Shark Cake - LetsChatNJ.com

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newjersey
life&leisure
JUly 2008
DELICIOUS SUMMER READ
15 Writers on the Foods of Summer
Patricia Berry
Katherine Checkley
Alice Elliot Dark
Louise DeSalvo
Laura Zinn Fromm
Susan Korones Gifford
Martin Golan
Sam Kissinger
Christina Baker Kline
Scott E. Moore
Linda P. Morgan
Dawn Porter
Pamela Redmond Satran
Susan Tepper
Nancy M. Williams
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e d i t o r ’s n o t e
One day, as we were leaving the schoolyard, my eight-yearold and I came upon a Mr. Softee truck. My son immediately
began to angle for an ice-cream cone. This would not be
remarkable, except it was February. And not one of those
balmy February days that we have difluorocarbenes to thank
for. It was chilly. I remember slipping off my gloves to fish the
money out of my wallet.
“Isn’t it a little crazy for you to be out here selling ice cream in
February?” The vendor just looked at me like I was nuts. “There’s
no wrong time for ice cream,” he said.
I’d have to agree. But the whole thing got me thinking about
how certain foods seem to have a time and a place.
July is typically our Summer Food issue. And while I like corn and
tomatoes as much as the next girl, I wasn’t sure how much I had
to say about “summer food.” But I do know that everyone is
always looking for a good summer read.
Inspired by so much of the writing that comes my way, I asked
15 writers if they would contribute an essay on the theme of
Summer Food. I told them how long it should be, but beyond
that, the food could take them wherever they chose to go.
Putting this issue together has been a bit like throwing a wacky
pot-luck barbeque. I didn’t know most of the writers personally.
I didn’t know what they would bring. Only that they would all
show up one day with something.
There are many people who helped me put this “party” together,
from creating the guest list to coaching me through my hostess
anxiety. And I am indebted to them, as much as to the
contributors, for making this collection absolutely delicious.
There are stories here that make me laugh, some that make me
cry. Many that make me hungry!
So, please, sit down with your own ice-cream, or lemonade, or
plate of goulash and enjoy, as our guests, the truly delectable
morsels these many talented writers have brought to the table.
Jessica
new jersey
life&leisure
Volume 10 Number 7 is published by
Smooth Stone Publishing
615 Valley Road
Upper Montclair, NJ 07043
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Editor
Jessica Wolf
[email protected]
Graphic Design
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Joe Brozyniak
Design Assistant
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Advertising
Joni Bakum, George Louvis,
Steve Moctezuma, Colleen Smile,
Patty DiSimone
Contributing Writers
Christina Loccke, Patience Moore,
Steve Sears, Steve Moctezuma,
Dawn Porter, Laura Zinn Fromm
Photography
Michael Stahl
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please call 973-220-6859
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Deadline for advertising for the
August 2008 issue is July 23
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All Rights Reserved. The contents of
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contents
j u l y
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n Pie Season........................................8
by Patricia Berry
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n A Suitcase of Tomatoes....................10
by Christina Baker Kline
n Shark Cake.....................................12
by Laura Zinn Fromm
n The Bicycle Club ............................14
by Martin Golan
n Papa’s Food....................................16
by Dawn Porter
n Confessions of a Sugar Addict..........18
by Pamela Redmond Satran
n Summertime Blues.........................20
by Susan Korones Gifford
n Dog Days of Summer......................22
by Scott E. Moore
n Taffy Pull .......................................24
by Alice Elliott Dark
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n Uncle John’s Chicken Wings.............26
by Katherine Checkley
n The Colors of Popsicles...................28
by Nancy M. Williams
n It Would Have Been Cold Then.........30
by Susan Tepper
n Perfect Pesto..................................32
by Louise DeSalvo
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n Deliverance....................................34
by Sam Kissinger
n Tea Time........................................36
by Linda P. Morgan
Cover photo by Michael Stahl
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7.08 • newjerseylife&leisure • Pie Season
Does any food shout “It’s
summer!” louder than pie? Not in my
recipe book. And whether I’m looking
for comfort or sweet tooth satisfaction,
it’s tough to beat an apple or berry filling
surrounded by a sweet buttery crust. If
the confection is still warm, and if there
should be a scoop of vanilla ice cream on
top — well, get your own piece, honey,
’cause I won’t be sharing.
In my house, a fresh-baked pie is never
more than a quiet afternoon away. It’s
what I like to do, sequestered in my
kitchen with the television tuned to
HGTV, the dog snoring by the pantry,
and the kids somewhere else. I pare tart
green apples, pick through fresh berries,
and chop stalks of rhubarb. When time
is an issue, I make the all-butter dough a
day ahead so it’s well chilled when I have
to roll it out.
I haven’t always baked. Were it not for
Mitch’s mom, Laney, I never would have
been inspired to learn. Growing up,
“homemade” cookies were sliced from
store-bought dough that came in a tube.
And there was only one source for “freshbaked” pies that I recall: Mrs. Smith’s.
So in 1987, when my future husband first
brought me home to meet his family,
I noted the cherry pie on the kitchen
counter with suspicion. It appeared
slightly irregular. There was a lattice of
pastry on top, and the edges were nicely
crimped, if a little uneven. But where
were the aluminum pan and the perfect
machine-made basket-weave crust?
My mother-in-law called herself a
utilitarian cook. She had a list of old
reliables she turned to for family meals
and guests. But what I took from her
time in the kitchen wasn’t so much
the breadth of her repertoire as her
attention to those of us at the table. She
knew everyone’s favorites: her sons’,
their wives’ and then, naturally, her
grandchildren’s.
For her oldest boy, Mitch, it was cherry
pie. As it turned out, Mitch and I had a
sour cherry tree in the backyard of our
first house in Montclair. Laney would
by Patricia Berry
come down to our place from Wayne,
Mitch’s hometown, pick the cherries,
take them home, and she and Bob
would pit them at their kitchen table.
The next day we’d arrive home from
work to find a fresh-baked pie on our
counter — the upside of giving my inlaws a key to our house.
kitchen than Mitch. By summer’s end,
Laney will be gone 10 years. I think she
would be pleased to know there’s still
some baking going on.
It was difficult not to feel just a little
inadequate next to that kind of
thoughtfulness. I wanted to be able to
do the honors. At first I used the crust
from the dairy case, the one you unfold
and plunk in a plate, and tossed in two
cans of Comstock cherry pie filling.
These days my dog-eared copy of Mark
“I’ll bring pies,” I said, confident she
wanted me to offer.
Not long ago, Gail phoned to say she
was throwing together a barbeque for
several couples.
Silence.
“You know, you don’t have to always
bring pie. I don’t want you to think we’re
expecting it,” she said carefully.
Not the reaction I’d anticipated. Maybe
I noted the cherry pie
on the kitchen counter
with suspicion.
It appeared slightly irregular.
Bittman’s How to Cook Everything falls
open to the evidence that Pillsbury’s
wasn’t enough — and that I didn’t stop
at cherry.
Now I have a little pie repertoire of my
own. The crowd-pleasers are the ones
filled with mixed berries (blues, blacks,
straws and raspberries, tossed with a
little sugar and cinnamon to cut the
tartness) or apples (straight up or mixed
with a pint of fresh raspberries). Mind
you, I’ve never met a pie-filling recipe I
couldn’t double, with the fruit piled so
high in my deep dish Pyrex pan I have to
remove a rack from the oven.
Mitch makes fun of me and calls my
baking pure ego trip. “You’re in it for
the praise,” he tells me. Well, sure. Who
doesn’t like a “well done” now and then?
I ignore his digs. No one benefits more
from my late-found comfort in the
I’ve been kidding myself. Maybe Peg and
Paul are only being polite when they stop
by with a crate of fresh peaches they’ve
just picked and request a crumble. And
maybe Chris, when he cradles my apple
raspberry at his and Susan’s clambake, is
just being kind.
The pause is too long for Gail.
“Oh, dear,” she says. “You don’t think I
meant you shouldn’t bring pie?”
The wind back in my sails, I plan a trio
of tarts, including a killer strawberry
rhubarb. It’s going to be a perfect
summer afternoon. b
Patricia Berry is an editor and writer whose most recent essay
appears in Over the Hill and Between the Sheets:
Sex, Love, and Lust in Middle Age edited by Gail Belsky
(Springboard). In another life, Berry edited children’s magazines for
Time Inc. and Sesame Workshop.
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7.08 • newjerseylife&leisure • A SUITCASE OF
TOMATOES
My father’s mother grew up
on the side of a mountain in northern
Alabama. Quite literally dirt poor, my
grandmother, Ethel, lived with her
parents, two brothers, and three sisters
in a tarpaper shack with no electricity
and no running water. They raised
chickens for eggs and meat and made
their own clothes out of flour sacks.
When my grandmother talked about
those days, she didn’t focus on the
hardship (though, an avid reader of
Laura Ingalls Wilder’s “Little House”
books, I was fascinated with the details:
No bathtub? No car? No fan for the
interminable heat?), except to say that
the life they led made people old before
their time. What she did talk about
was her brothers’ rascally humor, the
bonds of their large family, her mother’s
determination to keep everyone fed and
clothed. And about the large garden
she planted and tended with her
sisters, filled with corn, cucumbers,
watermelon, okra, and tomatoes.
They didn’t have much, she said. But
they did have tomatoes.
