by Dawn Lerman
I remembered my dad saying he felt like a stuffed turkey every time he left Bubbe Mary’s after a holiday meal. “Unfortunately, willpower and I are not closely acquainted,” he would exclaim as he joyfully indulged without coming up for air.
But other than holidays, we did not visit Bubbe Mary much. My dad said that he felt more comfortable at Beauty’s house. She always made a big deal over him, laughing at all his jokes, telling him how brilliant he was, and displaying all the articles about him from the trade publications. He was a rising star in the ad industry, but Bubbe was confused about what he did for a living and was disappointed that he did not have a regular job like his brother Melvin, who was an accountant. I didn’t know what an accountant was, but I knew my dad’s job was super fun as he got to work with Tony the Tiger and the Pillsbury Doughboy. Bubbe was not as impressed: “A Jewish boy should be a doctor or a lawyer.”
Even when my dad was a child, he did things that she did not understand, like creating satirical comic books or questioning why they had two different sets of dishes or opening and closing the lights on Shabbat when she strictly forbade it. Not knowing how to relate to him, she fed him constantly. Bonding over roast tongue, pickled herring, and rolled cabbage made both of them feel closer to each other.
But then, when he was in the sixth grade, my dad got beat up by a bunch of bullies who jumped him from behind, hitting him with lead pipes until he was unconscious. “Fat mama’s boy. Fat mama’s boy,” they taunted. The beating was so bad he spent a week in a coma and the doctors didn’t know if he would live.
Helpless, Bubbe Mary cooked all day and all night, praying for his recovery, hoping the smells of her mushroom barley soup, stuffed peppers, and sponge cake, which she schlepped to the hospital, would revive him. When he awoke, Bubbe was standing there with a banquet, fully believing in the healing powers of Jewish food. My Bubbe fed my father bite after bite while he was in the hospital—feeding him but never telling him she loved him.
My dad wanted to feel comforted by all the wonderful food she had worked so hard to prepare, but he felt angry. He wanted to be thin. He wanted to be popular. He wanted to have self-confidence. The very food that brought him such extreme pleasure caused him to be bigger than the other kids, leading to ridicule and, worse, landing him in the hospital. Even the doctors were alarmed by his weight. But my Bubbe said, “It’s just baby fat. He’ll grow out of it.”
But as he got older, he got bigger, and his cravings for food—as well as his need to be thin and popular—intensified. When my dad dieted, he felt like he was betraying my grandmother and dissolving the one bond they shared. My dad felt that if they were not talking about food, the room was silent, so he made jokes—most of which Bubbe did not understand—to break the silence. Conversation seemed to flow so easily between his brother Melvin and their mother. My father wondered why it couldn’t be like that for him and his mom.
Of course, at six years old, I didn’t know any of this; I didn’t understand the relationship between my father, my grandmother, and food. I just knew that Bubbe Mary stuffed me to the gills, and now I’d have to sit in the den and watch Tom Jones all by myself. I asked Bubbe if I could shuffle the cards for her and her friends, but she hurried me out of the room with a half loaf of sliced banana bread and a box of old photographs that she said I could look through.
The bread was delicious with big, sweet chunks of bananas. I ate the entire half loaf, not so much because I was hungry, but because I didn’t want her to be mad at me. My dad had once told me he would get in trouble if he ever left crumbs, so I made sure I didn’t leave a single crumb.
I tried to watch Tom Jones, but I was bored. I kept peeking my head out of the room. Hoping Bubbe would include me, I kept smiling at all her friends. Beauty said my smile was contagious, and she always wanted to show me off, but Bubbe seemed happier with me in the other room. “You do not want to miss Tom Jones singing his biggest hit, ‘It Is Not Unusual,’” she said, sending me away with an ice cream parfait topped with rainbow jimmies, strawberry syrup, and a cherry. “This should entertain you for a while.” But I was lonely, not hungry. I tried to finish the cool treat to please Bubbe, but my body said no, and before I could take one more bite, I was shivering. Before I knew what was happening, there was vomit all over Bubbe’s new couch. I remembered what my dad had told me, how Bubbe worked so hard to put food on the table, and how Beauty had told me to be a good guest. Panicked, I crept toward the bathroom. If I could just clean everything up, no one would have to know, and no one would be disappointed in me. I remembered how Sister Ann cleaned April up after she burped too much. I just needed a warm cloth.
