Tuesday, January 2, 2018

Ashes and Kisses

  I head home for a break from my vigil. My mother is in hospice and unresponsive. It is only a matter of time. Putting my key in the door the phone rings. It’s Joe. He just says my name, and I know, and I turn around and get back on the train. Forty minutes to, forty fro and in that time nothing dramatic, nothing anyone can see. Just a pebble dropped in the ocean making ripples in the waves. The earth suddenly different. 
     I stand at the foot of my mother’s bed. The angle of sun sets the tangle of bed sheets aglow. She lies dead still, mouth agape, waxen, all the cliches that describes a corpse. I snap her picture and put it on Facebook and later take slack for having posted it. Maybe the picture was too raw.
     Five days later, on Halloween, I retrieve her ashes. She is in a box heavier than I’d imagined. The box is in a bag slung over my shoulder. It looks like any other bag except for the crematorium’s logo which is printed tastefully in gold. The streets crawl with ghosts and ghouls ready to parade, and I am laughing at my secret package, walking to the subway carrying bones through the crowds.
     When the time comes Joe wants his ashes mingled with my mother’s and sprinkled in the water near the base of the Statue of Liberty. I’ll honor his request though dumping bones in a public place without a permit is against the law. I’ll treat it as a “don’t ask, don’t tell” situation. I’ll charter a boat and pray the skipper doesn’t mind. 
     Joe didn’t consider what I might want to mark my mother’s passing. She has been on my bookshelf nearly two years. She sits in her green plastic box like she sat parked in her wheelchair, wishing to be free. I think of her all the time while cooking and writing these stories, but forget she is tucked among my books. When I remember I feel how I felt after I left home when I forgot to call on her birthday, thoughtless and rotten and for a day or two I talk to the recriminating ashes. 
     It took seven years before my brother-in-law was ready to relinquish my sister’s ashes. He too didn’t ask what I might want to mark her death, as if we weren’t blood, as if my voice were of no concern. I know now—holding bones too long is wrong.
     The day before my mother’s memorial  gathering, a month after her death, my niece and nephew and my kids are in town, and because I push, Paul and his second wife who was my sister’s best friend, and the rest of us trek to the Rockaways to put my sister in the ocean. My nephew wails as the ashes drift through his fingers. I watch him, hoping to learn by example. I haven’t yet let myself cry. 
     The sun is shinning white gold and silver cold. Wind whistles and sand flies on its breath, stinging our skin. Ashes gone, we walk to my sister’s favorite bar.
     When my sister was already quite sick she wanted to visit our father’s grave. We hadn’t been since we’d buried him in 1977. My half sister Lisa insisted she remembered where the headstone was but all the paths looked the same. We found the office and asked for help. The man opened a wooden drawer and pulled out a yellowed index card with my father's coordinates written in ballpoint pen. He unfolded a map with faded, illegible lines that showed us where to walk. Graveside Karen and Lisa cried. I took a pencil and made a rubbing of his name.
     Thoughts of one death stir memories of the rest. I’m reading a stack of mourning memoirs; everyone’s grief different. One author had her mother exhumed, had the corpse cremated and flown across the country. In the last chapter she carries the ashes into the ocean. Reading her words I decide to split my mother. I’ll take half and give Joe the rest. I’ll put my half in the ocean with my sister, or maybe half my half and put the rest in my garden come spring. 
     On the night of my mother’s second yahrzeit I slit the golden sticker that seals the box and find I need a tool to pry off the lid. I’m burying my head in the toolbox looking for a screwdriver, praying no one catches me. I’m squirreling back to my bedroom and closing my door. I’m pouring ash into a brown paper bag, a little spills on my duvet.
     On that day on the jetty in the Rockaways, I’d grabbed a handful of my sister’s bones. The feel of her stayed on my hand a long, long time. No amount of washing would take away the feeling, so I am tiptoeing down the stairs and up again with the dust broom so I don’t have to touch the ash I’ve spilled on my bed, sweeping my mother into the dustpan like so many crumbs. 
     I empty the pan out the window. Her tiny spilled particles are flying towards the old Williamsburg Savings Bank Tower, by whose clock in the 40s she’d gauge her rush to be on time for Shabbos candle lighting. By whose clock in the 90s I’d mark time between nighttime nursings. Tonight too, the clock’s illuminated hands tick by.