When my grandmother told these stories
about her life on Sand Mountain, I was
sitting at the white-speckled Formica
table in the cheery, spotless kitchen of
the ranch house she had earned as a
hosiery repair worker at a woolen mill
in Rossville, Georgia. She was always
standing behind the counter, making
dinner almost entirely from the large
garden she cultivated outside the
sliding-glass door. I never saw her use a
recipe. These foods she prepared nearly
every day of her life were the same ones
she’d learned to make on that mountain:
slow-cooked green beans with ham,
fresh creamed corn, cornmeal-fried
okra, chicken and dumplings. And
tomatoes: deep red, dense as melon,
thick, round slices sprinkled with salt
and pepper that you cut with a knife and
fork. So mild and buttery they practically
melted on your tongue.
When my father moved his fledgling
family to Maine from the South in 1970,
we were in for a rude culinary shock.
Okra was impossible to get; nobody
made chicken and dumplings. Worst
10 • newjerseylife&leisure • 7.08
by Christina Baker Kline
the only tomatoes you could find
came embalmed in cellophane –
three uniform orbs, barely tinged pink...
of all, the only tomatoes you could find
came embalmed in cellophane – three
uniform orbs, barely tinged pink, as
bland and spongy as Styrofoam packing
peanuts.
My grandmother only visited us a few
times before she died. She found Maine
too far, too cold, its customs altogether
too foreign. I remember family trips
where she would stand tentatively on
the rocks, stepping gingerly over the
seaweed, sniffing the air. But most vivid
is the memory of my father bringing
her home from the airport to our
rickety Victorian with her two matching
suitcases, one large and one small. The
small one contained her clothes for
the week, a tidy collection of mix-andmatch polyester pantsuits. The large
one was filled with tomatoes.
Packed lovingly in newspaper, these
tomatoes, improbably large and ripe,
were a visual reminder of all that we’d
left behind when we moved to the North.
They conjured memories and longings
that we tried to suppress: for the fertile
black soil, the hot sun, culinary customs
that were impossible to sustain in this
new place. Even more, the suitcase filled
with tomatoes reminded all of us that
we came from a very particular tradition
of simplicity and self-reliance – the kind
of self-sufficiency that allowed a poor
family of eight, with no money and few
possessions, to thrive on the side of a
mountain in Alabama.
Years later, after moving to New Jersey,
I wrote a novel called “The Way Life
Should Be” about Angela Russo, an
Italian-American woman who, among
other things, teaches a cooking class.
Angela’s grandmother, whom she
calls Nonna, was born and raised in
Basilicata, in southern Italy. She is a
scrappy, salty-tongued matriarch who
grew up poor – her village, Matera,
was known as a place of cucina povera,
the cuisine of poverty – and learned to
make the most of what she had. I realize
now that at the heart of this novel is my
relationship with my own grandmother.
Nonna passes on to her granddaughter
an intuitive approach to cooking and a
reverence for fresh ingredients. “Nonna
doesn’t use recipes;” I write in the novel,
“she cooks by feel, by touch and taste
and sight.”
And what does she cook? Tomatoes,
of course. Served on a plate with fresh
mozzarella and basil, drizzled with olive
oil and a splash of balsamic vinegar;
diced and slow-simmered for sauce; a
central ingredient in dozens of soups
and stews. Like my own grandmother,
Nonna served tomatoes fresh in the
summer and canned them at the end
of the season. In the strange alchemy
of storytelling, these two grandmothers,
one real and one fictional, separated
by continents and cultures, time and
space, intertwined in my head – yielding
a deeper understanding of my own
family traditions than I could have
imagined. b
Christina Baker Kline, Writer-in-Residence at Fordham University,
is the author of three novels, including The Way Life Should
Be (now in paperback). She is co-editor, with Anne Burt, of a
new anthology, About Face: Women Write about What
They See When They Look in the Mirror. Her website is
www.christinabakerkline.com
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7.08 • newjerseylife&leisure • 11
Shark Cake
I have always admired Marie
Antoinette, that vain, chic fashion plate
who is known as much for bringing
about the French Revolution as she is
for saying about the starving peasants,
“Let them eat cake.” Poor Marie probably
did not say anything about cake, but like
Anne Boleyn before her, she went down
in history in part for being an aristocrat
who lost her head because she liked the
good life too much.
I am not an aristocrat, but I do like the
good life. And I love rich food. Especially
cake – a thick slice of layer cake in the
summer with butter cream frosting
that cleaves and covers it, a sugary
primal mush dissolving slowly and
languorously on the sides of your tongue.
Since I have high cholesterol, as well
as what my sister-in-law-the-therapist
calls a “restrained eating disorder,” I
don’t eat all that much cake. But when
I do, I either bake it or buy it as rich and
fattening as I can.
This is a story about cake that begins
at the Cake Walk at my son’s school.
The Cake Walk is an event that takes
place every June, at an outdoor, end-ofyear, here-comes-summer party that
the school euphemistically calls the
“Fun Fair.”
As we all know, anything that is called
“fun” or “fair” and involves children
is rarely either. Last year, I was the cochair of food at the Fun Fair. Of course,
it rained that day, which meant I stood
inside the humid cafeteria and handed
out lukewarm hotdogs for two hours. The
fathers flirted with me, and the children
grabbed their hotdogs and ran. I vowed
that next year I would still be involved
with food, but at a much higher level. I
would run the Cake Walk.
I called my friend Laurie, who had run
the Cake Walk for a million years, and
asked if I could take it over. “No,” she said.
“But you can be my assistant.” Laurie
said she was holding on to the Cake Walk
crown until her youngest child went to
middle school, which meant I would
never wear it.
When spring came, Laurie emailed me:
by Laura Zinn Fromm
“We need 60 cakes. I have 40 people
signed up. Find 20 more. Seaside theme.”
No problem. I emailed everyone who
had ever spoken to me at my son’s school
and asked for cakes with a seaside theme.
That meant crabs, lobsters, fish, whales,
dolphins, boats, waves, mermaids,
tsunamis,
mercury
contaminants,
whatever. Offers of cake immediately
poured in–in two days, we had all the
cakes we needed.
The cake I was making was called “White
Birthday Cake.” It is a layer cake, divided
by a thin sheet of raspberry jam, and
smothered with a thick layer of butter
trying on last year’s bathing suit, you may
get so high from eating it that you’ll tell
your suit to go to hell.
In keeping with the seaside theme, I
decided to cover the frosting with Sather’s
Gummalo Blue Sharks–two bags for a
dollar, six sharks per bag. Who can resist
a shark in summer? I bought six bags.
Then, I decided to make two cakes—one
for the Cake Walk, one for my son’s fifth
grade graduation lunch. I spent an hour
mixing the ingredients, put the cakes in
the oven, and then started the frosting.
Before I knew what was happening, I
had eaten half of it. I ate so much frosting
there was not enough for the cakes.
I made more.
Before I knew what
was happening,
I had eaten half of it.
I ate so much frosting
there was not enough
for the cakes.
cream frosting. The cake involves a bit
of planning: You have to bring the egg
whites, butter and whole milk to room
temperature, buy or borrow metal
cooling racks, and set aside enough
butter to grease them.
The recipe came from my cooking class
instructor in New York. He called himself
“Mr. Salt and Mr. Butter.” His cake recipe
calls for, among other things, threeand-a-half sticks of butter, a heaping
tablespoon of Crisco, and a pound of
confectioner’s sugar. Though I don’t
recommend snacking on this cake before
By the time I was done, I had blown
through nine sticks of butter. The timer
went off. I was sweating. I took the cakes
out of the oven, and let them cool on the
racks. Then I laid out 30 sharks so that
they circled the cake, ready to go in for
the kill.
My shark cake was beautiful. Even my
children said so. Of course, other cakes
were more beautiful. Laurie placed
a Beach Blanket Barbie Doll on her
cake. One woman put a plastic pail and
a shovel on top of hers, and covered
the frosting with brown sugar so it looked
like sand. Another mom filled a clear
plastic bowl with blue Jell-O and placed
plastic sailboats on top. During the Cake
Walk, I lost track of my cake. But that
night, I found out that the child who had
won the shark cake brought it home to
his mother who has been successfully
battling breast cancer. She, of all people,
deserved to eat cake. b
Laura Zinn Fromm is a freelance writer and creativewriting teacher at Columbia University. She lives in
Short Hills with her husband, two sons and Roxy. More
from Laura at www.flawedmom.blogspot.com
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a generation for whom bicycles were a
luxury, the province of uptown rich kids.
With a few other men from the condo, he
formed a “bicycle club.” Every morning
at eight, they’d gather at the clubhouse
and set off on their brand-new bikes over
the flat, Florida landscape, unfurling
like a series of flags along the dirt roads
that wound through empty fields and
brooding palms.
At its height, the club numbered nearly 50.
When I’d fly down to visit, I’d ride with
“the men,” as my mother called them
(women weren’t officially banned, but
stayed away, content, or so it seemed,
to sleep late, tidy up, and plan lunch). I’d
mount a borrowed bike and pedal off,
into a magical, Zen-like world.
But first the food.
After an hour, we’d stop in a park for
breakfast, always fresh grapefruit brought
by Leon, the nominal leader. Leon was a
creature of his generation; a gruff yet goodnatured guy who expressed affection
with physical hostility, punching you
on the shoulder so hard it hurt, to
say how much he liked you.
Leon would dispense grapefruits by
hurling them at you, throwing pretty
hard, often faking high and throwing
underhanded. You’d catch it with a
palm-stinging slap and rip it open with
your fingernails, juice running down
your wrists.
