Christmas Polish Bows

My sister and I were very fortunate to have many weekends spent at my Nana’s place when we were young. Throughout the school year and even over the summer, she would collect us in her boxy ivory Volvo on a Friday afternoon and we would embark on our 24 hour girls only time. Our visits included: two meals eating at a restaurant, watching the Merv Griffin show and a shopping trip to Macy’s department store, previously named Bamberger’s.

Once on the long flight of stairs to her upper apartment, the familiar soapy smell of the pink Caress bar in the bathroom enveloped our sense of smell like a welcoming hug. Her apartment wasn’t large by any means but to Chris and I, this was a true retreat for a girl. Her many dolls and sculptured collectible cats greeted us as did the bright warm sun that always seemed to shine through her large front window. Occasionally, she would ask us to dust and vacuum her apartment which meant the living and dining rooms. She rarely cooked in her tiny kitchen so the dining room was barely used except when we were there visiting. That was the place where she taught us the rules and strategies of her favorite card game canasta.

The conclusion of our visit would end at her restaurant of choice - the Mountainview Diner which ironically didn’t have any view of a mountain except the vast expanse of the macadam parking lot. We became so familiar with this diner over the years that it felt like going to a dear friend’s place to eat. Nana would always have coffee with a light meal unless strawberries were in season which she would order to perch atop a Belgian waffle – her favorite. We could order whatever we wanted on the menu as long as it was enough to fully fill our stomachs.

These visits were close to routine but we never considered them a mundane obligation because we loved Nana and she reciprocated with abundant kindness and generosity. She truly treated us like princesses. I am so grateful she wanted to spend so much time with us because unlike many of my childhood memories, these memories spent with her are almost completely intact.

I resist subscribing to the commercialism of Christmas for it is the simple memories of loved ones from my past who are no longer here and making new memories with the next generation of our family which I truly cherish above material things. I realize that may sound ridiculous or overly sentimental, however, over the years I have amassed a treasured collection. My mind has a virtual album of recollections I like to pick up often and look through. This time of the year holds a special memory. Although Chris and I had much fun at Nana’s, when we were summoned to go there to make Polish bows it meant serious businesses and we took it as such. Oh, she loved us so much that it was never a chore nor did we ever resent helping her.

Polish bows have a different name outside of our family. Nana’s family emigrated from Poland and consequently, without any real reason, many things were labeled “Polish” including certain idiosyncrasies of various family members. If you look up chrusciki on the internet, you can find the recipe.

By the time we would get to her house to make the Polish bows, she had the yellowy dough already prepared since it had to rest in the refrigerator for several hours. The process began with her cast iron pot and getting the oil inside it up to temperature. While that was beginning, the dough was rolled out until it was very thin. Chris usually took that task since she liked to sneak a few pieces of the raw dough to eat. Once it was satisfactorily thin, the dough was cut into long thin strips, the strips then cut again into three or four pieces each with a small slit cut in the center. The end of a piece was very gently pushed through the slit to create a knot or a bow. I would bring these over the pot where Nana supervised while I would carefully drop them in. She would cook them until puffy and slightly golden; transferring them from the oil via a fork to an unfolded brown paper bag once they were out of the oil so they could dry. The final touch included a healthy flurry of white powdered sugar.

We ended up with dozens of these wonderful treats. We were allowed to sneak a few but Nana knew that once we got the highly addictive taste of the sugary melt-in-your-mouth delight, Chris and I would have assaulted them to obliteration into our stomachs. The next day we would bring them to the large family gathering where we were met with “oooo’s” and “ahhhhh’s”. I felt great pride in that not only did we get such a reception (rather the bows we were carrying did) but that Nana chose only Chris and me to make the Polish bows Christmas after Christmas.

I never did get the recipe from Nana. Once I awoke from the stupor of my young adulthood and settled into the life I now live, I deeply lamented that I let her leave this life without endowing me with her recipe - simply for the fact of being able to actually hold a piece of the memory in my hands. Without having the real name of the Polish bows, I couldn’t even look up the recipe on the internet. And then years later as I was reading a December issue of Gourmet magazine, my heart rejoiced when I saw a picture of them complete with recipe. I immediately called Chris who shared my excitement when I told her the treasure I discovered. We made them that Christmas to share with our family and to my amazement; it was clear in everyone’s eyes that for a brief moment as Chris and I presented our surprise that the spirit of Nana was amongst us in the form of a simple delicious treat.