I quietly shut the door behind me, hearing Bubbe Mary call out, “I have rugelach.”
Embarrassed and dirty, I splashed cold water on my face and put a little Ivory Soap in my mouth. I was looking everywhere for rags, but all Bubbe’s towels had a floral pattern and looked so fancy. I grabbed the first thing I could think of. I put some warm water into the tissue box and snuck back into the den trying to wipe up my mess, but the tissues broke into little pieces and started sticking to the fabric. I took off my dress and started wiping furiously. I thought if I could just change into my nightgown and stuff my smelly dress into my suitcase, everything would be okay. Just as I was figuring everything out, Bubbe came into the room, announcing that Beauty was on the phone. She saw her couch. She saw the shredded tissues. She saw me in my underwear.
“Oy vey iz mir! Oy vey iz mir!” The Jewish words of doom made me panic even further. I was shaking while she rushed me into the bathroom, forcing me to drink an Alka-Seltzer out of the cup where she kept her dentures. “Drink up,” she said, making me lie down on the cold bathroom floor. She put a hot water bottle on my tummy, telling me to stay in the bathroom so she could say goodbye to her friends. I was hoping she would stay in the bathroom with me and say, “Who loves you the most in the world?” but she did not.
After what felt like forever, the door opened. It was Beauty. “What happened to my little pussycat? You must be coming down with something,” she cooed, pulling me into her chest and wrapping a towel around me. “You can wear my fur while I help Bubbe.” Beauty didn’t seem concerned that I might mess her brand-new coat. “I am going to help Bubbe clean up the mess.”
They were both quiet, no chattering in Yiddish, as they scrubbed, armed with plastic gloves, buckets of water, and boxes of baking soda and a bottle of vinegar. Hanging the slipcovers to dry, they both said in unison, “The one couch without plastic!”
Bubbe was grateful for Beauty’s help, insisting that she stay for a cup of coffee and some goodies. “I have enough rugelach for a small village. I usually make them with just a little jam, but I used my grandmother’s recipe making them with raisins and nuts as well.”
“I will try just one,” Beauty said. She started moaning as she tasted them, “So light, so delicate! Is that cream cheese I taste in the crust?” she gushed.
Feeling better and relieved that both my grandmothers were kibitzing, I inched toward the table. Bubbe poured me a glass of ginger ale to soothe my stomach, and Beauty scooped me onto her lap. While Beauty was enjoying the rugelach and coffee, Bubbe was busy in the kitchen. She was making several doggy bags. She even had some frozen challahs and marble cake for my dad when he returned from his trip.
“Don’t forget to feed these to your daddy. Nothing says love like a little something from Bubbe’s oven.”
Retrieving our shoes from outside the door, Bubbe blew kisses. “I will see you in a couple of months for Passover. I would give you a kiss, but I will just blow one in case Dawn is coming down with something.”
We enjoyed Bubbe’s care package the following evening. The brisket was so flavorful and tender, immersed in a thick gravy of onion soup, ketchup, and apricot preserves, and the rugelach just seemed to melt in our mouths. In Beauty’s kitchen, I was able to enjoy every sweet and savory mouthful. I
kept waiting for Beauty to offer some pearls of wisdom about Bubbe, or my dad, or eating slowly. But all she said was how thoughtful Bubbe was to make us a care package and what a marvelous cook she was.
I had a feeling it would be a long time before we would see Bubbe again.
Bubbe’s Sweet Brisket with Coca-Cola Marinade
Yield: 8 servings
4–5 pound brisket, with fat trimmed
1⁄2 cup ketchup
1⁄4 cup apricot jam
1 can of Coca-Cola
1 packet of dry onion soup mix, such as Lipton
1 cup water with 2 tablespoons ketchup for reheating
Preheat oven to 350 degrees.
