices have to be made.

I had heard from a friend that Genoa was the “sewer pit” of the world! It may have been at one time, but not anymore. I loved this city especially the medieval area. We only had enough time to sample two Genoese favorites: focaccia and Troifette (pasta) with Pesto, green beans and potatoes at a tiny restaurant, called Al Giardino degli Indoratori. My lousy Italian was better than I thought. After a conversation with the waiter I found out that the name of the restaurant means,
At the Garden of the Molds"! The molds referred to are the ones used to make ceramic wall plates with bas relief.

The focaccia here is tender and fabulous and comes with many toppings—caramelized onion, cheeses, tomatoes and olives. The pesto is made with BUTTER not olive oil. I only had half a portion. It was luscious but I didn’t want to feel my stomach protesting later in the day.

We met an Australian today. This boat has more nationalities aboard than the New York subway system.

Considering all the cities and ports that we’ve been to on this trip, Sicily, Tunisia, Mallorca, Barcelona, Marseilles, and Genoa, I’d put Genoa and Sicily as the two places that I want to visit again and stay a while.

The dining room was only half full tonight. Lots of people disembarked in Genoa. We were happy to have sat with a great couple from Michigan--new friends on the horizon. This was a terrific trip.

Vacation: Day 8: Marseilles

2010-12-08T09:12:00.003-05:00

It wasn’t 32 degrees, windy or rainy. The weather reports these last few days have been very wrong. Today it was 65 degrees!

Getting to the city was like being on the LIE during rush hour. The bus driver was expert and Rob was wishing he had had a few drivers like him, when he owned and ran three bus companies.

Marseilles, the oldest town in France, is the most beautiful port city that I’ve seen so far. We went up a mountain and saw the most spectacular, panoramic view of the harbor.

Rob didn’t care. He was fried today and didn’t even want to hang in the city to have bouillabaisse, a fish stew that he loves and would be my worst nightmare!

So, we came back to the ship, had lunch, and napped. I woke up never wanting to eat again. I may have to skip dinner and miss out on another fun-loving evening with the Italians.

Vacation: Day 7: Barcelona

2010-12-07T11:44:00.005-05:00

Barcelona is a gorgeous city and it has everything an urban dweller like myself loves—a language that I can almost understand, good food and drink, fabulous architecture, tree-lined streets and lush gardens, incredible museums (nine to be exact), cultural activity, people from all over the planet, the ocean and my better half holding my hand while we walked the boulevards.

Our first stop was Parque Guell, designed by Gaudi. I’ve seen photos of this park and housing complex but you have to be here to really experience the magnitude of Gaudi’s genius. Although he began designing ten years after Van Gogh died, his work seemed to pick up in design where Van Gogh left off in painting.

I felt as if I were in an undulating dream filled with color and nature. It really was breathtaking. His use of broken and reused ceramic tile was masterful. What a modern person--recycling at the turn of the century.

The Cathedral of the Sagrada Familia (Holy Family) has to be seen to be believed. I was surprised that Gaudi was celebrated in his lifetime unlike Van Gogh. Perhaps it was because he chose orthodox religious themes in building his fantasy world.

Today was a bank holiday and the Christmas market was way too crowded to slog through. Instead, we went to lunch at a tapas bar, Restaurant Egipte. Rob ordered snails and fried baby calamari again (he can’t seem to get enough of those two dishes). We had huge white beans with peppers and onions, a lentil salad and a Tortilla (the Spanish version of potatoes and eggs). It was served with toasted Italian bread drizzled with the best olive oil I’ve tasted so far.

Speaking of olive oil, I forgot to mention that Tunisia has 65 million olive trees and one that has survived since Roman times. I suspect that Italy is importing some of this oil and slapping their label on the bottles. I find my paesani a fast and loose group. They don’t follow rules. We have five-year olds jumping on machines in the gym, playing slot machines in the casino and sitting on Papa’s lap at various bars! This would never fly in America and that’s what makes traveling so interesting. We get see other ways of “being”.

The weather was so warm today that as soon as I got back to the ship, I grabbed my book (Steig Larsson’s, The Girl Who Played with Fire—can’t put it down) and headed for the top deck. Unlike summer cruises (from what I hear), I didn’t have to fight for a lounge chair. It’s been a wonderful day.

Tonight was the Captain’s Gala. All the waiters walked down the staircase holding cakes with lighted sparklers while “The March of the Toreadors” was blasted over loudspeakers. It reminded me of my Italian wedding at Sirico’s in Brooklyn two-hundred years ago. My family had a special surprise: Sirico’s Champagne March. Twenty waiters marched around the darkened room with sparklers sticking out of champagne bottles. I was mortified. Tonight I just laughed.

Vacation: Day 6: Palma de Mallorca

2010-12-05T18:17:00.004-05:00

We walked many miles along the coastline today. Found a local restaurant with “Mallorcan” food and families enjoying a Sunday meal.

We had: Snails prepared in red pepper oil with chunks of port fat back, pine and garlic; salad with hearts of palm, hard boiled eggs and very good tomatoes and olives; tiny whole calamari in a tomato broth with pine nuts, celery, garlic and raisins; chicken cannelloni. Dessert was a cross between a flan and bread pudding. It’s always fun to dine with locals.

We tried to burn a few calories with lots more walking until we found a huge outdoor market. I finally did some shopping. It was too late to go the Cathedral of Palma but we’ll see Gaudi architecture in Barcelona tomorrow.

Tonight was “Italian” night at dinner. All the pasta dishes have been terrific and every night there’s a sugar-free dessert. Tonight it was Tiramisu drenched in rum. I thought it odd that there was Neapolitan Pastiera (Easter Grain Pie) on the menu until the loudspeakers erupted with O Sole Mio by Lou Monte. The majority of shipmates are Italian and "il mio gruppo" took their napkins and started waving them around their heads. We joined the silliness. It was like an Italian wedding gone wild! All the music that followed was Neapolitan except maybe Dean Martin’s “When the Moon Hits Your Eye Like a Big Pizza Pie—that’s Amore”.

Our waiter asked me to dance—Avatar Kumar and me! Then all the waiters switched partners. Just as I sat down they played Lazy Mary and everyone (about 400 people on the two dining levels) got up and formed a line and danced around the room. We were barely finished when a bunch of waiters climbed the Tara-like staircase and did a dance routine while we cheered, clapped and danced too. This was not the evening I expected but to my surprise, thoroughly enjoyed. Rob taped this extravaganza. I don’t think tomorrow night’s Formal Gala can top this! Or will it?

Vacation: Day 5: Tunis

2010-12-04T17:48:00.004-05:00

We left early this morning for the capital city of Tunisia, Tunis. I had dreams of an African heat wave, but was confronted with temperatures colder than yesterday’s Palermo trip. In season, this North African port city is around 112 degrees. Today it barely reached 40 degrees. For Tunisians it was cause for down jackets with fur trim!

Our first stop was a Carthaginian cemetery filled with eight hundred and forty first born sons (babies) who were sacrificed to the Moon goddess for protection. I wondered if any of those parents hot-footed out of there with their kids and thumbed their noses at this barbaric obligation.

Next we went to thermal baths built by the conquering Romans—fabulous. The sexes were separated at the baths, but a couple of “enlightened” guys built one for women too. The original structure was near the circular harbor once dominated by the Phoenicians. The fact is that Carthage was attacked and overcome by almost as many countries as Sicily.

Today, Tunisia is the most modern and tolerant of all Islamic nations. Women, polygomy has been outlawed since 1957 and Jews, Christians and Muslims live together in peace. Why can’t the rest of the world?

Our guide, Mohammed, took us to a bazaar obviously run by his buddies. We climbed narrow streets flanked by shops selling nothing I wanted. I was looking for the movie version of he “Kasbah” which others found who didn’t go on a tour.

Today’s highlight: Mohammed told us where to go for coffee before we boarded the bus. Rob didn’t want to stop, thinking it would just be another tourist trap. I was seduced by the outdoor café and insisted on going and was glad that I did. This was a hangout for locals, not tourists. At noon the place was filled with at least sixty men. We went inside to buy the coffee at a bar and stood next to a guy who was seated and smoking from a three-foot “hookah”—what he was smoking was questionable. No one spoke English and we were a curiosity. We finished our coffee but not before I got a couple of photos. I thought someone might smash my camera, but we left unscathed!

Tonight was Formal night on the ship. I'd like to report that women are still wearing gowns. I wore a consignment ankle length glitzy shirt that my friend, Celia, bought at a consignment shop a number of years ago. She made me swear that I'd never get rid of it. Well, Celia, I didn't! I topped it with an old velvet top and even older gold stilettos (yep, I saved a pair of those--makes me a bona fide Italian dame). It was a fun evening and tonight the food was good. At midnight there'll a flambeed fruit offering. We're skipping that but are sorry that we nixed the Captain's cocktail hour. Our friends showed up a dinner drunk from champagne.

Vacation: Day 4: Palermo

2010-12-03T17:23:00.009-05:00

Sunny, palm-tree studded Sicily was gray and cold today. Rob and I were not deterred. We marched off into the heart of this country to find the perfect cannolo. We failed and Sicily disappointed. Spinato 1860 Paticceria, the counterpart of Sant Ambroeus in New York, a Sicilian temple of pastry, had a very forgettable cannoli in spite of high praise. The shell was light and good, but the filling looked opaque and old. It was very sweet and I found the best part to be the candied orange garnish.

Later, we stopped at a hole in the wall bakery--great filling, over fried, hard as nails, gritty shell. Wish we had more time in this city. There must be something better out there.

We walked and shopped (a little) for a couple of hours before we went to lunch. Our food friends recommended Piccolo Napoli. Although it's a fish restaurant, and you all know that I don't eat fish, I wanted Rob to enjoy what he loves. The place was busy, the owner delightful and the fish truly fresh.

They sat us at a table next to the cashier who was behind a podium. Everytime someone paid the bill, they squeezed between the foot-and-a-half of space separating us to hug and kiss her before they left! It was very funny. I told Rob that I'd pay the bill!
Now to the meal. We started with Panelle (chickpea fritters). They were wonderful, better than Joe's Focacceria on Ave. U in Brooklyn. There only one vegetarian dish on the menu--bucatini with broccoli. This made me very happy. Rob didn't know which fishy pasta to have because they all looked so good. He chose Pasta con Sarde, the national dish of Sicily. He had had it at Gino's Focacceria in Brooklyn when I did walking tours of Italian Bensonhurst. When our food arrived, both dishes looked identical. They made a sauce with broccoli, bread crumbs, lotsa oil, pine nuts and passolini(tiny grapes). Rob's pasta had all the same ingredients with the addition of sardines and fennel, cooked to a paste. Verdict: Gino's much better. Both our dishes were bland.
Next he had grilled calamari and loved it. We drank a white Sicilian Wine called Grillo, 2009 (Feudo Maccari).

Dessert was fabulous--a Sicilian sweet melon and a slice of Cassata cake, the best I've ever had.

Back on the boat, we got ready for an Anniversary and Honeymoon Cocktail Party. Since this was our anniversary present to ourselves, we went. Even though it was Informal Dress night, I brought so many cocktail-type outfits (totally misjudged) that I decided to dress up. Good thing too. When we got to the lounge they took a photo of us next to a wedding cake and a bunch of flowers. We even had to kiss for the second photo (so Brooklyn)! We stayed 10 minutes and decided to split and meet our new friends for dinner. They were dressed "informally". Clothing and anniversary party aside, we had a good evening. Buona Notte, amici!

Vacation: Day 3: All Aboard!

2010-12-03T04:30:00.004-05:00

Today was a travel and "get started" day--train to the port city of Civitavecchia, walk to the shuttle bus, then sit for 2 hours waiting to get processed to board the Costa Magica.

This is a new, beautiful ship (2004). There are a couple of thousand passengers although you'd never know it. We have a balcony off our room with ocean as far as you can see. It's a stretch for the eyes.

So far the food has been mediocre which is not a bad thing. This could eliminate the five extra pounds usually gained by the end of a cruise. The only interesting part of the meal last night was Salted Tiramisu as an appetizer. It was stacked eggplant with a bechamel sauce between the layers. The name, however, was a misnomer but intriguing. I'm thinking about how I could create a recipe that would closely match a savory Tiramisu--like using whipped mascarpone cheese with herbs and vinegar (coffee?) soaked focaccia layers.

Met an interesting couple at dinner (at 9pm) from Houston who have moved back to their hometown in Michigan after twenty-five years. The four of us are serial renovators in the midst of a project.

We walked different decks after dinner and had some laughs. There were tons of Italians playing "Bingo"--a milder form of gambling than the casino tables. Boy, are they a loud bunch. Later we passed a small area with four generations (or so it seemed) of family--men smoking cigars, women tending to children, grandmothers prominent in the loud conversations. It was like passing a stoopful of paesani in summertime Brooklyn fifty years ago.

More hilarious were women's outfits at dinner. It was posted as "casual" dress night. I saw more sequined dresses, tops, pants and stilettos than on New Year's Eve!

Tonight is "informal" dress. Will someone tell me the difference between casual and informal?

Vacation: Day 2: Rome

2010-12-01T11:35:00.007-05:00

Rob and I slept until 10:30 this morning and missed a free breakfast at the hotel. He went off by himself to buy a panino (tomato and cheese) and a Cornetto (sweet croissant) and cappuccini for us "porta via". In other words, "take out".

We walked in the rain again to the Forum area and had lunch at a NY Times recommended wine bar, Enoteca "ProvinciaRomana" on Largo del Foro Traiano. This place reminded me of two things; 1. The restaurant, Citta Nuova, in Easthampton and 2. Product-crazed West Coast restaurants where you can't eat a thing without knowing who made it!

All the wines, olive oils and cheeses at the Enoteca are from the Lazio region (Rome) and although we ordered two different vinos we both got a glass of Ferro Seta Villa Simone which was perfect with the very delicious Guanciola (pork cheeks)in a silky tomato-based gravy and Rosemary-Roasted Potatoes that Rob ordered (we have a photo but don't know how to post it). I started with a Torta Rustica--3 cheeses and finely chopped spinach in puff pastry on a bed of baby greens with lotsa salami on the side. The torta was good, but I wondered why there wasn't a drop of olive oil on the greens! That's no way to promote regional oil.
My Lasagna ai Funghi Porcini was "mezza mezza". The noodles were made with chestnut flour and the bechamel didn't seem to seasoned at all. The mushrooms overwhelmed the dish.

From there we went to the Museo Centrale di Risorgimento for a Van Gogh exhibit. This was the fourth time we've been to a VG exhibit (NY, Paris, Brooklyn). What was most interesting were paintings by other artists, side by side, with similar themes showing how they all influenced each other's work. A field scene by Millet was done later by Van Gogh. It reminded me of recipe development. You look at someone else's recipe (usually) then you do your interpretation. In this case, Van Gogh did a much more exciting rendition of the work, adding vibrant color and fluid lines.

No afternoon is complete without a little shopping--bought a hooded "Roma" sweatshirt for Quinn. Time for a nap before dinner.

Met our friend, Cora, tonight. She has a great apartment on Via Palestra. We went to her favorite neighborhood restaurant, Da Vincenzo. They had a tasty antipasto table and are famous for their fish dishes. Rob and Cora had Fettuccine with Salmon, Shrimp and Zucchini followed by Grilled Calamari. I had Spinach Ravioli in Butter and Sage. The Creme Brulee was the best. This restaurant had a number of different dining rooms, and each was filled. Not bad for a Wednesday night in another recession-troubled country.

Off to Civitavecchia tomorrow to board the Costa Magica. Our last cruise was twenty-five years ago. First stop will be Palermo. I'm posting this after midnight on Dec 2nd. I think it's 6 o'clock NY time.

Vacation: Day 1: Serendipity

2010-12-01T06:20:00.005-05:00

We arrived in Rome yesterday around 11am via Lufthansa (excellent airline)and took the train to the Termini. We thought we could walk to the hotel, but the carabinieri we asked gave us wrong directions and since it was raining we decided to take a cab. The cab driver told us that it was too far to walk and there were three strikes clogging the streets(including buses). He wanted 20 euro, about $30. Our hotel room at The Mondial (Via Torino) wasn't ready so we asked the concierge where to go for lunch. It was pouring by the time we left the hotel, but just like NY a roving street vendor was selling umbrellas for 5 euro ($7.50).

