CULINARY SELF-DEFENSE
One more day and our new in-laws will descend on our modest home. Linda’s son is getting married.
I get the sense that these are not our kind of people. They live in a 7,000 square foot house, fronting on a huge lawn and backing up on a scenic lake. We front onto utility poles and back up to a drainage canal.
They demanded that their daughter have a $2,500 wedding band, while Linda and I bought ours at a discount jeweler. Geoffrey is still suspect because he sells carpet, while the bride’s brother is a physician. Their idea of a good time is golf and tennis, while ours is eating, sitting around the table and gossiping.
Fortunately, I have my own means of escape: the kitchen. Someone whispered in their ear that I am a gourmand. The claim is dubious, but I will try to keep up the ruse until they return to Valhalla. Without a tennis court in sight, I will ply them on smoked turkey with pecan dressing, home-cured gravlax with dill sauce, glazed apples and sultanas, bourbon-soused chicken and the like.
I have no doubt that my family will be well sated, perhaps even to the point of loosening belts and unbuttoning at the waist. As for the in-laws, I see them all picking at the same turkey wing, politely departing the table and attempting a brisk walk down Main Street, which will be abandoned, as all the stores will be locked up for Christmas weekend.
Deprived of exercise, they will return to their hotel room, where the only show on television will be the Vienna Boys Choir chirping “Stille Nacht.” They will then sheepishly return to our home, where they will catch us gossiping . . . about them.
But, I have an image of saving the day, because they will have arrived just in time for a round of perfect Stolichnaya martinis. The room becomes hazy. Tongues become loosened. Finally, the mother of the bride falls into a bowl of chocolate mousse.
Stille Nacht. Heil'ge Nacht. Somehow, I don’t think that mother will be playing too much tennis tomorrow.
December 22, 2005
December 14, 2005
UPPER MIDDLE CLASS CHARITABLE AUSTERITY
The background noise of my life, MSNBC, recently caught me with an interview of a rabbi and minister about the negative impact on local charities of the more focused giving in the aftermath of Katrina.
Neither minister was particularly impassioned about the question. The one clergyman suggested that work more arduously motivate the majority of Americans who give no charity whatsoever. That solution recalls the observation of the Rabbi of Lubavitch that “If we waited to understand the process of digestion before we ate, we would all surely die.
The other pastor was more candid, if not particularly magnanimous. The disaster, he said, was so immense that needs of other charities would just have to wait a year.
Both my colleagues were wrong.
I can think of at least ten solutions to the dilemma of how one can meet the needs of horrific tragedy while addressing local demands that are no less horrific: homelessness, hunger, family violence . . .
This is a suggestion that will take nary a pinch out of us denizens of the upper middle class. We know it because we personally use it:
Let all forms of broader “standard” charity – United Way, church/synagogue and the like – come directly from the checkbook, a chunk of salary and savings that is the bedrock of annual giving.
When special needs like Katrina pull our larger dollars elsewhere, let smaller at-home giving come from “upper middle class austerity.” First: At the end of each day, put all your pocket change into a charity box. Whatever faith you practice, before the Sabbath, do that and all the dollar bills in your wallet, too.
Food is a terrible thief of here-and-there dollars: Store brands and generics are almost invariably as good as high-ticket names. More poultry and less beef. More fruits and veggies, and for God’s sake, not just in salads. A few sliced apples, some brown sugar, a shot of cheap Marsala, a fistful of raisins, glaze in a skillet. The best side dish and dessert. $7.50 in better restaurants. And speaking of restaurants, don’t stop going, just cut back.
Whirl together mayo, anchovies, garlic, Worcestershire and mustard, serve on romaine . . . the sanctified Caesar salad. And the simple and frugal delight of homemade soup will always win out over top-of-the-line “homemade” Progresso.
Do you know how relatively inexpensive salmon and tilapia are? I can find the best of each at $3.99 a pound. Dress them up with a dusting of ground buckwheat or a blob of homemade tartar sauce. And by the way, despite our grandmothers’ whining, gefilte fish (or call it “Scandinavian fish-balls, whatever) is a no-brainer, and guess what? You can make it with salmon, and it doesn’t come out icky pink.
Gastronomists refer to this as “cuisine of necessity.” We call it “all that our grandmothers could get out of a chicken (eggs, schmaltz, soup and finally the main course), some matzo meal and a couple of root vegetables, and still eat like royalty on Sabbath and Holy Days.”