It never occurred to anyone to bring
a knife, or a napkin (as opposed to my
mother, who would have sliced it open
for me on a plate; on my visits, she
waited on me hand and foot, which
endlessly amused my wife).
The grapefruit, fresh off a backyard tree,
had a wondrous taste: sugary yet tart,
deliciously bitter and sweet at the same
time. It was acceptable to spit; slurping
was encouraged; chomping aloud was
de rigueur.
Dessert was a shared coconut hacked
open with a screwdriver.
by Martin Golan
But that wasn’t the magic. It was this:
The men had all come of age in the
Depression, fought in World War II,
and had anachronistic professions, like
typesetter and furrier and haberdasher.
Long retired, career vicissitudes were a
thing of the past, the kids long out of the
house. Relationship issues, if these silent
men ever had any, were history, too.
All that mattered was their health and,
being men – especially men of that
generation – they didn’t speak much
of that.
I’d visit amid a job crisis, or when
a kid wasn’t sleeping through the night,
or when I was struggling to publish
a novel.
Then I’d ride with the men.
Pedaling through the endless Florida
summer, watching a bag of backyard
grapefruits bob in a plastic bag on
Leon’s handlebars, it was impossible
not to know that in a few short years
everything I was torturing myself over
would be a footnote on my life–a
minor, half-forgotten detail.
All that mattered was my health, and I
still had the arrogance of youth, where
this gift was taken for granted.
Years passed and the men, who rarely
spoke of personal matters, proved this
point. Old age – time, by a different
name – was catching up. One by one
they dropped out, too ill or infirm to ride
every day.
Leon faded into Alzheimer’s and had
to stay back. Others followed with one
thing or another. Everywhere I heard the
same pathetic album of death’s greatest
hits, the same cancers, heart attacks,
and strokes.
The bicycle club dwindled to a few.
Meanwhile, without us noticing, the
dirt roads were paved and became
construction sites.
And my father?
It’s something that, were I writing fiction,
I wouldn’t dare it. But it’s true.
At 87, he still rode every day. Then, one
cloudless January morning, my father
wheeled out his beloved bike and told
my mother, “I’m riding over to the
clubhouse to schmooze with the men.”
At the corner, a Lincoln Continental
driven by an 85-year-old neighbor
crashed into him, slamming him to
It was acceptable to spit
slurping was
encouraged
chomping aloud was
de rigueur.
the pavement. Even with a helmet, his
87-year-old body couldn’t handle the
trauma, and he slipped into a coma and
died three weeks later. In a few days he
would have been married to my mother
for 60 years. We had a party planned.
I still go down to Florida to visit my
mother who, at 93, still waits on me
hand and foot (and it still amuses my
wife). But the bicycle club doesn’t ride
anymore. The dirt roads we took are
all paved, cluttered with strip malls
and condos. And I’ll never again eat
homegrown grapefruit with my fingers
in a public park, thrown hard at me
when I least expect, reminding me to
savor both the bitter and the sweet. b
Martin Golan’s latest book, a collection of short stories about
relationships titled Where Things Are When You Lose Them,
is available at Watchung Booksellers, and is a follow-up to his novel,
My Wife’s Last Lover. You can read more about him and his
books at www.martingolan.com
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PAPA’S FOOD
It is 1973 and we have just moved
from a boxy two-bedroom apartment in
the Bronx to an improbable California
redwood house in Rockland County.
I am seven and my sister is four; and
we are firm in our opinion that we
don’t want to move. My sister is quite
vocal about it, wearing long pants and
a green metallic snorkel coat zipped
up over her face, even though it’s late
June. But slowly, in spite of ourselves,
we warm to the pretty, secluded street
and its inhabitants. Central to our
change of heart is the experience of a
quintessential summer delicacy: crabs.
My grandfather, a squat man who favors
sweaters that stretch tight across his
round midsection, introduces us to this
gastronomic delight.
He is quite handsome to my eyes, with
coppery skin and a voice like smooth
gravel. If I close my eyes, I can see
him stretched across his bed singing a
medley of songs and stories after a large,
satisfying meal. The adults treat his
performance as if it is the radio playing
– that is, they largely ignore him. But
my sister and I think he is wonderful.
Drawn to the soothing sound of his
voice, we pick up clues about his life.
He speaks about growing up in Chicago
and his time working as a cook in
the Army. I find this funny, for while I
have seen my grandfather eat, it is my
grandmother who cooks; I have never
seen him so much as boil water.
But that is about to change. Our
suburban exodus immediately becomes
a gift to my grandfather. Now on the
weekends, he brings a big brown bag of
cooked crabs to our house. Everyone
has one or two, but he and I are serious
feasters, and I am proud to be his crabeating partner. He spreads newspaper
out before us into an oversized
rectangular placemat, and dumps
out the crabs, red and still warm. He
shows me how to crack them in half to
expose the sweet fleshy insides. Old
Bay seasoning is gritty and spicy on
my hands and stings my tongue, but I
love the flavor. I think of this as grown
by Dawn Porter
up food and I sit up a little straighter so
everyone will notice me eating.
We wipe our hands on paper towels
and then I run inside to rinse them off
carefully because I know what comes
next: sugar cane. I don’t know where
he found fresh stalks of sugar cane in
New York City, but there it is – right
there on my front steps. He carefully
I don’t know
where he found
fresh stalks
of sugar cane in
New York City,
but there it
is – right there
on my front steps.
peels the stalks with a sharp knife,
telling us how he saw rows and rows of
sugar cane growing in Hawaii when he
was traveling in the army. We can hear
the awe in his voice. But he also tells
us there were giant rats living among
the stalks, so the cutters had to be on
the lookout for beasts. My sister and
I shiver and laugh – we are so glad our
brave grandfather has gotten the sugar
cane for us so we don’t have to face giant
rodents. Since we have never seen a real
rat, these beasts are mythically sized in
our minds and we are terrified at the
thought of them. All this only heightens
the pleasure of sucking on a cane stalk.
Sugar cane juice is mellow and delicious,
much better than hard, refined sugar
crystals. When the stalk is very very
fresh, the first cut yields a plump
mouthful easily extracted with a long
solid slurp. We sit there without games
or television, just me my sister and my
grandfather, with his sharp knife and
fresh stalks. The afternoon summer
sun is warm and we lick juice from our
fingers. These days are long and happy;
we end them on the screened porch in
the back of our house with the sound of
crickets and my grandfather’s musical
stories that have no beginning or end.
There is an ease to these days that we
rarely experienced in the city. Summers
are different now. They are better. My
sister and I are allowed to stay up late; we
are allowed to roam the neighborhood
all afternoon, and my grandfather and I
are allowed to eat on the front steps with
newspaper as our dinner plates.
My oldest son is now the age I was when
my grandfather first taught me to crack
crabs and cut sugar cane stalks. My son’s
days are filled with lessons: Tae Kwan Do,
swimming, tennis. But there are other
things I want him to learn. Like how to
cut sugar cane stalks on an angle so the
juice runs down his fingers, pure and
sticky, in the warm summer sun. b
Dawn Porter is a television executive, writer and filmmaker who
lives in Montclair. More from Dawn at www.dawnagain.net.
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CONFESSIONS
OF A SUGAR
ADDICT by Pamela Redmond Satran
The most intense craving I ever
had was for a marshmallow.
We had friends over for a midsummer
barbeque while I was in the boot
camp phase of the South Beach Diet.
I sailed through the cocktails portion
of the evening; managed to construct
appetizers, a salad, and a main course
that were completely carb and sugar
free. Even the teaspoon of mustard in the
salad dressing was rigorously monitored
for traces of forbidden sugar grams.
My guests graciously agreed to forego
dessert, for the sake of my diet and their
own waistlines.
But we forgot about the kids. Kids quite
sensibly insist on dessert as a reward for
breathing, and these particular children
would not be mollified with some puny
plastic container of artificially-sweetened
Jell-O. They wanted sugar, and they
wanted it now.
A frantic hunt through the recentlydetoxed cupboards produced a bag of
stale-ish marshmallows. We repaired to
the backyard and its outdoor fireplace.
We lit a fire. We found sticks. We poked
the sticks through the marshmallows and
stuck them into the fire. And then we
started eating – or I should say, the kids
started eating, the other adults continued
talking, and I fell into a pond of my own
drool, convulsing with desire.
I tell you, I would have stolen my
grandmother’s last dollar for one of those
marshmallows. Knocked her down and
grabbed it right out of her hand. As it
was, all I had to do to get one was break
two weeks of hard-earned dieting, which
I assure you I did with gusto. So satisfying
was the first bite of that marshmallow
that it more than made up for the next
morning’s three pound weight gain.
Three pounds for one golden brown,
warm, caramel-like oozing ball of sugar:
Definitely a fair trade.
cream from the Good Humor man.
Hello, my name is Pam, and I’m a Sugar
Addict. It’s not only sugar in its pure
form that I crave. My favorite vegetables,
for instance, are carrots and butternut
squash, yams and beets. I adore sweet
cocktails, mojitos in summer and sidecars
(with sugared rims, mais oui) in winter.
Like other fanatics, sugar addicts don’t
know when to stop. If one spoonful
of Dulce de Leche ice cream is good, a
hundred are better. One mom I know,
while filling her children’s Easter baskets,
was so overcome by Sugar Lust that
she sat right down and devoured every
bunny, every jellybean, every cream egg,
even every peep. And then discovered
that the all-night pharmacy was out of
Easter candy, probably because of all
the other sugar-crazed moms looking to
cover their tracks. The kids got quite an
education the next morning, when they
found not chocolate but twenty-dollar
bills nestled in the plastic grass.