We walked in circles trying to find the restaurant and found the Termini station instead. It was two blocks from our hotel! We were "suckered" by the cabbie who drove around in circles. I finally suggested walking one more block till we packed it in. One block and Eureka! No, not the restaurant that was suggested, but a terrific restaurant that we had been to many times while in Rome, La Matriciana.

Rob and I were really happy to stumble on this place, especially since I hadn't done any research on restaurants before we left. We had just come back from North Carolina to discover a flooding radiator on the second floor--floor and ceiling destroyed. That little disaster took a chunk of time that I had planned for research. Although we were in Rome a couple of years ago and went to another favorite restaurant, my non-computer head couldn't remember any names or neighborhoods in my favorite city.

The meal began with a wine that I picked and Rob ordered (Borgo Tesis, Refosco 2007 by Fantinel--excellent). He left the table and when our archetypical Italian waiter (he could have been from Brooklyn) brought the wine and realizing that Rob was absent, poured two full glasses. He never gave me the chance to taste it first--such a "male" Italian thing to do!)
Our "pranzo" included:
Antipasti: Braised and cheese-stuffed Treviso (radicchio) lettuce and Grilled Scamorza Cheese topped with fresh black truffles (fabulous).
I ordered Pasta with butter, black pepper and grated cheese which the waiter brought first since it was a Primi. I ate alone, until our guy finally brought Rob's Secondi, Saltimbocca. Since we ordered these dishes basically as a Secondi (entree) the waiter should have brought them together. But in Italy there are lots of food rules, so we laughed and enjoyed.
Dessert: Poached Pear smothered in Chocolate Sauce. We left happy and full. In fact so full that we didn't have dinner and slept until 10:30 this morning!

Life and Lasagna

2010-11-21T12:58:00.008-05:00

It doesn't seem possible that my last post was in September. I guess renovating three floors of a house at the same time is not conducive to writing. It's also not conducive to recipe development.
I was schooled at Ladies Home Journal where we tested recipes many times before they were published. Recipe writing followed a strict format, beginning with order of usage for ingredients. I developed this skill over the years and have adhered to it when I post recipes on this blog. This week all the rigid steps in recipe development went out the window--I didn't measure, weigh or count--in short, didn't follow the rules--one of the privileges of age!
I even did something more daring. I froze cooked lasagna noodles a few weeks ago. At that time I had made a fennel/sausage lasagna for a friend who was hit by car. She was banged up, incapacitated but o.k. When I finished assembling this dish, I realized that every time I make a lasagna there are noodles left over. Sometimes I cut them up and add them to soup, but soup wasn't on my menu plan that week. For the first time in my culinary life, I wrapped the noodles in plastic wrap (a long length and rolled each one so they were separated by the wrap from each other and wouldn't stick together). That was Step 1.
Weeks later, I went to the green market and bought some beautiful dinosaur kale (how much, I don't know) and a rutabaga the size of a grapefruit. That evening with the TV blasting in my kitchen, I began Step 2: Steamed the kale and sauteed rutabaga slices in butter (another deviation--I only use oil) until they were browned and tender. I refrigerated each vegetable after they cooled. Step 3: I placed the frozen noodles in the refrigerator to defrost. Added part-skim ricotta to my shopping list.
A couple of days later, I found half of a large mozzarella from the salumeria (maybe a pound)in my fridge. Now, I was ready to cook. I pulled out my 9x13 baking pan and hoped I'd have enough noodles for a couple of layers.
Step 4: This is where amounts get really fuzzy. In a bowl I mixed about 2-3 cups ricotta with about 3/4 cup Romano cheese. Instead of an egg I had a cartoon of egg whites that I wanted to use, not sure they'd bind the filling enough, but worth a try. In they went, maybe 1/3-1/2 cup. I added just a bit of salt and maybe 1/2 tsp freshly ground pepper. I had no fresh herbs, so opted not to use any.
Step 5: Made a light bechamel: Studded half an onion with 4 cloves; placed it in saucepan with about 2 cups 1% milk, a bay leaf and a little nutmeg. Boiled it 2-3 minutes, removed from heat and let stand for 15-20 minutes. Step 6: Take a break!
Step 7: Remove the onion and bay leaf from the milk; discard. Melt 2-3T butter in another saucepan over medium-low heat; add a tablespoon or two of flour and stir a couple of minutes as it bubbles. Stir in the milk with a whisk. Cook 10-15 minutes until thickened; set aside. Step 8: Thinly slice the mozzarella. Step 9: Heat the oven to 375 degrees and take another break.
Step 10: Ready to assemble the lasagna. Place 3 noodles in the bottom of the pan; cover with half the kale and rutabaga then top with half of the ricotta mixture, a third of the mozzarella, and about a third of the bechamel. Use your eyeballs as a measuring tool. Add 3 more noodles and repeat process. Top with the remaining 3 noodles (OMG there were exactly enough!) Arrange remaining mozzarella and drizzle with remaining bechamel. At this point you can sprinkle the top with a some grated cheese. Unfortunately, when I was finished the lasagna looked like a sheet of white plaster board (no, not renovation metaphors!) Luckily, I found a beautiful NJ beefsteak tomato in my fridge. I sliced it, slapped it on the lasagna for a little color and felt very proud of my inefficient recipe.
Step 11: Bake lasagna about 45 minutes (I really can't remember the timing), but it's ready when it's bubbly and ever so lightly browned.
LIFE LESSONS: You can freeze cooked noodles; 1 box (1lb)noodles will make two lasagne; use what you have and improvise when necessary; don't do this recipe in one day or you may never leave the kitchen; invaluable tool in cooking: eyeballs.
RESULT: PERFECTLY DELICIOUS.

Decompression--Lunch

2010-09-18T22:42:00.015-04:00

It's been a while since I've written. I wasn't kidding when I said I was "toast".
Rob whisked me away to our condo in Florida for a week. I went under protest, dragging my feet, and bemoaning my lot. I wanted a vacation and cooking and cleaning, albeit without plaster dust and hammering, wasn't on my agenda.

We left balmy New York and arrived in steamy (95 degree) Florida to find our AC on the fritz. If you're as old as I am, a resident of two different centuries, you'll remember life before air conditioning. We tossed and turned all night in clammy, twilight sleep. I woke up with childhood memories flooding my psyche.

*****
My sister, Patti and I slept in the same bed in the front room of our tiny top floor apartment. The heat that scorched our flat roof by day during the summer months hovered over our bed by night. On sweltering nights when it was too hot to sleep I'd make up stories. As I tossed and turned I'd be in the jungle with Sabu, a handsome Indian teen and the star of the movie, Elephant Boy. We'd outrun wild animals through the tropical landscape, sweaty and tired. If sleep still didn't come, I'd get up and hang out the window to check on Daddy. He was hairy like a forest animal and didn't do well in the heat. Dad would abandon us for the outdoor front porch forgoing his bed and Mom for a folding beach chair. Big Grandma, who lived on the first floor, would put the 10-inch Emerson TV on the windowsill facing the street so Dad could occupy himself until he'd doze off--if he did.

*****
In Florida our AC got fixed the next day just as our water pressure from the kitchen faucet slowed to a drizzle. Rob spent 2 hours under the sink. The kitchen, filled with tools and all the stuff that was stored under the sink, was starting to remind me of why we left New York.

But New York soon called. The guys back in Brooklyn who were tearing up the termite-damaged kitchen subflooring were ready to install flooring which I hadn't picked yet. Off to Lowe's and Home Depot under pressure, I chose the cheapest (98 cents/sq ft) vinyl faux wood I could find because I want a new kitchen in a couple of years. Rob wanted real wood, but I "tantrumed"! If I agreed I knew my dream of "new" would come much later.

What does this have to do with lunch? Today we decided to go our favorite restaurant and chill out. Buonasera is our "eating in Italy when you're not really there" place to go. Their wine list is phenomenal if not exorbitant. The average bottle of wine cost about $150 (all vintage).

I didn't think of taking food photos until I'd almost finished the meal, so picture hand-made tagliolini with shaved black truffles in butter in the empty dish. The dessert is a pistachio-chocolate flourless cake with vanilla gelato--innovative and fabulous. The wine was a 2001 from Montepulciano, was a bargain at this place for $75. I had three glasses instead of my usual half a glass. Better than Xanax but a lot more expensive.

Toast

2010-08-13T12:20:00.004-04:00

Today, I'm toast, toasted, burnt. Between not sleeping, living with ladders, tools, a refrigerator in the living room, banging and sawing under my feet, six men to feed everyday (lunch), Home Depot, my home away from home, and familial commitments always weighing in, wouldn't you agree?

But that's not the kind of toast that I want to talk about. At the moment, there's not a speck of counter or closet space for a toaster or toaster oven. Yesterday, I bought English muffins forgetting that fact. Ever tried to eat an untoasted English muffin?

I thought back to my kitchen days with Big Grandma. She was a cook and took pleasure in having someone around to help her in the kitchen. It wasn't a bad way to learn some basics. I can't remember if Grandma had an electric toaster but she did have a contraption from antediluvian times, probably the 1920's, that toasted bread. It had a square base and slanted sides with vents and springs that held the bread in place and made it look like an upright metal mousetrap. She took delight in showing me how they made toast in "the old days". She leaned the bread onto each of four sides, flipped the springs to hold the bread and placed this bread tower on the burner over a significant flame. What I can't remember is how the other side of the bread got toasted. Grandma would have had to open the hot springs and turn the bread. Although memory fails me, eBay has not. I found this energy saving device. I've just bid $7.95!

Although I would rather have had Grandma's original, I'll settle for someone else's. I'll keep you toasted, uh, I mean posted.

Restaurant Review: Eleven Madison Park

2010-08-09T17:05:00.006-04:00

Every few months Rob has a doctor's appointment on East 77th St. I usually go with him to make a day of it in the City. Today his appointment was at 1pm (first appt of the day) and we arrived at 12:40pm. Unfortunately, we didn't know that the office was closed until 1pm. Rob decided to wait at the door while I ran off to get a quick manicure. I was also in charge of making a lunch reservation. I chose Eleven Madison Park, one of our Danny Meyer favorites. The last reservation was at 2pm with no grace time. We had to be there at 2pm or be turned away.

I got back to the office at 1:10 thinking that Rob would be in with the doctor who hadn't even arrived. We sat there until 1:30 and Rob chose lunch over the doctor. We ran to the train and got to the restaurant at 1:58!!

Going late has it's advantages.We had a prime table overlooking the room (people watching is a New York pastime). A two-course meal was $28--add on wine, dessert coffee and it's an expensive lunch but worth it. I told them that I was vegetarian (couldn't face another chicken dish)--no problem.

Here's what we had:

A Gloria #2 cocktail: gin, campari, triple sec and I think a little pineapple juice (mostly gin). One was enough to have me singing--don't know how many Gloria could down!
A glass of the house red: cabernet franc--excellent

AMUSE BOUCHE: (these are "freebee" small bites before the meal--a sort of "we're happy to see you" greeting: cheese gougeres--tiny savory cream puffs. Mine amuse was vegetarian: a radish (the size of a dime dipped in butter then refrigerated so that the butter formed a shell around the radish) and a circle of cantaloupe the size of a nickle garnished with a thin slice of radish half of which was dyed green. Rob had a small square of foie gras with a geleed topping and a square reddish marshmallow (I think it was beet).

BREAD: two small marquis-shaped loaves of crunchy bread (the olive loaf was to kill for) and fabulous butter.

APPETIZER: I had a Greenmarket Tomato Gazpacho Soup with Basil Granola. I've never had pureed Gazpacho before--they added either cream or yogurt. I'm going to try to make the Basil Granola. It was incredible.
Rob had Fregola Sarda (a toasted Sardinian semolina pasta that's rubbed into crumbs--cooked like rice) with octopus, chickpeas and fennel.

ENTREE: St. Canut Farm Cochon De Lait (Roast Suckling Pig) with bing cherries, sweet onion and yogurt.
Tagliolini with shaved baby zucchini, zucchini flowers (minuscule) and tiny chunks of summer squash topped with melted butter and a savory foam! Made me glad to be "almost" vegetarian.

The interesting thing about the chef, Daniel Humm is that he's been one of the pioneers in "sous vide" cooking. This is a process where proteins are vacuum sealed then cooked for a long time in just below boiling water. It's supposed to increase the intensity of flavor, while perfectly cooking the food. Rob verified the claim. The look on his face while he ate pig was a silent moan--honest.

DESSERT: I love dessert, so during the meal I watched what others were choosing from the pastry cart. The favorite seemed to be a ring-shaped, bronze-glazed cake that looked as if it had almond paste in the layers. I thought it looked like a giant Baba whose outside layer had been caramelized. The name is Kouign Amann and it's from Brittany that small penisula in Northwest France. This area was once a kingdom, a duchy and a fief of France. It's also been called Little Breton and is one of six Celtic nations. I've never been but might have to add this to my travel list.
The pastry actually had flaky salted butter and sugar-filled layers (not almond paste). This time I moaned (aloud).
COFFEE: I'm a stickler for really good espresso and theirs is the best.

The table of businessmen next to us ordered grappa and with that came a tray of tiny (there's a theme at this restaurant) macaroons in different colors filled with a variety of good sweet stuff). They didn't offer us any, so I can't give you any details. Next they ordered cigars which were ceremoniously cut and bagged for their evening pleasure.

If you could only choose one New York restaurant, put this on the top of your list. I'll keep you posted as we investigate others now that we're back in the Big City.
I apologize for not bringing my camera. I missed a spectacular photo opportunity.

My Chinese Following

2010-07-31T21:22:00.003-04:00

O.K. I give up. WHO are you? My last posting had six comments all from different Chinese bloggers. I find this exciting, but except for Tina Chen, none of your blogs are open to the public.

I'm guessing you all read English or you wouldn't be commenting on my blog (in Chinese). I'm also curious; why my blog?

Obviously, I'm taking a break while my life is in chaos with this move, but I'll be back on board in a month or so. I already have another piece from my Memoir called: Death, Italian Style. I've decided not to post it until after Labor Day in September when people are back in their routines. So many folks are on vacation now, that my new neighborhood looks like a ghost town. I'm not complaining because at the moment I can actually park my car without circling my block five times or parking four blocks away.

Soon I'll be doing a restaurant review (we've been eating out a lot) of local eateries. So if any of you from Asia are planning a trip to Brooklyn, New York keep checking in!

IL Pranzo

2010-07-17T12:49:00.005-04:00

Rob and I took a lunch break today, Italian-style. We had leftover cold soup (NY Times Recipe on Wednesday called Smoothie + Gazpacho = Lunch). The recipe needed some help and no matter what I did, it still looked more white than rich-tomato color. The Frico to accompany it was tasty, but didn't look anything like the photo. I can't blame The Times though. I'm nonstick skillet-less at the moment.

We also had herbed chicken sausages and an excellent wine (Rose) from Cotes de Provence called Chateau de Pourceiux (2009). It's the best Rose I've had all summer.

We ended the meal with fresh figs. Unfortunately, Rob bought a huge box from Costco and most of them were dry and inedible. So, I cut them up, sauteed them in butter, finished them with chestnut honey and chopped fresh basil. Delicioso! Now back to work.

Park Slope Drama

2010-07-14T18:09:00.005-04:00

Well, I hit the Slope with a bang, literally. In a hurry to walk up to our apartment, I tripped on a crack in the sidewalk and fell to the ground hitting my mouth on a bag of cans and bottles that Rob was carrying. There was lots of blood as I lay on a brownstone cement railing, hyperventilating in front of a stranger's house. Someone brought me a bag of ice and Rob left me there to get the car. This happened around 9am on Sunday, July 4th, and I saw stars.

I got an appointment with an old friend and dentist, Skippy, the following Wednesday. In the meantime, I watched my right upper lip blow up each day turning a different color and a different shape. At one point my lower left lip joined in on the fun. I kept thinking that people were looking at me as a case of collagen gone bad. Luckily, I didn't need stitches even though the inside of my lip and gum were cut and bruised.

I was late for the appointment and ran the five blocks to Skip's office. I had forgotten the address and checked a few doors. In my haste, I quickly turned around and slammed into a construction pipe with the right side of my temple. I hit so hard that I flew backward onto the sidewalk on my ass. This time I saw stars and planets. I cried on the ground for a while, but composed myself to greet a man I hadn't seen in sixteen years. X-rays of teeth were good, but I cracked a fairly new filling.

