My grandparents would stare at me from dusty, chipped frames occupying the top of the heirloom mahogany furniture piece strategically placed in the entrance hallway of my childhood house in Venezuela.  Grandma Agnes, my mother’s mother, drew me the most with her mysterious smile and bright blue eyes that bore through the aged photograph creating a luminous space around her. She sat on a bench on a porch somewhere during summertime when it was lush and sunny, Vermont, perhaps?  Or maybe her native Philadelphia?  I’ve no clue.  In the photograph she is close to the age she died, her early 70’s, and I suspect this was one of the few times my family shared with her, assuming I was there.  I would have been a toddler wreaking havoc on the other side of that porch.

Truth be told, the only memory ...Read on]]>

My grandparents would stare at me from dusty, chipped frames occupying the top of the heirloom mahogany furniture piece strategically placed in the entrance hallway of my childhood house in Venezuela.  Grandma Agnes, my mother’s mother, drew me the most with her mysterious smile and bright blue eyes that bore through the aged photograph creating a luminous space around her. She sat on a bench on a porch somewhere during summertime when it was lush and sunny, Vermont, perhaps?  Or maybe her native Philadelphia?  I’ve no clue.  In the photograph she is close to the age she died, her early 70’s, and I suspect this was one of the few times my family shared with her, assuming I was there.  I would have been a toddler wreaking havoc on the other side of that porch.

Truth be told, the only memory I have of Grandma Agnes is of a visit she made to the hospital when I was three.  I remember being afraid, I recall a thick needle stuck in my foot and the glass bottles of whatever they were giving me, IV fluid for my dehydration caused by a stomach flu I suspect,  going clink, clink, clink.  I was in a room, or a hallway or some place that was a pace away from the bathroom and my nana, Pura, whose hand I clutched with a deathly grip, begging me to release her for one minute so she could pee.  ‘I’ll be right there, I’ll be right back’, she promised, but still that served as no consolation for a terrified little girl who continued to grasp tightly, disregarding any bladder needs.

And there was grandma Agnes. On a rare visit to Venezuela to see her long lost daughter (that bohemian, uncontrollable gal who ran off to South America to marry the strange Israeli man). Agnes had come.  Down the hall of the hospital I saw her walking towards me.  She wore a celeste dress draped with a finely knit white cardigan and as her slow shuffle got closer to my panicked self, I noticed a warm smiled coated her face instantly making me feel safe and soothed.

This is all I remember of my mother’s mother.  This and that framed photograph waiting to fall from termite damage.  My other grandparents all passed away before I was born and so the only memory of them lie frozen in those three images next to Grandma Agnes.  It is of another time, another place, someone else’s memories.

But not my husband.  He explodes with memories of his grandparents.  They are woven into the fabric of his youth:  his abuelo Pauxides taking him to the cockfights in Curarigua, his abuela Koko trying to tame a rambunctious and daredevil child who would be dropped at her doorstep for the summer in Barquisimeto, no questions asked.  And then there is his father’s mother, abuela Margarita, and her simple but illustrious grace.  Her fervent dedication to her children, her insistence on them applying themselves and improving themselves through education, something she was never privy to.  Her sons were good listeners and went on to become doctors and engineers.

And of course, there were stories of Abuela Margarita’s cooking.  Wastefulness being a pet peeve of hers as a result of the hard times she became accustomed to during her married life, Margarita would produce memorable dishes with whatever was in the fridge.  My husband  lost his abuela years and years ago, but his eyes still tear up as if he was still in her kitchen describing her preparing her meals.

“Breakfast was the best” he always claims, that same mischievous juvenile spark abuela was subjected to bouncing off his eyes.  And then he delivers. On any night where we’ve had pasta we know we are in for a Margarita breakfast treat the next day.  It may not be the most glamorous of foods, but Abuela Margarita’s Spaghetti Tortillas are easy and sure crowd pleasers.