     On this day the air is brisk. It is Halloween. Mom is packed inside my bag next to a towel and we are grabbing coffee on our way to the 8:05 to Bay Shore and from there, a taxi to the Fire Island ferry to Ocean Beach. On the smooth crossing I’m filled with the joy I felt riding that ferry as a girl. The deck hands would leap to the dock before the boat stopped moving and tie the ropes around posts to secure us. We’d disembark and load our bags on a wagon and I was lucky and would climb atop and my mother would pull me along. 
     On this off season day the shops on Bayview Walk are closed, but the swings where we licked Fudgsicles at sunset on the bay are right where we left them. I am carrying my mother and we wend our way to Midway Walk, then one more block to Oceanview where wooden steps climb the dunes. 
     Wisps of silver cloud startle against cerulean sky. The sunshine is cold and pale. Jeep tracks furrow sand as far as one can see. At shoreline, seagulls stand on one leg facing the wind while sandpipers scurry, pecking. Shedding shoes, rolling pants cuffs, and wading mid-calf, the water is warmer than the air. 
     Crashing fast at random interval, gunmetal waves roar. Beached sea foam deposits pulse like beating hearts. Wind tears apart the heart and quivering pieces fly. I bend to capture this up close and a gust blows my bag, which knocks my arm, which fumbles my phone, which sinks under an incoming wave. “Fuck” I say. Maybe this is a sign to be present in these fleeting moments instead of posturing for social media. But maybe it is another sign. When I find my phone  the underwater blur has been miraculously captured. Maybe my mother has rescued my phone. The phone now baptized and still working, is ready to immortalize her ashes as they wash out to sea.  

     With a pocketful of polished purple shells and sand between my toes I am rushing to catch the ferry; buoyant, rejuvenated, relieved. I have done the right thing. I know my mother would be happy. She was not happy for so long. She would be happy now. 
     My head rests against the window on the train, I am watching low warehouses speed by. The window is overlaid with reflections from inside the car; ghosts and goblins hunching over phones. My eyes drift shut. 
     Now I am in the station swimming against the stream of commuters dashing for rush hour trains. Now I am on the subway. Now, again, I am putting my key in the door.
     The tin of Barton’s Almond Kisses forgotten on my pantry shelf jumps into focus. Of course I would see these now, my mother’s favorite special occasion chocolate and almond caramels.
     I was so uncomfortable at her memorial, put off by everyone for their unconflicted testimonial. I was tongue-tied and wrestling with emotions I couldn’t name. I busied myself in the kitchen filling platters until the crowd thinned. I missed out on the Kisses. I’d taken such care to have them there. They’d been an effort to find. I had to go downtown to buy them. Weeks later after the memorial, I went downtown again and bought another tin but the proper occasion to open them never arrived. 
     Now I am greedily opening these stale caramels. Now I am tasting the candy and realizing it isn’t special, that it’s disappointing, that I could make these better. I can do many things my mother never did, including master caramel.  

     It is the crazy tiny margin of a few degrees between soft and hard that makes the candy right. Clipped to the pot the thermometer is difficult to read. Its numbers clouded by steam, and only a particular angle reveals the mercury rising. Maybe the thermometer isn’t accurate. Maybe you need to learn by intuition. Sugar boils furiously careening towards burnt. Added cream splatters and threatens to boil over. It is inevitable you’ll be burned, and sticky, so sticky, and that is the joy. 