I went home with a lump on the side of my head and thoughts of Natasha Richardson. When I didn't die overnight I decided to keep unpacking boxes and put off going to the doctor. Jaw still aching and lump still throbbing, I called the doctor yesterday. She wanted to see me immediately. Three hours later, I was off to the hospital for a Cat Scan of my head. I won't get the results until Friday. Meanwhile I'm scheduled for hip and back x-rays.

In between the physical trauma, we had a rainstorm that flooded our basement. Rob and I spent an evening sweeping water into a drain, before I found the problem in another basement room. I opened a door and a swoosh of water came gushing out. The entire room was filled with 2-3 inches of floating soap suds. There was a drain in that room that was clogged. Rob, my champion, put his arm down thsy drain and pulled up a load of sediment, leaves and things I don't want to think about. It all came from the roof. A plaster wall disintegrated and a few antiques are damaged.

If this is a test, we've passed with high marks because we still want to be in this great neighborhood catching up with wonderful friends. Lesson: SLOW DOWN--KEEP PLUGGING!!

Countdown

2010-06-28T20:25:00.002-04:00

In less than thirty-six hours we'll be back in Brooklyn. Unfortunately, it's not a direct move.

We leave the Hamptons, camp out at Mom's overnight, then move to a friend's condo in Park Slope for a week until the movers arrive with six containers of furniture on July 6th!

I'm very nervous because we also have stuff in Mom's basement, a roomful at a storage facility, a truckful that we're bringing from the Hamptons and already have a lot in the basement of the house we're moving to. We're going from a 3,000 sq ft house to a 900 sq ft apartment. Is that enough to give anyone the jitters? Haven't even arrived and we're thinking of knocking out walls!

We sold tons at our house sale in March--so why do we still have so much "Stuff"?

Thank God for stoop sales. I'll probably be having one every weekend until the Fall. Hope you'll all stop by and help us recycle.

Memorial Day 2010

2010-05-31T23:28:00.004-04:00

Last year I wrote about my Uncle Anthony being killed during WW11. Although I was born two years after his death, I always felt intimately connected to him because of the grief my family felt, a hole in the very fabric of our being.

Rob and I arrived in New Orleans yesterday. This morning we walked to Cafe du Monde for beignets and coffee. The atmosphere there is always festive and true to my last couple of visits, a trumpet player parked himself in front of the place and entertained the breakfast crowd. He often plays his own music and hawks his CD. But not this morning. As I was biting into a beignet that had about a 1/4 cup of confectioners' sugar dumped on it, this guy started playing Taps. I was jolted for a minute remembering what this holiday is truly about--honoring the dead who have fought many wars so we could vacation in a democratic nation. Usually it's easy to have amnesia, but not this morning. A wave of sadness passed through my body. How many families right now were grieving for their young sons and daughters who have been lost and for what exactly? These recent wars don't have the support and involvement of all of America. The solidarity of WW11 is light years away.

Rob and I decided to go the National WW11 Museum this afternoon. When we arrived there was a full orchestra playing music that my parents danced to. I'm sure that the spirit of Benny Goodman and my Dad were present. It was a surreal moment; a time warp.

As we went from room to room, I realized that this is an important museum because there are not only photos, but recordings of WW11 survivors, mostly soldiers but not just Americans. We heard from German, British and Japanese soldiers. No matter what country they were from they had mixed emotions--fear, anticipation, doubt, frustration, anger, sadness, hope and the desire to go home.

I learned more about the invasion of Normandy in fifteen minutes than I did from any history book in school.

The role of women during the war was profound. They spoke about working in factories, taking over mens'jobs and having a sense of purpose. Others spoke of heroic acts of nurses who were killed overseas.

It was a very moving experience and one I won't forget. Let's bring our young people home to their families in one piece, not as a memory. I wish all our troops could have been eating sugar-dusted beignets this morning thinking of wars past, not present.

Boys!

2010-05-25T17:57:00.004-04:00

We rented our Florida condo to two pro-golfers for six months--ages twenty-three and twenty four. The younger one skipped out on the last month's rent and electric bill. This is too bad for his buddy. Thank God for security payments.

Luckily, they Never bothered us for anything. (We had a female tenant once who called us because her light bulb blew. We lived two hours away and she expected us to drive in to change it!) The plus was that the broker totally vouched for these two "thank you, Mam" types.

Back to "boys". I'm not sure which generation this age group belongs to, X, Y, Z, but I'm calling it the "pig" generation. On the surface things looked o.k., beds made (although no army corners and a redo necessary), lots of dust, but so what. When I opened the refrigerator, I realized that this was the second filthiest refrigerator I'd ever seen. I won't tell what the first one was. My "man" spent two hours cleaning that mother while I went to tackle the twin beds.

Well, one bed had no sheets under the comforter. They were not to be found. So I was left with one set of sheets and one pillowcase. Now the scrutinizing began. Where were the bathroom towels, the nice ones? Not the white-turned-gray bath sheet that they left behind. What happened to one of two new beach towels? I could not imagine these guys loading up their suitcases with towels. Must have been trashed.

I didn't think that I had to vacuum until I found old french fries under the dining room table. Did I mention counter tops and broken dishes?

O.K. so what if we spent three days in Florida cleaning and shopping to replace stuff. After all, I did get to the beach for an hour and we were lucky to rent.

Before we left, I went down to the office and the manager let it slip that my very respectable tenants had a very wild party and the police were called at two-thirty in the morning!

Believe me, it could have been worse. As they say, "boys will be boys". My question, when do boys become men? I'm sure that this post qualifies me as an old fart!

Ricotta Torta

2010-05-07T15:31:00.009-04:00

Ten of us got together for dinner last week at Pamela and Alan's home, friends who have a gorgeous house in Southampton. Pamela made the main course, a baked farfalle pasta with goat cheese and kale (fab) and the rest of had to fill in the meal. Alan got to clean up!

My contribution was a sit-down appetizer. I remembered a recipe that I clipped from a magazine a few years ago but had never tried called, Ricotta Torta (a savory pie). I found and lost the recipe in one day then obsessed about it for a week. Not to be found, I called my daughter, Kate, to get the filling for the Pizza Rustica recipe that I have in The Brooklyn Cookbook (my cookbooks are packed for the next move). From there I eliminated all the meat (two vegetarians at this meal) and improvised. Here's the final product which I served as a sit down appetizer with Roasted Tomatoes. It's also a terrific brunch or lunch dish with salad or grilled vegetables. Do NOT used canned olives.

RICOTTA TORTA
12 servings

Breadcrumbs to coat pan
2 pounds part-skim ricotta (4 cups), drained
7 large eggs, lightly beaten
1 pound mozzarella, shredded
1/2 cup chopped basil
1/3 cup chopped flat-leaf parsley
1/4 cup Romano cheese
1/2 teaspoon each salt and freshly ground pepper
1 cup oil-cured black olives, pitted and chopped
1/2 cup chopped sun-dried tomatoes

1. Preheat oven to 375 degrees.
2. Coat a 9-inch springform pan with vegetable oil spray or brush with olive oil. Dust with breadcrumbs to cover. Shake any additional crumbs out of pan and discard.
3. In a large bowl, combine ricotta, eggs, mozzarella, herbs, cheese, salt and pepper. Fold in olives and tomatoes. Spoon into prepared pan and bake 1 hour. Cover with foil if browned and bake an additional fifteen minutes.
4. Let cool on rack 3 hours. Slice and serve. This can be made a day ahead and refrigerated after cooling. To serve, cover with foil and heat in 300 degree oven until just warmed through.

"Moving " Vegetable Stew

2010-04-30T11:23:00.004-04:00

The week before we moved, I cooked everything I could find in refrigerator and pantry. Again, I used the Vidalia Chop Wizard. In spite of the chaos, I was able to write down this recipe although I didn't note instructions or times. I'm winging it. It was delicious.

"Moving" Vegetable Stew
4 servings

4 carrots, diced
4 celery ribs, diced
1 Tablespoon olive oil
4 cups chicken or vegetable broth
1/3 cup pastina
1/4 cup bowtie pasta
1 can cannellini beans, rinsed and drained
1/2 package baby microwave spinach
Handful frozen sugar snap peas
2 Tablespoon each, chopped parsley and cilantro
Salt and freshly ground pepper to taste

1. Combine oil, carrots and celery in a Dutch Oven. Cover and cook over medium heat 10 minutes, stirring occasionally.
2. Add the broth, pastina and bowties and cook 10 minutes.
3. Stir in the beans, vegetables and herbs. Cover and remove from heat. Let stand for 5 minutes. Season with salt and pepper.

Fundraising with Bras

2010-04-29T16:09:00.005-04:00

Last week Rob and I attended "The Reconstructed Bra", a fashion show and auction in Southampton.

It was the most fun we've had in a while, albeit for a serious cause. All proceeds from this fundraiser went to two local breast health organizations.

Artists "sewed, glued, knitted, bedazzled, adorned, sculpted, painted and designed" twenty-five fashion bras, some with food themes. All were modeled by local women dedicated to the cause. My friend, Stacy, also leader of my writing group was one of the organizers of this event. Her friend, Lucia, died in 2006 from this dreaded disease. Stacy does three fundraisers a year in her memory.

Back to bras--here's a sampling of some of descriptive names: Funky Feather, Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds, Beer Breasted (with bottle caps), Fruit Cup (made with Fruit Loops), The Frog Bra, Every Thorn Has it's Rose, Andy Warhol Bra (soup) and Cupcakes (my favorite).

I know you'll enjoy the photos.

Mom's Potato and Eggs

2010-04-19T15:20:00.007-04:00

I'm in blogger hell. Tried to post latest cooking video (Mom's Potato and Eggs) and haven't been able to for over a month. Every time I tried to add it to my video bar, it came up with three other non-related videos. Finally someone was able to post it for me, but it's at the bottom of the bar and I always post the newest at the top.

So if you want to see the video for this recipe (it's a very funny one with my Italian cousins) it's at the bottom of the bar!

MOM'S POTATOES AND EGGS
4 servings

My cousins and aunt add grated Romano cheese to this dish. Feel free. On Saturdays, Dad made Potato and Egg Heroes on crusty Italian Bread. As a brunch dish, serve with salad, a dish of olives and Italian bread. My choice of wine would be white--Sauvignon Blanc or Pinot Grigio.

3 medium potatoes
1/3 cup olive oil
1/2 medium onion, chopped
Salt and pepper
8 large eggs

1. Peel and cut potatoes into 1-inch cubes. Sprinkle with salt and pepper.
2. Heat oil over medium heat. Add potatoes and cook 10 minutes. Stir in onion and cook an additional 30-40 minutes, stirring occasionally until potatoes are cooked through.
3. In a medium bowl beat eggs; add to potato mixture. Stir occasionally until eggs are cooked. Serve immediately with Italian bread.

Limbo

2010-04-13T10:53:00.006-04:00

The nuns always had us praying for the babies in Limbo, the destination spot for unbaptized infants went when they left the earth all too soon. We felt sorry for them because they couldn't be with Jesus. It was a place that was in between Heaven and Hell, where dead babies, tainted with original sin, but not with the opportunity to commit conscious sins, landed.

In Limbo there is neither the bliss of being with Jesus in Heaven nor the pain of hellfire and having to room with the Devil. It's an in-between state, comfortable but not ultimately where you want to be.

That's where I am now, sinner or not.

We've moved from a 3,000 sq ft house to our friend's 5,000 sq foot house, but we're still in the Hamptons aka Limbo. I love my friends, am grateful for their open-ended generosity, including my own master bedroom and bath, privacy when I need it, great company when we're together, and lots of laughs.

But it's not Brooklyn (Heaven)! Yeah, I know, "the grass is always greener", but I'm sick of grass. I'm ready for the "huddled masses" who floated by the Statue of Liberty on their way to Ellis Island. O.K. maybe most of them are dead by now. I'll settle for the polyglot on the NY subways, dirty streets and crowded sidewalks.

July 4th, my beloved grandfather's birthday, will have added meaning this year. On Independence Day we'll be just settling into our Brooklyn apartment. Looks like I won't have to wait for the end of the world like those innocent babies, to be outta Limbo.

Today's the Day

2010-03-23T05:32:00.002-04:00

The movers will be here at 9am. I've been up since 3:30 in anticipation. I've looked forward to this day for a long time. Our place in Brooklyn isn't available until June so I'll be living in limbo a little longer.

Gearing Up

2010-03-01T13:34:00.003-05:00

I confess. I haven't been blogging and I don't feel like blogging because blogging holds me accountable. I didn't even realize that anyone commented on any of my posts until two minutes ago.

I'm subbing at school and have had a very easy day with lots of free time. I brought the next piece I'm writing for memoir and at 1:35 (been here since 7:30) I haven't even looked at it. I've read the entire Sunday NY Times, Facebooked, emailed, phone-called and eaten more than once.

My writing class is Wednesday and the anxiety of a new piece, plus the prospect of going home to continue packing up for our move is paralyzing. My last writing class was two weeks ago and I did start a piece called, "Immigrants". I wrote pages and pages and everyone of them is shit.

Luckily, at 5:30am, a few days ago, an opening sentence came to me while I was still in bed. I knew I'd never remember it, so I jumped up and trekked to my office still foggy but determined. I now have two terrific paragraphs and the rest is still shit. Will writing on this blog move me, push me, help me to get going? If I had continued with my Zendo practice maybe I wouldn't be in this predicament or is this just the process?

Memoir

2010-02-08T11:37:00.004-05:00

DEATH TIMES TWO

Aunt Josephine is one of my favorite people. Even Mommy loves her. Daddy calls her Sister and everybody says she’s a piece of bread. I don’t know what that means, but I can tell that it’s good.
They say she took me to Radio City Music Hall, but I’m only five-years-old and I don’t remember. What I do remember is that she never yelled, like Mommy and Aunt Alice, and that she bought me and Patti a bulgy-eyed black fish with big wavy fins.
When she dumped the fish from the paper carton into our tiny fishbowl, it hit its head on the rock castle and died. My goldfish died too. We put cake crumbs in the bowl at my birthday party. Nobody knew fish couldn’t eat cake. The next morning they were floating on top of the water. Daddy flushed them down the toilet and I cried.
********
Patti and I are in the car with my cousin, Anthony. We’re laughing but I’m scared. Aunt Jo is in that big, ugly building. She’s in the basement. The lights are dim in there and it looks dirty. It’s nighttime and I don’t want to be in the car. Anthony says that this is Coney Island Hospital and kids aren’t allowed inside. I don’t know what a hospital is. To me, it looks like Dracula’s castle.
********
Today it’s gloomy. It’s drizzling. Everybody is very quiet and I know something bad is happening.
“Mommy, where are we going?”
“We’re going to Aunt Josephine and Uncle Frank’s house”.
They live in the back apartment of a stucco house next to the lot where Daddy and Uncle Mike park their buses.
Mommy doesn’t like to go out when it rains or drizzles.
“But, Mommy, it’s drizzling.”
“It’s o.k. honey, Laura and Lou are going to drive us there.”
Laura and Lou are Patti’s godparents and Mom and Dad’s best friends. Aunt Jo is my godmother. I wish Laura were my godmother too. She polishes our nails and puts our hair up in rags to make curls. She says that she wants a little girl, but she only has Joseph. Daddy wants a little boy and I wish Joseph could be my brother. He’s so much fun.
As we drive up to the house, a big red and white truck just pulls up. It has a cross on it. I wonder if they’re from school. There’s a big cross on the wall in my classroom.
We arrive at the back apartment. The front door opens into the green kitchen. I can see lots of people through the open bedroom door to the left before Laura whisks us into the tiny, windowless room on the other side of the kitchen. This apartment is even smaller than ours.
I hear someone crying and even though I’m with Patti and Joseph, I’m getting nervous. Laura wants us to be very quiet. She and Louie take turns leaving the room. I hear someone saying, “I can’t see. I can’t see.” Is it Aunt Jo? I think it is, but no one will tell me. Patti and Joseph are scared now too. Laura and Lou are whispering. She says, “Be good little children and stay here. Louie and I will be back in a minute.” They’re gone too long and now I’m curious and want to see what’s happening.
“I’ll be right back.” Patti doesn’t want me to leave. “Please stay. Laura will be mad at us.”
“No she won’t. She’s never mad. Don’t worry, I’ll be quiet.” Joseph do you want to come with me? No, I’ll stay with Patti.”
As I sneak into the kitchen I can see through the open bedroom door. I hear Big Grandma talking and can see Daddy, Big Grandpa and Uncle Frank who is holding Aunt Josephine’s hand. Aunt Alice and Uncle Mike are in the corner. She’s not making any noise, but I can see tears running down her face. Mommy, who’s also crying and Big Grandma are by the side of the bed. One of them is holding Aunt Jo’s other hand but I’m not sure who it is. There are a lot of people in the room but I can see Aunt Josephine. She’s white and isn’t wearing red lipstick. There’s a bottle hanging over her bed. I want to talk to her, but I’m afraid that I’ll cry too. I tiptoe back to our room and tell Patti and Joseph that everyone is crying.
********
It’ sunny today, but everybody is sad and quiet. Mommy is getting Patti and me dressed. We must be going somewhere special. Even Grandma and Grandpa are coming with us. “Daddy, why is that big, black wreath on the door? It’s not Christmas.” He turns to answer. “It’s….” but he doesn’t finish and quickly goes ahead of us down the steps and into the car.
********
This place smells funny. There are flowers everywhere; on the floor in baskets, on tables and even big ones that are taller than Daddy. There’s one with a clock on it. I like flowers, but now I’m not sure. These are stinky.
It’s dark in here even though there are big red lamps around the room. Mommy and Daddy are holding our hands. They say we’re going to see Aunt Josephine. I haven’t stopped being afraid. Nothing is the same, everybody is acting strange.
Aunt Jo is lying down in a box. Her lips are red and she’s in a long white dress. Mommy says it’s her wedding gown. I wasn’t at her wedding. I was too little. I want to know why she’s not moving. They tell me she’s with God in Heaven. I think they’re lying to me. I keep watching but I can’t see Aunt Jo breathe. Now I’m really scared. I think I’m crying. I want to go home.