Foodtastic!

There’s no denying that I am a foodie. Dictionary.com says a foodie is “a person keenly interested in food, especially in eating or cooking.” That is a rather cardboard definition to the passion I know a foodie has when it comes to all things culinary. For a while the word foodie was such a buzz word that I wasn’t even sure I was one. I’ve never felt that I was cool enough to be tagged with a word that is used by the likes of Gourmet magazine. My self doubt was dismissed when some of my friends told me they get great enjoyment just listening to me describe food from either a new restaurant or recipe I recently tried. I suppose I have a passionate way of translating from taste buds to words delicious food’s absolute sensual fulfillment. Whoa…

One of my main tenets of eating the best food is freshness: just picked from the garden, right off the boat seafood or straight from the farm meat – organic when possible. Even the best grocery stores cannot compete with these unless they have some sort of co-op with local farmers and the food isn’t shipped far from its origin.

Secondly, food that is cooked in one’s kitchen cannot be compared to restaurant dishes, provided of course that one knows how to cook or whether or not one is in Italy. When cooking in your own kitchen, the obvious but important reality is that you know exactly what is going on your plate. One of the reasons I enjoy cooking so much is it’s a fabulous and highly functional creative art that truly nourishes others who partake of the end result.

I think this is one of the reasons why I have to grow a vegetable garden every year. Since my youth year after year from a backyard garden I have picked tomatoes, all kinds of greens, beans and herbs. It’s the addictive crunch from the sugar snap peas and the teasing aromatics released from the oregano and basil plants because the garden hose accidentally brushed over them. Anyone who has grown their own tomatoes knows that summer can be defined by those large red beefsteak varieties; simply sliced and salted served unaccompanied on a plate if they make it that far. Harvesting from my tiny backyard garden brings a great sense of completeness to my heart. Perhaps this is some throwback to some ancestral gene but I know putting the work into my garden comes back to benefit me tenfold. There is also the satisfaction of bragging rights that some or all of the ingredients from a meal I’ve made came from my garden.

After Alan and I spent three weeks in Italy we were spoiled by some of the world’s greatest culinary masters. I’m not talking about well known chefs at five star restaurants listed in the Zagat guide. These literal mom-and-pop restaurants didn’t even have menus. They provided a five course meal with some pantry staples like herbs and beans but the star attractions were the ingredients that were available to them only for that season and sometimes just for a few weeks. It was like going to my grandparents’ house for a visit – relaxed with the anticipation of a culinary delight that makes you close your eyes so all your senses can be focused to the mouth and nose. This picture here shows my husband and me quite overcome with palatable pleasures. It also shows that I had several wine tastings with each course and was left fairly inebriated. It’s all part of the experience over there. Even so, with each taste my brain became infused with new recipes of my own devising by the tastes and smells of what lay on my plate.

in Castellina in Chianti, Italy

I am adamant about teaching Nate the simple act that yields huge satisfaction from planting tiny seeds in the ground that soon grow into food we eat. I know now as an adult, whether they intended to or not, my parents imparted this teaching in me by involving us kids in helping with their annual vegetable garden. So far this year Nate has harvested oregano, carrots, lettuce, and sugar snap peas. I know he enjoys it because while I’m busy making dinner and need some fresh herbs, he’ll drop whatever he’s doing to go clip some if I ask. He has eaten the peas and seems to enjoy them more while standing in the garden picking them one by one rather than having them a half hour later on his plate in the kitchen.

Very slowly Nate is learning to have patience during those agonizing days it takes for the seeds to germinate and emerge from the stark soil. Sometimes during this waiting period, depending on the time of year, we’ll go to a local pick your own farm. My favorite is Phillips Farm in Milford, NJ. Drive down the country road to get to the little roadside stand where you pick up the collecting baskets and you’ll see for yourself why visually alone I love going there. This farmer clearly shares my belief that if you respect your food, your food will respect you.