Monday, October 2, 2017


 My hands gather egg dampened potato shreds, gently compressing, flipping top to bottom to shape the pancake; like how a nona shapes meatballs, like a tortillera, masa. Calculating and adjusting and at the same time reflexive. I’m mouthing a silent prayer the latkes won’t disintegrate when they hit the shimmering oil—as if I’m not sure the recipe works and a lifetime of experience is naught—as if I were embarking on the unknown. I suppose I am. The image of my mother is fading. I see differently. All is as has been but in new light.
   It is the end of summer and latkes browning scents my house with unsettling holiday cheer. These latkes may well complete my mother’s culinary repertoire excepting for her braised cow tongue with disgusting raisin sauce I cannot bring myself to cook. I’ve spent almost two years cooking her dishes, letting the food lead me to feelings I had hardly dare explore before she died. I wanted the food to paint her portrait, all sunshine with me basking in her warmth, instead I’m standing under clouds, worring about what I’ve passed to my sons. 
   Death lingers in the air. Many of my friends mother’s are dying or have died and we are becoming the old ones. Our mother’s deaths is a topic we comb intently. They get teary. I am dry-eyed and wearying of this cooking and combing. Then along comes something simple—cradling a potato in one hand, the peeler poised in the other. Suddenly I am missing her with my heart, in my mind, my cells. The longing stops time.
   Jews make latkes during Hanukah not for potatoes but for the oil they are fried in. Here is the story--at the time of the rededication of the desecrated temple, after defeating idolater oppressors, ancient Maccabean’s found themselves with only a days worth of oil to rekindle the eternal flame. Miraculously the oil lasted eight. Miracles demand faith. What’s fried in memoriam differs around the world. Potatoes were popularized by marauding Conquistadors. Latkes here were brought by my forebears, a tasty treat carried from cold steppes. In my mother’s house latkes were a tradition, the one thing we cooked religiously year after year. Tradition carries weight, or maybe its weightless, like carrying a ghost.
   My mother used an old aluminum box grater. Helping her led to bloodied knuckles and stinging, onion induced tears. She had no recipe, only ratios; potato, onion, egg, a sprinkling of flour, then deft adjustments in the pan; number of latkes to depth of oil to the intensity of flame. Together in the kitchen we shared little talk, it never strayed to her parents or aunties. Her family fled with nothing towards the New World, she was just a baby, no one told her anything, but surely she must have overheard their dreams. Without stories there was only the two of us. I wanted our time to last forever. Only now it occurs to me to wonder what she didn’t tell. Stories are lamps in the dark. Without light it is hard to find my way. 
   Fresh from the pan, drained on torn brown paper to absorb excess oil, topped with apple sauce and sour cream, I eat the latkes out-of-hand, burning fingers and roof of mouth, one after another in rapid succession until uncomfortably full, filling something deeper than hunger, talisman against loss. I dash off emails to cousins. “Do you make latkes, did your mother teach you, did she tell you anything?” “Ah, yes, latkes” they reply. Everyone loves them, yet no one has stories to share, no one seems bothered. Alone I am twisting to peek behind myself, searching for hands at my back. I am lighting a wick, open to miracles, praying there’s oil enough to light my way.

   One of my sons embraced latke making. He’d help twist the potato shreds in a kitchen towel to squeeze out their water. Soon his strength superseded mine and he became sole twister, catching the water in a bowl so the potato starch could sink to the bottom, then the water poured off and the starch retrieved to bind the shreds we’d grated in a food processor. That is the trick of latkes, to bind the shreds without weighing them down. Soon he could form and slip the latkes into boiling oil and flip them, braving the blistering splatters. Asked what he remembers it is that each year he became more adept, his competence was praised. Latkes measured time. Only now I realize I’ve kept the recipe to myself, that year after year I proportion the batter for him, as if revealing the recipe I might lose him too.

Thursday, May 18, 2017

Wok Hay


     Remarried, my mother closed the door to her room which suit me just fine. Weekends, she and my stepfather drove to their country house leaving me on my own. This distance was good and bad at a time in my life of pushing and pulling. I suffered as teens do, worrying about short legs, hypocrisy and belonging. I combed my hair to hide my pimpled face, leaned forward to show off cleavage in lieu of valid ID, chain-smoked and ordered cocktails in Soho bars. To strains of Patti Smith my friends and I fretted the threat of nuclear annihilation and bemoaned the impossibility of orgasming during intercourse. And then the holidays came and I got a wok. A fabulous carbon steel vessel that occasioned trips to Chinatown for hoisin, fresh ginger and fermented black beans. The whole enterprise independent from dull prying parental eyes or fraught competitive romancing and college applications. 
      In my mother’s kitchen the perimeter of the cutting board was supposed to contain all mess. Implements and mixing bowls were rinsed as soon as they were sullied and swiftly put away. She’d pare and trim vegetables cradled in her palm. She'd mix the vegetables with hefty chunks of meat into a battered aluminum pot to slowly break apart. Inside the pot things reduced and intensified. She simmered, adjusting the flame accordingly. She kept the lid on, barely ajar. 
     With the advent of the wok I learned to make symmetrical cuts. Matchsticks or dices or diagonal slices were strewn across the counter. Seasonings and sauces filled a multitude of bowls. Who knew meat’s grain should be cut against, or that embryonic corn came canned. A teaspoon of water mixed with two of cornstarch thickened sauce to silk. Balanced on a ring above the burner, blue flames licked the bottom of the wok till it was just this side of combustion. Then, diving in rapid succession, the colorful matchsticks cried out a sizzle clinging to their identities but forever changed as they Cha-chaed in the searing madcap tempest inside the open expanse of pan. Wok hay, a Cantonese term loosely meaning ‘the spirit’ or ‘breath’ of the wok infused the food with fire and steel. 
     That September I took the wok when I left for college and rest it wobbling on an electric burner in the dusty dormitory kitchenette down the hall from my room. Late at night as tonic against homesickness, using ingredients snatched from the cafeteria, I’d stir fry rice. 
     During winter-session, jonesing for the fresh vegetables I’d taken for granted at home, I badgered the dining hall chef into letting me make a vegetable dish once a week to add to the steam table line. It was a brave new world entering his kitchen on Mondays at four. The rush of clatter, the dizzying arc of the clamp-on can-opener opening #10 cans of chickpeas to curry in the 28 qt. rondeau. Chef smugly watching, Chef’s gaze burning through the back of my skull as I struggled to heft the unwieldy pan. Subsequent weeks I brought the wok and stir-fried. 
     Spring semester came. Even though I wasn’t supposed to I moved off-campus into an apartment a few blocks from school. In my new kitchen the wok took pride of place and feasts ensued. Multiple dishes dashed in rapid succession for clambering coeds; the choreography of feeding a crowd my dance of independence.