Instead, they take us to Little Grandma’s house. She lives right down the street. Daddy says that Little Grandma and Little Grandpa speak broken English. I don’t know what that is, but I like to go to her house. There are always lots of people there and I get to play with other kids especially, Uncle Joe. He’s like Joseph, another “brother” but a big brother. He’s nine.
There’s nobody here today. We’re alone with Grandma in the basement.
“Nonna, come-a here. Wanna something to eata?”
“No Grandma.”
“You sure?
“I’m sure.”
“O.K. you twoa play.”
I’m reluctant to eat at Grandma’s. The last time I was here, Uncle Joe made mayonnaise sandwiches. I ate them until I was sick and haven’t eaten anything touched by mayo since.
Grandma has a light up picture of Jesus on the wall. His eyes follow you around wherever you go. Tonight I don’t like this picture. It’s creepy.
“Patti, Jesus is following you because you did something bad.”
“No I didn’t.”
“I see him staring at you.”
“He’s not.”
“Yes he is.”
She nervously looks at the picture and says, “Let’s hide under the table.”
From there I see Grandma asleep on the couch. I keep watching to see if she’s breathing. I’m not sure if she is. I want to go home. Both Patti and I are scared now. I’m glad. I don’t want to be scared alone.
********
I hate Big Grandma. She’s mean. She’s blaming Uncle Frank for making Aunt Jo go to Heaven. She say’s he’s a “leukemia babe”. No one will tell me what that is. I tell Grandma that I love Uncle Frank. He buys me ice cream. Grandma doesn’t want me to love him, so she tells me what he did. Aunt Josephine wanted to have a baby. Uncle Frank tried to give her one but his body was bad and instead he gave her leukemia. I hate that disease. Daddy keeps pinching our fingernails to see if we have it. He takes us to Dr. Panone who pricks my finger with a needle then matches the color of my blood to a chart. I always think that it’s lighter than he says and that maybe I have it too.

********
When I was eleven I remember Big Grandma making Grandpa eat liver that was almost raw. He’s had heart trouble for a long time, but even I know that you don’t eat raw liver for heart trouble. I think he has leukemia.
On Halloween I go downstairs to show Grandpa my costume.
“Oh, my, my, my…Come here and give Grandpa a kiss.”
“No, Grandpa. My lipstick will get on your face.” All I want to do is to go outside and Trick or Treat. He just smiles.
As I leave, I look back at him. He looks little in that big chair in the corner of the room. His friend, Harry, came from Maryland today to visit.
********
November is so cold, but our house is warm. Grandpa is getting worse and lots of people are coming to visit him. The blinds are closed and it’s dark in the living room. Daddy set up lots of chairs in the living room and it looks like in a funeral parlor. My relatives are pretty quiet which is unusual. They won’t let us come downstairs. Different relatives come up and stay with us. I hardly know some of them.
At one point I hear Grandpa scream. I think he’s dead. I’m holding my breath. The people with me are afraid too. Someone comes up later. They’re whispering, but I can hear them. He’s not dead. He hemorrhaged blood from his mouth. He has pernicious anemia. It won’t be long.
I’m praying like mad. I don’t want Grandpa to go to Heaven even if Aunt Jo is there. He’s my favorite person. He loves me. He lets me watch Farmer Gray cartoons on his little TV. Sometimes he takes me for a ride in his car when Mommy will let him. Whenever I come into the room he says, “Oh, my, my, my, my!” He thinks I’m pretty. He rubs his face against mine and laughs while Big Grandma scolds him. She says he didn’t shave and he’ll give me a rash. I don’t mind his rough face, rough hands, or rough manner. I want him to hug me and kiss me. I think he’s the only one who does. Why didn’t I kiss him on Halloween?
It’s late at night. Daddy and Mommy want us to get out of bed. I’m tired. They’re taking us downstairs. There are so many people in that little room. It’s so dark.
Daddy carries me into the bedroom. Mommy carries Patti. There’s a little light next to the bed. Grandpa is so thin and white. His mouth is wide open and his nose is all dry and pinched and it looks very long. Daddy lowers me down to kiss him goodbye. I don’t want to but I do. Can this be Big Grandpa? His skin looks like wax and feels funny. I’m hysterical now and they take me through a row of people, back to our upstairs apartment.
That night I dreamed that Grandpa was alive. He didn’t die, it was a mistake! I hear voices on the front porch and run to the window. It’s Uncle Mike and Daddy. They look tired. I quietly open the window a little and listen.
“Joey, do you think the kids will remember Papa?”
“I don’t know.”
“How are you gonna tell them?”
I burst into tears and throw myself on the bed. Patti wakes up to my sobs and murmurs. “He’s dead, he’s dead.”
In that moment, I hate God and I hate Heaven.
********
Everybody is wearing black even me. Aunt Alice bought me a sleeveless black blouse with a beige collar that matches a cream and black striped flared skirt this summer in the Chubby Department at A & S Department Store. It’s November 10th. I remember because we had no school on the eleventh, Veteran’s Day.
Big Grandpa is a suit. He looks so beautiful. I touch his arm and it feels like it’s stuffed with straw. Once again, I watch for breathing. I sit there watching, hoping. Did I see his chest move?
********
Big Grandpa was gone forever and our house was never the same. All the people who used to visit Grandpa, Uncle John to them, gradually stopped coming. I think Grandma drove them away. She got more bitter and venomous everyday—a son, a daughter, a husband, all gone forever.
Daddy wouldn’t let us listen to the radio or watch TV for a longtime. He said it was to show respect for the dead. He refused to be Gumba Mike’s best man at his wedding that winter even though he was his best and oldest friend. So Uncle Mike did the honors. He thought Daddy was old-fashioned.
The Fourth of July, Grandpa’s birthday, lost its magic. We still had fireworks, but it was just a reminder that he was gone—to Heaven with God. That was the year I started hating God and I haven’t quite recovered.

The Party Continues

2010-02-07T21:09:00.006-05:00

Thursday night we had a birthday dinner for our friend, Lilia. We invited another couple and found out that Mike and Lilia share the same birthday. Dinner was good: Roast Pork in Tarragon Mustard, Fried Cauliflower, Roasted Butternut Squash, Roasted Yukon Potatoes with Rosemary and a little Tomato Salad for color. The cake was straight out of my friend, Michele Scicolone's new Italian Slow Cooker book: Chocolate Truffle Cake. It was delicious. I made a chocolate plate which included homemade Chocolate Biscotti. The wines were excellent: 2005 Coppola Rubicon and 2000 Chateau Yon-Figeac.

Last night had a Margarita Party--quite different--lots of shrimp, lots of tequila, lots of dancing!

It's been a fun week.

Sorry, I can't seem to upload any photos.

Party Weekend

2010-02-02T18:14:00.005-05:00

The Haitian Relief Benefit in Brooklyn on Saturday raised about $3400 (including matching funds). That was terrific since the door donation was only $10. The Silent Auction helped and Michael Aram's Poppy Bowl brought the biggest bid of any item. Thanks again, Michael.

Sunday was a long day. All of Mom's remaining siblings and my cousins came for lunch. There was so much food that no one left the table for four hours! It reminded all of us of old-fashioned holiday get-togethers. We had lots of laughs. La famiglia left at 5:30 and at 6:30 we left to go a friend's 70th birthday party at Barge Music next to the River Cafe.

The next morning we left to meet friends, Charles and Michele Scicolone for lunch at Mia Dona on East 58th. It was an excellent meal, good wine and conversation with old friends--the best ending to a long weekend.

Tomorrow I'll have another video to post: Mom, Aunt Tessie and cousins Making Potatoes and Eggs.

On Moving--It's a Mindset

2010-01-27T09:03:00.005-05:00

The push is on. I've buried St. Joseph under the front lawn, have a feng shui altar in the appropriate part of our house and took the advice of a "witch" who told me to spread honey at the foot of our front door and sprinkle it with gold glitter to attract money. I've done it all and frankly, we're showing the house more in the last month than we've shown it in a year. The market is moving again for those of you who are wondering. My friend, a real estate lawyer, is very busy these days.

I just finished the book, "On Moving" by Louise DeSalvo, A Writer's Meditation on New Houses, Old Haunts, and Finding a Home Again. Chapter One starts off: "A Perfect Place...You're restless, dissatisfied. You tell yourself that everything wrong with your life is because of where you're living." The entire first paragraph is so right on. My moving fantasy will catch up with reality eventually, but right now it's hard to be in this place (mentally and physicall). All the "live in the now" philosophy is going down the tubes. I'm "futurizing" (bad) and hoping instead that this is a visualization (good). Today's word is "meditate". I'll be lucky if I can sleep with all this mental whirling.

The good news is that brokers want us to empty our basement in order to make the house more "sale-able". I've been trying to get Rob to do this for three years. Once a "professional" made the suggestion, it was a done deal.

What I didn't realize (because Rob has so much "s---" in the basement is that so do I). It was hidden in a crawlspace and I had forgotten any of it existed!

The basement is now filled with big moldy boxes, brought from our brownstone, sixteen years ago. They are waiting for my attention. One of them has the girls baby clothes (they are now 38 & 39 years old), a bunch of crocheted dresses, ponchos and sweaters made by a dear friend, and clothing that I had made for them including Easter coats. Half of the stuff was molded and stained (we didn't know how damp it was in the crawl space). Mold, a gift from the gods, made it easy for me to throw out half of these precious items, but the other half are torturing me.

Jenna doesn't want anything, including her baby shoes and I don't even want to tell Kate what's down there because like me, she'll get stuck in the memories. I can remember living in Germany when I crocheted a blanket for my firstborn, what house held the sewing machine that stitched their Easter coats, our move to the Park Slope brownstone where I made zippered bathrobes from towels. I look at the matching outfits I bought because they were only a year apart in age--Irish twins, Rob called them.

This morning I read all the first birthday and christening cards sent to our girls. It made me sad to see notes from so many people whom I loved who are dead. I've decided to send these to the girls and let them dispose of them since I can't.

What to do with thirty framed family photos that lined the long hallway in our brownstone or the enlarged wedding photos of my grandparents and parent's that I had on our parlor walls where the ceilings were thirteen feet high.

What happened to "detachment"? These boxes have been an awakening as to how asleep I really am. Just when you think you're on the spiritual high road, the Ego pops up and laughs. My Ego is laughing so hard, it's crying!

Like everything else, I'll get through this but it's going to be painful.

Another Week

2010-01-15T15:58:00.001-05:00

I can't believe that I haven't posted for a week. I've very busy and the the memoir piece that I've been writing is the longest so far and very draining. I'll be back soon.

Spicy Mexican Soup

2010-01-08T10:57:00.004-05:00

Although I'm not big on soup for dinner, these snowy days and nights have prompted me to rethink soup as a main course.

I made this recipe a couple of days ago and had friends over last night. They loved it especially because it was very spicy. Light sour cream cools the palate a little. I've also been inspired by my friend, Marie Simmon's vegetarian blog. I did her black bean soup a couple of weeks ago--loved it.

By the way, I used the Vidalia Chop Wizard to dice all the vegetables. My cooking comrades, Michael and Lilia Collins, swore by it so I parted with twenty bucks at Bed, Bath and Beyond. It's terrific when you have lots of chopping to do.

Here goes:

SPICY MEXICAN SOUP
Makes 12 cups (6-8 servings)
For a heartier soup, add cubed tofu or leftover chicken. This is very spicy. To cut the heat, use less adobo. An alternative to light sour cream--Greek (Fage) yogurt.

8 ounces green beans trimmed and cut into thirds
2 small zucchini, washed and trimmed, diced or sliced
2 medium tomatillos (about 1 cup) diced
1 medium onion, chopped
1 medium jalapeno, seeds removed, minced
½ poblano chili pepper, chopped
3 large garlic cloves, minced
½ teaspoon each, dried oregano and ground cumin
2 roasted red peppers packed in water
1 tablespoon chipotle pepper in adobo sauce
6 cups vegetable broth or water
1 (14 ounce) can diced tomatoes with mild green chilies
1 (15 ounce) can kidney beans, rinsed and drained
1 cup frozen corn kernels
¾ cup chopped cilantro, divided
2 tablespoons lime juice
Salt to taste
Light sour cream, optional
Warm corn tortillas, optional

1. Coat a Dutch oven with vegetable oil spray. Place over medium heat. Add green beans and next 6 ingredients including dried spices. Cover and cook 15 minutes, stirring occasionally.
2. Meanwhile, place the red peppers and chipotle peppers in the bowl of a mini processor. Pulse until pureed. Stir into vegetables in Dutch oven.
3. Add broth, tomatoes, beans, and corn to pot. Cover and bring to a boil. Uncover, reduce heat and simmer, 20 minutes until vegetables are tender. Stir in ½ cup cilantro and lime juice. To serve, garnish with remaining cilantro and a dollop of sour cream.

C: 2010 Linda Romanelli Leahy

A Christmas Gift

2010-01-07T20:46:00.007-05:00

It's been a while since my last post. I have many ideas but none on paper so today I'm showing you a Christmas present from our new weekend neighbor, Michael Aram. It's his Olive Branch Dish. Unfortunately, we ate half of the olives before I thought to take a photo. Then again, maybe I should have taken a photo of the dish sans olives.

When Michael and Aret first moved to the block I never asked for last names. It wasn't relevant. A couple of months later I had a party to introduce them to all the neighbors. We had a great time and when Michael was leaving he suggested that we become Facebook friends. When he wrote down his full name, I started screaming like a teenager. I kept saying, "Michael Aram! You're Michael Aram!" Aret just rolled his eyes and and said, "Oh God!".

You have to understand. I live in the Hamptons and see Hollywood celebrities around town. I assure you that I have never acted the way I did when meeting Michael. After all celebrities are only actors. Michael is not an actor, but a designer. Normally that wouldn't impress me either. The longer I live, the more I realize that people are just people, what they do, a sideline. So, by now you're asking, why all the fuss?

Well, for three years I ran fundraisers for an AIDS organization called Body Positive. The event took place at the ocean side home of Jerry Della Femina and Judy Licht. Our Silent Auction was always a success thanks to people like Michael who donated beautiful items every year. Once on a trip to Virginia I was surprised to find some of his pieces in a local store. It hadn't occurred to me that his business was national or even international.

Anyway, my reaction that day was so spontaneous, it surprised even me. Who would have thought that my neighbor would be this generous person who helped us out when called on or that I would act like a crazy person. You just never know.

I haven't been to his flagship store yet. It's at 136 West 18th Street (6th & 7th Ave)NYC. Maybe we'll bump into each other there at some future time. Let's support business people with heart. Aret, stop rolling your eyes!