My doppelganger, Rabbi Ribeye, is delighted to share all his recipes that conform to the motto, “If it isn’t easy, we don’t make it!” – coq au vin, paella, demi-sec chutney, onion marmalade, chicken Marsala – all incredibly cheap and easy.
I’ve stopped taking most of my shirts to the cleaners. I’ve learned to iron. What a concept. We’ve forced ourselves to stop impulse buying. Kids need to learn a qualified “no” to their goofy extravagances. Not a “no” to everything, what the “no” is about, and that you, too, are saying “no’s” for yourselves.
Finally, the key is a little simple accounting. Keep a tally of what you’ve saved by an occasional coq au vin for four at $12, versus the same at $32 a person prepared by Chef D’Jean deMoutarde. Then, the “what you saved” goes directly to at-home charities that might have otherwise been pinched by Katrina.
None of this timid proposal forces a descent into lower class living. For most of us, it compels barely scraping the edge of the upper middle class.
Nobody asked me, but that’s how I see it. Write a check and help relieve the suffering of Katrina. Make your own salad dressing and help wipe out hunger at home.
The background noise of my life, MSNBC, recently caught me with an interview of a rabbi and minister about the negative impact on local charities of the more focused giving in the aftermath of Katrina.
Neither minister was particularly impassioned about the question. The one clergyman suggested that work more arduously motivate the majority of Americans who give no charity whatsoever. That solution recalls the observation of the Rabbi of Lubavitch that “If we waited to understand the process of digestion before we ate, we would all surely die.
The other pastor was more candid, if not particularly magnanimous. The disaster, he said, was so immense that needs of other charities would just have to wait a year.
Both my colleagues were wrong.
I can think of at least ten solutions to the dilemma of how one can meet the needs of horrific tragedy while addressing local demands that are no less horrific: homelessness, hunger, family violence . . .
This is a suggestion that will take nary a pinch out of us denizens of the upper middle class. We know it because we personally use it:
Let all forms of broader “standard” charity – United Way, church/synagogue and the like – come directly from the checkbook, a chunk of salary and savings that is the bedrock of annual giving.
When special needs like Katrina pull our larger dollars elsewhere, let smaller at-home giving come from “upper middle class austerity.” First: At the end of each day, put all your pocket change into a charity box. Whatever faith you practice, before the Sabbath, do that and all the dollar bills in your wallet, too.
Food is a terrible thief of here-and-there dollars: Store brands and generics are almost invariably as good as high-ticket names. More poultry and less beef. More fruits and veggies, and for God’s sake, not just in salads. A few sliced apples, some brown sugar, a shot of cheap Marsala, a fistful of raisins, glaze in a skillet. The best side dish and dessert. $7.50 in better restaurants. And speaking of restaurants, don’t stop going, just cut back.
Whirl together mayo, anchovies, garlic, Worcestershire and mustard, serve on romaine . . . the sanctified Caesar salad. And the simple and frugal delight of homemade soup will always win out over top-of-the-line “homemade” Progresso.
Do you know how relatively inexpensive salmon and tilapia are? I can find the best of each at $3.99 a pound. Dress them up with a dusting of ground buckwheat or a blob of homemade tartar sauce. And by the way, despite our grandmothers’ whining, gefilte fish (or call it “Scandinavian fish-balls, whatever) is a no-brainer, and guess what? You can make it with salmon, and it doesn’t come out icky pink.
Gastronomists refer to this as “cuisine of necessity.” We call it “all that our grandmothers could get out of a chicken (eggs, schmaltz, soup and finally the main course), some matzo meal and a couple of root vegetables, and still eat like royalty on Sabbath and Holy Days.”
My doppelganger, Rabbi Ribeye, is delighted to share all his recipes that conform to the motto, “If it isn’t easy, we don’t make it!” – coq au vin, paella, demi-sec chutney, onion marmalade, chicken Marsala – all incredibly cheap and easy.
I’ve stopped taking most of my shirts to the cleaners. I’ve learned to iron. What a concept. We’ve forced ourselves to stop impulse buying. Kids need to learn a qualified “no” to their goofy extravagances. Not a “no” to everything, what the “no” is about, and that you, too, are saying “no’s” for yourselves.