My husband does just as his Abuela Margarita did… a bunch of spaghetti, a slew of eggs, and an assortment of whatever goods he finds in the fridge:  in our case it is always several kinds of cheeses, loads of parsley, chopped meats (ham, or salami works great) and any vegetable you have left (mushrooms and peppers work fabulously).  Lots of freshly ground pepper is a Martinez must and fast cooking at a high heat so the pasta is sure to get crunchy on the outside is the secret.

We sit down to this meal and the table fills with crazy stories and funny tales of the Martinez family.  We are recently moved into our home in Mexico.  There are no photographs on the walls or on a mantle to stare at and try to create memories with.  The images of the Martinez grandparents are loud and clear, resonating from my husband on to his children, who chomp happily on Abuela Margarita’s signature dish and beg their dad for one more tale about her.

My mother’s terrycloth robe appears in my thoughts every morning.  If my eyes were to see such a thing today, draped on a dummy, let’s say, I’d believe it to be horrendous:  a putrid mocha-colored sea of fuzziness, with a plain beige belt strap and a black trim.  I can’t think of any skin tone that would benefit from it, and most certainly not my mother’s with her pale skin and salt and pepper hair.  So not her color.

This was a sophisticated and fine lady we’re talking about.  Marilyn Dorothy Graham Flynn was grand.  A graduate from Vassar, she was super smart and had the quality of a Hollywood star with sparkly eyes, a killer smile and the most graceful poise around.    Black and white pictures of my father and her dating emanate her strength and beauty next to a ...Read on]]>  

My mother’s terrycloth robe appears in my thoughts every morning.  If my eyes were to see such a thing today, draped on a dummy, let’s say, I’d believe it to be horrendous:  a putrid mocha-colored sea of fuzziness, with a plain beige belt strap and a black trim.  I can’t think of any skin tone that would benefit from it, and most certainly not my mother’s with her pale skin and salt and pepper hair.  So not her color.

This was a sophisticated and fine lady we’re talking about.  Marilyn Dorothy Graham Flynn was grand.  A graduate from Vassar, she was super smart and had the quality of a Hollywood star with sparkly eyes, a killer smile and the most graceful poise around.    Black and white pictures of my father and her dating emanate her strength and beauty next to a puddle of mush and awe (dad).

And this force that was my mother went on to tackle life with zest and courage:  moving to the exotic country of Venezuela at a time when no one did such things with an even more exotic man (Jewish and Israeli!) who ripped her from her family’s suburban Anglo-saxon  identity landing her in a tropical chaos of bananas and car fumes. But mom embraced it all, every second of it, raising three girls in a rambunctious house she pretty much ran on her own while said husband traveled and traveled and traveled.

And then she began to cook.

A woman mocked for not knowing how to scramble eggs became the queen of cuisine:  tackling thick and musty volumes of French Culinary Arts and Mediterranean cooking and melding those with the wonderful pockets of her own imagination making for unforgettable meals.  I was blessed with an array of delicious soufflés, roasts, cakes, and her signature dessert of Ile Flotante, requested at every birthday dinner.  I couldn’t have asked for a better role model and mentor.

Except for her breakfasts.  In that terry cloth robe.  You could put her in the jungle, you could have her beat egg whites with the ease of a signature French chef, but some things were not to be messed with when it came to her routine:  breakfast was one of them.  For all the glamour, grace, beauty and adventure with which she tackled life, this woman ate the most boring thing each and every single morning:  toast with cream cheese and raspberry jam.

“Mom, seriously?  Again!”  I’d say, half in shock half disgusted, as my thoughts raced through the plethora of available, tasty breakfast offerings.

She’d look at me and smile, taking another messy bite out of her toast slipping with the sweet ooze created by the warm marriage of white and red goop.

“Don’t you want an arepa con queso guayanes?”  I tempted, thrusting the warm Venezuelan corncake nestling fresh white cheese.  I was answered with another bite of bread and a savage dip of the knife into the jam.

I always found it unappetizing to reach for that jam, say for a quick P&J sandwich, and find the insides of the jar tainted with white strips of cream cheese.  There was only one culprit and I’d instantly go and complain:

“Ewwww, mom, disguuuusting.  Seriously, use two knives.”