Place the brisket fat side down in a 13 x 9-inch roasting pan and add water to the depth of the pan, about 1 inch. Spread the ketchup and jam evenly over the meat. Sprinkle the soup mix over the ketchup and smear in. Pour the Coca-Cola around the meat. Cover the pan tightly with aluminum foil. After about 2 hours open the foil and baste brisket. Continue to cook, covered, for another hour. Skim any excess fat.
When cooled, slice thinly and add back into pan with the juices. About a half hour before you’re ready to serve, preheat oven to 350 degrees and reheat the brisket with the cup of water mixed with 2 tablespoons of ketchup. Then spoon gravy from the pan over the meat. Heat for 20 minutes.
Note: Like many Jewish dishes, brisket should be prepared a day ahead. It is much more tender and flavorful on the second day, after the ingredients have mingled.
Mushroom Barley Soup
Yield: 8–10 servings
FOR HOMEMADE BEEF STOCK (SEE NOTE):
3 pounds beef bones
1 pound chuck, cubed
1 onion, quartered
4 celery stalks, sliced in half
4 carrots, sliced in half
1 bay leaf
Water, to cover
FOR THE SOUP:
64 ounces beef stock
Salt and pepper, to taste
Beef from stock (see note)
1 large onion, quartered
8 celery stalks, diced
2 parsnips, diced
8 carrots, cut into rounds
1 cup pearl barley
1 pound fresh white button mushrooms, sliced
2 tablespoons tomato paste
2 large bay leaves
1 bunch of parsley, finely chopped
In a very large soup pot, combine all the stock ingredients. Bring to a boil and then simmer for two hours. Strain the broth into another large pot. Save the meat, but discard the rest of the solids. If the stock in your new pot is greasy, let it cool for about 15 minutes and then place 6 ice cubes in the pot. The grease will immediately congeal and you can spoon out the ice cubes and grease in one fell swoop. Your homemade beef stock is ready.
Now it is time to make the soup. First, taste the stock and add salt and pepper to taste. Then add the onion, celery, parsnips, carrots, pearl barley, and sliced mushrooms. Bring to a boil and then add the tomato paste, bay leaves, and parsley. Simmer 30 minutes, until the barley is soft. Then add the saved beef and cook for another 45 minutes You might need to add a little water if too much liquid has evaporated.
Note: If you do not want to make your own stock, you can use 64 ounces of beef broth from a carton or dissolve 4 large bouillon cubes (such as Knorr) or 8 small cubes (such as Wyler’s) in 64 ounces of boiling water. If you did not make your own stock, brown 1 pound of cubed chuck in 1 tablespoon of oil and use that.
Cinnamon Raisin Rugelach (“Little Twist” in Yiddish)
Yield: 12 cookies
Parchment paper or cooking spray to line the cooking sheet
2 ounces unsalted butter, room temperature, cubed
2 ounces cream cheese, room temperature
1⁄2 cup flour
1⁄3 cup sugar (plus a little extra for sprinkling)
1⁄4 teaspoon salt
1⁄2 cup chopped nuts (optional)
1⁄2 cup chopped raisins
1⁄2 teaspoon cinnamon (plus a little extra for sprinkling)
Jam of your choice
1 egg, beaten
1 tablespoon cold water
Cream the butter and cream cheese with a hand mixer, then gently stir in the flour, 2 tablespoons of sugar, and the salt. Mix well, until dough is formed. Shape the dough into a ball. Wrap the dough in plastic wrap and chill for 2 hours. Right before the dough is removed from the fridge, combine the nuts, if using, raisins, cinnamon, and the rest of the sugar in a bowl and set aside.
Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Line a baking sheet with parchment paper or cooking spray. Remove the dough from the fridge. Now flour a work space and begin to roll out the dough into a round pizza shape about 1⁄16-inch thick, giving the dough quarter turns as you roll. Try to work quickly, because when the dough loses its chill, it is hard to work with. Spread the jam across the dough, and then sprinkle the raisin-nut, mixture over the dough and press it in with your fingertips.