     Arriving to Ellis Island in 1928 my maternal grandparents never learned English. My grandfather dovened with a minion of landsmen in a storefront shtiebel and manufactured menswear on the Lower Eastside. He moved his family from tenement to tenement chasing rent deals. Seven beds crammed in stuffy rooms and for extra cash cousin Marvin on the living room couch. Mom went to Brooklyn College at 15 where she excelled in math but studied education. She was shy and lived at home and took care of her mother who was dying from cancer. 
    I never heard the details of my parents courtship. They’d divorced by the time I began to wonder and then anything my mother said about my father was muttered under breath. When they met, my father was a rabbinical student. He was ambitious, fiery, flirtatious; my mother never understood what he saw in her. The answer is he didn’t see her, only himself in her dark sad eyes. Their marriage lasted 10 years and all that time he carried on. While my mother was pregnant with me he was already chasing the blonde shiksa who became his second wife.

     I graduated in 1979 and spent half dozen years juggling being an artist with day jobs to pay the rent--waiting tables and restoring folk art. Approaching thirty and trying to be responsible I took a professional cooking course, then landed a job in a hospital cooking for a medical diet study. Working with a nutritionist in a kitchen filled with test tubes and gram scales I stumbled upon my husband-to-be, a medicine fellow studying kidneys. Our first date we went to the movies. He sobbed through the film like a baby. We went to Chinatown for dim sum. He used a knife and fork to eat a pork bun because he doesn’t like to touch food. I didn't notice he was filled with rage or that anxiety had him in a chokehold that would tighten with every passing year. We married. We honeymooned in Spain. We visited Paris. We ate at starred restaurants and drank the expensive recommendations of the sommeliers. And without questioning or hesitating, as if preordained, I pushed the wok aside for the slow-cooked braises of Cuisine Bourgeois--in other words, my mother's stews. Our marriage lasted 10 years. All the while I simmered. Inside the pot everything intensified. I kept the lid on, barely ajar.
     A pot is not a harbinger but maybe it is. The way we cook, the way we organize to nourish is a window to the soul. Friends and family remind me how my mother’s eyes twinkled when she smiled. They mention her wry wit and that she listened in such a way as to make them feel special. I got a different legacy. I carry her sadness and darkness. When she is a lump in my throat I rest my hand across my clavicles and think how she pushed beyond a stifling upbringing and left a loveless marriage at a time women were stigmatized by divorce. She was brave, a survivor, but things unfolded that held her down. When she became ill it was a slow unbearable reduction. With lid ajar fleeting wisps of her escaped and dissipated. I stood by her as always. I’d like to believe she willed her death, that it was a last defiant act, but it is also true that when she died there was nothing left.

I wish for her as for myself
Lift the lid. 
Raise the flame till this side of combustion. 
Cha-cha in the tempest.

Fried Rice with Scrambled Eggs
American style fried rice loads on additional ingredients, making a simple Chinese solution for left-over rice into some kind of extravagance. Sometimes in addition to what I’ve mentioned here I’ll add cashews or switch it up with Thai basil, diced pineapple and a dash of fish sauce. Add whatever you have on hand—the sky’s the limit as long as it cooks quickly. The whole enterprise should be quick so that the rice doesn’t turn to mush and the vegetables retain a bite.