She was patient and kind and always quiet, throwing me a small smile I thought I understood but really had no clue what it meant.

I read:  “So sorry. Won’t happen again, even though you know it will, time and time again”

She meant:  “One day you will remember this.  One day you will find yourself in your own comfortable robe, at your own table, eating your own toast and jam and cream cheese, and you will remember this.”

That day has come.  I am in Mexico.  I can have the most elaborate breakfasts of eggs and tortillas and sauces and beans, and yet, I find myself longing for, craving for, my mother’s breakfast.  Each morning I find myself turned into her:  toast, raspberry jam, and a small but important adjustment:  crema de Oaxaca, Oaxacan cream.

This stuff is for the Gods …and my waistline.  I buy it off the local cheese truck every Saturday morning.  The cheese guy pulls out a hugs plastic bag, snips a hole in the corner, grabs a Dixie cup, and pours it in.  He then puts a piece of plastic wrap over top and, if you are lucky, throws a rubber band over it to seal the deal.  It’s as simple as that.  No FDA, no pasteurization, no questions asked.

The flavor that explodes in one’s mouth is indescribable.  Everything you know your arteries shouldn’t have and more.  And gosh darn it the thing goes amazing with raspberry jam and black bread!  Mom was right on target with her combo and all I can think of is how much I’d love to share this with her right now.  We’d send that Phili cream cheese out the door and create a new annoying goop combo with the crema Oaxaca.  I long to have mom’s palate dance with mine.  Instead, I leave long white marks of Oaxacan cream in my jam.  It’s my tribute to her.  It’s my celebration. It’s my acknowledgement:  mother knows best, especially with goopy messes and terrycloth robes.

If you are like me you try to do things right.  Have the best intentions, and all that jazz.  Of course, there’s always a bit of the struggle.  Especially when you are a bread lover/aficionado/obsessive-compulsive eater and you are a Jew during Passover.

This presents a challenge.

A tough challenge.

I overcompensate my anxiety over not being able to eat bread during Passover by hyperpurchasing.  Hyperpurchasing means, instead of five boxes of matzo (the unleavened cracker one should replace bread for during the week of Passover) I buy twelve.  Because I figure, if my counter (already cluttered with Lulu (my fabulous, hot red mixer) toaster oven, Magic Bullet, and blender (still waiting on the Vitamix gift, folks!) is crammed with an excessive amount of matzo boxes, then this will, in turn, convince me to make the bread-to-matzo leap for the seven allotted days ...Read on]]>

If you are like me you try to do things right.  Have the best intentions, and all that jazz.  Of course, there’s always a bit of the struggle.  Especially when you are a bread lover/aficionado/obsessive-compulsive eater and you are a Jew during Passover.

This presents a challenge.

A tough challenge.

I overcompensate my anxiety over not being able to eat bread during Passover by hyperpurchasing.  Hyperpurchasing means, instead of five boxes of matzo (the unleavened cracker one should replace bread for during the week of Passover) I buy twelve.  Because I figure, if my counter (already cluttered with Lulu (my fabulous, hot red mixer) toaster oven, Magic Bullet, and blender (still waiting on the Vitamix gift, folks!) is crammed with an excessive amount of matzo boxes, then this will, in turn, convince me to make the bread-to-matzo leap for the seven allotted days successfully.

Now don’t get me wrong- I’m as excited about matzo as the next Jew.  And in some circles, believe me, it’s reason to party.  In this household, matzo and butter tango lavishly and decadently at least three times a day.    Worries about hypertension vanish as exuberant amounts of salt get thrown into the mix.  It is crunchy, creamy heaven, with lots of crumbs and no dog to lap up the mess.

Then there’s the charoset:  that delicious mix of matzo, dates, prunes, apples and lots of wine made during the Seder to symbolize the mortar the Jews used when they were slaves in Egypt.  That stuff is killer – especially if you are lucky enough to have my husband prepare his mother’s secret recipe.  Slap some of that magic on a piece of matzo and taste buds go willy-nilly.