It is having respect that sums it up. Respecting the environment by growing and eating locally, respecting the plants and animals that we eat who in return give us nourishment and health, and finally respecting our bodies by eating the way God intended us to.

iPad or am iMad?

Alan and I recently celebrated our anniversary. The morning of our special day appeared at first like any other weekday morning. I sleepily made it to the kitchen where I saw a box wrapped in pink flowery wrapping paper on the table. This surprise woke me up from the usual routine stupor. I read the cards. Yes, there were three. The first was a sweet traditional printed greeting card, the second was Alan’s gift disclaimer (it’s returnable if you don’t like it) and the third card’s contents will remain between my husband and I. My first thought was, “Oh yes! He got me a Kindle!”

I apologize for the following digression but I think you’ll agree it all makes sense in the end.

I got Alan a Kindle for his birthday and I think this maybe the best gift I’ve ever given him. He is an avid reader and the books he has been reading lately are hardcover and almost 1000 pages. I felt bad that he was carrying around three pound books especially when he would pack them when traveling. His computer bag would get so stuffed and heavy with books that carrying it was similar to an ancient Egyptian slave hauling a block of stone to build the pyramids. Even so, knowing his reluctance to zippy new electronic toys I bit the bullet and remembered the ol’ disclaimer “it’s returnable if you don’t like it.” Much to our happiness, he loves the Kindle.

I have debated with myself for a while now if I really want a Kindle or continue reading the old fashioned way. I’ve been on the fence for a while because I actually like the smell of old books. Unless Amazon comes up with a scratch and sniff sticker or some kind of air freshener attachment that emanates the smell of aging paper, I’m not sure if reading from a Kindle would satisfy and complete my book reading experience. Another reason I’m apprehensive is most of the books I read are from the library; a megatropolis of geriatric book smell. Ahhh! The library is also one of my favorite hang outs so it would totally cramp my style to download books from home.

Previous to my giving the Kindle to Alan, I asked him if he would be interested in one. He emphatically stated why get one when the iPad does the same thing in color and it can surf the web. The practical person that I am I couldn’t part with $500 for a frivolous web surfing tablet when we already have iPhones not to mention I could buy a laptop that does so much more for around the same price. Buying the Kindle for him was for me part experiment and part surviving in a world of gift giving cluelessness.

And now I will continue with the point of my story.

As soon as I tore the wrapping paper, I saw the white box and knew exactly what was gifted to me. I wonder now if Alan was conducting his own experiment with me as I had done with him with the Kindle. I had mixed feelings as I stared at the plain box featuring a picture of what was inside. Nate wanted me to tear off the shrink wrapping but I wanted to wait until Alan got home from work. I began to methodically calculate throughout the day all the possibilities of how exactly I would use an iPad. Using my logic, I couldn’t justify owning one.

When Alan got home from work, there was a slight awkward moment of thanking him for a great gift that just about anyone on the planet would love to have to telling him that I’d rather have a laptop instead. I felt like the infamous Veruca Salt – spoiled, bratty and completely ungrateful. Had I gone completely mad rejecting possibly the best digital toy of the early 21^st century? The jury is still out on that one.

This whole situation didn’t end without my gaining tremendous knowledge though. After I asked Alan if he wouldn’t mind making good on his gift giving disclaimer by returning the iPad and replacing my old laptop with a new one, the look on his face told me volumes. He asked if I would use it a little as there was a grace period before it became unreturnable to the store. This was his disguised plea - his wish that I would bond with this metallic pet if I stroked it and gazed at it enough. Unfortunately for him, I was solid in my decision and he took it back.

The experiment may have failed for Alan but I now know without a doubt that if I give a particular someone an iPad, it will be received wholeheartedly. When that day comes, I will for the second time in our years together have gotten my husband a gift that he really wants and likes.

For Whom the Doorbell Tolls

For those of us who were there, it was a day none of us wanted to face. It was the last day that our family had ownership of the house my grandparents lived in for over 50 years. It was the house my mom grew up in and continued to visit consistently throughout her adult life. It was the house my siblings and I visited so often it was as familiar and comfortable to us as our own home. Many summer picnics, holidays and small family gatherings when out of town relatives came to visit all happened there. We knew on that day, when the rental moving truck was stoically parked in the driveway ready to take away within a matter of hours the concrete memories that were made over decades, there would be an undeniable end to an era in our family.

