by Dawn Lerman
My mom spent the day of the party getting ready: rolling her hair straight with empty orange juice cans and picking the perfect outfit that would accentuate her cleavage. She waited until everyone arrived to fix up the house. Each time the doorbell rang with a new guest, the jobs started to flow. “Arthur, you are so good with set design, you are in charge of hanging the lights on the terrace! Joyce, set up your numerology station where everyone can see you. Len, you are the tallest, you can grab the card table from the top of the closet and water my spider plants. Charles, please warm and arrange all the food. David, roll up the Oriental rug so no one spills wine on it. Gordon, start playing your magic flute for the belly dancer. Dawn and April, start pouring the Tang and tonic into the plastic champagne glasses and start passing them around to anyone who does not want alcohol.”
I was always shocked at how many people would come to my mom’s parties and how none of them seemed to mind being put to work the minute they entered. My mother was the director, and each guest was happy to be a part of her show.
“Vera is here. She has her magic violin. Oh my God, Sheila brought the new play that she has been slaving over for months. She is going to give everyone a part to read. Everyone, look how great Mordechai looks as Marilyn, and he brought his Ouija board to help us to remember our ancestors and friends that have passed. Linda has brought her new boyfriend, Mulligan. And Mulligan has a special pie.” Announcing all the guests, she broke into applause. Everyone followed her lead, clapping for each new cast member.
One by one, they inquired, “Where is the man of the hour?”
“He will make a grand entrance when everything is ready,” my mom said, surveying the room.
I was looking at what everyone had brought to eat, while my sister was running up and down the stairs telling my mom that my father was getting bored and hungry and was ready to make his appearance.
“Tell him five minutes. I will call him when the stage is set.”
With the food displayed and everyone lined up at the bottom of the staircase, my mom instructed Gordon to play the theme from Miss America and screamed for my dad to make his entrance.
“Okay, Al, we’re all ready!”
Everyone applauded and started gasping as my dad walked down the stairs in his new leisure suit, giving a little Rockette kick, while holding up his old pants, which could now fit three of him. He tossed them into the howling crowd.
“Wow!”
“I can’t believe this!”
“I wouldn’t recognize him!”
“Who knew you could look this great from eating white rice?”
“Where is Albert?”
My dad took a bow. “Yes, ladies and gentleman, this is what six months of starving, three packs of Camels unfiltered a day, and peeing in a cup will get you. Autographs are accepted, but please no rice this evening!”
Persis applauded. “I am so glad you lost the weight and not your humor.”
“Thank you, sweetheart. Now, get me a glass of skimmed water and some fillet of bone.”
Everyone was complimenting my dad on how wonderful he looked. He seemed overjoyed, joking with all the guests who were gathering around him, listening to him share his new weight-loss philosophies and beauty secrets. “Seeing is believing,” he kept saying—relishing the attention from all the female guests. Persis Khambatta, the former Miss India, whom my dad became friends with when he was casting a commercial, was sitting closer than anyone else. She was millimeters away from being on top of him. “Your dad is so knowledgeable. I learn so much from him. I can listen to him talk about diets all day.” I wondered why she was so interested in dieting; she already looked like a skeleton, but according to her no woman could ever be thin enough. I knew I didn’t agree as I watched her, ribs protruding through her sari.
“I especially loved your dad’s stories about the liquid diet, the cookie diet, and the ‘tapeworm diet,’ on which your dad lost fifty pounds before marrying your mom. He is so romantic.” The diet, which she thought made him a romantic, consisted of popping a pill that contained a tapeworm egg. Once in the intestine, the creature would feed off you, helping to consume the digested food. I thought it sounded disgusting. But she remained captivated, listening to him share his ideas for his new diet book.
“Persis, your flawless beauty will make my new diet book that I am planning on writing a huge success. Bland, Boring and Beautiful will reach international acclaim with you as the spokesmodel. The diet is a four-week plan, and each week you pick one food that has no sugar, salt, or flavor. You can eat unlimited portions of the selected food but nothing else. Eventually, you dull your taste buds and your desire for food. But each week, you choose a different food so your body does not plateau.” Persis thought the diet was brilliant and agreed to be on the cover of the book pictured sucking on a big cucumber and standing between two life-sized carrots.
My mom was pleased that my dad had a captive audience. She wanted to be equally supportive, but she did not understand how people could spend so much time talking about food and diet. My mother ate to live. She did not understand people like my dad, my grandmother, and me who thought about food all the time. It was not so much that I wanted to eat all the time as it was that I was interested in all the different types of foods. I was so curious to see what everyone brought. It was such a rare event that we had so much food in our house.
My mother saw me peering at the food spread on our table and scolded me: “Enough with the food! Ask Sahara to show you how to belly dance or ask Joyce to do a numerology reading for you.”
“I already know my past, and if something bad is going to happen in the future, I don’t want to know.”
“Joyce can help guide you.”