It all began moments after I was born,
when the 1950s hospital almost certainly
stuck a bottle of sugar water in my mouth.
Followed by sugar-laden formula. Then
my mother (you knew I was going to
blame her) fed me sweetened baby food,
and was only too glad, as the years went
by, to park me in front of the TV with a
bag of M & Ms, in the days when a red
M & M really meant something.
I was never as bad as my brother, who
lolled in bed with my grandmother
listening to Arthur Godfrey on the radio
and eating pale orange marshmallow
peanuts. Or my raucous cousins in
Queens, who drank cherry soda with their
breakfast and dipped at will into the bowl
of change kept on the kitchen windowsill
for the express purpose of buying ice
Stories like this make me want to swear off
sugar forever – for the sake of my weight,
my teeth, my sanity. And I will, one day
soon. But not in summer, when there are
so many yummy strawberry shortcakes,
frozen margaritas, and Italian ices to be
consumed. In fact, I just read a recipe I
can’t wait to try: Frozen hot chocolate,
with – naturally – a toasted marshmallow
on top. b
We poked the sticks through the marshmallows
and stuck them into the fire.
And then we started eating – or I should say,
the kids started eating,
the other adults continued talking,
and I fell into a pond of my own drool,
convulsing with desire.
Pamela Redmond Satran’s latest book is 1000 Ways To Be A Slightly Better Woman, published by Stewart, Tabori & Chang. This
essay originally appeared in a different form in Bon Appetit. Satran’s website is www.pamelaredmondsatran.com.
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Summertime
Blues
On my own internal Doppler
radar, the approach of summer can be
tracked by the march of the blueberries.
In May, when we might get a warm
spell, Florida’s crop rolls in; by midJune, North Carolina’s arrive. When
the supermarket sign by the berries
finally brags “Jersey Fresh,” you know
something wonderful has happened:
Summer’s really, truly here.
I love summer, and I love blueberries,
and the fact that they arrive in tandem
makes them both that much better.
I’ll eat blueberries any old way–in pies,
on pancakes, covering my cereal or
straight from their plastic bin. But to me,
the highest form of blueberry is the one
you spot deep in the branches of a bush,
the one you single out for greatness,
pick, and pop in your mouth, only to be
proven right: Yes, that one was perfect, a
warm, tiny taste of summer in a dusky,
dark blue wrapper.
I haven’t always been this obsessed.
Growing up in suburban Memphis,
my seasonal favorites ran to sky-blue
Popsicles and cherry Slurpees, and I
shunned most any foods that went
straight from farm to table. So I’m not
sure I even tasted a fresh blueberry
before college.
Once my husband and I moved to New
Jersey, I grew fond of our little state
fruit. But my passion really flared with
the berry-picking excursions we started
making soon after.
We began at Greig’s Farm, a sprawling
pick-your-own in the Hudson Valley. A
few years later, we switched to Terhune
Orchards, just south of Princeton.
Terhune was a little closer, and a lot
homier, and if you’re already in the
second-largest blueberry producing
state in the country, really, why cross
the border? It’s also just a hoot. In
atmosphere at least, Terhune is to Greig’s
Farm what Whole Foods is to Shoprite.
Crops there are grown intelligently,
and the air rings with witticisms from
by Susan Korones Gifford
We have our routine down:
we warn the kids that we’ll be
getting up early the next morning.
Then we all sleep in.
fellow pickers about plant propagation,
disquisitions on Bush’s foreign policy,
and lessons in blueberry picking that
strike the perfect parental note between
authoritative and collaborative.
We go once every summer, and by now
we have our routine down. On Saturday
night, Chris and I warn the kids that we
will be getting up early the next morning.
Then we all sleep in. At about nine
o’clock, after I’ve had a pot of coffee and
a leisurely shower, the shouting begins:
“We’ve got to go NOW! It’s the second
day of the weekend, and if we wait much
longer, all the blueberries are going to be
GONE!” Spurred by memories of applecider donuts and Snapple lemonade,
but mostly by shouting, we’re dressed
and in the car by 10:30. Okay, maybe 11.
Definitely no later than noon. What’s left
of it is going to be a splendid day!
It is part of the tradition that the drive
takes longer than we remembered, so
we have to race-walk to the blueberry
field, trying to beat out the families that
found parking spaces before we did. We
bypass the first couple of rows, sure that
they’ve been picked clean. A few rows
further in, despair sets in: The bushes on
the end are, indeed, scantily clad.
But here’s another great thing about
blueberries in the summer in New
Jersey: They’re never all gone. We move
down the row and spot a branch bent
down with clumps of ripe blueberries.
And another, and another. Chris and
I fall into a zone, methodically pulling
as much fruit from a branch as we can,
even though the berries always look
bluer on the other bush. Occasionally
we shout out to each other: “This one’s
amazing!” or “Whoa! Mother lode!”
Our children, indifferent to farm-fresh
anything, get into the game for about
15 minutes, after which they trek to the
farm store for apple cider donuts and
Snapples.
Chris and I can’t stop, though. We know
we’re going to be charged plenty per
pound, but right now the berries belong
to us. Like the little girl in Blueberries
for Sal (one of the great works of foodcentered literature), it’s all plop, plink,
plunk, eat, plop, plink, plunk, eat. Only
when our arms start to tire from the
weight of the buckets do we admit that
there are more berries than we can pick
or scarf, and trudge back to the store
ourselves.
We always plan to stop in Princeton for
lunch, but after downing a pound of
blueberries off the bush, a couple of ears
of raw corn, some excellent gazpacho
and a bag or two of donuts, there’s
usually only enough room for ice cream.
Besides, by then the mid-afternoon sun
is high and hot, and I’m too concerned
about the health of the 12 pounds of
blueberries in the trunk to want to
leave them alone for long. No matter.
It’s summer, when time and plans and a
good shopping town mean far less than
they do the rest of the year, and a trunk
full of blueberries in a car full of family is
really all I need to be happy. b
Susan Korones Gifford is a writer and editor who lives in
Montclair.
D
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Dog Days of
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It all begins on Memorial Day
weekend. No, I don’t mean obligatory
jaunts involving sluggish massmotorcades on the Parkway. Not baseball
either, that already started. So have the
garage sales. The kids are still in school
for a little while, and I’m still working for,
well...forever. For me, Memorial Day
weekend marks the beginning of Hot
Dog Season.
If you think being excited about a
hot dog, or even defining a “hot-dog
season” is a little weird or lowbrow, then
you’ll have to excuse me—I’m from
New Jersey. I own a T-shirt that pretty
much says it all: “New Jersey – Only The
Strong Survive.” For years, being from
Jersey was more about enduring it or
defending it, than actually being proud
of it. But that has changed. Maybe it’s
my age and the acceptance that comes
with it, a new social perspective (after
all, formerly uppity New Yorkers are
doing the unthinkable – moving here!).
Maybe it’s the hip factor The Sopranos
gave us. But to many, being from Jersey
is actually cool now.
I’ve come to understand the common
thread in this new New Jersey appeal,
and it is indeed something to be proud
of. New Jersey is “The Real Deal.” In a
culture full of wannabes and knock-off’s
and McEverything-else, “The Real Deal”
is a commodity that can’t be massproduced and put in your Happy Meal.
It doesn’t have a bar code on it. And to
me, nothing says “The Real Deal” like
a perfectly pink sausage thrown into a
vat of boiling oil and slid across an old
Formica counter toward me and the
condiments of my choice. A morsel so
tasty that it brings you urgently into the
moment, yet simultaneously allows you
to experience its history and participate
in deep tradition. A social snack of the
people that can equally be enjoyed
standing or sitting down.
As many locals and hardcore road-food
eaters already know, Northern New
Jersey has a rich micro-regional hot dog
history and is a destination for a specific
by Scott E. Moore
It’s a hot dog that is very New Jersey.
It’s kind of ugly,
yet makes no apology for itself.
type of hot dog. It’s a hot dog that is very
New Jersey. It’s kind of ugly, yet makes no
apology for itself. You like it because it’s
good and true, and also because it doesn’t
really care if you like it or not. It doesn’t
think you look too fat in those jeans. It’s
an unpretentious flavor festival on a bun.
It is: the deep-fried hot dog.
Recently, my wiser-than-his-years son
Max and I decided to do something
special to celebrate his eighth birthday.
We gathered together a handful of his
kid colleagues and embarked on a
great North Jersey Hot Dog Adventure.
Our first stop: Rutt’s Hut, a legendary
grease pit tucked into an industrial nonneighborhood in Clifton. It’s a place with
its own lingo (“Ripper,” “Cremator,” “In
and Outer”) and a rockin’ homemade
mustard relish.
Rutt’s began life in
1928 as an actual hut-style stand, and
still throws down the same perfectly
mangled dog of joy.
Next, Libby’s Lunch in Paterson, which,
by the way, is not only the birthplace
of the Industrial Revolution, but more
importantly, the birthplace of the Hot
Texas Weiner (a claim not even the Lone
Star State can make). Libby’s serves
a righteous dog, with mustard, raw
onions and a semi-sweet chili sauce.
It, too, started as a stand in the 20s, but
the current McBride Ave. location – just
across the street from The Great Falls –
has been running since 1936. Word has
it that the chefs who studied at Libby’s
went on to create other renowned
Paterson area spin-off’s like Johnny &
Hanges, The Hot Grill and the original
Falls View.