Almost a year and a half ago my grandfather, who all of us in the family affectionately called Pop-pop, lost his battle with cancer. He was from the old school, born and raised in Brooklyn, NY by Italian immigrant parents during the Great Depression. He enlisted in the US Army and served during World War II. He met my grandmother while stationed in the Philippines and took care of her all his life until his body wouldn’t allow him to any longer. He was a paradox of father and grandfather. His children described him as tough, strict and even mean when they were growing up. As his granddaughter, I knew him as funny, a great story teller and the best cook I have ever known.

After Pop-pop died, Nana lost interest in life. Her happiness was pinned securely to the man she loved for over 60 years. Her lackluster showed not only in her actions but her entire being. I saw firsthand that two humans can truly be one and when one of them is gone, it is similar to a butterfly that has lost one of its wings. Although well cared for, the life in her dwindled away as her sadness turned into depression which eventually claimed her.

In earlier and happier times, my mom would bring us frequently to their split level house painted in Federal Blue. It was such a treat as a kid to race up the front steps and ring the doorbell. When we were young, Nana was the one who always answered the door. Smiles met with smiles followed by hugs. She dearly loved us all but the youngest of the lot was always her favorite. In this way, we were all her favorites at one time. This affection was carried forward when as adults we started to bring her great grandchildren for a visit. At this point in time, she was too weak and frail so Pop-pop would make the trip up the stairs from the den if he wasn’t cooking something in the kitchen.

The ringing of that doorbell had evolved over time into a different expectation on either side of the door. For us, we awaited the voluptuous smell of a concoction Pop-pop was in the midst of creating on the stove or in the oven. Perhaps he didn’t know who was on the other side of the door but he hoped they came with a good appetite. His happiness didn’t always stem from the same source that Nana’s did when seeing us on their doorstep but it was very apparent that he got great enjoyment in tantalizing our taste buds and filling our stomachs. We knew we hit the jackpot when we would walk over the threshold as he casually said over his shoulder he had spaghetti or pot roast. Actually, he appeared to be casual but he certainly had one eye trained on us to see our excitement.

On that last day at my grandparent’s house, I walked in and much of the familiar furniture that made that house theirs was gone. The large bookshelf that held framed photos of my cousins taken almost two decades ago and albums of Dean Martin was given away. The over-sized dining room table on which so many birthday cakes had graced upon it while the little ones played under it, had met the fate of being sold to a total stranger. The house now seemed incredibly small even though most of its contents had been taken out.

We began to remove the last pieces of furniture. I keenly focused on the work at hand instead of the fact that it was close to sacrilege that I was removing the master bedroom furniture that had been there my entire life. I watched as my brothers and uncle moved the heavy pieces into the truck. I felt that buoyant feeling one gets when accomplishing a task and seeing the end result. In my ephemeral confidence, I flippantly rang the doorbell and then something most unexpectedly happened. A tidal wave of profound sadness washed over me and soaked me to the bones.

Within seconds the forgotten moments that happened decades ago, that only Nana had dearly held onto until her very last breath, now pierced my heart with a massive sense of loss. I thought of how many times I rang that bell in my life and the constant was that Pop-pop or Nana would always be there to answer that door and I would feel right at home. For the first time since their deaths, I realized that I would never experience those warm feelings again. The comfort in knowing they were always there vanished.

I bit my lower lip hard to keep my emotions in check so no one would see how vulnerable I was in my sadness but remembering my grandparents’ enduring love that I was fortunate to have experienced over my entire my life was too much for me to resist. I stood in the upper hallway smelling the familiar smells of soap, the now shabby linens that as a child had slept on and the dust that was probably resident there for half my life. It was on that day of recognizing the actual loss that I refused to acknowledge previously, I mourned my grandparents with tears streaming down my cheeks and an ache in my chest. My mom found me immobilized in my cocoon of sorrow and wrapped her arms around me, quietly knowing full well why I was crying. I finally met her in the sadness of acknowledging the loss of loved ones that were historically steadfast figures in our lives.