And of course, who can deny any child the delight of matzo pizza, which is as easy as pizza sauce (bottled, or in our case, homemade), cheese and a toaster oven?  Is this not the quintessential American Jew snack come Passover week?

I still get restless.  Antsy.  Anxious.  Perhaps it’s my Sephardic roots possibly placing me in Spain five hundred years ago.  Have you had the bread there?  Once in your DNA, well, no amount of pizza sauce will get it out.

So I continue toying with my twelve boxes.  I make Matzo Brei, another favorite American Jewish delight:  eggs, matzo pieces, cinnamon all mixed up and fried together then drizzled with maple syrup- it’s like a deconstructed version of French toast:  I even get a bit fancy and add a splash of Port wine (or some leftover sweet red Manischewitz wine) or some orange zest to freshen it up.

But after three days of no bread I get cranky.  Really cranky.  I’m not nice when I’m cranky.  I try and put it in perspective. . . I have it good- no need to worry about Pharaoh granting me freedom, changing his mind after agreeing to give it to me, or having to escape and take off in the middle of the hot desert only to be confronted by a huge Red Sea that I’d have no idea how to cross (don’t worry, for those of you not up on the story, Moses parts it and all the Jews get safely across.) These guys had it tough!  Surely to commemorate my ancestors I could deal with a bread-free week?

So I keep getting creative with my matzo in hopes of compensation.  My daughter suggests elevating the pizza snack into a formal breakfast and I eagerly acquiesce to this idea, scrambling some eggs and gently placing them on top before popping the whole thing in the oven.  It’s a simple treat – buttery eggs meld nicely with the oozing cheese and the crispy matzo.  The pizza sauce holds it all together, giving it all a Mexican breakfast burrito feel, but with a twist.  We both gobble up two slabs of Breakfast Passover Pizza and I am feeling happy and full.  My daughter looks over at our counter and eases away any bread anxiety that may still be gnawing at me.

“Thank goodness you got so much matzo, mom!  I want this every day for breakfast!”

I want to tell you that I cooked something divine last night.  That it was rich and velvety and luscious.  That my palate celebrated each morsel and was awoken by the many layers of memorable flavor that left me yearning for more.

But I didn’t.

What I did was not nearly as glamorous.  Or romantic.  Or exotic.

What I did was merely try to breath.  All day I focused on this task, in fact, attacking the mission full force with an arsenal filled with tissues, medications, homeopathic remedies and in the end, defeat.  This head cold I’ve been sporting for the last three days outwitted all my attempts.

So savoring food was quite out of the question, sadly.  And still, like a lost arm taunting an amputee, I craved the pleasure of eating.  Albeit in between sneezes.

The children watched me with bemusement.  They enjoy ...Read on]]>

I want to tell you that I cooked something divine last night.  That it was rich and velvety and luscious.  That my palate celebrated each morsel and was awoken by the many layers of memorable flavor that left me yearning for more.

But I didn’t.

What I did was not nearly as glamorous.  Or romantic.  Or exotic.

What I did was merely try to breath.  All day I focused on this task, in fact, attacking the mission full force with an arsenal filled with tissues, medications, homeopathic remedies and in the end, defeat.  This head cold I’ve been sporting for the last three days outwitted all my attempts.

So savoring food was quite out of the question, sadly.  And still, like a lost arm taunting an amputee, I craved the pleasure of eating.  Albeit in between sneezes.

The children watched me with bemusement.  They enjoy seeing their mother out of sorts.  With Kleenex as my accessory of choice, I muddled around the kitchen deciding what to prepare, all the while croaking a very nasal rendition of Ella Fitzgerald’s “I Love Paris” (no illness will ever stop me from singing, much to my family’s chagrin.)

Since I could barely breathe (let alone savor), nothing seemed to fit the mood:  too salty, too chewy, too healthy.  And I didn’t see the point in all the fuss if, in the end, it would end up being sorely misunderstood and risked being unappreciated by my numbed senses.