2-3 cups cooked rice (I prefer Jasmine)
3 t vegetable oil (divided)
1-2 cups additional vegetables including: scallion, shiitake, snow peas, broccoli, etc.  
3/4 cup diced cooked meat including: pork/ham/Chinese sausage/chicken/beef/shrimp or tofu (optional)
1” knob of ginger 
1 lg. clove garlic 
1 smallish knob fresh turmeric
2 eggs
a handful of finely sliced scallion greens (use the remainder as part of the additional vegetables)
salt, pepper to taste

Cut whatever vegetables you’re using into evenly sized “matchsticks” or small pieces and set aside.  
Peel ginger, garlic and turmeric, thinly slice then stack the slices and cut into fine shreds, set aside. 
Break eggs into a small bowl, mix well, set aside.
Heat wok until very hot. Drizzle 2 t. oil down the sides of the wok. 
Add the vegetables. Stir the vegetables so that the ones on the bottom come up to the top, almost as if you were flipping them. Continue stirring 2 minutes until the vegetables are barely cooked. If you are using a variety of vegetables, stager how you add them to the wok—what needs the most cooking, say small pieces of broccoli, should be added first and what needs the least, say snow pea pods, last. You want the vegetables to retain some crunch. 
Add the ginger, garlic and turmeric. Stir fry 1 minute more. 
Add cooked meat (if using) and stir fry 1 minute more. 
Add the cooked rice, breaking up any lumps with your fingers. Stir fry and additional 1-2 minutes then make a well in the center of the rice. 
Add remaining teaspoon of oil. Pour beaten egg into the well and cook undisturbed for 1 minute. Stir eggs and then gradually stir rice and eggs together. Add salt and pepper to taste. Sprinkle with scallion greens. If you’d like, serve with soy sauce and Sriracha on the side. 

Friday, March 31, 2017

Canard á l’Orange

    Chicken, steak, fish drowned in tartare sauce, interspersed with toaster-oven pizzas or spaghetti and pennies saved. Vegetables followed seasons. There was plenty. Our ups and downs were not about food. Still, the occasional exotic dish felt inexplicable and disgusting. Calves liver, cow’s tongue, and boiled beef. I interpreted these dishes as hostility. I had no idea my mother might seek pleasure in something other than what I thought good.  
     I traveled on my own by subway and bus downtown to junior high, crosstown for after-school art classes and the orthodontist. What was important was the candy bar in my lunchbox or that on Fridays Debbie and I would cut out of school for a burger at a diner where crocks of pickles and table-side jukeboxes graced each booth.Wednesdays after drama at the YMHA Julie and I got Blimpies with extra everything. Week-ends were for sleepovers. I don’t remember the meals at my friends houses or what they ate at mine but I do remember our giggly caresses as we played ‘boyfriend and girlfriend’ under the covers during long sleepless nights, drifting off, then waking near noon for French toast and bacon smothered in Log Cabin syrup.
     What changed my world was the Canard á l’Orange from a restaurant called The Library. We'd pass from the familiar lights of Broadway through a forest of hanging fern and navigate the long dark bar to the backroom maze of bookshelves holding real books. Tables were tucked in the nooks and crannies. We went as a treat, sometimes with neighbors, if my mother was tired, or maybe just because.
     How did I love thee? Mahogany, shatteringly crisp skin taught over melting flesh. Sticky sweet glaze and salty fat soiling eager fingers and lips. Gilded, elegant, French; everything my mother was not. She never made duck. With its lousy bone to meat ratio and abundant fat it was not something it would've occurred to her, to us, you could make. 
     It wasn’t till much later, when I’d moved downtown after college that I’d stride with bravado to the butcher shop to ask for duck. At that time ‘New American’ and lite were all the rage and I switched allegiance to barely seared Magret breasts flavored with star anise and peppercorns, or olives, lemon and thyme. I fancied myself a connoisseur, but ducks migrate south only to fly back home. I see now my lavish cooking was no different from my mother’s liver or tongue or pot au feu. She must have had strivings. She must have had her passions, only then I couldn’t see them, it wasn’t my concern. 