Writing a Book

2009-12-27T12:45:00.002-05:00

I'm killing time before we go to lunch and a movie so I thought I'd look at the Overview for my memoir which I had written about ten years ago. What a shock! I can't believe that I posted it in that shape. It was rambling, and poorly written. The realization that the book I'm writing now has evolved into something so totally different than envisioned originally, was jolting.
This is no longer a cookbook with light family anecdotes. It's become a very serious work with an occasional fun story. I may or may not include a few recipes at the end of the book but that option is no longer all-important to me.
The book is driving me and I'm not sure where this journey will end.

Struffoli Recipe

2009-12-22T18:47:00.004-05:00

Today I experimented and made the struffoli twice as large as my grandmother would have liked. They turned out soft and a little more like small donut holes. Grandma was right--smaller is better. They're crunchy.
The photo I've taken doesn't do justice to the small ones. They're a week old, still taste great, but the multi-colored sprinkles ran and the struffoli looks dark, a little blue in fact.

Here's the recipe that I've made four times this week!

STRUFFOLI
Makes 6 cups (about 8 servings)
This is an old family recipe. If you prefer larger struffoli (which our family didn’t), cut each rope into 1/2-thick slices. The texture will be softer than the smaller struffoli.

2-1/2 cups all-purpose flour
3 tablespoons sugar
2 teaspoons baking powder
Pinch of salt
¼ cup vegetable oil
3 large eggs
1-1/2 teaspoons vanilla extract
Vegetable oil for frying
1 cup honey
1/3 cup nonpareil multi-colored sprinkles

1. Add flour, sugar, baking powder and salt to the bowl of a food processor; pulse to mix ingredients.
2. Combine the oil, eggs and vanilla in a 2-cup measure. With the processor running, slowly pour the liquid through the feed tube. Process until the dough forms a ball.
3. Turn the dough on a lightly floured work surface; knead 30 seconds and cover with wax paper or a clean towel.
4. Place paper towels on a jelly roll pan or cut open paper bags and place on counter. Heat 2-inches of oil in a wok or a wide saucepan over medium heat. Wait 5-10 minutes then splash a drop of water on the surface of the oil. If the oil sizzles, it’s ready for frying.
5. Meanwhile, cut the dough into 10 slices. Roll one slice between the palms of your hand until a thick rope forms. Finish rolling the dough back and forth with your hands on a large cutting board into a ½-thick rope then cut each rope into ¼-inch pieces.
6. Place enough struffoli in the oil without crowding. Cook, stirring once or twice with a slotted metal spoon or skimmer until the struffoli are golden brown on all sides, 1-2 minutes. Remove with spoon and drain on paper towels or bags. Repeat with remaining dough. Place cooled struffoli into a large bowl.
7. While the last batch of struffoli are frying, gently heat the honey. Pour over struffoli and toss well. Decorate with sprinkles. Store in an airtight container up to two weeks. Stir and spoon onto a platter or shallow bowl to serve. Sprinkle with more nonpareils.

The Struffoli Wars

2009-12-19T21:06:00.005-05:00

As Christmas approached, a very emotional and chaotic holiday, the neighborhood geared up for some friendly warfare.
Our household was no exception. The commotion began with shopping for presents, keeping the house from total turmoil as we kids searched for those presents, sending cards in near global proportions, and finally baking at a manic pace. Mom and Big Grandma would call a truce during this time. They needed each other to get the work done, especially the baking which was serious business at the holidays.
Each rival household would get to flaunt their traditional holiday desserts for neighbors, friends and most importantly for other branches of the family.
Stuffoli, for instance, those innocent, sweet, fried dough balls draped in honey and covered with colored sprinkles, engendered jealousy, competition and back-biting; all the makings for tribal war.
Big Grandma knew that anyone who stopped in for coffee close to Christmas Eve really came to spy! What were we making, and in what quantities? Who were we giving it to? Perhaps they could have a nibble. But Grandma outsmarted them. After baking, she put all the goodies on top of an old chifforobe in her bedroom. Only a select few were chosen to indulge in these guarded treasures. The rest would be gifts.
Neapolitan mothers, grandmothers, aunts, sisters, cousins, and neighbors all claimed to have the best, most authentic family recipe ever found in America. This, of course, is a declaration of war.
The same call to arms happens across the ocean in large and small villages on the Italian peninsula. The troops gather in kitchens in every Italian neighborhood to make prodigious amounts of struffoli to be sent into enemy camps. Everyone is convinced that one taste of their struffoli will overwhelm their rivals into docile submission. But it rarely happens.
After all, this is a matter of pride. And of course, each baker has rules. First, there’s the question of size. Those who preferred struffoli small accused those who made them big of laziness because it takes more time and patience to cut tiny pieces of dough. Taken to the extreme, there would always be someone who made these dough balls the size of a pea. This technique would yield thousands, but they would be too small to pick up with your fingers, the only way to eat struffoli in my family. Those who heaped them on a plate and ate them with a small spoon were considered “high-flautin”. Even worse, tossing in a little candied fruit with the sprinkles sent you to the nether realms of suspicion—there must be a Sicilian in your family tree.
Big Grandma and Mom clashed on size. While the oil heated, Grandma ripped open brown paper bags and laid them on the counter. Heaps of greasy dough balls were dumped on the paper to drain.
“Edie, why are you making them so small? We’ll be here all night.”
“You want them to look like Dona Maria’s, big and doughy?”
Grandma, now agitated, “You know hers are crap. She doesn’t put any sugar in the dough. How could you compare?” In spite of Mom’s slur, Grandma starts rolling thicker ropes and cutting larger pieces. She knew that eventually Mom would weary and make bigger balls too. It’s the inevitable outcome of fatigue and boredom.
Finally, tired of fighting each other, in silence, they cut furiously. They’d show Dona Maria!
When making struffoli, not only is size important, so is the texture. Our family preferred their struffoli on the hard side. Others, to our disdain, made struffoli that were soft, or as the splinter group might say, “tender”. These had no character and no place on our table.
One especially frenzied year, Mom made huge, perfectly round struffoli. Each candied ball looked exactly like the next, an almost impossible feat. When I bit into one of those pieces of perfection, my top and bottom teeth crashed into each other. Mom’s normally dense struffoli were air puffs, fakes—Stella D’oro knock-offs that Mom bought in a package and doctored with honey. Outrage and shame guaranteed that these imposters never graced our table again.
After all, making Struffoli was a creative and artistic endeavor. Some of our neighbors shaped these balls into rings and decorated them like wreaths. We piled them up on a plate until they looked like the Great Pyramid.
Although struffoli have no connection to Egypt it does to Greece. Little do these women warriors know that struffoli were probably brought to Naples from Greece during the thirteenth century B.C. The name is derived from the Greek words, “strongulos pristos” meaning “little round balls that are cut out”. So unless we Italians have a Greek ancestor, no one has the “real” traditionally authentic recipe.
Of course, Italians would dispute this; their need to fight over nonsense, being paramount. But there is one thing that they can all agree on and that’s that struffoli will last for a couple of weeks in a Tupperware bowl with the air sucked out. No need for a face-off. This bit of shared and accepted information allowed the struffoli-makers to co-exist until the next baking war erupted at Easter.

War At Home And On The Front

2009-12-11T12:49:00.004-05:00

Another piece of the Memoir puzzle--

My father was a family-man with a photographic memory. Fifty years after owning a bus company, he could name a street in the Bronx and tell you the landmarks on each corner. He never forgot anything. His camera eyes filmed childhood hurts and triumphs and his spoken memories remained alive long after he did.
In his youth, he was President of his high-school Glee Club, and voted the student with the best smile. He studied aviation at a high school in Manhattan. When he graduated at seventeen, he was offered a job in Hawaii at Pearl Harbor. My grandparents refused to sign the permission slip. One of his classmates who took the job, was never found. Dad said he had dodged a bullet.
His oldest brother and favored child, Anthony, spent four years in Europe during the war. He was a Lieutenant and Dad wanted to follow his blond-haired, blue-eyed hero.
To his dismay, he was turned down by the Army, Air Force and Marines because he had a punctured eardrum. He was elated when the Navy accepted him, but was pulled from the line minutes before his swearing in and labeled 4F. He’d never be one of John Wayne’s guys who fought the Japs and Krauts, so he did the next best thing and joined the National Guard. In photos, he posed with a gun and his armed buddies, all rejects, in a fighting stance. His smiling face belied the feeling of being cheated of some glorious war experience. Later he admitted, with guilt, that being pulled from the line was probably the second bullet he dodged.
What he didn’t dodge were bitter feelings toward his father. After Big Grandpa’s death he’d sometimes “spill the beans”. In these stories, Dad could still feel the sting of a cat o’nine tails, a brutal whipping instrument that Grandpa used to beat his children. He tried to force my dad to gag down food that he hated and when calamari was just too loathsome to swallow and he refused, Grandpa sent him to bed with a smack. Aunt Josephine, feeling sorry for him, snuck him food during the night. Grandpa heard her and made sure she’d never do it again. Rage doesn’t play gender games.
Although these incidents only strengthened Dad’s bond with his siblings, it was Mama to whom he was fiercely loyal. He remembered how she tried to protect him from Grandpa’s blows. But taking a hit for her kids didn’t always assuage his father. When he was drunk everyone was fair game.
Dad and his brothers eventually conspired to end Grandpa’s abuse. When Dad spoke of this, his body tensed, his voice hardened and he sounded like Big Grandpa. God knows, he looked just like him but hated when people made the comparison.
“We waited, Babe, until we were big enough and old enough to put Papa in his place. We threatened him.” I held my breath. “We stood over him and told him that it was over. If he ever laid another hand on Mama or Sister, he was dead.”
Three brothers, one threat, and Grandpa sobered up fast. The beatings stopped, but the anger and damage remained; a family fractured, violence, always a well-worn knee-jerk reaction.

But cruelty was again catapulted into their lives by a ringing doorbell. This time Dad didn’t tense when he told the story. He just seemed sad and faraway.
“It was April, 1944,” he said. “The doorbell rang. Sister and Mama were at home. There was a soldier at the door. Sister stood frozen, unwilling to open the door and let him in knowing what would follow. Anthony was dead, killed in a motorcycle accident in England, a head-on collision with a truck.”
Aunt Jo did not want to let in the grief the open door would bring. Neither did I as I listened to the story.
Dad stared into space. I was silent, still reeling from another miserable story about Big Grandpa, my hero, and the senselessness of Uncle Anthony’s death. Four years in combat and a freak accident took him down. Later, to add to my misery, Big Grandma showed me Uncle Anthony’s photo album, a story of his courtship.
It begins with a Girl, in a fabulous 1940’s outfit smiling under a wide-brimmed hat. She walks into a park. A GI follows her. The middle of the album is filled with photos of the GI trying to get to know the Girl—tipping his hat, handing her a flower, sitting on a bench. The last photo I remember well. Boy and Girl leave park arm in arm, smiling. Boy found Girl but in the end Girl loses Boy. There’s no background music playing, "Here We Go Into the Wild Blue Yonder" for this dead soldier. This was nothing like the movies that Dad and I watched together. In these films, men at war always died bravely and bloodlessly, with no mention of the grieving families left behind. There were no senseless head-on collisions. That album haunted me.
It affected Grandma too because when she looked at it, she became hateful. Venomously, she said, “She was no good. I tried to get the engagement ring back, but the bitch wouldn’t give it to me. She had no right to keep it. Anthony bought it and it belonged to us.” She couldn't stand looking at those photos of Uncle Anthony’s beautiful fiancé probably because she was alive and her son wasn’t. The photos fed her anger but I didn't understand that then.
At that moment I wanted to scream at Grandma for her brutal response to a tragic situation. But I was young and didn’t scream, because Daddy would have been very mad at me. All I knew then was that Big Grandma was horrible.
I took the book to my room and grieved for the Uncle I had never met, his beautiful fiancé whose name I didn’t know, for my father’s disappointment at not having served in the military, and even for my Grandmother, whose unspoken grief wrecked havoc on all of us. I carried that grief for a long time.
Dad didn’t fare much better. He choked on these memories and promises made yet remained blind with loyalty to Mama and his ever-errant, brother, Mikey, his only remaining sibling and my favorite, bad-boy uncle.

Sooooo Behind!

2009-12-08T12:34:00.002-05:00

Four weeks away from my routine has been unsettling. We helped our daughter, son-in-law and grandson move cross country. Everyone was anxious.

I've been back a week and am still trying to find my legs. Quinn kept me up every night, now I'm keeping myself up! Took a little Nyquil for a cough last night, still couldn't get to sleep so I took a Midnight (melatonin-I think) tablet at eleven. Up again at 2:30 am--took another Midnight (instructions say they're made to take in the middle of the night). I don't know if it was the combination of stuff, but I felt like I was in a dream and neither fully asleep or awake. When I finally got of bed I felt woozy and nauseous and finally depressed.

I'm grateful for my friend, Donna, who insisted on coming over to cheer me up. Normally, I'd put her off but didn't have the strength to protest. She brought me a bag of her Fat-Ass Peppermint Fudge. Believe me there's nothing like sugar and butter and conversation to jolt you back to realty.

I wrote a memoir piece last month, have to rework it and hope I have it up by Thursday. I'm feeling like a slacker.

Moving and Books

2009-11-06T10:58:00.003-05:00

Whenever we move, Rob and I have a hard time discarding books. Yes, we bring them to the library but it still feels like abandoning old friends. I've solved the problem at present by not buying any more books. I borrow them from the library and friends. Yet, I have basementfull of those from our previous move fifteen years ago.

Who would have thought that I'd have this dilemma in Cleveland! Rob's been packing dishes, while I've been going through books. Although I've culled five bags so far, there are those that Jenna and Chris will have look at first. Then there's another category: they don't want them but I can't part with them and they're not even my books!

After sleeping on a pile to take back to NY with me, I was able to put a few more in the library bags. I'm left with, Crazy in the Kitchen, A Tree Grows in Brooklyn, Slaughterhouse-Five, Interview with the Vampire, The Alienist and Fruitful (the best book on "Motherhood" that I've ever read).

My children's move is a preview to my own--I'm looking forward books and all.

November--Heaven or Hell Month

2009-11-01T17:49:00.003-05:00

It's all Souls' Day and I'm thinking of my Grandfather's death, but have little time to reflect or write.

We're off to Cleveland on Tuesday to help the kids pack for the big move to San Francisco. We'll also be entertaining Quinn while Jenna finishes up her last week at work.

We're coming back to Brooklyn with Quinn so he can visit with "bisnonna" (great-grandma) and do some city things before he becomes a child of the Wild West. Finally we come to the Hampton's for four days to party with friend's grandchildren.

On the 19th I drive Rob to Islip Airport. He's off to Cleveland again to drive cross-country with Jenna while Chris drives the truck. I leave from Brooklyn the next day with Quinn on United (thank God, I couldn't take another road trip--I swear I think I'm getting "car butt"--it's flat and square!)

Fortunately, Jenna is flying the dog to SF separately. Kate gets to have him three days before Quinn and I arrive. Hopefully, Rob and the gang will reach SF the day before Thanksgiving (Rockies' weather permitting) then we leave the day after. Are you still following?

I'm totally stressed, but will try to use all the good, positive stuff I've learned from gurus over the years--deep breathing, exercise, vitamins, one day at a time living, imaging, laughing and loving my grandson to pieces.

I'm Back!

2009-10-24T21:00:00.003-04:00

It's amazing how long it's been since I've written on this blog. I was in Cleveland for Quinn's 5th birthday. Also helped the kids "start" to get ready for their move to San Francisco. Rob will be driving across the country with them on November 19th. I get to fly with Quinn on the 20th. This will be the first Thanksgiving that we're all spending together. Kate is very happy that she won't have to fly across the country for holidays.

I see my last blog post included the Pumpkin and Macaroni recipe. Well, I still had half a pumpkin and found the most wonderful cranberry beans at the farmer's market, so I did a faux Pasta e Fagioli Con Zucca (with Pumpkin).

Just add the shelled cranberry beans (about a pound) and a sprig of fresh oregano to the broth/water and cook 20-30 minutes until tender. If you have any tomato sauce in the fridge, stir in about 1/3 cup. Finally add the nuked pumpkin and cooked pasta. This makes 4-6 servings depending on first or main course use.

Cooking Video with Mom and Aunt Tessie

2009-10-12T19:44:00.002-04:00

I'll be posting a very funny video. I tried to explain the recipe that we did, but it was tough with all the commentary and laughing in the background. Mom came to life in this video. I'm not sure how many servings this makes. I'd say 2-4 depending. When I make it again, I'll measure and let you know.