Our third and final stop was Jimmy
Buff’s in West Orange, which comes
from a Newark tradition, rather than the
Paterson school of doggery. Here, the
dogs are not deep fried per se, but might
as well be because they sit on a flat grill in
a wading pool of grease. In 1932, Jimmy
Buff’s invented its trademark Italian Hot
Dog – a feast of a frank with peppers,
onions and potatoes on Italian bread.
There are several other landmark dog
joints sprinkled throughout the top half
of the state; we couldn’t do them all that
day. One local standout belonged to
two gentlemen in Verona who blended
old school tradition with new school
culinary prowess at Amazing Hot Dog.
Now located in Bound Brook, these guys
stay true to their Jersey roots by deep
frying Best’s hot dogs (Newark’s finest),
yet provide a host of fresh and creative
toppings, along with some high-level
fries worthy of foodie snobbery. I feel
obliged to add that all of these fine
dogs taste best when washed down
with Boylan’s Birch Beer, a complex and
robust elixir brewed in Haledon.
Needless to say, Max’s birthday was
a triumph. The kids loved it. It was
a culinary and cultural adventure,
and one that hopefully instilled some
pride. After all, this is where they’re
from. And it’s the real deal. So I say, let
the season begin. b
Scott E. Moore is an acclaimed singer-songwriter, professional
television producer/director, devoted Dad, Northern NJ native and epic
eater. (www.scottemoore.com)
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Taffy Pull
During my childhood we spent
summer at my grandparents’ house in
Cape May. At the shore, he participated
in gathering food in ways he never did at
his real house outside of Philadelphia, and
his preferences are part of me long after
his death. Shopping with him, even for
healthy food, was a lot more fun than going
to the supermarket with my mother.
On certain afternoons we got in the
car and drove out to the farm stands in
the country outside of town where my
grandfather took his time choosing fresh
corn, tomatoes, cantaloupes, string
beans, and for his ‘bride’s bower’—my
grandmother’s bedroom—scratchy
bunches of fresh flowers. He liked
his corn sliced off the cob and mixed
with butter, salt and pepper; tomato
sandwiches with mayonnaise on white
bread; tomatoes fried in butter and
brown sugar for breakfast.
In the afternoons we went to the dock to
watch the fishing boats come in. He’d had
a boat, too, and loved everything about
being out on the sea and fishing with long
deep sea poles and cotton line weighted
with lead sinkers. The conversations
he had with the commercial fishermen
seemed taciturn to me, but he was
deeply happy during those exchanges.
by Alice Elliott Dark
I first had it at the movies in the form
of a candy bar called Bonomo Turkish
Taffy. There were several great aspects
to this treat. First of all, the name,
Bonomo, perfect for repeating as a
litany when marching down the hot
sidewalks or lying in bed at night trying
to fall asleep. Second, it came in a bar
intriguingly hard as glass and wrapped
in a waxy paper with a picture of two
men in fezzes stirring the confection in
a large pot over a wood fire. Like glass
would, the bar broke when you smacked
it down hard on the handle of the movie
seat. The more often you cracked it,
the smaller the pieces became, some
of them pulverized to a sweet, sticky
dust. At first only vanilla was available,
then came chocolate, strawberry, and
banana, all of which I tried—though I
always liked good old vanilla the most.
I got very skilled at cracking mine into
pieces that would melt in my mouth
until they were soft enough to chew.
What fabulous chewing it was, too—
probably the closest I’ve ever come to
the kind of work it must take to mash up
The machine was hypnotic.
The gleaming candy stretched
and turned over and over itself...
As we drove away with pieces of fresh
bluefish or flounder, scaled and filleted,
wrapped in newspaper, he always said
he wished he’d opened up a small town
law practice in Cape May and spent his
free time on the water. Fish and corn
for dinner, fresh biscuits and butter,
and junket for dessert. Summer food
was largely shaped by my grandfather’s
preferences—so I think it must have
been him who led me to taffy, too. Taffy
was my summer candy of choice.
raw elk off the bone. Getting through a
bar of Turkish Taffy took nearly the span
of a movie, which still seems to me as it
should be, as opposed to the life span
of present candy choices that are gone
before the coming attractions are over.
Unfortunately, it had to become only
a sucking candy for me after the age of
seven, when I got braces. Grandad took
me to Psycho during my last summer of
carefree chewing. I still taste Bonomo
vanilla Turkish Taffy whenever I hear
that stabbing music—and it still makes
me feel safe.
However, that wasn’t real taffy, only a
skewed facsimile based on the notion
of chewing alone. The real item was salt
water taffy, which was rumored to have
been made with salt water once upon
a time after a storm flooded an early
purveyor in Atlantic City—and maybe
still was. I certainly drank enough ocean
during my hours and hours of body
surfing every day for the idea of eating it
to be matter-of-fact.
We bought ours at Morrow’s Nut House
on the boardwalk. There were bins of
different styles and flavors, both the long
tubes made by Fralinger’s of Atlantic City
and the round nuggets pulled to chewy
perfection on the steel machine invented
for the purpose by Enoch James. The
machine was hypnotic. The gleaming
candy stretched and turned over and
over itself in a pattern that reminded
me of drawing the sign for infinity. It
was very difficult to understand how
the candy could keep stretching. In my
child mind it had to eventually become
too stretched out to fit on the machine
anymore, or too tight to be pulled
apart again. Yet neither of these results
appeared to be true. The taffy kept
stretching and stretching. I never once
saw anyone take it off the machine and
cut it up into the little bits that appeared
in the bins. Every summer I asked my
grandfather what he thought, and every
summer he just shrugged and left the
secrets of the magic machine to my
imagination. b
Alice Elliott Dark is the author of Think of England, In
The Gloaming, and many essays. She is Writer-In-Residence at
Rutgers, Newark.
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Uncle John’s
Chicken Wings
I’ve always wanted to sit in
a room by myself with a table, chair,
and enormous bowl of my Uncle John’s
chicken wings. Alone, I could eat as many
of the savory wings as pleased. It wouldn’t
matter if I got covered in hot sauce up to
my ears and past my wrists, no one would
be there to think me a slob, or a heifer. It
would be just the wings and me, and that
would be the perfect holiday.
Once I described this fantasy to my family
members, attempting some humor.
My brother and cousin mocked me in
laughter until their cheeks were numb.
I suppose they found it odd to imagine
me fulfilling my most instinctual urges—
clearly contradicting my reticent nature.
There is something about the quality of
the wings that makes me want to release
my inhibitions, to stop holding back.
No one makes this enticing appetizer like
Uncle John. Barbeques at my Aunt Eileen
by Katherine Checkley
dragon’s mouth—turning and glazing,
turning and glazing.
He griddles his meat with care, a slow
burning of perfection and impeccable
patience. He sports his faded green
bathing trunks–which I can still
remember him wearing in Long Beach
Island circa 1992, brown moccasins, and
a white t-shirt, most likely referencing
a remote, beer and seafood joint down
the shore.
We all wait fretfully for the wings to reach
their imposing golden brown state,
and for the tangy hot sauce to smother
them unconscious—but no one waits
with more ardency than I do. I’ll time
When the time comes to feast, Aunt
Eileen brings out a plate of wet paper
towels to serve as napkins. Lucy, the
Australian Cattle Dog, runs in circles
and paces the wooden deck. To her,
the smell must be unimaginable. The
first bite is blistering, and I know my
tongue will be seething later, but at
that moment—at chicken wing time—
that is an afterthought. My family is
soundless during the wing-eating ritual,
pulling one after the other from the
silver bowl centered on the table, and
gnawing the essence off the bone. The
sound of swishing saliva striving to tame
hot sauce fills the air. I’ve eaten five, six,
seven wings at one time—four during the
When Uncle John chars his delicacy,
he exists in his own world;
he is the center of chicken wing universe.
and Uncle John’s haven’t changed much
in twenty years—a delightful gathering
on the back porch alongside an inactive
swimming pool. The food has remained
constant: luscious tortellini salad,
buttery corn on the cob, and strips of
barbequed steak. A few Memorial Days
back, however, came the addition of the
pre-dinner chicken wings.
I don’t know what inspired such
brilliance, but any mention of a summer
picnic at Uncle John’s makes me think of
the crackling fire of the grill, fiercely but
carefully scorching the delectable bird’s
flesh. And of course, I envision Uncle
John himself, his shadow swaggering
across the pool’s surface while standing
before the massive black barbeque—the
my walks to the park with my siblings
and cousins to be back in time for wings.
I’ll sit, perched like a prairie dog on the
patio furniture, ten feet from the dragon’s
mouth, wondering during which minute
Uncle John will be finished cooking.
I wonder if he takes so long because he
loves the process of the roasting and the
searing more than the wings themselves.
When Uncle John chars his delicacy, he
exists in his own world; he is the center of
chicken wing universe. He stands, reveled
by the quietness in his mind. With his
cigar squeezed between the middlemost
part of his lips, and one hand clenching
his beer while the other maneuvers the
shiny spatula, Uncle John is residing in
poultry heaven.
years I was dieting.
I’ve even been caught eating Uncle John’s
masterful wings on videotape. There I
was, hungrily tearing the moist meat to
shreds like a wolf that’d gone foodless
for weeks. The sauce dabbled on my
cheeks, and my greasy hands reaching
into the pot of gold again and again. It is
times like these where my fantasy comes
in—a room by myself, with a napkin
tucked into the neck of my shirt. With no
one around to capture my indulgence—
there’s no saying what those wings will do
to me. b
Katherine Checkley has a B.A. in Literature from Ramapo
College. She is currently teaching high school English and is a member
of Women Who Write.