These are, of course, the moments my children adore most:  the breakpoint, if you will, when all maternal instinct gets thrown out the window; concepts of food pyramids and broccoli and ruffage lost in the wind.  Suddenly, a crazed instant of whimsy infused the blue in my eyes as I declared:

“That’s it.  We’re having waffles for dinner.”

Such an announcement invited a serendipitous occasion permeated with glee, laughter, and lots of skipping.  Yes, children do skip when they are happy, I have seen it in my house.  For a second I had to stop myself and double check:  ‘Wait, these are the same kids that are spoiled beyond culinary belief, with hefty dosages of homemade tasty morsels (didn’t we just enjoy a marvelous Coq au Vin the other night? And before that wasn’t it Kashmir lamb curry?’) They don’t know how good they have it.

But offer up waffles with warm maple syrup and sliced bananas for dinner and they go nuts.

Bonkers.

Skip-happy.

So we broke the rules and enjoyed a breakfast dinner.  I didn’t have to worry about prep work- this stuff is seamlessly simple; the toughest part was plugging in the waffle iron.

Dinner was served and the kids bounced happily in their seats.  The waffles were awesome, they assured me.  I could not tell.  I could not smell.  But I could feel: soft, warm, and comforting, like the hugs I used to get from my mom when I was sick and she was alive to offer them.  The outside was perfectly crunchy and the goo of syrup and smoothness of banana slices excessively soothing.

For one night, we were rebels without a proper dinner, but happy all the same:  a flawless remedy for a sick or healthy palate.

‘It’s the end!’ I screamed to the world from under my covers.  ‘The end!’

“No mom, we have one more day of summer,” my daughter corrected, oblivious to my symbolic moment of doom.  My husband peeked under and gave me a sympathetic ...Read on]]> I woke up to discover my daughter had grown breasts.  And not tiny little mosquito bites that mother’s proudly point out or gingerly giggle at with the ease of time on your side.  Breasts.  Full-fledge-get-me-a-real-bra-this-Target-crap-ain’t-cutting-it breasts.  It was a tragic moment for me.  A sense of loss overwhelmed my caffeine-deprived body as my eleven-year old pounced on my husband and I to wake us from our Saturday morning slumber.  “Wake up!  Wake up!” she shouted.  Her giggle was still the same.  The twinkle in those gorgeous eyes.  The only addition was the extra perky body part I refused to acknowledge.

‘It’s the end!’ I screamed to the world from under my covers.  ‘The end!’

“No mom, we have one more day of summer,” my daughter corrected, oblivious to my symbolic moment of doom.  My husband peeked under and gave me a sympathetic grin.

One more day of summer.  One more day of careless play, of hanging in pajama’s, of endless movie watching and lots of late nights.  Before I know it this big puppy dog that is my daughter will be suiting up in her new uniform and boarding a bus for a forty-five minute ride to her new Middle School.  It seems so diminutive writing it now.  Older, more seasoned parents are chuckling at this very moment remembering the little puddle jump from elementary to middle school.  No doubt they’ve been bruised plenty since:  the new boyfriend, the bad friend, the dreaded driver’s license, the missed curfew, the wrong choice…the wrong choice again. Such bigger fish to fry await me, I realize, and  yet I can’t even fathom my daughter handling multiple classrooms or remembering her locker combination, although I know she can.  I know she will.  I know she is ready.  I know I’m not.

“Stay little!” I beg her and her younger brother, now a confident third-grader.

“No, keep growing,” I hear their father contradict.

I am instantly irritated by the ease in which he offers this thought.  I don’t know how I made it from my daughter’s baby stage to her now bubbling preteen self.  I fear it has been much more difficult for me than for her.  And, even though I am excited for her new adventures and her inevitable growth, she’s got breasts and I can’t stop myself from feeling slightly horrified that this actually happens.

“Mom!” she shouts as she continues bouncing and banging her bony knee against my hip.  She is almost as long as I am and, although she is thin as a rail; she is getting heavy for such endeavors.  “I’m hungry, mom!  Please get up!  Please!”