Finally, the key is a little simple accounting. Keep a tally of what you’ve saved by an occasional coq au vin for four at $12, versus the same at $32 a person prepared by Chef D’Jean deMoutarde. Then, the “what you saved” goes directly to at-home charities that might have otherwise been pinched by Katrina.
None of this timid proposal forces a descent into lower class living. For most of us, it compels barely scraping the edge of the upper middle class.
Nobody asked me, but that’s how I see it. Write a check and help relieve the suffering of Katrina. Make your own salad dressing and help wipe out hunger at home.
December 04, 2005
ZIP-ZAP, CHUNKS AND SLABS
What does one remember after forty years away from yeshiva? Esoteric Talmudic passages? Not all of us. Some of us remember cartoonish characters like our cook, Jones Flournoy, who enabled the likes of me never to grow too old or too serious.
Jones was about 60 years old. He knew absolutely nothing about cooking, but the boys loved to play baseball with him. He was a magnificent pitcher, a star in the Negro League in the days that American baseball was still segregated.
Whenever you’d ask Jones about the day’s menu, he’d have one answer: “Zip-Zap.” I have never found a foodstuff in any language called “Zip-Zap,” so I assume that it meant, “I don’t know, so leave me alone.”
Breakfast zip-zap was inevitably hardboiled eggs and dark rye bread. Zip-zap at lunch meant tuna fish and dark rye bread. Shabbos dinner was zip-zap elevated to haute cuisine: dry, roasted chicken, moistened by bowls of ketchup and mayonnaise that accompanied it.
On other nights of the week, zip-zap’s identity took on two alternating forms of beef. I could never coordinate them with legitimate cuts of meat, because Jones simply referred to them as “chunks” and “slabs.” Naturally, they were accompanied by dark rye bread.
The student body was served its chunks or slabs at the dinner hour of 6:00 PM. We who attended university each evening in downtown Chicago did not return to yeshiva until 10:00. You know, of course, what was waiting: chunks or slabs wedged between slices of dark rye bread, wrapped in a plastic bag and left to ferment under the kitchen lights. How more of us did not die from botulism is part of the DaVinci Code.
Later in life, I did not partake in zip-zap, chunks or slabs. But, the tradition has not died. Whenever I prepare my kids’ supper, their first question is “What kind of zip-zap are we having?” When I tell them that it will be beef, they instantly respond, “Chunks or slabs?” Ach, I think, they may not be great rabbinical scholars, but at least a little of the best of yeshiva has rubbed off on them.
What does one remember after forty years away from yeshiva? Esoteric Talmudic passages? Not all of us. Some of us remember cartoonish characters like our cook, Jones Flournoy, who enabled the likes of me never to grow too old or too serious.
Jones was about 60 years old. He knew absolutely nothing about cooking, but the boys loved to play baseball with him. He was a magnificent pitcher, a star in the Negro League in the days that American baseball was still segregated.
Whenever you’d ask Jones about the day’s menu, he’d have one answer: “Zip-Zap.” I have never found a foodstuff in any language called “Zip-Zap,” so I assume that it meant, “I don’t know, so leave me alone.”
Breakfast zip-zap was inevitably hardboiled eggs and dark rye bread. Zip-zap at lunch meant tuna fish and dark rye bread. Shabbos dinner was zip-zap elevated to haute cuisine: dry, roasted chicken, moistened by bowls of ketchup and mayonnaise that accompanied it.
On other nights of the week, zip-zap’s identity took on two alternating forms of beef. I could never coordinate them with legitimate cuts of meat, because Jones simply referred to them as “chunks” and “slabs.” Naturally, they were accompanied by dark rye bread.
The student body was served its chunks or slabs at the dinner hour of 6:00 PM. We who attended university each evening in downtown Chicago did not return to yeshiva until 10:00. You know, of course, what was waiting: chunks or slabs wedged between slices of dark rye bread, wrapped in a plastic bag and left to ferment under the kitchen lights. How more of us did not die from botulism is part of the DaVinci Code.
Later in life, I did not partake in zip-zap, chunks or slabs. But, the tradition has not died. Whenever I prepare my kids’ supper, their first question is “What kind of zip-zap are we having?” When I tell them that it will be beef, they instantly respond, “Chunks or slabs?” Ach, I think, they may not be great rabbinical scholars, but at least a little of the best of yeshiva has rubbed off on them.
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