Aunt Tess doesn't nuke the pumpkin. In that case you'd probably have to cook the raw pumpkin with the onions and garlic for at least 15 minutes. Add broth and water and cook until pumpkin is soft. Again this is a guess, since I haven't tested it.

Here's the recipe as done in the video:

PUMPKIN AND MACARONI

4 pound pumpkin, cut in half and seeded
1/2 pound penne rigate or pasta of choice
3 tablespoons olive oil
1/2 medium onion, chopped
2 large garlic cloves, chopped
1 can (14-1/2 ounces) chicken broth
Salt and freshly ground pepper to taste

1. Place 1/2 the pumpkin on a microwave safe plate (reserve the other half for another use). Add 2 tablespoons water and cover with saran wrap. Microwave on High about 8 minutes. Let stand 5 minutes; cut into 2-inch cubes.
2. Meanwhile, cook pasta according to package directions; drain and set aside.
3. Heat oil in a medium saucepan; add onions and garlic. Cover and cook over medium heat 5 minutes until soft. Add pumpkin, stir and cook 3 minutes.
4. Add chicken broth and 1 can of water; stir. Add macaroni, salt and pepper: heat to a simmer. Serve immediately.

Book: Big Grandma

2009-10-08T16:13:00.004-04:00

Big Grandpa loved me, but I don’t think he loved Grandma any longer. She told me that he courted her even though everyone called her a spinster. They married when she was twenty-four.

Spiteful even as a young woman, she refused to give her sewing machine to her younger sister, Mary, who would marry first. She always told this story with a gleeful sense of victory over some long-ago battle. Neither woman was a gentle soul. They were tough and could be mean.

I inherited a beautiful photo of Grandma and her sisters, all-blue-eyed, dressed in white-turn-of-the century frocks. Big Grandma almost looked pretty, and shockingly thin. This was not the Big Grandma I remembered.

When I was older, my mother told me that Grandma had hated our calling her Big Grandma, the implication being that she was fat, which she was. But as a child perceptions lend themselves to voice. I didn’t call her Big Grandma because she was fat, but because she seemed much taller than Little Grandma, an immigrant from Naples. Even though Big Grandma and Big Grandpa, both American-born, seemed taller, photos belie my childish perception. Maybe they had the confidence, assurance and presence of being American-born; the stature that comes with being natives and so, they seemed “bigger” to me. These qualities did not extend to their intimate life together.

I think that Big Grandma, born Maddelena, later called Maggie and finally Margaret was in love with Grandpa once. She laughingly told me how she and Grandpa sneaked kisses in the living room while her parents were in the kitchen. I couldn’t imagine them smooching, but they did.

Their courtship ended with the hard reality of marriage. Grandpa drank too much and when he did, he hit Grandma. Did she hit him back or slug him with a mouthful of curses? Everyone said that Grandma had the mouth of a truck driver and was very provocative.

The story that she told over and over again was one where her mouth served her. Grandpa used to look at her in disgust and say that she ate like a pig. Grandma’s retort, “You watch me when I eat but not when I work!” She would laugh at what she thought was a smart-ass answer, but I didn’t think this was funny. Was this the girl who studied German and had a keen mind for mathematics; the talented girl who crocheted, knitted and sewed beautiful things; the thrifty cook who also took joy in baking; the girl who laughed easily until she had little to laugh about? Was that girl sorry for her marriage? If she hadn’t found Grandpa, would the envy of having three married sisters have made her bitter anyway?

My mother, not a witness to Big Grandpa’s violence, and certainly not a fan of Grandma, got agitated at the thought. She said that there was no reason good enough to ever hit a woman, even my grandmother. Mom loved Grandpa almost as much as I did and knew the good man of later years, not the abusive shit he once was. An object of great sentiment to me was, as it turns out, one of Grandpa's weapons.

Grandma gave me an antique metal iron that sits on a cast iron base. She would heat the iron on the stove until it was hot enough to press but not burn their clothes. She gave it to me as a reminder of how hard life was, but I didn’t understand. At that time I thought it was just a relic of the past, something interesting.

No one escaped when Grandpa was on the warpath. Aunt Josephine, his only daughter and oldest child, was often the target of his rage. The first time she wore lipstick he smacked her in the mouth hard enough to bleed. Another time, he threw that antique iron at her head. His aim was good and she needed to be stitched up.

This object of utility and violence is now a door-stop. Aunt Jo was lucky to survive five-and-a half pounds of iron.

Grandma never forgot anything and these painful memories turned to poison that seeped from her mouth and infected everyone around her. Her manipulations pitted brother against brother, husband against wife, sister-in-law against sister-in-law and Grandma on some deep level, against everyone. She caused trouble, was trouble and took pleasure in malice. The mirror on the wall now beheld the dark visage of this once young, shiny girl in a white frock.

Chestnuts

2009-10-06T20:04:00.003-04:00

Rob and I walked to town a couple of days ago. On Ocean Road there are big, old Horse Chestnut trees. Their fruit is encased in bumpy, hard shells. We were in luck. On the ground were split shells and shining through were chestnuts! In fact, I had never seen such shiny-skinned chestnuts. I chalked it up to "fresh", right off the tree.

With recipes floating in my head, I began picking them up, stuffing them into my fanny pack. I enlisted Rob's help, promising delectable Fall dishes. I was upset when Rob's pockets were full and considered going back to the house to get a bag. Rob reminded me that we had enough and should leave some for the squirrels.

I hadn't considered the squirrels. We were taking their winter stash? The thought made me uneasy. Was I depriving another mammal of sustenance? As Big Grandma would say, "You're taking food right out of his mouth!" Damn the squirrels. They're just rats with fluffy tails, right?

I decided to roast the chestnuts, try a few, and use the rest for a dessert. I soaked them for a few hours and Rob, my kitchen slave, painstakingly cut tiny x's into each one. Checking them after 20 minutes, I noticed that they were "oozing". I had never seen a chestnut "ooze" before. When they were done, I peeled a few. I had never seen a chartreuse chestnut before either! I reluctantly tasted one and spit it out faster than a speeding bullet!

Was this punishment for a spiritually bankrupt act of thievery? So, I stole some nuts from a squirrel. I didn't think the Eight Commandment applied to rodents.

Park Slope Stoop Sale

2009-10-05T10:26:00.002-04:00

Stoop sale was fun except for the verbal attack by three resident-owners who tracked me down as the organizer of this disgusting "block" event. Friends and I put flyers on the block (inside doors of houses actually) last week promoting block participation. I listed my phone number but got no calls. They all denied getting a flyer.
Here were the bulls---objections: Young owner with the biggest house on the block, "I don't want to look out of my window and see this"--he had a tree in front of his house the size of Mt. Vesuvius and would have to go to the 2nd floor to see anything! Is this for profit (dirty-word from Mr. Moneybags)? And if so, "How dare you!"
Nasty old guy: Threateningly, "Who gave you permission to do this? Don't ever do this again." There wasn't even anyone in front of his house at the other end of the street. He wants a copy of the flyer sent to "Landlord"--wouldn't even give me his name (A--hole). Later in the day, he and the missus walked to our end of the street to "glare" at me like I was a foreign invader! Crazy nonsense.
A woman told me she didn't get a flyer and didn't like "this" happening on her block. Although angry, she was the nicest of the three so I dutifully apologized and offered to remove the tables in front of her house. That assuaged her and tables remained.
What's wrong with people? This is age of Obama--community service, neighborly interaction, good communication. I lived in Park Slope before the neighborhood turned into this elitist, snob-driven enclave. We had block sales all the time and left the unsold stuff on the street overnight only to find it all gone in the morning. This time I had to police the block and make sure everyone took their unsold stuff with them when they left. Is this really the neighborhood that I want to move back to????

In Your Backyard

2009-09-30T17:51:00.004-04:00

We have a Couza Dogwood tree out back that needs a good trimming. I've pretty much ignored it through the years, but this Fall I took notice.

Someone told us that the fruit of this tree is edible and this year the tree is dripping with ripe fruit. Each one looks like a bumpy chestnut husk but smaller, red and soft. The flesh inside is creamy, the color and taste much like that of a mango--delicious but without the annoying mango fibers that get stuck in your teeth. Although fiberless, there are pits inside of this fruit. They're smaller than cherry pits, and each fruit has multiples not just one. When picked up by its stem, these fruits look like lollipops.

It seems there is always something new to discover, but you never expect it to be in your backyard!

Writing Group

2009-09-29T21:35:00.002-04:00

I love the women in my writing group. Their stories are so rich and varied. I just read Ruth Jacobsen's, Rescued Images. She was one of the hidden Jewish children in Holland during World War 11.

Ruth is an artist and the book is filled with her collages including photos of her family. It's beautifully done. I recommend it to all. In fact, I'm going to bring it to school when I sub and read parts of it during my ELA class.

It's amazing what people can survive. After reading this, I felt very happy to have been born in America.

Book: Coney Island

2009-09-23T11:49:00.003-04:00

Big Grandma and Mommy had another fight.
“Mind your own business, you witch”, my mother screamed down at the solitary figure at the bottom of the stairs.”
“Don’t you talk to me like that” she screamed back. “I’ll tell Joey.”
“You do that!”
I hate when Grandma and Mommy fight, but sometimes it’s good. When Mommy gets mad at her, we usually go someplace. Today we’re going to the beach.
Coney Island was a blink away from the blistering street outside our hot apartment. I’d watch the heat rise like waves from the blacktop. The same thing was happening on our flat roof. Covered with tar like the street, it kept out leaks but absorbed the sun’s ray suffocating us in our tiny top-floor apartment inches below that molten pool.
The tarred surface of the street and roof were like glue in the summertime. It was perilous to step out, to be stuck maybe for life.
On the trolley to Coney Island, escape was possible, but only after a fight. Mom didn’t like the beach. She was more afraid of drowning than suffocating.
“Patti, put the bologna sandwiches in the bag. Linda, get the jug of homemade lemonade*.”
Josephine is too little to carry anything. But I don’t care. I love the beach, the trolley and even Mommy today.
Trolleys no longer grace the streets of Brooklyn. They’re a memory of when things were slow and boundaries fluid. In them we glided on tracks under the gritty MacDonald Avenue El toward a breezy paradise watching the street scene from this windowless streetcar, the glass panes removed in summer like heavy clothing. Mom was calm and the only sparks flying that day were those caused by the trolley’s antennae and wiring uniting.
“Mommy, my hair is blowing in my eyes.”
“I’m sorry, honey, I should have put your hair in a ponytail. Hold it behind your ears. We’ll be there soon.”
“Mommy can we have pink and white popcorn?”
“Maybe on the way back.”
There was less to lug to the beach back then. We didn’t have umbrellas, beach chairs or sunscreen. A blanket or sheet became our turf. Baking ourselves instead of bread was ritual. Even our dark skin burned under the sun’s penetrating
rays. No matter how hot it was, the water at Coney Island was always cold, a place for chilly but brief relief. Mom kept us landlocked for long stretches.
But even landlocked there was danger. They were called vendors. The words, “ice cold soda, ice cream” had us salivating with excitement. Unlike Mom who was counting nickels, we hoped to spend them. Even Josephine would jump up and down as they trudged along, saddled with big boxes of food, drink and frozen treats and even bigger voices, their only marketing tool.
“Mommy, can I have a knish?”
“We have bologna sandwiches.”
“But I want a knish too.”
“Make up your mind, a knish now or an ice cream pop later.
“I want a knish now.” Of course, later the same scene would take place when the ice cream guy came around. We’d try and finagle again. Mom called it nagging and whining.
Dad never came to the beach although talk of Coney Island brought an onslaught of happy memories for him. Dad’s middle name was “nostalgia”.
“Daddy, did you go to the beach when you were young?”
“Yeh, Babe. Mama took all of us every Tuesday. In the middle of the day, she’d go home and cook macaroni and bring it back in beer pails.”
“No, you didn’t eat macaroni at the beach! What’s a beer pail?”
“We did and sometimes we even had meatballs if there were any leftover. Papa would come after work and we’d stay for the fireworks at 9o’clock. He’d buy us all custard at the stand next to Nathan’s.”
This is the only time I ever heard my Dad recount a happy memory involving his father.
When Daddy tells this story, I want him to be at beach with us, to stay for fireworks and to buy us custard. But he never does.
“But Daddy, what’s a beer pail?’
“Back then you either made your own beer or went to a brewery. The breweries supplied a metal container with handles to carry the beer home. Papa would send us and for a nickel they’d fill a pail. We were real careful not to spill any or Papa would kick our ass.”
I’m glad we don’t eat macaroni from beer pails at the beach and I’m glad that Big Grandpa never kicked my ass.

New Video with Mom

2009-09-21T19:57:00.005-04:00

Made a another video with Mom in Brooklyn today. Take a look.

Here's the recipe: Fig and Goat Cheese Omelet
2 servings

1 tablespoon olive or canola oil
3 large eggs, beaten
4 large figs, diced
2 ounces goat cheese (1/2 log), crumbled
1/4 cup chiffonade of basil
Salt and pepper to taste
Fresh basil to garnish, if desired

1. Heat oil in a twelve-inch nonstick skillet over medium heat; swirl to coat pan. Splash a drop of water into pan. When it sizzles it's ready.
2. Pour eggs into pan; let set for about 10 seconds. Using a spatula, lift edges toward center, allowing the the unset eggs to run around the sides of pan. Continue cooking until eggs are soft set, two to three minutes.
3. Sprinkle one half of omelet with figs, cheese and basil. Lift the other side over filled side. Slide onto a serving plate and sprinkle with salt and pepper. Garnish plate with basil and serve immediately.

Writing Group and Greenmarkets

2009-09-20T10:37:00.004-04:00

I love my writing group. They are so honest and helpful. Although they want me to flesh out the Coney Island segment because they wanted to hear more about the experience, I didn't quite do it yet. But I did expand the explanation of a trolley which some women couldn't picture. Also when I reread, I edited yet again and made the paragraph on vendors better. I'll post it on Monday. Maybe some other thoughts will strike before then. Comments always welcome.

The above photo was taken in Cleveland two weeks ago after a visit to the Downtown Greenmarket. There are four different kinds of heirloom tomatoes shown, one of them fuzzy like a peach. The peppers to the left are poblanos. I didn't think this deserved a separate post, but really liked the photo.

Beginning of My Book

2009-09-17T17:32:00.003-04:00

At least for now:
PROLOGUE:
This Brooklyn fairytale didn’t follow the literary formula. Yes, there was a witch, a princess, and a prince.
In this love story, the prince didn’t save the princess. He married her and moved them to the second floor of the castle. The witch lived downstairs. The prince hid behind racing forms, books, and TV while the Princess and the witch battled.
The witch lived eighty-nine long years. Her death did not free the Princess. When the prince died unexpectedly, the children buried him in the family plot next to the witch. The princess was in shock for months but when she recovered she couldn’t bear the thought of sharing her prince for eternity as she had in life. She couldn’t leave her prince buried next to the witch so she had his body moved to another grave, one for just the two of them. She would finally have him to herself. It cost ten grand.

TRIANGLE:
I lay on the energy healer’s table. It’s my first visit and I’m nervous. I’m told that unblocking energy can be physically and psychically painful.
His hands scan my body lingering over the double curvature of my spine. He moves to my head and neck and wants to know what happened to my head. Did I have an accident, whiplash, maybe? I kept coming up blank, no memory of a head injury. I’m insistent that he’s mistaken. He’s persistent that I had a head injury. Deadlocked for a while, we were silent as he continued his work.
Then, out of the silence a triumphant “Aha” came from his mouth. “This injury happened when you were a child.” I told him that I had broken my wrist roller-skating but that I didn’t hit my head. Then, as suddenly as his, “Aha”, something my Mom had told me a very long time ago, something that I’d locked away with other childhood injury, popped into my head.
I was a baby, still small enough for Mom to bathe me in the kitchen sink. Dad was sitting at the table reading the Sports Page because there was nowhere else to read in our tiny, three-and-a half room apartment other than the “john” which was also his refuge when the need to escape overwhelmed him.
Big Grandma, who lived downstairs, catapulted herself through the opened door, uninvited and unwelcome by her daughter-in-law. She ignored my mother and headed straight for her son, Joe. She came to bitch about Mom.
“Your wife had company today, Tina, the floozy.” Any single women over the age of twenty-one was suspect in Grandma’s mind.
“I didn’t want to let her up the stairs but your wife yelled at me and so did your father.”
“Shut her up, Joe. Get out of here. Mind your own business you witch.”
“Ida, watch your mouth.”
Now in a rage, Mom yanked me from the sink and smashed my head under the heavy steel cabinet. The dishes and glasses inside were protected unlike my little body. Mom started screaming and crying. Daddy jumped up to rescue me. Grandma skuttled down the stairs knowing that Big Grandpa was going to verbally pummel her now that he had stopped hitting her.
In turmoil, Mom thought she had killed me. Dad pulled me from her. I was the one now screaming.
When things calmed down and Dad was assured that I would live, he turned on Mom.
“I don’t ever want to hear that Tina stops in when I’m not here. Do you hear me?” Mom leaves us and flees to the bedroom. That’s one for the witch.

