newjerseylife leisure - letschatnj.com2 • newjerseylife&leisure • 7.08 simply sisters black...

&JUly 2008

newjerseylife leisure

DELICIOUS SUMMER READ15 Writers on the Foods of SummerPatricia BerryKatherine CheckleyAlice Elliot DarkLouise DeSalvoLaura Zinn FrommSusan Korones GiffordMartin GolanSam KissingerChristina Baker KlineScott E. MooreLinda P. MorganDawn PorterPamela Redmond SatranSusan TepperNancy M. Williams Yum!

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Volume 10 Number 7 is published bySmooth Stone Publishing

615 Valley RoadUpper Montclair, NJ 070��

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EditoRJessica Wolf

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ed i t o r ’s no t e

One day, as we were leaving the schoolyard, my eight-year-old 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

54 Fairfield StreetWatchung Plaza

Montclair, NJ 07042Tel: 973-744-7177Fax: 973-783-5899

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leisuren Pie Season .......................................8 byPatriciaBerry

n A Suitcase of Tomatoes ...................10 byChristinaBakerKline

n Shark Cake ....................................12 byLauraZinnFromm

n The Bicycle Club ...........................14 byMartinGolan

n Papa’s Food ...................................16 byDawnPorter

n Confessions of a Sugar Addict .........18 byPamelaRedmondSatran

n Summertime Blues ........................20 bySusanKoronesGifford

n Dog Days of Summer .....................22 byScottE.Moore

n Taffy Pull ......................................24 byAliceElliottDark

n Uncle John’s Chicken Wings ............26 byKatherineCheckley

n The Colors of Popsicles ..................28 byNancyM.Williams

n It Would Have Been Cold Then ........30 bySusanTepper

n Perfect Pesto .................................32 byLouiseDeSalvo

n Deliverance ...................................34 bySamKissinger

n Tea Time .......................................36 byLindaP.Morgan

Cover photo by Michael Stahl

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Pie SeaSon

by Patricia BerryDoes 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 “fresh-baked” 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

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.

not long ago, Gail phoned to say she was throwing together a barbeque for several couples.

“I’ll bring pies,” I said, confident she wanted me to offer.

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 pIeon the kitchen counter

with suspicion. It appeared slIghtly Irregular.

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 in-laws a key to our house.

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

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’tbring 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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a SUiTCaSe oF ToMaToeS

by Christina Baker KlineMy 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

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-and-match 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 cucinapovera, 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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Shark Cake

by Laura Zinn Fromm

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-of-year, 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 co-chair 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:

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.

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 creative-writing teacher at Columbia University. She lives in Short Hills with her husband, two sons and Roxy. More from Laura at www.flawedmom.blogspot.com

“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

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, three-and-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

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The BiCyCle ClUB

by Martin GolanWhen My Parents retIreD to florida back in the ‘70s, my father fulfilled a lifelong dream: he learned to ride a bicycle. It thrilled him, being of 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 good-natured 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.

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 wasencouraged

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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by Dawn PorterIt 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 crab-eating 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

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 foundfresh 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 recently-detoxed 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:

cream from the Good humor man.

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.

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

Definitely a fair trade.

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, maisoui) in winter.

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

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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by Susan Korones Giffordon 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 mid-June, 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 wasperfect, 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

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 BlueberriesforSal(one of the great works of food-centered 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.

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 apple-cider 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 neverall 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


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by Scott E. MooreIt aLL BeGIns on MeMorIaL Day weekend. no, I don’t mean obligatory jaunts involving sluggish mass-motorcades 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 Sopranosgave 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 mass-produced 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

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)

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 non-neighborhood 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.

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by Alice Elliott DarkDurInG 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.

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.

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 stretchedand 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

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“A Tradition of Quality Service Since 1967”

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12001 Long Beach Blvd • Haven Beach, NJ 08008 609-492-1277 • 800-999-1944

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UnCle John’S ChiCken WinGS

by Katherine CheckleyI’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

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

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 uncle John chars hIs delIcacy,he exists in his own world;

he Is the center of chIcken wIng unIverse.

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.

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


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The ColorS oF PoPSiCleS

by Nancy M. WilliamsMy 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

“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.

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.

“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 Restaurant

Cuisine: american

Description: a great place for breakfast, lunch and dinner.

Specialty or Popular Dishes: Daily specials and soups. stop in for

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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 pmsaturday: 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

treat; and if you work in the area, stop in for their daily lunch specials.

MONTCLAIRCHAR-BROIL

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613 VALLEY ROAD

UPPER MONTCLAIR NJ

TEL: 973.746.0911

�0 • newjerseylife&leisure • 7.08

iT WoUlD haVe Been ColD Then

by Susan Tepper

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 carry-on bag that could not exceed 18 lbs by airline limits. then the morning of our trip, I took everything I’d packed back

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’sinyourmind, 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, C ervená Barva Press will publish her story collection.

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 carry-on. I’d heard the goulash in Prague was meltinyourmouth 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.

7.08 • newjerseylife&leisure • �1

110 VINCENT DRIVE

CLIfTON, NJ

TEL: 973.773-3833

www.BALOCCO.COM

Balocco

ChefAdolfoMarisicreatesa

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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 - Closedtuesday - friday Lunch: 1:45 am–2:45 pmtuesday - thursday Dinner: 4:30 pm–9:30 pmfriday & saturday Dinner: 4:30 pm–10:30 pmsunday Dinner: 4 pm–9 pmBar 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.

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PerFeCT PeSTo

by Louise DeSalvo

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 distraction-free 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 undercooked-bacon-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

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

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

my mother was a terrIble cookan undercooked-bacon-

oVercooked-eVerYthing-elsekInd 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 aldente 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.

7.08 • newjerseylife&leisure • ��

Cuisine: traditional Italian

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.

Italianissimo offers a range of services to its customers: lunch, dinner, private parties and catered affairs.

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

Attire: Casual

Hours: Monday-friday Lunch: 11:45 am–2:45 pmMonday - thursdayDinner: 4:30 am–9:30 pm

friday & saturday: 4:30 am–10:30 pm

sunday: 4 am–9 pm

Gourmet take-out and pizza: 9:30 am–9 pm Monday-sunday

Reservations: recommended friday and saturday

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.”

40 CLINTON ROAD

AT BROADwAY SqUARE

wEST CALDwELL, NJ 07006

TEL: 973.228.5158

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Italianissimo Ristorante & Gastonomia

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�� • newjerseylife&leisure • 7.08

DeliVeranCe

by Sam KissingerI 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

the best part of a delIvery Job Is meeting weird people and

ending up in places you’d never go otherwIse.

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

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.

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


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Tea TiMe

by Linda P. MorganCLeanInG 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.

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 allafter all the human interference

that went Into makIng It.

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

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.


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