My mom always thought I was too serious, too shy, and too stuck in my ways. And I did not know how to stand up for myself. My mom’s words stung; but she would forget what she’d said moments later, and I would cry for hours. “Words can’t hurt you,” she would always say, but hers did hurt me.
Joyce muttered softly, “I will not tell you anything negative, just the number of your destiny and the personal year you are in. It will help you focus and unlock your potential.”
Joyce was always sweet to me, and with her assurance, I hesitantly agreed to the reading. She started wildly calculating my numbers, eyes wide as saucers. Then her eyes closed and her body collapsed. I thought she’d had a heart attack. I knew this reading was not a good idea. Then she quickly rose, grabbing both of my hands, looking deeply into my eyes.
“You are in a five personal year. Get ready for many changes. And your destiny is a three. People with three destinies are very imaginative and often become great writers, artists, or great communicators. I am a three myself.”
My mom jumped up, exclaiming, “I knew it! I knew it! I am always right. Remember, when you wanted to stay in Chicago and I told you New York and the Little Red School House would help bring out your creative potential. Joyce! Dawn has to be pushed. If I do not make her try new things, she would hibernate in my mother’s house in Chicago or obsess about feeding April.”
My mother always had to prove her point of how she made wonderful decisions for me. While I knew in my head my mom loved me, she often made me feel boring, and I felt overpowered by her. I was frustrated and upset at my mother’s inability to see who I was and what I desired. I was different from her and had different needs. When Joyce mentioned some traits of the three destiny, I thought she was making it up and was in cahoots with my mother, but she pulled me aside and showed me her sacred book so I could read about the personality of the number three for myself. The characteristics of the three described me exactly. There was even a similar line in the book that I had written in my journal so many times before, but had never shown anyone. It said the eyes of a three destiny were like a camera that could remember details and events with great accuracy and sensitivity.
; Ever since I could spell, I had kept a journal. I would write what I could not tell, I would write what I really did not want to feel, and mostly I would write because it made me feel better.
When we were done with the reading, Joyce asked me if I had any questions, and she gave me the paper with her notes. She said that I could share as little or as much as I wanted with my mother, and that I should always remember our conversation.
“You are magnetic. You are intuitive. You are a leader. Do not let anyone belittle your ideas or point of view. You are going to be a trailblazer. Big success awaits you,” she kept repeating. “Remember you have a story to tell.” Joyce’s words were so powerful that I began feeling woozy.
As I was heading to the food table, finally hoping to sit and eat, my mom grabbed me and said, “Talk to Linda and her new boyfriend.” Linda was my favorite cousin. She was way older—in her twenties—and way cooler than me, and had just finished working on The Tonight Show, where she worked closely with Johnny Carson. Mulligan, her new boyfriend, was a Vietnam vet. They had met a couple weeks ago on the subway, and now they were a big item. Mulligan wore a tie-dye shirt, had a metal plate in his head, and was a hard-core macrobiotic devotee. Linda had told him I was interested in cooking and healthy food, and I had just won the award for the best peanut butter cookies in the sixth grade.
“In honor of your award, Mulligan brought over this special pie just for you, from our favorite vegetarian restaurant on the Upper West Side, Peter, Peter, Pumpkin Eater.”
Mulligan held out a forkful, encouraging me to take a bite. “Let each ingredient dance on your tongue. Do not swallow until you have really tasted it. I usually chew one hundred times before swallowing—both for digestion and to honor the food. Pretty tasty, huh?”
I had to agree. It was one of the best pies I had ever tasted. The apples were so fresh, not syrupy or sweet. And the crust was nutty and firm.
“It is macrobiotic. There is no sugar, eggs, or butter in it and it is really healthy,” Linda said enthusiastically.
How could this be? The pie had none of the usual suspects that made desserts delicious, and yet it was even more yummy. From the very first bite of the dairy-free, sugar-free pie, the most amazing feeling of excitement and satisfaction overcame me.
So while everyone else at the party wanted to find out what my dad ate or did not eat for the last six months, or wanted to talk to Linda about what it was like to work with Johnny Carson, I was focused on Mulligan. I drilled him about the ingredients of the pie, the location of the bakery, other places in New York that made such yummy healthy desserts, and what it meant to be vegetarian.
“Being vegetarian is about respecting life.” Mulligan was happy to indulge me and share his philosophies. “Make love not war, eat food that is kind not killed, and love our earth.” He was a recent convert since coming back from Nam. Injured and disillusioned, he was trying to make sense of his life, the world, and his fate. In order to heal, he felt like he needed to respect his body and Mother Earth, and that started with the food he was eating. After he had seen life taken right in front of him, he was not about to do that to any other creature. He was in Viet Nam for almost a full year before he was wounded and sent home. He felt beaten by both the physical and mental scars of war. But being involved in the health food movement was a positive step toward healing both his body and his soul.