I froze under the covers thinking what teenage meal she would now deem ‘cool’ and request  for breakfast.  Cereal?  Bran muffins?  Salad?  What do they eat, I wondered, slightly horrified, remembering at the same time her announcement last night that No Lunch Box Shall Be Packed (it’s the land of brown paper bag now that we are in Middle School).  I shuddered wondering how I’d make this leap, or at least, the culinary leap that stood before me.  And then there was silence followed by that sweet high-pitched voice (some would call it a whine, but at this particular moment in time it felt sweet) and in that shrill voice her father and I try so hard to encourage not to happen (yes it was sweet, yes so sweet, why, music to my ears), I heard her ask me in a tone that had her big knee not been precariously lodged in my rib would have fooled me into thinking she was five, she asked:

“Will you make me sunshine breakfast with the toast strips around the yolk like you used to when I was little?”

And instantly the memories came flooding back:  pushing her on the swing, running after her with spoonfuls of baby food because the child wouldn’t eat (yes, there was a time we worried that the child wouldn’t eat), holding her hand, tying the shoes, and all those strips of toast for sunshine breakfast gingerly placed on the plastic Barney plate she loved so much.

A smile spread on my panicked face and suddenly my worries were slightly eased.  Maybe I can handle the breasts after all.  Just keep sunshine breakfast coming.

This is the day that your headache won’t go away, regardless the amounts of Advil you’ve wolfed down with a Tums chaser so you won’t get an ulcer with the water so you’re not left with chalk jammed in your teeth. This is the day you’ll be stuck behind Grandma driving 37 miles per hour on the freeway and you will honk and curse and huff and puff like an idiot in a rush to go nowhere just because it’s that kind of day.

You can’t see her well, Grandma. She’s shriveled down to a solid 4’8” and that’s including the lavender hair but you could swear when the sun hits at an angle just so and you squint and look at her rearview mirror, well, you could swear that that little old lady is smiling at you. ...Read on]]>

This is the day that your headache won’t go away, regardless the amounts of Advil you’ve wolfed down with a Tums chaser so you won’t get an ulcer with the water so you’re not left with chalk jammed in your teeth. This is the day you’ll be stuck behind Grandma driving 37 miles per hour on the freeway and you will honk and curse and huff and puff like an idiot in a rush to go nowhere just because it’s that kind of day.

You can’t see her well, Grandma. She’s shriveled down to a solid 4’8” and that’s including the lavender hair but you could swear when the sun hits at an angle just so and you squint and look at her rearview mirror, well, you could swear that that little old lady is smiling at you. Or at life. Or at something you certainly aren’t smiling with her about.

We’ve all had these days but the grin on Grandma during mine threw me for a loop to the extent that when the steroid-happy 18-wheeler finally flew by me on my left side, allowing a window of opportunity to pass Grandma’s cruising rate, I opted out and obediently chugged along behind her, suddenly wondering what that mind that held that grin was so damn happy about.

It could be her grandson’s bar mitzvah she was going to, I concluded silently. She was so proud of that boy. Michael was her oldest of 12 grandchildren but he was her favorite (even if his hair was too long.) He held her same smile, no doubt, and she was pleased at how assertive and grown up he was becoming. He would be outfitted in an oversized dark blue suit and nervous as hell. But then her outfit was too casual for a bar mitzvah. I could see that from here (as I realized how precariously close I was to her Cadillac).

Maybe she was returning from bingo with the girls. Or bridge. Or some sort of social cliché for octogenarians. She would spend a couple of hours of company, away from the solitude of her tiny apartment, together they’d drink Old English tea (sometimes a shot of something to loosen the morning along) and many shared laughs. She’d almost always win too. Again, the smile: a dead giveaway of some sort of glorious happiness.

But then I noticed some bags poking out of her trunk, which I realized wasn’t properly shut. (I also realized it was time for me to back off a bit.) They where grocery store bags and it all clicked as I understood the smile. Grandma was a cook. She was having the whole clan over for brunch and it would be the typical spread with eggs and lox and bagels but what would make this meal stellar would be Grandma’s killer blintzes. They would be moist and tender and slightly salty on the inside, snuggled within a blanket of dough and doused with a fresh berry sauce, none of this canned jelly stuff from the diner.