    Two days after my mother died I sliced a tomato as she would have and ate it with onion, like her. Next day a tuna sandwich helped me think past her illness. Stirring chocolate pudding expressed what I could not. Grief sparked the memories and the stories followed suit. A dish gets in my head, I cook it and emotions rise. I write them down. Words instead of tears. At first I needed to feel a strong connection so what came to mind were dishes from when she was the center of my universe. But she's been gone a year. Canard á l’Orange marked a separation when I discovered it. It marks one now too. 
     I went out and bought a duck, available as if it were nothing special in a cryovac sack from the local store. The duck and I slow-danced across griefs’ stages; denial, regret, anger, flashes of relief. The thought of dousing it with cloying sauce dispirited. What was it I had liked so much? Why go there now? Taste changes, and memory, and the person remembering, and what we remember isn’t necessarily what it was. I couldn't bring myself to make the dish. The duck sat in my fridge a week till I cut off its legs and stuck them in the freezer and boiled the carcass for broth.
     Later I bought another duck, cut it in half, added one leg to the legs in the freezer, defrosted the old breast, added it to the new breast, scored their skin to quickly sauté, boiled the wingtips and backbone for gravy. The other half, the whole half, I pricked with a knife to release the fat and while it roasted skimmed half dozen recipes for sauce. Fresh squeezed juice and julienned zest simmered with brown sugar or white sugar or honey, sherry vinegar or cider vinegar, Grand Marnier or marmalade. Once the dish was the sexiest I’d ever tasted then it became quaint, now it seems lurid. 
     When my mother was alive I didn't pay attention. Now what I remember are fragments without details, or my focus rests on what wasn't there. Longing comes in waves. I'm not sure what for. Maybe a moment of her voice on the other end of the line.
     At supper the slow roasted half lay by the quickly seared rosy breast, au jus. A piece of history striped bare. Full flavored. Un-sauced.

Sous Vide Duck Confit
3 duck legs
2 t Kosher salt
juice from 1/2 an orange plus strips of zest from same orange
1 t  black peppercorns
1/2 t Sichuan peppercorns
1 small knob fresh turmeric, cut in half
a bay leaf and a sprig of thyme
2 smashed garlic cloves
1 shallot, roughly chopped
2 T rendered duck fat (or substitute butter)

Put the duck legs on a plate and sprinkle with salt
Let sit in the refrigerator overnight, uncovered
Pat legs dry and seal into a heavy duty ziplock bag with the remaining ingredients
Make sure you press the air out of the bag—do this by submerging the bag in a pot of water, keeping the last inch of the zip held out of the water and unsealed until all the air has been pressed out. Be careful not to get water inside the bag
Attach sous vide device to a large water filled pot and set for 76.C 
When it reaches temperature, submerge the sealed bag of legs in the water bath. You might need to weight the bag or jerry-rig something to make sure the bag is submerged (I clip a small metal bowl to the side of the pot to weigh down the bag) 
Cover pot as best you can with foil or plastic wrap to help minimize evaporation
Set timer for 10 hrs. Check water level from time to time.

When done, rapidly chill bag in an iced water bath. When cool enough to handle, pull legs from bag, reserving fat in one bowl and accumulated juices in another. Lay legs on a sheet pan and broil for 5 - 10 minutes until skin crisps and browns. Be cautious of spattering fat. Meanwhile, simmer “jus” with a splash of Grand Marnier or Brandy until slightly thickened and serve with duck. Save fat for other uses.  

Sunday, February 5, 2017

flour, water, salt, yeast

Jasper Johns "Bread" 1969

     After school, week-ends, every spare minute I am at the pottery throwing pots, dreaming I’ll apprentice with a stern Japanese master and my life will be set. At home in my mother’s kitchen with floury hands, palms pushing, lifting, folding, turning, I practice Japanese spiral wedging technique on warm yeasty dough. The repetitive motion burns my burgeoning triceps. I see my arms as I imagine them seen, in doing I am also posing. With each thrust braless nipples graze the inside of my sleeveless tank top. My hips gently rock. Black curls sway.
     Kneading develops wheat’s tightly curled proteins. The proteins lie dormant until hydrated and prodded by floured hands. There is no hurrying the process. Awakened proteins unfurl and tangle, weaving a lattice that traps the yeasts breath enabling the bread to rise. 
     In my kitchen now a mixer does this labor but when my hands gather the shaggy dough I feel that seventeen year old; not time’s passage but the actual girl, as if we are nesting dolls. My hands shape the dough into a crystal ball revealing widening, drooping, greying, also strength the girl didn’t yet know. And I am not sure, is that my own coming frailty or am I confusing myself with the image of mother’s deathbed repose seared on my mind’s eye. 
    The drying residue of dough makes my hands look like artifacts. I pick at the flour in the crevices of my nails and smile remembering that the most radical thing the girl-me’s hands ever held was my high school love. Such tender hands, tentatively probing and stroking until we’d swoon with desire. 
     My mother had recently remarried. They’d bought a weekend house in the countryside and drove off Friday afternoons leaving me behind. My life was in the city at the pottery and playing house, sleeping next to my lover in my parent’s double bed. The potters would come for supper on my parent’s new antique dining table. Thick soup in stoneware bowls, buttered bread, raucous chatter. We’d sip wine from hand thrown goblets that often tipped. Frantically I’d mop the spills least incriminating evidence greet my parents on their Sunday night return. 
     When the dough has doubled, punch down, pat flat, roll into a bundle to fit the lightly greased pan. It is like starting over. During the second rise the yeast ferments the dough. This contributes to the depth of flavor.
     To pass time the years I sat with my mother when she could no longer speak I’d inspect our hands side by side; hers yellowed, gnarled, curling in upon themselves. Mine are marked by callouses and cooking burns. No longer tender the skin appears crackled like porcelain glaze; the  lines tell a story. I’ve made pots, bread, love, lifted my babies, soothing or fussing. In a moment of drama I lifted a vase above my head, smashing it to bits at my husbands feet yelling “get out, get out” and he walked out the door. My hands held my sister when she took her last breath. They carried my mother’s ashes home.
     In the oven crust forms. The wheat’s natural sugars caramelize and the scent fills you with promise, the loaf becomes domed and golden. What was once dense and sticky has filled with air and grown buoyant. Turn the loaf from the pan, let it cool, let it rest.