In addition to eating vegetables, brown rice, millet beans, and tofu, in lieu of meat and chicken, he meditated and studied Eastern religions. He also had a daily yoga practice to keep his body lean and flexible and open his chakras so he could attain enlightenment and spiritual fulfillment. Mulligan seemed so centered and peaceful. A feeling I desired.
It was not only about food. It was a movement—a way of representing love and peace. I was so excited and enamored by Mulligan. I begged my parents to come over and hear what he had to say. I thought he could inspire them as he had me.
“It is not just what you eat, but how you eat it,” he shared. “Respect your body and it will respect you. The right food is medicine for the soul.” I loved how he chanted his mantras.
After that night, I needed to learn how to make that pie and understand why Mulligan felt so passionately about the vegetarian lifestyle, which was so different from my dad’s or even my grandmother’s way of eating. Since I had a subway pass, I had the freedom to explore. While my friends were participating in afterschool activities or playing Capture the Flag in the Bleecker Street Playground, I began exploring different natural food venues.
From the very first time I walked into a health food store, it was love at first sight. It gave me a thrill that filled every fiber of my being. I began reading nutrition books, and cookbooks, and cooking and baking as if my life depended on it. My eyes were opened to new schools of thought surrounding food. I learned about vegetarianism and macrobiotics. I read books by Jack LaLanne, Frances Moore Lappé, and Adele Davis—the movers and shakers in the health movement. I learned to cook adzuki beans, to make cheesecake from tofu, and how to substitute carob for chocolate in shakes and cookies. I tossed sprouts in salads and added wheat germ to everything imaginable.
While that party was an unveiling of my dad’s most recent success, it was also a new beginning for me. Joyce had encouraged me to let my imagination run wild, and Mulligan opened my eyes to an exciting new movement. I was not ready to become a vegetarian, but I was interested to learn why Mulligan was one, and to incorporate some of the principles and staples into my own diet.
Macrobiotic Apple Pie
Yield: 8 slices
FOR THE CRUST:
1⁄4 teaspoon salt
11⁄2 cups whole wheat pastry flour
1⁄4 cup vegan butter substitute, like Earth Balance
1 tablespoon barley malt
FOR THE FILLING:
4 apples, peeled and cut in chunks
11⁄3 cups apple juice
1⁄3 cup raisins
1⁄2 teaspoon cinnamon
1⁄2 teaspoon lemon juice
2 tablespoons kuzu (see note)
Prepare the crust first by mixing the salt into the fresh pastry flour, then adding the butter substitute. Sprinkle the barley malt over this mixture, slightly mix, and add enough water to make a thick ball of dough. Quickly roll out between two sheets of wax paper or on a board used for piecrusts.
Shape the dough into a 12-inch circle and place into a lightly greased glass pie pan. Pierce the bottom and sides of the piecrust lightly with a fork so the crust will not puff up and let the liquid from the pie filling go under it.
Preheat the oven to 350 degrees. Combine the apples, 1⁄3 cup of the apple juice, and the raisins and bring to a boil. Cover and simmer 15 minutes. Mix in the cinnamon and lemon juice.
Remove from heat and allow to cool. Combine the kuzu and the remaining 1 cup of apple juice, stir until dissolved, and bring to a boil. Simmer about 1 minute, or until transparent and thickened. Spoon the apples into the crust and pour the kuzu mixture over them. Bake for about 40 minutes.
Note: Organic Kuzu Root Starch can be used to thicken soups, stews, sauces, gravies, and pie fillings.
Tomato Aspic
Yield: 8 servings
4 cups tomato juice
1 tablespoon Worcestershire sauce
2 teaspoons salt
5 tablespoons apple cider vinegar
21⁄2 cups diced green pepper
21⁄2 cups diced celery
1 cup diced onion
4 packages Knox Unflavored Gelatine
2⁄3 cup water
Cooking spray, for the mold
Place the first 7 ingredients into a heavy saucepan. Heat to almost a boil. Remove from heat. Dissolve the gelatine in water in a separate bowl, then pour into the saucepan and stir into the contents. Pour into a bowl or a mold that has been sprayed with cooking spray. Refrigerate until
set. Overnight is best.
Note: This aspic is like a congealed Bloody Mary.
Sweet-and-Sour Meatballs
Yield: 8–10 servings
1 (12-ounce) bottle chili sauce
2 teaspoons lemon juice
9 ounces grape jelly
11⁄2 pounds ground beef
2 eggs, beaten
1 large onion, diced
1⁄2 cup Rice Krispies cereal or bread crumbs
Salt and pepper, to taste
Whisk together the chili sauce, lemon juice, and grape jelly. Pour into a large pot. Keep temperature on a medium heat. In a bowl, combine the ground beef, eggs, onion, Rice Krispies, salt, and pepper. Mix well and form into 1-inch balls. Add to the sauce and simmer for 11⁄2 hours. Remove from heat and allow to slightly cool. You can serve with a toothpick inserted into each meatball as an appetizer.
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My Holiday Wish