Decision

2009-09-17T11:26:00.003-04:00

I was told in my writing group that the word in publishing circles is that if you publish any part of a book online, the work is considered already published and won't be considered by an agent or editor.

Of course, I pointed out Julie and Julia (the blog, then book, then movie), but they seemed to think it was a fluke.

I contacted a friend whose wife is a big-time editor. She said if they don't want your work they'll use ANY excuse.

I've been thinking about this for awhile and decided to continue putting my memoir pieces on this blog. The fact is, that this may never be a book that gets published. If I don't write it here, I know that I'll find every excuse I can muster not to write at all. So I've committed to writing this part of my life as I remember it on this blog. If nothing else, it will be a gift to my children and grandchild.

I have some some editing to do today but by tonight I will have two postings. Although I posted the Prologue a while ago, I'm doing it again because it's essential to the first chapter that follows it.

Muffins

2009-09-15T18:02:00.003-04:00

Oat Chip muffins were a little too moist and sweet and if I had made eighteen instead of twelve they would have been minuscule. I'll rework them before I put the recipe on this site. I'm a big fan of oats.

Once upon a time, I wrote a book called, "The Oat Bran Cookbook"--it was innovative although I must admit there are a few odd recipes, but out of 75 recipes, not a bad score. I was taught in the halls of food magazines NEVER to use a product name in a recipe.

The book packager I "tried" to work with insisted that I use Kellogg's Common Sense Oat Bran. I refused saying that it wasn't ethical. She hounded me and said that Kellogg's had twice the oat bran of any other product. I finally relented and now I know why I should have held fast--that product is no longer on the market! Turns out the packager was a "shady" type. She probably sold those recipes to Kellogg's!

The Crazies and Chocolate Chip Muffins

2009-09-12T12:56:00.004-04:00

I finally slept (after three nights of tossing and waking) for 12 hours!! Feel like a million today.

But since I'm charged (spent yesterday in P.J.'s doing nothing) I'm back to insane behavior--jumping from one thing to another rather than finishing one job.

My daughter, Kate, sent my daughter, Jenna, a recipe for easy Choc Chip Pecan Muffins while I was in Cleveland. Jenna had no time to make them, so I brought the recipe home. Do I have time? Hell, no, but I was overcome with the "crazies" today. If you have fifteen things to do, why not add to list and do something totally nonessential!

All my neighbors who rented their homes for the month of August are back this weekend putting their houses in order. My sanguine personality is telling me to invite all of them for a muffin and milk break at 3pm. Would that really be crazy (since I leave for Brooklyn tomorrow) and probably won't be able to get to serious writing post? Yes, but it would also be fun!

The recipe may be from the other side of the ocean since it gives degrees in Fahrenheit and Centigrade. There were too many nuts and I was supposed to fill the muffin cups 2/3 full. If I did that I'd have 18 instead of 12 muffins. So, I put aluminum foil under the tins in oven and prayed that the totally filled cups wouldn't drip all over. I'll let you know what happens.

Note: if you put a slice of bread in an opened box of dark brown sugar (actually on the sugar in the plastic bag) and seal it, the sugar NEVER hardens. It's one of the best tips I've ever found.

There's No Place Like Home

2009-09-10T20:33:00.003-04:00

Although peripatetic by nature, enough is enough. I'm tired of being in the car, traveling to Florida, from Florida to Cleveland and back. I wish I were Dorothy and could just click my red slippers.

We've only been home a couple of days and it will be a couple of more days before I post anything serious. The tenants that we had for three weeks were O.K. (I'm not sure yet if they messed up my recumbent bike) but getting the house back together is a big deal. I keep cleaning out, but still have so much "stuff". I've decided not bring everything up from the basement. If I don't look for an item in the next two months, then I probably could part with it.

I'm finally realizing that being a first-generation boomer who grew up under the shadow of the Great Depression that my parents' experienced, has affected me too. I have a hard time getting rid of things because "you never know when you might need it". The only good thing I've observed is that I can whip up inventive meals with leftovers. I never throw food out unless it's molded!

The irony now is that my Mom throws out everything in the refrigerator when no one is looking. Thank God that she doesn't live alone or she'd have nothing to eat!!

I'll be back--

Zero Mostel

2009-08-27T09:43:00.005-04:00

CALENDAR
AUGUST 29–SEPT. 27
WASHINGTON DC
ZERO HOUR
Starring Jim Brochu
as Zero Mostel

THEATRE J WASHINGTON DC
Written & Performed by Jim Brochu
Directed by Piper Laurie

For any of you D.C. people this is a fabulous show. Rob and I have seen it three times. Jim wrote and stars in this production.

It's a brilliant look at Zero's life beyond Fiddler on the Roof. Jim is masterful in this piece. Don't miss it. The show is coming to NY in November. I'll keep you posted.
http://washingtondcjcc.org/center-for-arts/theater-j/on-stage/09-10-season/zero-hour/zero-web.jpg

Birthday Dinner--Zucchini Fritti con Pasta

2009-08-24T11:09:00.006-04:00

I had a belated birthday dinner for Rob on Saturday here in the sunny state of Florida. Thank God for air-conditioning.

Every year I make a Blueberry Tart for Rob's birthday, but this year he requested a Lemon Curd Tart. I cursed my way through the recipe for two days. The kitchen here is very small with not too much counter space or equipment. To add to my frustration, the recipe was poorly written and I had to juggle a few things. In the end, I served it with Candied Lemon Peel (yes, I made it) and whipped cream and it was delicious. Sorry, but no photos or tart recipe this time around.

But I am adding a recipe for our pasta (first course) that was "fab". The second course was Chicken Milanese topped with salad and olives. The birthday boy was my kitchen slave. He pounded each chicken breast to the size of a small dinner plate (I coated them with egg and bread crumbs) and he julienned all the zucchini--bravo, Roberto. We haven't had this much fried food in ages but with the help of Prilosec, we endured.

Zucchini Fritti con Pasta
(Primi Piatti) 4 servings

Canola oil for frying
6 large cloves garlic, sliced
3 medium zucchini, washed and cut into julienne slices (dried with paper towels)
Salt
12 ounces linguine (3/4 pound)
3 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil
Salt, pepper (or red pepper flakes) to taste
Grated Romano Cheese (I use Locatelli) to taste

1. Heat about an inch of oil in a large nonstick skillet over medium-high heat. At the same time bring a lot pot of salted water to a boil.
2. Cook the garlic until just lightly browned and add to serving bowl; set aside.
3. Cook the zucchini in batches (don't overcrowd the skillet) until browned and drain on paper bags or paper towels; sprinkle with salt and add to serving bowl.
4. Cook pasta according to package directions. Add to bowl; toss with zucchini, garlic and extra virgin olive oil. Adjust seasoning.
5. Serve and sprinkle with cheese, if desired.

Buon Appetito!

New Video--Mom's Fried Zucchini Flowers

2009-08-16T10:15:00.005-04:00

This video is posted twice because I can't seem to delete the extra one. Eventually I'll figure it out.

I don't have much to say, since I've talked about this video in a previous posting. The video is a little disjointed, no intro etc because Rob had to cut a minute plus. I didn't know that there is a 10-minute time limit on YouTube.

We're driving to Florida tomorrow, so I won't be posting for the next four days.

Ciao, amici.

Pignoli Cookies

2009-08-15T10:45:00.007-04:00

Last week my friend, Buddy, baked and brought us Pignoli cookies. They were terrific and since I had almond paste in my pantry I asked Buddy for the recipe. I found pignoli nuts (not enough) in my freezer along with a bag of sliced almonds which I also used and Voila!
Pignoli (pine nuts) cookies are the Southern Italian version of macaroons. Although considered a Sicilian treat, they're found all over Southern Italy. In our Brooklyn home, these cookies were only bought for special occasions, on holidays or when "Donny" visited--check out my Donny post.
I used a cookie making instrument that my friend, Michele, gave me many years ago. It scoops the dough then pushes it off onto the pan.
I probably shouldn't have baked at the end of an exhausting day (we've been getting the house ready for renters) because I didn't follow the recipe and made these cookies much smaller than Buddy's. So instead of 18 cookies, I made 28.
This is what I mean by "a recipe is a living thing." Often you can change a recipe to suit your own tastes and use some other ingredient that you have in your fridge rather than run off to the store. This is not necessarily true in baking. But as food professional I knew that because the cookies were smaller I'd have to adjust the time. So my maxim in baking, follow the recipe.
If you make 28 cookies, bake 15 minutes.

Buddy's Pignoli Cookies
Makes 18

8 ounces canned almond paste (Solo is the best according to Buddy)
1 cup confectioners' sugar (plus additional for dusting)
Pinch of salt
2 large egg whites
2 cups pignoli nuts

1. Preheat the oven to 350 degrees. Line a cookie sheet with parchment paper, and set aside. These cookies will stick to foil.
2. Add the almond paste, sugar and salt in the bowl of electric mixture fitted with the paddle attachment; beat at medium speed until mixture looks crumbly, about 3 minutes. Add egg whites and continue beating until the mixture is smooth, an additional 3-4 minutes.
4. Place nuts in a bowl, drop a tablespoon of batter in to bowl, coating the entire cookie. Place on lined cookie sheet about 1-inch apart.
5. Bake 18-20 minutes or until lightly browned. Cool on parchment for 3 minutes than transfer to a wire rack; cool completely.
6. Place cookies on wax paper and dust heavily with sugar; arrange on serving plate. Store in airtight container.

Mom's Fried Zucchini Flowers

2009-08-14T12:39:00.003-04:00

There's a new video coming shot in Mom's Brooklyn kitchen. Unfortunately, Mom doesn't cook much anymore and I've become the hands and mouth for these videos. This one isn't shot as well as the others. I should have closed the blind behind me.

Bear with it though, Mom's humor surfaces a couple of times. She's become quite a comedian in old age (elder age?).

I repeat the recipe a number of times on the video so I won't list the ingredients here.

Mom went to the "beauty parlor" after our fried zucchini lunch which I served with a mound of peppered ricotta. Her friends there all reminisced and discussed their versions of the batter. One woman drives to Staten Island to buy zucchini flowers. A pound goes for a twenty bucks!! She swore that she cooks them all in one day and by evening none are left. FYI there are "80" flowers in a pound!

Lunch

2009-08-12T14:54:00.003-04:00

My friend, Rita, was here on Monday and we drove to Greenport on the North shore to have lunch at the Scrimshaw. The executive/chef owner and I know each other from the City when I was also working in the food industry (years ago).

The North Shore of Long Island is very bucolic. We took two ferries to get to the restaurant taking in the scenery on such a beautiful, sunny day.

The food at the Scrimshaw is scrumptious and innovative. Rob had a steak sandwich with house onion jam (to die for) and the best french fries this side of Nathan's.

Rita and I had Hoisin glazed chicken salad over Napa cabbage with crunchy rice stick noodles. It was funny because it was served in a pasta/soup bowl and we both thought--this is a very small portion. Well, it was a bottomless bowl. Rita could only eat half of hers. I forced myself to finish because it was so delicious and didn't eat dinner that night because I was so full. We wondered if we each had a pound of chicken while we ate and ate and ate!

Rosa sent out a trio of fabulous desserts: Chocolate Cheesecake, a circular fantasy with lots of chocolate on top, Valhrona Chocolate Pudding with whipped cream and blackberries on top of a sweet bird's nest and Keylime Tart with the most tender, buttery crust. No matter how full I am, I can always manage dessert.

Thank you, Rosa.

NY Fringe Festival

2009-08-09T06:40:00.001-04:00

Our gal, Lauren Anne Martin, will be one of the stars in the following production at the Fringe Festival. Her troupe made it to the cover of Playbill. Go Lauren!

A Midsummer Night's Dream
The BAMA Theatre Company in association with The Figments Productions
Writer: William Shakespeare
Director: Peter Macklin, Assistant Director: Erik Andrews
Not the fluffy fairytale you thought- 8 actors magically morphing from a caustic duke to a mischievous sprite, all out of 1 suitcase. This Alabama Company takes a breath at the top and doesn't exhale until the curtain comes down, y'all!
2h 15m National Montgomery, AL Comedy FringeHIGH
Staycation:Literary Lane Time Traveler
www.bamatheatrecompany.org
VENUE #14: The Cherry Lane Theatre; WED 19 @ 7; SAT 22 @ 4; TUE 25 @ 2*; THU 27 @ 6:30; SAT 29 @ 7:15

Fridge Cleanup

2009-08-07T11:31:00.004-04:00

I don't intend this to be a recipe column but my fridge and freezer clean-out has me cooking.

I woke up this morning thinking we'd have the frozen blintzes for breakfast with a sauce I'd make with the last of the frozen wild blueberries from Costco. What I didn't remember was that the blintzes were potato not cheese.

So I found some old Fillo (Phyllo) dough in the fridge and thought I'd make a "faux" blintz.

I mixed about a cup of nonfat cottage cheese, added applesauce--one of those mini-individual serving size, the last in my fridge, a little sugar and cinnamon.

The fillo dough was a mess so I couldn't use whole sheets. I used 4 or 5 layers and sprayed each with Pam, spooned 1/4 of the cheese mixture in the center and wrapped it up. Also sprayed the top of the fillo package. Baked at 375 for 10-15 minutes (can't quite remember) until the tops were golden. Makes 4.

Served with blueberry sauce: blueberries, a little water and a little sugar. Bring to a boil, lower heat and cook another five minutes stirring occasionally. I did not add cornstarch, but you could.

The flower is from one of my arugula plants. Thought the dish needed a little flourish.

Giambotta

2009-08-06T12:28:00.007-04:00

There's is nothing I love more than to create a meal from leftovers and stuff that's been in my pantry or freezer for too long.

We've rented our house for a few weeks, so for the next week I'm making meals using everything I possibly can to clean out the fridge.

Today I made Giambotta, an Italian vegetable stew. In my family, giambotta means a bunch of stuff thrown together--the kitchen sink idea.

I didn't measure anything because that would defeat the purpose of the dish. I started with a homemade broth I had in the freezer (maybe 6-8 cups), added about a cup of barley (whatever was left in the bag), four carrots, peeled and sliced, Parmesan and Romano rinds that have been in a plastic bag for a while, and a box of frozen black-eyed peas (don't know what I was thinking when I bought them!) Any canned beans could be used for this recipe. Brought everything to a boil, reduced heat and cooked for about 45 minutes. Then I added a box of frozen green beans and leftover farfalle. Season with salt and pepper and Voila!

New development: Silvia Leherer, a food columnist for Dan's Paper, just stopped in to get some of the sage I'm growing (way too much) for her cooking class this evening. Quid pro quo, she brought me some fresh Italian parsley from her yard. Guess what? The Giambotta will now be garnished with chopped parsley.

Family, Mafia and Pizza

2009-08-04T21:32:00.006-04:00

My grandfather, Rocco Romanelli, was born in East Harlem on 104th Street in 1890 son of Giuseppe Romanelli and Philomena Parella. Grandpa's Birth Certificate gives 421 E. 104th as his address, but his Baptismal record in 1892 had him living at 311 East 104th. Obviously, the family moved sometime after his birth.

There's a new book about the Mafia in America called, "The First Family: Terror, Extortion, Revenge, Murder, and the Birth of the American Mafia" by the British historian, Mike Dash. He believes that organized crime and the American branch of the Mafia began with the arrival of Giuseppe Morello in 1892 and was quickly rooted in two areas: Lower Manhattan and East Harlem. There is a connection.