     I’ve grasped my hurts, held them waiting and waiting and forgotten the joy. My mother did the same. Her hurts were our constant companion. She held them to her chest, stoic and silent. I do not know the half of her, yet she was my model. What now, shall I I opened my hands? This is mourning, sorrow instead of smoldering, and letting go. Maybe joy might rise, once, twice, and  from there, the chance to break bread. 


Wednesday, November 30, 2016

A Wave of Grief Takes Me By Surprise

Pablo Picasso, 1941

Mom didn’t trim her artichokes 
Though it might have been expected it was a nasty surprise 
When a leaf’s spiny tip pricked my finger drawing blood 
I learned to be wary
She guided my hand as I held the knife 
to cut out the tangle that guarded the heart
With her intent I do it now

After supper I cut a mango to share with my son
“Want to gnaw the pit?” “Nah, no pit”  
There was never mango in my mother’s kitchen
A wave of grief takes me by surprise
Then I remember a lifetime ago 
I mistook pit for seed and said,
“A man plants a pit in the woman to grow a baby”
My mother laughed, repeating my gaffe a million times

It’s good to remember her laughter 

Wednesday, August 31, 2016

Opening Cans

     As if I were there now I remember the cold smooth surface of the white formica table that sat in the crook of our “L” shaped kitchen. I can hear, or maybe feel the latch of the cupboard, the Frigidaire’s hum, the smell of the broom closet, the nearly imperceptible progress of white enameled hands around the black Modernist clock. 
     I have few memories of eating supper with my family even though we set that table nightly, taking dishes from said cupboard, pulling things in and out of the fridge. After supper we’d sweep up, negotiating TV and bedtimes by the ticking of the clock. Maybe the memories are buried, maybe lost with the passage of time. 
     Except for Chicken-a-la-King. When it was served I’d pick gingerly at the plate, stomach in knots, shooting squinty-eyed hate darts at my sister. She loved this dish but I couldn’t stand the bland beige glop that was mixed from cans and called a fancy name.  
     I know from photos that Karen was a lanky string bean with a thick auburn ponytail that was longer than I was tall. Our parents divorced before I was two. Karen, five years older, remembered living with our father. She was Daddy’s girl and I was considered Mom’s. 
     I remember snippets of stories: we played “Highland Kennels.” She was the stern mistress and I’d crawl on all fours barking and wagging my butt, eagerly lapping the bowl of water she’d put on the kitchen floor. She’d insist I thank her. I’d lick her feet. 
     After latkes one Hanukkah we lit our menorahs and opened gifts of matching blue nightgowns we immediately pulled over our clothes. Mom went out of the room. Karen and I were alone watching the candles and I broke the rule and used a napkin to smother a dying flame.The napkin caught fire. With bare feet we stomped it out. My gown got singed. I took it off and hid it. Karen never tattled. 
     One year she stopped going to school. She’d get up, get dressed, sit and read, and in the afternoon visit Dr. Halpern who had candy and Highlights Magazine in the waiting room where I sat biding time. When she returned to school the next year she wasn’t even behind. In contrast, I went to school early each morning because I needed help learning to read. 
     By fifteen she was into boys, LSD and was at war with our mother. I don’t know—maybe it was after dinner and they were in the kitchen yelling while I fidgeted in the living room. I don’t know—maybe it was once or maybe a couple of times; what I remember are the sounds of slapping and crashing pots.  Soon after she swallowed a bottle of pills and knocked on a neighbor’s door. The Skernick’s in 6A. She babysat for them. They called 911. She had her stomach pumped and was admitted to a psych ward. My mother cried a lot. We went back and forth visiting the hospital. Years later Karen told me if she’d known the misery would end she wouldn’t have done it—it wasn’t like she wanted to die.
     It was unkind of me to turn up my nose at supper. I see now my mother and sister’s fondness for Chicken-a-la-King was a rare instance they could recognize themselves in each other. Food is good for that—nurturing bonds, which sometimes leads to healing. But I couldn’t stand Karen being ‘easy’ for even a moment. She got attention messing up, I wanted sole dominion being good. Each chunk of insipid chicken, each squashed pea pushed to the side of my plate wreaked havoc with the status quo.        