As we loaded up the final pieces into the truck and I walked for the last time through the front door of the Federal Blue house, I realized what we had actually done on that day. This house, which had been such a large part of four generations in my family, had been a time capsule and we had dismantled it. Now that the owners of that house were no longer alive, the memories they had of us were no longer treasured as they had been so carefully remembered over all those years.

Today in an age where many things are disposable, even relationships, this recent experience affected me enough to pause and reconsider how I live every day, what I spend my time on and most importantly how I treat others. The love felt when one is treasured by another should never been taken for granted or even be expected with a sense of entitlement. What is consistently here today may not be here tomorrow and if there is someone you love, treasure them every day as if tomorrow was the end of time.

Sock It To Me

Unlike last year when Winter decided to enter as a flamboyant dancer in a Carnivale parade, this year she has played the coquettish flirt.  I’m not complaining because I enjoy warm weather and become quite sad when the sun skips lowly over the horizon making the days shorter and cooler.  To keep warm during the winter months, I sometimes follow the patches of sun around the floor of my living room with my cat.

No matter how warm the thermostat says my house is during Winter I am perpetually cold.  It doesn’t matter what I decide to wear each day because I end up covering up my outfit with the same ol’ fleece jacket, sometimes a hat but always my trusty slippers are added.  I could probably get by without wearing the fleecey or the hat but there is no chance that socks won’t be on my feet from the earliest part of my day.  Alan can begin a cold day with a white tee-shirt and put his socks on later.  Nate has to be told as we are leaving the house to put on some socks before putting on his shoes.

In our society, if one decides not to wear socks it isn’t against the law.  Although in my lifetime, I have seen some toes that really shouldn’t see the light of day nonetheless be seen by any other human – criminally hideous.  Socks are the underwear for feet.  Could one go without them a.k.a free bird or in this case free toes?  Sure, but I guess it all depends on where an individual is with their comfort level.

It has been in style for women to wear pants with flat shoes and no socks.  When I see pictures of this in catalogs for winter fashion, I roll my eyes at the impracticality of this.  I’d like to meet the five foot nine inch, 100 pound model that wears a flimsy outfit and isn’t shivering from being chilled to the bone while it's 30 degrees outside.  Perhaps numbness sets in and feeling anything isn’t a problem.  My body has some natural insulation (cellulite) on it along with layers upon layers of clothing that mimic the neck to toe coverage of the Victorian era and it still seeks more warmth.  For me, practicality wins over being stylish.  Uh oh!  Does that mean I’m getting old?

Recently as I was running errands I noticed a young woman wearing flats with no socks.  Outside it was barely 20 degrees and the wind was brutal, challenging any humidity in the air to become snow.  Her jutting ankle bones looked as if they need to be hugged by a pair of Uggs or even leg warmers.  I wanted to ask her, “Can you feel your feet?  I have on thick socks with sneakers and can barely feel mine.”  Could you imagine if a stranger walked up to you and asked you about your feet?  Obviously I have and pepper spray came to mind.  With that, I kept my thoughts to myself but shook my head to show outward disdain.

Aside from wearing socks to keep warm, I CANNOT bear to step on crumbs, lint, dirt, etcetera with my bare feet inside my house.  Socks and slippers are precious necessities to protect me from this terrible discomfort.  There was a month where I was without slippers because I wore the soles off my old ones.  This was a tragedy of epic level.  It may correlate as going to a Dunkin’ Donuts and finding out they don’t have any coffee and won’t for a week.  Yes, it was that bad.  On mornings as I would go into the kitchen to start breakfast, my eyes would nervously dart around the floor spying bits of biscuits, dried rice or, please not kitty litter!!!

Recently I joined a Pilates class.  When the instructor said we were going to have to take our socks off, I thought it was the most incredulous statement I had heard this year.  I don’t even take my socks off at home except to shower.  Why would I take them off anywhere else?  Fortunately, I anticipated the no sock command and was able to reconcile myself into doing what she asked by giving myself a pedicure before the class.  While we commenced leg lifts, I admiringly looked at my perfectly painted toes.  I successfully tricked my brain that a little bit of style actually can trump uncomfortable ambient temperatures.