I'm getting bits and pieces of my great-grandfather's story and when I have enough information I will tell the tale in another posting.

But for now onto pizza. Since we were in the neighborhood, we decided to go to the much-touted Patsy's which opened in 1933 on First Avenue between 117th and 118th. I never met a "pizza" that I didn't like but I was hoping to love this one. Well, I didn't and neither did Rob. It was good, thin, well-baked crust which reminded us of Lento's pizza (Bay Ridge, Brooklyn--now closed). The sad fact is that Lento's was better.

We had fun though. There were a bunch of hard hards, firefighters and business people enjoying the fare. But the only Hispanic in this "Spanish Harlem" restaurant was our waiter.

There's a large painting of Ole Blue Eyes (Frank Sinatra) hanging prominently, a reminder of the good old days. My Dad would have liked that but I don't think he would have thought much of the pizza either.

Fruit Crisp

2009-08-01T10:37:00.003-04:00

I'm finally starting to feel better. Developed a delicious summer dessert--I call it "food therapy".

STONE FRUIT CRISP
Makes 6 servings
You can use just one fruit for this crisp. Serve with ice cream or whipped cream.

3 medium peaches
3 medium nectarines
3 medium plums
1 tablespoon sugar
1 tablespoon all-purpose flour
1 tablespoon fresh lemon juice
Topping:
¾ cup quick-cooking rolled oats
½ cup packed brown sugar
¼ cup all-purpose flour
1 teaspoon cinnamon
¼ teaspoon salt
4 tablespoons chilled unsalted butter, cut into pieces.
¼ cup almonds, chopped

1. Pit and slice fruit; place in a large bowl.
2. Add sugar, flour and lemon juice. Stir to combine; set aside.
3. Combine rolled oats, sugar, flour, cinnamon and salt in a medium bowl. Cut in butter with a pastry blender or 2 knives until crumbly. Stir in almonds.
4. Spoon fruit mixture into a 9-inch square baking dish. Sprinkle with oat mixture and bake at 375 degrees for 40-45 minutes until lightly browned and bubbly. Serve warm.

C 2009 Linda Romanelli Leahy

Book Confusion

2009-07-29T19:12:00.003-04:00

I've been anxious all week because I knew that I committed to an opening chapter of my book. Still feeling miserable, I actually wrote it in longhand in bed. Today was the first day that I'm feeling a little better and this morning vowed that I would type up this chapter and make that writers' meeting.

Rob read and said it was so real but that this would have made my father very unhappy. That statement struck a blow so hard that I'm still reeling. Truth is tough.

I felt very shaky and cried on my way to the meeting. I realized that I had to read the Prologue first to segue into the first chapter. I barely made it through. Not only did I bawl, but I cursed the twenty-five years of therapy I lived through. How could these scenes still cut so deep after so much work. One woman said that I should have skipped the therapy and just kept writing. Everyone agreed that this was a very powerful piece, and that I should skip recipes because the material is so big.

The thought of making my father unhappy, angry, enraged, disappointed, unbelieving, was all too much for me while he was alive. I realized that this book has been on hold for many years because I didn't want to hurt the ones I love so much.

Today, one of the published authors told me to take everything about this book off my blog because if I keep writing parts of the book, especially now that I'm really committed, publishers will already consider it a "published" work and won't touch it.

I pointed out "Julie and Julia" which not only was a blog, but became a book and now a movie! They said it was a freak.

I'm confused and will have to check out what the rules are. If anyone out there in the publishing world knows the answer, please comment. In the meantime, I'm not posting the first chapter.

Sorry

2009-07-27T17:46:00.002-04:00

I joined a writing group last Wednesday and since then I've been sick with a sore throat and cold. I've done next to nothing and I'm supposed to produce a beginning for my book by Wednesday. Hope I can get it done tomorrow. Today I actually went back to bed--something that I never do.

Doing nothing is my worst nightmare. I'm trying to learn the lesson here--life goes on whether you do or don't!

Quinn's Excellent Vacation

2009-07-17T22:56:00.004-04:00

Can't believe that a week has passed since I've written. Believe it or not I did work on a Brooklyn story over a week ago, but haven't gotten to piece it together on the computer.

My grandchild Quinn (4 yrs.) has been with us since Monday--his first time away from Mom and Dad. It's been great. The 9-1/2 hour trip from Cleveland was a breeze. He did, however, ask the question, "Are we there yet?" about 900 times. Otherwise, he was terrific--no complaints and kept himself busy.

Since Tuesday we've been to Nathan's with Great-Grandma Edie, a Brooklyn Cyclone's Game with Aunt Liz, shopped at the open-air markets under the El on 86th St in Brooklyn, had lunch with Aunt CeCe and her 5-month old granddaughter, Effie (we're trying to make a match), bought winter pj's at Costco, weeded the yard two days in a row, visited the Children's Museum, lunched in Sag Harbor, went to Cameron Beach where the Ocean meets the Bay and forms wonderful, shallow ponds for the kids, had a Spiderman ice pop with white gumball eyes (disgusting) and swam in our pool which Pop-Pop heated for Quinn (he NEVER turns the heat on for anyone!) He had his first outdoor shower and tonight we went to see Tranformers. Our overly energetic, chatty Quinn actually fell asleep during this very loud film--another first since he often fights sleep. Tonight my beautiful, sleeping boy seemed very happy. As I got him ready for bed, he kept smiling. I like to think that he was dreaming of all the sweet things he did with Nonna and Pop-Pop on his vacation.

Sleepless in Cleveland

2009-07-10T21:55:00.002-04:00

I'm in the hottest room in the house without air-conditioning. Even though we have a fan, I'm not sleeping. Tonight I'm taking a pill or I'll be a zombie by morning.

Scenery changes, work remains the same--tomorrow I get to WEED my daughter's yard! What's with this "weed" karma?

There is a silver lining. My four-year old grandson, Quinn and I are going to plant seeds. He's so excited that he's been telling everyone for the last two days about our Saturday plan. I think I'll have a picnic on the lawn afterward.

Later in the day we're taking him to Cleveland Museum of Art. I'm hoping all those Baby Einstein tapes will kick in.

So far, none of you have helped me with video bar problem. One of you must be more tech savvy (probably all of you) than I!

Mom making Tomato Salad

2009-07-07T16:23:00.000-04:00

Here's the video of Mom making Tomato Salad. Unfortunately, there are three other videos on the video bar. I have no idea what they are. Have tried to delete them and couldn't.

If anyone can tell me what to do, I'd appreciate a comment.

Steve, are you there?

4th of July Party

2009-07-06T15:12:00.004-04:00

I got the best hostess gift ever--a stainless steel platter by Michael Aram. Tried to post a photo on Facebook but was unsuccessful. So here it is.

I'm also posting a photo of Mom who was at our house for the party.

Independence Day Parade

2009-07-05T10:39:00.002-04:00

Rob, a Vietnam vet, marched with the East End Vets in the Southampton Parade yesterday. Sorry, I forgot to bring the camera.

His group including a ninety-two year old WW11 veteran is anti-Iraq War and they're on cable TV every week talking about politics and their views.

As everyone was lining up, they asked to be behind a large group of Vietnam vets. You wouldn't believe--that group got in their face and said they weren't their "brothers" because of their Iraq views and didn't want them anywhere near their group. There was a brief "encounter" but Rob kept his cool. The East End Vets ended up four groups away from their "non-brothers".

After the parade Rob went up to one of the guys to say that they shouldn't be confronting each other at this stage of life. Luckily, he agreed. Rob doesn't want to see any vet's grandchild holding a rifle in a hostile country. That's why he joined the East End Vets in the first place. He doesn't want our grandchild, Quinn, to ever be in that situation. As they say, "freedom isn't free" so let's keep the peace.

Mom's Tomato Salad

2009-07-03T18:57:00.004-04:00

At Christmas Mom and I made a video for YouTube called, Mom Making Escarole and Beans which you can see on this blog. Today, we made Mom's Tomato Salad which I'll download when it's ready.
This is a simple, delicious dish. Since Mom never measures we're going to estimate the oregano and salt. Also this is a very unprofessional way to write up a recipe. I'll test it during the next couple of weeks and post the finished version with exact amounts. I forgot to show the great seeded twisted bread from Cuccio's Bakery on Ave X in Brooklyn. This salad was made to serve with that bread!

3 large ripe tomatoes
3 tablespoons olive oil
3 large cloves garlic, finely chopped
1 tablespoon dried oregano
1-1/2 teaspoons salt

Combine all ingredients in a medium bowl. Cover and let stand one hour before serving. This is about 4 servings.

Note: This is even better if you make it the day before. Always taste to adjust seasonings. If your not an oregano fan, use lots of fresh basil.

If you want to use this as a "salsa cruda" a raw sauce, cut the tomatoes into 1/2-inch cubes. Mix with 3/4 pound cooked pasta (hot); shave ricotta salata cheese on top and serve warm. Can also use cubed mozzarella.

Chocolate Walnut Biscotti

2009-07-01T19:46:00.004-04:00

I'm waiting on the info about my great-grandfather. I did go to the library today and am almost finished with a new (draft) story for the book. In the meantime, I developed this recipe for a party that I'm having on Saturday. If anyone wants to test it (I won't have a chance to do it again for about a week), let me know. My question is: should I add more chocolate chips? Photo only shows half of the cookies.

CHOCOLATE WALNUT BISCOTTI
Makes about 40 cookies

2-1/2 cups all-purpose flour
1-1/2 cups granulated sugar
¾ cup cocoa powder
1 teaspoon baking powder
1 teaspoon baking soda
1/2 teaspoon salt
6 tablespoons (1/2 stick plus 2 tablespoons) unsalted butter, melted and cooled
3 large eggs
1 tablespoon vanilla extract
1 cup walnuts, coarsely chopped
1 cup semi-sweet chocolate chips

1. Place rack in center of oven. Preheat oven to 300 degrees. Grease two large baking sheets with butter.
2. Combine all dry ingredients in large bowl; set aside.
3. Add butter, eggs and vanilla to a large bowl of electric mixer. Beat at medium speed 3 minutes until mixture is light and fluffy. Reduce speed to low and add flour mixture. Beat about 1 minute until combined. Add nuts and chocolate.
4. Divide dough in half. With wet hands, shape each half into a 12-inch by 3-inch log.
5. Bake 40-45 minutes until loaves are firm to touch. Place baking sheets on rack and cool 10 minutes.
6. Slide loaves onto cutting board; with sharp knife cut diagonally into 1/2-inch thick slices. Lay the slices on baking sheets separating and turning slices on side. Bake an additional 10 minutes until cookies are slightly dry. Remove from baking sheet and transfer to rack to cool completely. To store, place in airtight container.

C Linda Romanelli Leahy 2009

Mystery Unraveling

2009-06-25T17:51:00.007-04:00

I've been trying to get Italian Citizenship for two years. I have to go through my paternal line which has been a problem because my grandfather was born in America not Italy. No one ever spoke about my great-grandfather, Giuseppe Romanelli. Considering that my Dad loved family more than anything in life and kept up with almost everyone on both sides of his family, the silence about Giuseppe was curious to me. What I've discovered from relatives was shocking, but I haven't written the story yet.

Today I poured through Birth, Baptismal and Death Certificates--my grandmother, grandfather, Dad and his siblings. Surprisingly, I found out that Mom was born on Withers St in Brooklyn (I think that's in Williamsburg), not Essex St on the lower Eastside where she lived as a child.

The folks at the Italian Citizenship Assistance Program found out that Giuseppe wasn't naturalized, which is good for me, but they want an exact birth date. I've called every cousin that I could find (a number of them had died) and got nowhere as far as birth date or what region he was from. Since most immigrants left from Naples that often was posted as their place of residence on Ellis Island records but
Giuseppe couldn't be traced to Avellino in Naples where many in the family had resided. I think I've tracked him down to Sulmona in Abruzzi. But that info isn't enough.

Today I found out that he was 31 when my grandfather (the oldest sibling) was born. That was exciting because it means Giuseppe was born in 1859.

My grandfather was baptized at Our Lady of Mt Carmel Church in Harlem and my husband suggested that I call them because my great-grandfather was probably married there! I called, the Church is still there (East 115th St)but the office was closed. Will let you know what happens tomorrow.

Madeleines

2009-06-22T20:46:00.002-04:00

I tried a Madeleine recipe from a cookbook by famous person out here. At 375 degrees for 14-15 minutes they burned! Looked at another recipe (also from a famous Hampton's resident)--method was way too complicated. Totally frustrated, I developed a recipe tonight. Just tested it and the Madeleines are perfect.

Madeleines
Makes 18

2 large eggs
¼ cup sugar
½ teaspoon vanilla extract
½ cup all-purpose flour
, sifted
¼ teaspoon baking powder
¼ teaspoon salt
Zest of 1 lemon
6 tablespoons (3/4 stick) unsalted butter, melted and cooled
1 tablespoon confectioner’s sugar.

1. Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Coat Madeleine pans with vegetable oil spray or melted butter.
2. Combine eggs, sugar and vanilla in bowl of electric mixer and beat at medium speed for 5 minutes until light and fluffy.
3. Reduce speed to low and add remaining ingredients until combined.
4. Spoon batter into each mold. Bake 10 minutes until edges are golden.
5. Remove the Madeleines immediately using a small knife to loosen edges, if necessary.
6. Cool and sprinkle with confectioner’s sugar.

C 2009 Linda Romanelli Leahy

Event Canceled

2009-06-21T11:39:00.002-04:00

Well, at 8 am I got a call that the NYC Green Cart Event was canceled due to rain. They're not even sure that the event can be rescheduled.

I wonder if they'll have to pay all the vendors anyway--tent, equipment, food!!

My Great Grandfather

2009-06-16T08:50:00.003-04:00

I've been trying to get Italian Citizenship for three years. Unfortunately, I was born in '46 one year prior to the law that states you must go through your paternal line only to obtain citizenship. Since my grandfather was born here, I've had to find his father.

In the last two years, I've tracked down cousins (in their eighties) and slowly a picture is emerging of the man my Dad and Grandfather never spoke about. Yesterday, I received of a photo of Great-Grandpa. It's the first and only that I've ever seen.

I'm going to ask Rob to crop it after I scan it. He's at work right now so I have to wait on this. When I post the photo I'll write the story that's been pieced together.

Donny

2009-06-13T09:48:00.004-04:00

Donny had a punched in nose and was built like a compact refrigerator. He had been a prize-fighter once. Now he worked for Dad driving a school bus. This was just a temporary job until his parole was over.
On weekends he and his brother sold “swag” goods. In our neighborhood this was not a criminal activity but a sport. Nobody seemed to care where the goods came from as long as they were cheap. Even at street prices, women haggled.
Every spring around Easter time Donny showed up at our door with a box of cookies from Cuccio’s. I was always excited because the cookies he brought weren’t dunking cookies like Regina Biscotti*. They were holiday, fancy cookies like Pignoli* and seven-layer Rainbow*.
As happy as I was about this annual ritual, it seemed to be an event to him as well because he came wearing a sports jacket. He was very formal with my mother so unlike the scrappy street guy that he was. He called her Mrs. Romanelli even though they were about the same age.
A curious and chatty child, I asked my father about Donny.
“Daddy, why does Donny bring us cookies?” Because he owes me, baby.”
“Why, Daddy?”
“Because he’s one of the boys and you never want to owe them anything. Make them owe you and you’ll stay out of trouble.”
“Who are the boys?”
“Some are guys I went to school with who made a wrong turn in life.”
“What does that mean?”
“They’ve done bad things, baby.”
“Like eat meat on Friday?”
“No not like that. We’ll talk about this when you’re older.”
Dad was reluctant to tell me what Donny’s criminal career path had been until I was in high school. The formal cookie-bearer was a “buttonman” more commonly called a “hitman”. Although this news wasn’t a shock to me since the neighborhood was filled with violent characters, I struggled because I liked Donny. The question that I kept asking myself was how could I like a murderer?

NYC Green Cart Food & Fitness Expo

2009-06-12T22:12:00.002-04:00

Just found out that I have to cook for about a hundred people next weekend at the food demo, so I'm eliminating the strawberries from the recipe and increasing the red pepper strips to one whole pepper instead of half.

Had to decrease the number of ingredients. Still don't know how I'm going to wash pounds and pounds of spinach and okra.

Remember my No Truth in Advertising post? Well, now I've got a blog picture of Callaloo Salad with strawberries when there aren't any!

Will keep you posted.