      Over years things softened. Mom remarried. My sister married. I did too and we spoke frequently about our kids, and then about my marriage falling apart. Mostly we had long wonderful conversations about art. But bring the three of us together, even after years living apart and we’d slide back to old patterns; Karen defiant, my mother beleaguered, me—nursing indignation.
     In 2006, after a period feeling foul my sister ended up in the emergency room, diagnosed with stage IV colon cancer. It was already too late. I attributed it to drugs, to her diet, to a mistrust of authority that kept her from check-ups when maybe it could have been caught early on. We didn’t tell our mother because she was fragile and in early dementia. 
     I was back in school and had irregular hours so I became the chemo buddy. While the chemicals slowly dripped Karen helped me write my papers. After treatment, if she needed I’d walk her home and wait till her husband arrived. Often I made lunch. Once I made pasta tossed with mushrooms. She ate with gusto. We reminisced about Chicken-a-la-King. Further along in the treatments she became nauseated from the chemo so we skipped the meals. It was a good time for us, the period before her death.
     When my mother died, I set about cooking her dishes. I thought the smells and motions of cooking and the taste of her food would bring back memories of her vitality. One day I purchased the cans she’d used for Chicken-a-la-King; Swanson’s, Green Giant, Cambell’s Cream of Mushroom soup. I set them on the counter but couldn’t bring myself to open them. After a while I left the cans on the steps of the church down the street and decided to make the dish from scratch. 
      Objectively, free-range chicken tenderly poached in aromatic broth, tossed with wild mushrooms, hand-shelled peas, torn herbs and thick fresh cream is delicious over al dente egg-rich noodles. But taste is not objective. What goes in our mouths tastes as much of memory as of flavor. Each time we remember, each time a bite of something conjures our past, a part of us relives the time anew. 
     I was so sure my reinterpretation would be good but after a forkful straight from the pan I put the remainder in the fridge where it sat untouched. A month later I tried again sure it would be different, but there I stood, an hour gone, with a chicken and expensive wild mushrooms made bland and voluminous; wasted. 
     “You would like this” I pushed, hoping if my son ate the dish the feelings dredged up might also be consumed. “I just don’t” he declared “I don’t like it” and for a flash his simple declaration let me reframe my knotted sorrow. I had been right to rebel. Then I started worrying that without meaning to I must’ve passed along my pain.

Poach a small chicken in 4-6 c water along with an onion cut in half, a carrot, celery, parsley stems, a sprig of thyme, a bay leaf, salt, and a small handful of peppercorns. When chicken is cooked through but before it is falling apart (approx. 40 minutes) strain broth and set aside. When cool enough to handle, pull meat off the bones and set aside. Return the discarded skin, fat, bones and seasoning to the broth and simmer for another hour to wring out every bit of flavor. Strain the broth again and discard the solids.                                                              
In a cast iron skillet sear two cups of mushrooms over high heat until the mushrooms give up their moisture and begin to brown. Add a splash of sherry, or bourbon is good too and let it cook down. Add a pinch of salt and set mushrooms aside. 

In the same skillet melt  2 T butter. Stir in a heaping tablespoon of flour and let cook over low heat for a few minutes. Add a cup each of milk and the reserved broth (save the rest of the broth for another use). Add a glug of heavy cream Add a scant grating of nutmeg, freshly ground pepper and a pinch of salt. Bring to a simmer and reduce slightly. Stir in cooked chicken, the mushrooms, a handful of frozen peas and some chopped fresh herbs (I suggest parsley, thyme, and a bit of sage). Serve over buttered egg noodles (or toss the buttered noodles directly into the skillet so they soak up the sauce).