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Montclair
973-783-3436
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The Colors of
Popsicles
My summer popsicle ritual at
Rolling Hills Swim Club began with a
pilgrimage to my mother. At nine, I led
my younger sister, Ann, as we trotted
across the scorching pool deck. Mom
sat under the ramada, a porch with
concrete floor.
“Mom, can we have a popsicle?”
She fished two dimes from her purse.
“That’s it until Monday.”
“Oooh-kay,” I said, a compliant moan.
I vowed I would never become like Mom.
Not only would I shower my children
with popsicle dimes, I also would lead a
joyful life.
Cross-legged on towels, Ann and I
peeled cellophane wrappers off our
popsicles. Vapor swirled around my
hand, as though giddy from baked-hot
Arizona air. My teeth scraped ice, and
I tasted slushy grape. Skirted in frost,
my popsicle top shone a royal purple.
Vibrant reds, saucy oranges, glowing
limes—I relished popsicles’ colors just
as much as their cooling sweetness.
Under the ramada, Mom slouched in
a pool chair, wearing rumpled shorts
over her bathing suit. Her expression
was stony. At home, Mom wept about
living far away from her Pittsburgh
family. She reminisced about her days
as a scholarship student at Carnegie
Art Museum with a sad pull to her
mouth. Why would anyone bother, she
complained aloud, to paint Tucson’s
spare desert landscape?
The week before, through my bedroom
wall, I heard Dad lamenting that no one
loved him, followed by Mom’s dissenting
murmurs. Familiar with Dad’s drunken
all-night rants—they flared every few
months—I wrapped my pillow like large
muffs around my ears. Come morning,
my parents sat on the porch wearing
yesterday’s outfits. Dad, still talking in
a querulous voice, sipped a fresh beer. I
hated how the woven porch seat sagged
under his body. I couldn’t stand how he
kept Mom up all night.
I prayed Dad would stop drinking, but
three summers later, the miracle that
rained down was that Mom, after a
by Nancy M. Williams
twenty year hiatus, set up her artist easel
and oil paints.
On weekends, I liked glimpsing her in
the small bedroom she had converted to
a studio, one hand resting on her cheek,
the other brushing canvas with quick
strokes. Turpentine’s sweetly acidic
smell wafted from the room. Gritty Lava
soap, useful for paint stains, dribbled
down the kitchen sink like popsicle spit
on my sister’s chin.
When fall arrived, Ann revealed why
Mom slept until we left for school in
the mornings.
“You’re always unhappy!” I said.
She claimed not to know what I was
talking about.
The next morning, we boarded a train
with Charlie and Gracie, bound for New
York’s Museum of Modern Art. Digesting
rich hues in the “Color Chart” exhibition,
neither Mom nor I had much appetite
for arguing.
After Mom departed for Tucson, I
consider how the museum visit allowed
us to slip into a new corridor, the past
cordoned. With Mom soon to turn 73, I
the miracle that rained down was that Mom,
after a twenty year hiatus,
set up her artist easel and oil paints.
“She stays up until two a.m. painting.”
“How often?” I asked.
“Every night,” Ann said.
Twenty-five years later, Mom has
become an accomplished Southwestern
artist. Much to my stepfather’s delight,
patrons recognize her in movie
theater lines.
Now a mother myself, I have tried to
imbue my own family weekends with
lighthearted fun. At our own swim club
last summer, after I jumped in the pool
and yelped at the cold, Charlie and
Gracie paddled to me. Their grinning
faces filled me with bliss – the kind
of happiness that still has eluded me
with Mom.
Halfway through Mom’s visit this past
April, she and I shared a late supper.
At the table, she sat slumped. Her eyes
flat, gaze averted, skin puckered above
pursed lips, it was as though she had
crumbled into her former self under the
ramada. I felt an old despair. Where was
the grandmother who clapped during
checkers or the artist who chatted up
gallery owners? Alone with me, Mom
meted her newfound fulfillment as
though rationing popsicle dimes.
imagine that in ten years I’ll look back
upon her cross-country visits as a luxury.
At her age, she is unlikely to admit that
during my childhood, bereft of her art
and depressed over her marriage, she
did not lavish enough on me.
Perhaps I’m the one who needs to
lavish now. I promise myself I will be
more affectionate on her next visit.
Arms around her shoulder, I will kiss
Mom’s cheek. I will tell her how much I
love her.
Not long after my resolution, an
unexpected and majestic gift from my
mother arrives: a Sonoran desert scene
painted in thick acrylics. A deep purple
night sky unfurls over the darkening
desert. Tucked between two background
Catalina foothills, the descending sun
heaves up its last bright orange rays.
Two stalwart saguaros in the foreground
glisten with lime green highlights. I
savor her Welch’s purple, her mandarin
orange, her soothing lime: the summer
colors I have longed for. b
Nancy M. Williams is a writer who lives in Montclair, NJ with
her husband and two children.
MONTCLAIR
CHAR-BROIL
• AMERICAN CUISINE
Montclair Char-Broil
Restaurant
Cuisine: American
Description: A great place for breakfast, lunch and dinner.
Specialty or Popular Dishes: Daily specials and soups. Stop in for
a great cheeseburger and old-fashioned milk shake. Come in every
Wednesday for their famous Greek Chicken Soup!
Atmosphere:
The friendly family atmosphere makes this restaurant a Montclair
favorite. Bring the whole family; the kids will love the kid’s menu.
Alcohol: None
Attire: Casual
Hours: Monday - Friday: 7 am–9 pm
Saturday: 8 am–9 pm
Sunday: 8 am–3:30pm
Reservations: None
Worthy of Note: The Montclair Char-Broil Restaurant (formerly
Louvis Char-Broil) has been a Montclair favorite since 1923. With
great food made to order, and a friendly staff, your family will love
eating here. Saturday morning breakfast with the kids is always a
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UPPER MONTCLAIR NJ
TEL: 973.746.0911
IT WOULD
HAVE BEEN
COLD THEN
Before our summer trip to
Prague I was afraid to pack. I was sure
I’d pack all the wrong clothes, the fat
clothes I wouldn’t fatten into, or the
skinny clothes I’d be too fat to wear, after
eating all the schnitzel and duck and
dumplings that city is known for.
In the end, I squeezed the fat clothes
and the skinny clothes into a carryon bag that could not exceed 18 lbs by
airline limits. Then the morning of our
trip, I took everything I’d packed back
by Susan Tepper
It was hot and sunny and crammed
full of outdoor cafes beckoning you to
come sit under their bright umbrellas.
As we strolled down leafy Wenceslas
Square toward the famous statue on
horseback, I sampled take-away strudel.
In Old Town, at that lovely square, I
couldn’t resist the golden rolls thick with
sandwich fillings. Crossing the steamy
Charles Bridge clogged with tourists and
lined with caricature artists, my husband
was snapping the Moldau River, while I
licked a triple-scoop ice cream cone to
It was nirvana, this Prague!
Not only did my fat pants remain loose,
they seemed to be getting looser!
out. Because, somehow, overnight,
the carry-on bag had gained weight!
The night before it weighed just under
18 lbs on my bathroom scale, and that
morning, close to 20!
How can this be? I’d wondered. Were
the clothes eating on their own all night
without my participation? Somehow
that didn’t seem fair.
I rarely have time to cook, so visiting a
city that’s known for its hearty Eastern
European cuisine was a big part of
where to vacation. With clothing strewn
around me in the upstairs hall, and
panic mounting, I held up the fat black
pants, then closing my eyes, dropped
them with a certain faith into my carryon. I’d heard the goulash in Prague was
melt in your mouth delicious. I planned
on having lots of goulash. Then I picked
up the rest of the fat clothes and packed
them, too, kicking the skinny clothes
aside for a spa trip.
Prague, called the golden city of spires
turned out to be amazing. The gorgeous
old architecture, cobblestone streets.
cool off. My fat pants still miraculously
baggy after days of gorging myself. It
was like a miracle! Was Prague one of
those otherworldly places? Somewhere
like heaven? Where you eat and eat and
eat, and your fat clothes remain loose? It
seemed so; and I was on a quest.
For dinner one night I had salmon so
juicy and pink and perfect that it flaked
on the fork in a way that seemed sinful
to watch it disappear in my mouth. They
served it with three kinds of dumplings:
bread, potato and bacon. All divine.
Another time, in a sloping stone room
that had once been a medieval prison, I
ate a pork chop the size of a large man’s
fist, cooked over an open flame. And
when I simply couldn’t make up my
mind, I went for the duck that never
disappointed.
Dessert meant cakes of every imaginable
variety. My favorite (I think) was layered
pale chocolate with whipped cream
and fresh sliced strawberries. When my
husband suggested the slice was big
enough to share, I gave him the evil eye.
It was nirvana, this Prague! Not only did
my fat pants remain loose, they seemed
to be getting looser!
How can this possibly be? I asked my
husband, back in our hotel room
after another excellent meal. I always
desire his input regarding things of a
paranormal nature (this definitely fit
that bill). He never has an explanation
yet I continue to seek his counsel. Why,
I don’t know. Just as I don’t know the
reason the fat pants weren’t getting
tighter. I only know I’m deeply resistant
to certain things, like packing – a prelude
to better things, like trips. If the right
clothes could only find their way into
the bag by themselves...