Grandma would have stories about picking berries like these off the mountain as a child while hiking with papa in some distant European land. She would retell tales of her youth as everyone bit into her clouds of heaven and in quiet oohs and ahhs they’d listen, with eyes closed, as if this where a symphony of memory with taste and everyone in that table, yes, everyone, I know, would grin. Because grandma had the power to do that. Even to me. Even on such a day. Even at 37 miles an hour, how I longed to follow her home.

Blintzes de Queso con Compote de Fruta: Decifrando una Sonrisa

Este es el día que tu dolor de cabeza no se marchará, ni si quiera con las cantidades de aspirina que has tragado y las tabletas Tums para no terminar con una úlcera de tanta pastilla tomar. Este es el día que manejarás detrás de la Abuela que conduce 37 millas por hora en la autopista y blasfemarás y resollarás como un idiota en una prisa no para ir a ninguna parte sólo porque es aquella clase de día.

No la puedes ver bien, la Abuela. Ha marchitado como una florecita vieja y casi no las vez detras de su volante, incluyendo el pelo de color lavanda pero si podrías jurar que cuando el sol golpea en un ángulo y bizqueas y miras su retrovisor, pues jurarías que aquella pequeña vieja señora esta sonríendote. O a la vida. O sobre algo que tu seguramente no compartes con ella.

Hemos tenido todos días como este pero la sonrisa de la Abuela me dejo pensando y cuando tuve oportunidad de pasarla, opté no hacerlo y seguí tras ella obedientemente de repente preguntándome que era esa sonrisa que la hacía tan feliz.

Esto podría ser el bar mitzvah de su nieto al que ella iba, concluí silenciosamente. Ella estaba tan orgullosa de aquel muchacho. Michael era el más grande de 12 nietos pero él era su favorito (aun si su pelo fuera demasiado largo.) Él sostuvo su misma sonrisa, sin duda, y ella estuvo contenta en que tan asertivo y crecido estaba. Cargaría puesto un chaleco azul oscuro que le quedaría demasiado grande y estaría nerviosísimo, el pobre. Pero entonces ví que su vestido era demasiado informal para un bar mitzvah.

Tal vez volvía del bingo con sus amigas, o alguna clase de cliché social para octogenarios. Gastaría un par de horas de la compañía, lejos de la soledad de su apartamento diminuto, juntos ellos beberían un té ingles y compartarían cuentos de los nietos o los novios…Ella casi siempre ganaría también. Otra vez, la sonrisa: símbolo de alguna clase de felicidad gloriosa.

Pero entonces noté algúnas bolsas saliendo de su tronco, que realicé no fue correctamente cerrado. (También realicé que esto era el tiempo para echarme atrás un poco.) Y entendí la sonrisa: Abuela era una chef! Ella tenía el clan entero para el desayuno-almuerzo y esto sería la comida típica con huevos y salmón curado y bagels, pero lo que haría esta comida estelar sería los famosos blintzes de la Abuela. Ellos serían delicados y deliciosos y ligeramente salados en el interior, bañados con una salsa de moras frescas.

La abuela tendría historias sobre la recolección de moras de la montaña como niña yendo de excursión con su papá en alguna tierra europea distante. Ella volvería a contar cuentos de su juventud cuando cada uno de su familia mordía sus nubes del cielo y en oohs y ahhs ellos escucharían, con ojos cerrados, como si una sinfonía de memoria con el gusto estaria tocando y cada uno en aquella mesa, sí, cada uno, sé, sonreiría abiertamente como la abuela tenía el poder de hacer esto. Incluso a mí. Incluso durante tal día. Incluso en 37 millas por hora, como tuve ganas de seguirla a su casa.

