Wednesday, November 25, 2009

My mother thanks you, my father thanks you, & I thank you..

The NPR stations have been visiting immigrants' kitchens this week to find out what they cook for Thanksgiving.  I listened with interest and amusement.  A Greek chef and his family had turkey but the lamb cooked in the open pit was the star.  All side dishes were Greek.  The French chef did very sexy French things to the turkey, and converted all else to French attitudes.  And so it went.  I had never thought of mine as an immigrant family, but since I'm a first generation American, I suppose it was.  As a kid I thought it odd when other kids had grandparents born in America.  Perhaps I imagined that everyone came from somewhere else.  Anyway, today I accepted my origins and recalled the Thanksgivings in my parents'/grandparents' home.  The only thing foreign was the conversation typically in Yiddish.  My grandparents' generation was all about assimilation.  My grandmother, Genya, became Jennie.  Her brother, Toldras, became Harry.  You get the idea.  She was hurt and angry if you referred to her accent.  She insisted she didn't have one.  (Meryl Streep could have imitated her for Sophie's Choice.) So my grandmother and mother referred to magazines and cookbooks to create the consummate, American Thanksgiving dinner.
My mom loved to set an elegant table.  Organdy appliqued tablecloths; crystal cornucopia with fruit and nuts pouring out onto the table; Lenox china with a gold wheat design.  Her turkey was the largest she could find; her stuffing began with cornflakes (really!).  Candied yams, apple pie, jello molds, apple cider.  On and on.  The gorgeous Henredon table, it seemed, opened to accommodate a cast of hundreds.  And waking up Thanksgiving morning to the smell of that dinner cooking; well, it was childhood euphoria.
After my father died, predeceased by grandma Jennie, my mother married Bonpapa.  He was Belgian and spoke many languages.  But his primary language was French and his accent was cultivated French (very theatrical).  When we went to their first Thanksgiving dinner, I expected something different;  the French touch??  It was the same dinner; the only difference was the abundance of wine.  Not an unwelcome addition.
I'm grateful for those memories.  And the how-to.  From the beginning of my married life, when our economy was non-existent, our table -- no matter the size -- welcomed all who would come. (the only request we'd make is please bring a chair to sit on!) My turkey is basically the same as mom's -- including the stuffing.  Other dishes have changed to satisfy the taste buds of my children and now my grandchildren.  Not so many people in attendance these days.  My friends are far-flung; my children have happy lives in remote cities.  And the folks I care about here have gatherings with children and grandchildren of their own.  The constant that remains is the gratitude; my thanks for the giving.  The gifts of the universe;  the love and caring of my family and friends.  My ability to give when needed and asked for and when needed and anonymous.  
And to keep myself company while preparing the all-American feast,  I sing Yiddish songs, an occasional French tune,  and permit the wondrously familiar smells that permeate my apartment to take me back to many a Thanksgiving-Past.  When my little gathering arrives, I, of course, spare them all of that.  They're making memories of their own.

Monday, November 9, 2009

The Unlikely Chef

Who in the world am I?
Ah, that's the great puzzle.
.........Lewis Carroll

It wasn't what they believed I could do that defined me. It was what they believed I couldn't do. That's where self- doubt begins; you know that. And that's when the straight road becomes a pitted mess of quagmires, rocky climbs, hair-pin curves, sudden drops and as many other difficulties as we can think up for ourselves. The universe of course obliges. But when one is oh-so-young, and oh-so-filled with dreams and amazingly innocent imaginings -- well, "they" have too much power. "They" being family, teachers, other kids.....how easily we break.

Where the hell did this come from you ask. Believe it or not -- I was making the pastry for several apples pies this morning. I make excellent pastry. I suddenly recalled a time -- oh so long ago and only yesterday -- when I was faced with having to cook for a husband and having no clue where to begin. Boiling pasta was a powerful secret never mind successfully baking boxed cakes. Rather incredible actually, given that I grew up with two capable women cooking in the kitchen of our Brooklyn home. I can't remember a instance when either my mother or grandmother actually showed me how to prepare any part of a meal. I stumbled along for a number of years, and then one day I phoned my Aunt Edith -- my Italian aunt whose cooking never disappointed -- I phoned Aunt Edith and asked her for her pasta recipe. She laughed and laughed. " A jar of Ragu and a jar of Prince with a pinch of oregano or whatever else you want. That's all I do." I was amazed and said so. "There are no rules," she said. "Just use your taste buds." That was the beginning of freedom in the kitchen for me. And the season I discovered that I could bake bread and make pastry for pie -- the miracle of flour and water -- my mother retreated in confusion.   My only secrets to my eventual success: I loved to cook for people.  And I had great taste buds!!                  (photo of Mina and Jennie)

"They" totally believed that I would flunk motherhood and destroy my first-born before his first birthday.  We did have a few months of rough patches to begin with.  Alex had colic and cried for almost three months.  Then he woke up one morning, the first day of month four, all smiles and filled with joy!  That very week we received a phone call that my brother and his wife, Stefi, had given birth to their first child.  The family was gathering in Philadelphia for a celebration and "naming."  (I just realized that they didn't charge out to Pittsburgh when Alex was born -- well, my mom did come. Hmmmm.)  Anyway, my mom sent me money to come if I could figure out how to do that.  Really -- that's what she said.  It didn't seem so awfully difficult:  I called the airlines; I bought an Obi baby carrier; and Alex and I would fly in early, spend the day and then come straight home. Don drove me to the airport. Alex was, from the start, a born traveler.  When I got off the plane (the days of climbing down the stairway and onto the tarmac) my mom and aunt stood there with their mouths open.  It was as though they expected an harassed, encumbered me to arrive with a screaming kid.  My mom retreated in confusion.  My only secret was that I loved my baby; I loved all three of my kids -- you can do almost anything if love is in the mix.

When Don and I split up my mom was certain that I'd fail miserably taking care of the kids and the house and figuring out how to support them.  (I've always been sure she feared I'd pack them up and arrive at her door.)  There were many rough patches.  For two years I held four jobs.  Then I created The Acting Place.  (an earlier blog).  Then I learned how to be an Executive Assistant.  Since I worked as a temp so that I could take leave when I got a theatre job, my mom chastised me often for not having a "real job."  She had little faith in the whole writing thing, and certainly less faith in the whole directing thing.  Well, no one starved.  No one "went without."  My toughest challenge I believe is now that I'm at the "certain age," have been laid off from my job, and have not seen the proverbial light at the tunnel's end these six months.  BUT I also went to Los Angeles this past month where my first screenplay was a finalist in an important film festival.  Mom's not around to "retreat in confusion."  Mores the pity. 
 
George Eliot brilliantly wrote:  "It's never too late to be who you might have been."  All this as I baked apple pies, as I do each year after the ritual apple picking day.  I -- who wanted to be a great and famous dancer.  I -- who wanted to be a great and famous actress.  I -- who wanted to be and still want to be a great and famous writer.  I bake pretty awesome pies.  Of all the things I accomplished that were not expected of me, baking awesome pies is near the very top of the list.  As for the great and famous writer.....  I'm still here.  Ergo -- there's still hope.