Eventually I get it done because I need
to get to some new city. Not just to eat
but to satisfy that deeper hunger for
adventure and change. Some new city,
I’m always thinking, will change us for
a while, make us younger, more vibrant.
So far so good.
And Prague has worked its magic. After
more days of eating without weight gain,
continuing to probe my husband for
an explanation, he finally gave me his
answer: It’s in your mind, he said. I held
out the waistband showing him inches
of room left to spare. He shrugged me off,
as husbands will do; then commented
on the pitiful state of the US dollar. He
said we should have come to Prague
months earlier. No way, I was thinking.
Certain this was something unique and
special that had to happen in its own
time and space. Or never at all. Like love.
So instead I told him: It would have been
cold then. b
Susan Tepper’s fiction, poetry and essays have appeared in
numerous journals worldwide. This winter, Červená Barva Press
will publish her story collection.
Balocco
Cuisine: Italian
Description: Balocco is a restaurant
and wine bar designed to offer guests
a sensual trip through the cuisine
and vineyards of Italy. As you enter
Balocco, you can’t help but relax. The
elegant atmosphere, the beautiful
views and the warmth of the staff will
welcome you.
Specialty or Popular Dishes:
Tagliatelle with Fresh Porcini
Mushrooms.
Old Louisiana Spiced, Blackened
Filet of Wild Salmon
Atmosphere: Elegant, Relaxed
Alcohol: Full bar
Attire: Smart Casual but neat
Hours:
Monday - Closed
Tuesday - Friday Lunch:
1:45 am–2:45 pm
Tuesday - Thursday Dinner:
4:30 pm–9:30 pm
Friday & Saturday Dinner:
4:30 pm–10:30 pm
Sunday Dinner: 4 pm–9 pm
Bar lounge 11am–2am everyday
(closed Monday)
Reservations: Recommended
Worthy of Note: Chef Adolfo Marisi
presents you with a tantalizing
diversity of taste and flavors. The
heart of the cuisine is Italian, based
on the simplicity of Marisi’s home
region of Abruzzo, which is then
energetically infused with Asian,
French, Mediterranean, and Middle
Easter influences. Come experience
the art-form of culinary expression
which is Balocco.
Bring this ad to receive a complimentary glass of house wine
Chef Adolfo Marisi creates a
tantalizing diversity of
taste and flavors, perfectly
presenting selections of
all his dishes.
• Dine • Catering
110 Vincent Drive
Clifton, NJ
TEL: 973.773-3833
www.balocco.com
Perfect Pesto
One summer evening in the mid
1970s, my mother called to invite my
husband and me to join her and my
father for a meal. Having dinner at my
parents’ house was more duty than
pleasure, and I often declined. But this
time, my mother’s voice was so cheerful,
I accepted.
“What are you making?” I asked.
“A surprise,” my mother said, “and I used
the Cuisinart, too.” There was a pride
in her voice I hadn’t ever heard before
around culinary matters.
For Christmas that year, my husband and
I had bought my mother a Cuisinart. But
for all these months, my mother hadn’t
used the Cusinart, though she displayed
it prominently on a countertop. “Those
blades are sharp; I’m afraid of them,”
she’d say.
By now, my mother’s cooking had
improved markedly from the days when
I lived at home and suffered through one
terrible meal after another. Perhaps my
and my sister’s departures into homes of
our own allowed my mother distractionfree time to focus on meals. So there were
many times that I was happily surprised
that what she served was not only edible,
but genuinely good.
Throughout my childhood, my mother
was a terrible cook – an undercookedbacon-overcooked-everything-else
kind of terrible cook. And though
during wintertime, the occasional TV
Turkey Dinner or Chicken Pot Pie had
made some mealtimes bearable, during
summertime, supper in our house was
agonizing with its ongoing procession
of
wilted
salads,
undercooked
hamburgers, burned toasted cheeses,
pasty mac and cheeses, blackened hot
dogs, bloody chicken.
Everything was worse during the
summer because my mother refused
to use the stove in the upstairs kitchen,
and she wouldn’t allow my father to
barbecue because fire anywhere near
the house was too dangerous for her
to contemplate. We didn’t have air
conditioning and my mother refused to
turn on our oven because it “heated up
the house.” So, she resorted to cooking
downstairs in the basement, on a very old
stove my father hooked up for her there
by Louise DeSalvo
when he got tired of eating sandwiches
for supper on hot summer evenings.
Cooking summertime dinners involved
my mother’s running down the stairs to
the basement to check on whatever she
was cooking. But because she hated
being in the basement and didn’t want
to waste time watching food, she’d run
back up the stairs to do another of her
household chores. She’d never gotten
the hang of figuring out when food was
done when she cooked upstairs. And
having food cooking away unattended
in the basement ensured that my mother
would ruin virtually every summer meal.
For years, though, she had clipped
recipes she’d never make from our local
newspaper, which, as a child, exasperated
me. Why couldn’t she try any of those
yummy dishes? I wondered.
Why
couldn’t she be the cook I wanted her to
before, and that she’d introduced me
to something unusual. “It’s a perfect
summertime food,” she said. “All you
have to do is boil up some water; the rest
is easy.”
I never found the exact source of my
mother’s pesto recipe. She told me how
she made it that night, and I committed
it to memory. It was very easy, she said,
because you only had to remember the
number “2” – 2 cups of packed basil
leaves, the smaller the better; 2 garlic
cloves; 2 tablespoons of pine nuts; ½ cup
freshly grated Parmesan cheese; ½ cup
olive oil; 2 tablespoons softened butter;
salt – about 1 teaspoon – and pepper to
taste. All whirled in the Cuisinart. “You
can beat the cheese in separately,” she
told me. “But I didn’t bother.”
Since that evening, summertime has
always meant pesto time and, through
my mother was a terrible cook
an undercooked-baconovercooked-everything-else
kind of terrible cook.
be? I never understood her hesitation at
trying out new recipes, and, as soon as I
married, I became the adventuresome
cook I wished my mother had been. But
my mother, ever fearful of new things,
carried this fear into the kitchen.
One of the recipes my mother had clipped
was for basil pesto. It intrigued her, largely
because it would give her something to
do with the huge crop of basil my father
always raised in our kitchen garden along
with tomatoes, zucchini, and peppers.
Every so often, she’d pull it out of her
recipe box and say, “One of these days....”
It was a memorable event, that balmy
summertime evening when my mother
served us pesto for the first time, atop a
perfectly al dente fettuccine accompanied
by a salad of home-grown tomatoes
dressed with a peppery olive oil. She
was thrilled that I’d never heard of pesto
the years, I’ve eaten it as often as I could
in my travels to Liguria and Sicily and
added many to my repertoire. Marcella
Hazan’s, with some freshly grated
Romano pecorino cheese, in addition
to Parmesan. Fred Plotkin’s, replicating
authentic Ligurian pestos: with walnuts,
prescinseua, ricotta, wild fennel, and/or
plum tomatoes as ingredients. Michele
Scicolone’s, replicating Sicilian Trapanese
pesto, with almonds and tomatoes as
ingredients and another, with arugula.
After my mother died, I found her recipe
box. In it, her handwritten recipe for
“Perfect Pesto.” On it, a note appended.
“Louise liked it! She liked my cooking!
Wonders will never cease!” b
Louise DeSalvo’s most recent memoir is Crazy in the Kitchen.
She has recently completed a memoir about moving.
Italianissimo
Ristorante & Gastonomia
Cuisine: Traditional Italian
Attire: Casual
Description: Besides the fine dining,
a gourmet take-out/eat-in section
offers a selection of thin crust pizzas
and a variety of sandwiches, salads,
as well as hot and cold entrees.
Hours:
Monday-Friday
Lunch: 11:45 am–2:45 pm
Monday - Thursday
Dinner: 4:30 am–9:30 pm
Italianissimo offers a range of services
to its customers: lunch, dinner,
private parties and catered affairs.
Friday & Saturday: 4:30 am–10:30 pm
Popular Dishes: Double cut, open
flame grilled rack of New Zealand
Lamb basted with honey and thyme,
beside garlic mashed potatoes and
drizzled with natural lamb jus.
Roasted wild Atlantic salmon fillet
topped with Chablis deglazed jumbo
shrimp smothered in an herbed
white wine and garlic sauce.
Atmosphere: Lively, casual
Alcohol: BYO
Sunday: 4 am–9 pm
Gourmet take-out and pizza:
9:30 am–9 pm Monday-Sunday
• Fine Dining
• Gourmet Eat-In/Take-Out
• Thin Crust Pizzas
• Sanwiches, Salads,
Reservations: Recommended Friday
and Saturday
Hot and Cold Entrees
Worthy of Note: Famous for cameos
on “The Sopranos.” Italianissimo is
always crowded thanks to the excellent
food. Zagats rates the food a 20 and
the service 17. Parking is easy and
Chef Adolfo Marisi strives to please his
guests. So come in, sit back and be a
part of the “family.”
• Lunch • Dinner
Bring this ad for 10% off your entire check
• Catering • Private Parties
40 Clinton Road
at Broadway Square
West Caldwell, NJ 07006
TEL: 973.228.5158
www.italianissimo-food-art.com
Deliverance
I wiped the sweat from my brow
as I checked my watch. With the car radio
broken, plotting my course through
the side streets to the next house was
the only thing keeping my road rage in
check. I was trapped in a one-lane hell
behind someone who did not know how
to use their blinker or how much time
they needed to execute a left turn.