Slice the dough into twelve wedges. Roll each wedge from wide end to narrow. Place the cookies on prepared baking sheet and chill for 20 minutes. While they are chilling, whisk the egg with the cold water, and then gently brush the egg wash over the cookies before putting them in the oven to bake. Sprinkle a little cinnamon and sugar on top. Bake for 20 minutes. Cool on a wire rack.
Schmaltz and Grebenes
Skin from a whole chicken, washed and sliced
1⁄4 cup sliced onions
1⁄4 cup sliced apples
Cook the chicken skin over low heat until the fat is almost melted. Add the onions and apples and cook until the onions brown. Remove from heat and allow to cool slightly. Pour the schmaltz—the rendered fat—through a fine-mesh strainer. Then transfer it to a mason jar, cover, and refrigerate. Schmaltz will keep for about a week in the fridge. You can eat the crackly skins—the grebenes—with the apples and onions alone or add the mixture to chopped liver, mashed potatoes, or kasha varnishkes.
4
Bye-Bye, Chicago
The Ultimate Chocolate Chip Cookie with the Cream Cheese Dough, Lo-Carb Chocolate Crepes
I remember boxes, lots of boxes—big boxes, small boxes, packed boxes, empty boxes, boxes marked “Fragile.” I had flashes of hiding in the boxes when we first moved into the apartment on Hudson Street six years earlier. I had just turned three. The apartment looked so big and scary that I hid in one of the boxes all afternoon—scared if I ventured out of the box, I would get lost. I remember the sun spilling through the window of my room. I remember the room turning dark. I remember waiting for my dad to unpack me, as carefully as he unpacked his antique gumball machines, his diet books, his Mad magazines, and his vintage Coke bottles. I remember waiting, waiting, for the sea of boxes to dissipate, and this unfamiliar place to seem less scary and more welcoming.
I remember feeling nervous, small, lost—similar to how I felt on the first day of nursery school when I waited for my mom to pick me up after a long morning of finger painting, gluing macaroni on cigar boxes, and learning my right foot from my left foot, while dancing the Hokey Pokey. One by one, all the kids were picked up, nestled into their moms’ warm embrace. I stood there with the teacher, Miss Newburger, waiting, waiting, till I was the only one left. As my jitters were becoming increasingly apparent, the soft-spoken teacher with her golden hair, her Benjamin Franklin glasses, and gentle open arms, offered me a cookie.
“There is nothing like a little snack to take the edge off.” Her words put me at ease, as they sounded familiar. When my dad was tired or stressed from working, he would motion me to come sit with him. “Let’s have a snack,” he would say. “There is nothing like a little something sweet to help me relax.” What my dad considered a good snack was always changing, depending on the diet he was on. One of my favorites was the Metrecal meal-replacement shakes, paired with Oreo cookie
s. The shakes tasted like maple syrup, and they came in chocolate and vanilla flavors. Sometimes, he would even blend the Oreos and the shake together in a blender for something a little more special, or mix the Metrecal powder with whipped egg whites to turn it into a paste, and fry it with a little Pam to make a low-calorie pancake.
Miss Newburger pulled the little circus boxes off the shelf and handed me two animal crackers, one shaped like a monkey, the other shaped like a lion, and a little container of milk. Folding back the cardboard opening and pouring the milk into a little three-ounce Dixie Cup, she proclaimed, “If you dunk the crackers, they not only become softer, but sweeter.” I dunked just the way she showed me, watching the little pieces that broke off. Some crumbs floated to the top and others disappeared. I nervously stared into the cup, wondering if my mom would ever come for me or if I would remain in the classroom forever. After not successfully reaching either of my parents on the telephone, Miss Newburger was determined to cheer me up.
“Nothing like cookies and milk to turn a frown right around. When my children were young, we used to pretend the animals were drinking the milk. We would dunk their heads first before their bodies.” Demonstrating how to dunk, her voice lifted as she made a slurping sound and began tossing her head from side to side. I started to forget that my mother was nowhere to be found.
I call animal crackers happy crackers; no child can have a long face when they are selecting their favorite animals. “Roar, Roar, Nay, Nay, Moo, Moo!” she bellowed, instructing me to reach into the box and pick five crackers. She proceeded to do the same. “Let’s see how many matches we have.”