It was a hot July night and I was on my
last round of deliveries. I flipped the
switch for the A/C, knowing that it would
still be as broken as it was ten minutes
ago. When you’re a delivery driver, it’s all
about repetition. The same roads, the
same neighborhoods, the same houses,
the same moronic drivers over and over
and over again.
Delivering does have its perks. My last
summer job was at a local supermarket,
stacking, and then re-stacking displays
of dry goods. I never got to take home
by Sam Kissinger
the black hot bag through the gate,
down the first set of steps, through the
courtyard and up the next flight to the
front yard. I rang the bell and waited. I
was expecting whoever opened the door
to show up in a golf cart, holding a map.
I was waiting only briefly when a short
man in a very expensive looking suit
answered the door.
He pulled out a wad of money. “What’s
the damage?”
Damage? I thought. “Seventy-five
dollars,” I said. He flipped through the
cash, passing over a few singles and fives
and handed me four twenties. I gave
the best part of a delivery job is
meeting weird people and
ending up in places
you’d never go otherwise.
any spaghetti. Now, I had a company car
and got free food. I made enough money
to pay the bills, take care of my cat and
keep a large supply of ramen noodles on
hand. Chef Boyardee after a good night.
As an environmentalist, I suppose the
hardest part of the job was coming to
grips with rumbling around in a gas
guzzling truck. At times I felt I’d sold my
soul for a free burrito. But I took comfort
in telling myself I was just a cog in the
wheels of consumerism and, hey, even
politically incorrect people gotta eat.
I had plenty of time for such musings,
because once the address had been
located, the delivery process itself
requires very little thought. One such
run comes to mind – a large estate in
a very wealthy area of eastern Essex
County. Finding the address was easier
than locating the front door. I carried
him his food and pulled out my own
cash, expecting him to say, “No, keep it.”
I slowly found a $5 bill, hoping that with
enough time he would say, “No, keep it.”
I took my time handing him the money.
Waiting for him to say it. Nothing.
He gave me some folded up bills from
his back pocket and abruptly closed the
door. I looked at the money. Two dollars.
I quickly learned that wealth has nothing
to do with class.
Certainly, the best part of a delivery job is
meeting weird people and ending up in
places you’d never go otherwise. There
were people who lived in complete
darkness, lonely strangers, potheads,
the happy couple who stayed in with
a movie and a bottle of wine on Friday
night. There was the guy who slipped me
the money through the mail slot and had
me leave the food outside. I considered
waiting in the truck to see how he
retrieved the food, but duty called.
Areas I might have never had a reason to
go through, I now knew like the back of
my hand. Big lofts, single rooms, grand
estates, don’t-drive-though-at-night
neighborhoods. I was exposed to it all.
I was finally on my last delivery of the
night. Again without much thought,
I made it to the right house. A note
instructed me to the back. I went around
and as I opened the gate, I realized it
was a pool party; before me, were
lounging at least ten college-aged girls.
Ridiculous thoughts passed through my
head like, “Sure ladies, I can stay. I’m off
work now.”
Time to turn on that old Kissinger charm,
I thought. I tried to look indifferent to
the whole scene, yet I felt the way a
waiter at the Playboy Mansion must feel:
all of these women, so close yet so out
of reach.
I walked over to the girl waving a red cup
at me.
“Hi,” I said. Nice opener, I felt like quite
the ladies man.
“How much is it?” she said, completely
ignoring me while she talked about
some awful MTV show with her friend.
“$42.85.” Oh, I was on fire.
She handed me the money and told me
to keep the change. I handed her the
food and our transaction was complete.
I left, defeated. I was a food delivery boy
after all, not a pool boy.
I got back in the car and counted. She
had given me a $100 bill—as a tip. My cat
and I, we ate steak for a week. b
Sam Kissinger is a recent college graduate avoiding the real
world as a camp counselor in Maine.
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Tea Time
Cleaning out Grandma’s kitchen
cabinets after Hospice drives away, my
sister Carol pulls a worn hand-crank
mixer from a mass of tangled tines. Red
paint flakes from its smooth wooden
handle. She pauses to contemplate the
antiquated gadget. “Do you remember
what this was for?” she asks, tentatively
twirling the crank and watching the
rotary whisks whirl into each other.
I pull my head from the cabinet under
the kitchen sink and squint up at her.
“That’s an egg beater,” I say definitively.
“You use it to whip cream.”
“Why wouldn’t she just use a blender?”
Carol asks.
“Do you remember Grandma’s kugel
cake?” Carol continues. “How much
time she spent kneading the dough,
baking and cooking, only to have us eat
it all in one sitting?”
I picture the yeast dough rising
beneath wet towels draped over Pyrex
bowls placed in the low temperature
oven. Liberally spackled with butter,
cinnamon sugar and whipped cream,
the kugel took a full day to prepare.
Though the memory is more than 30
years old, I remember the taste as if it
were yesterday.
“No one has time for that anymore,”
I say.
Neither our grandmother nor our
mom worked outside the home. Mom
railed against being a “kitchen slave,”
and yet when we were growing up she
followed Grandma’s recipes faithfully,
tying sauerbraten with string, steaming
corn on the cob in a pressure cooker,
melting dark chocolate and butter in
the double boiler for our birthday cakes.
After Dad retired, she insisted he do the
cooking, handing over to him the worn
index cards with faded recipes written
in Grandma’s unintelligible script. She
said she’d “given up on cooking.”
Carol and I gave up before we ever
started. Our husbands do the shopping,
chopping and meal preparation. They
must have realized that if they wanted to
eat, they’d have to make it themselves.
by Linda P. Morgan
Is it some kind of feminist backlash we
have against kitchens?
I ask, “Carol, do you ever cook anymore?
Any of Grandma’s recipes?”
She thinks for a minute. “I make iced
tea,” she says, smiling. “With real tea
bags, on my windowsill in New York.”
How can I forget Grandma’s marvelous,
sweet, lemony iced tea? If in a hurry,
Grandma would make the tea by draping
add ice cubes, lemon juice, and lemon
wedges, always tasting as she went.
Looking back on her technique, it’s a
wonder we’d drink her tea at all after
all the human interference that went
into making it. We never protested
her constant dipping in and out of the
steeping mixture. “Hmm, needs more
sugar,” Grandma would say, licking the
spoon, pouring more sugar from the
bag and plunging the sticky spoon into
It’s a wonder we’d drink her tea at all
after all the human interference
that went into making it.
ten teabags over the rim of a metal
mixing bowl, pouring boiling water from
the squealing tea kettle, and scooping in
soft white sugar, spoon by spoon. If it
was sunny outside, she would use plain
tap water and leave the bowl with its tea
bags out on the back porch rail to steep
in the sun. My sister and I would stare
at the drifting brown whorls emanating
from the tea bags and watch them spread
out across the bowl until all the water
was dark as pitch. Sometimes Grandma
covered the bowl with cheesecloth,
but not always, allowing us to dip our
fingers in to help stir the mix. Somehow
we never felt rushed for time. The days
seemed to last forever.
“You’re kidding, right?” I ask. “How
do you keep the bowl from falling 20
stories?”
“I bought a skinny jar,” Carol explains,
“and I tape the teabags to the rim. It’s
part of my morning routine. Sometimes
the boys help me.”
Once the tea was dark, Grandma would
the whirling brown liquid. “Now more
lemon,” she’d say, or “let’s try more
ice.” She’d lick, sample and stir until we
heard her happy cry: “Now it’s perfect!”
Knowing we’d want a taste, she’d pour
two small jelly jars full of the tepid sweet
tea, so delicious.
I picture Carol’s kids staring at the tea
jar on their window ledge, seeing their
reflection in brown tea against a New
York City skyline. I laugh to think of
my sister actually making anything. I
doubt the small oven in her New York
City apartment has ever been turned
on. Yet, in her own quirky way, Carol
has exported Grandma’s rituals to her
city apartment building – memories
of summertime, family, and the joys
of cooking with Grandma in that slow
Sunday way. b
Linda Morgan lives in Montclair and is sometimes seen drinking iced
tea at Bluestone Cafe.
Modern Trend
Kitchens & Baths, Inc.
“Family Owned Business”
Vincent Russo Jr. - Designer/Owner
Guy Russo - Expeditor
Steven Contaldi - Coordinator
480 Bloomfield Avenue
Caldwell, NJ 07006
(973) 228-4224
Fax (973) 228-5041
18B Main Street
Madison, NJ 07940
(973) 966-6888
D o n ’ t T h ro w Y o u r
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A • S Pork Store’s
10th Year Anniversary Commemoration
“Thanks to all our
customers for their
loyal patronage!”
- Frank
To celebrate our 10th Anniversary, A& S is offering Summer
Kick-Off Low Prices. We have Great Deals on fresh cut meats and
a variety of other foods and beverages throughout our store.
Don’t settle for imitations
when you can count on
authentic, traditional Italian
Foods at A&S Pork Store.
Catering for All Occasions.
www.asporkstore.com
533 Bloomfield Ave. ~ Montclair, NJ
[email protected]
Tel.: (973) 783-3033
Fax: (973) 783-3732
281 Browertown Road Wedgewood Plaza
West Paterson, NJ 07424
973-256-0115
Fax 973-256-3357
Wi n d o w C l e a n i n g • P re s s u re Wa s h i n g • D e c k R e s t o r a t i o n
Residential
8 7 7 - V I P - 2 3 5 7 Commercial
Courteous and Uniformed Staff • Efficient and Reliable Service • Bonded and Insured
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Shark Cake - LetsChatNJ.com

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