Blintzes con Compota de Fruta

(Adaptado del Libro de Alimento Judío, por Claudia Roden)

Para el blintz:

1 taza de harina

1 ¼ taza de leche

2/3 tazas de agua

1 huevo

½ cucharilla de sal

1 cucharón más para engrasar la cazuela

Para el relleno

1 libra de queso cottage

½ libra de queso de crema

½ azúcar de taza

cascara de una naranja

3 yemas

½ extracto de vainilla de cucharilla

2-3 cucharones derritieron la mantequilla

nevazucar para rociar encima

Añada la leche y el agua a la harina gradualmente. Añada el huevo, la sal y el petróleo y golpee el rebozado hasta liso. Deje al rebozado sentarse, 1-2 horas, preferentemente durante la noche.

Para la compota de fruta:

2 ½ tazas frambuesas congeladas (aproximadamente 11 onzas)

2 tazas 1/2 moras congelados (aproximadamente 11 onzas)

12 onzas de fresas frescas, partidas por la mitad

1 taza de azúcar

1 cucharilla rallyada de cáscara de naranja

1 cucharon de maizena

jugo de medio limón

Combine las frambuesa, mora y fresas, el azúcar y la cáscara de limón en un tazón grande. Dejelo a temperatura de cuarto hasta que las frutas se descongelen, el azúcar se disuelve y forma jugo en el tazón, moviéndose de vez en cuando, aproximadamente 1 ½ horas.

Cuela las frutas y reserva el liquido. Agriega maizena en cacerola media pesada. Gradualmente añada jugos reservados a la maizena, batiendo hasta liso. Bate sobre el calor alto hasta que el jarabe está grueso y claro, aproximadamente 2 minutos. Quitalo del fuego y enfriarlo 15 minutos. Agrega frutas a la mezcla de jarabe. Ajuste la acidez con el jugo de limón. (Puede estar listo 3 horas delante. Tapa y enfrie.)

Precaliente el horno a 375 grados. Caliente un sartén de 8” (o una cazuela de crepes si usted lo tiene) sobre el calor alto medio y engrase ligeramente con el aceite. Prepárese como un crepe: vierta una cucharada grande en el centro de la cazuela y haga girar la cazuela en el movimiento circular hasta que la superficie entera este cubierta. Cocine un minuto y el de le la vuelta con una espátula para medio minuto más. Siga hasta que todo el rebozado sea usado y montóne blintzes en un plato. Para el relleno, mezcle el queso cottage y el queso de crema con el azúcar, cascara de naranja, yemas y vainilla en un mezclador. Tome cada tortita, 1 a la vez, y ponga 2 cucharones que amontonan del relleno en el fondo mitad, plegado del borde de la tortita sobre el relleno y doblando los lados para cerrar. Enróllelo apretado, como una tortilla mexicana. Coloque los rollos lado al lado en un plato de horno engrasado. Rocie de la mantequilla y hornee durante 20 minutos. Haga la compota de fruta: Sirva caliente con nevazucar del y compota.

Hace 12 blintzes

When you are given something called “Friendship Bread,” be wary. It’s not like I was given the actual finished product, I got the dough and a dizzying list of daily instructions with the promise of the finished product. That is when I got extra suspicious. I was told that “Friendship Bread” was an old Amish tradition (this is done as a selling point, I assume) but figured, anything with such a blatantly obvious adjective has got to be bad, right? I mean, for years I walked right by the closest neighborhood sushi (and never went in) because, and only because, it was called Amazing Sushi and everyone knows that anything called Amazing (fill-in-the-blank) has got to be major crap. (I later learned, in a desperately hungry moment of weakness that it is the best sushi in town.) ...Read on]]>

When you are given something called “Friendship Bread,” be wary. It’s not like I was given the actual finished product, I got the dough and a dizzying list of daily instructions with the promise of the finished product. That is when I got extra suspicious. I was told that “Friendship Bread” was an old Amish tradition (this is done as a selling point, I assume) but figured, anything with such a blatantly obvious adjective has got to be bad, right? I mean, for years I walked right by the closest neighborhood sushi (and never went in) because, and only because, it was called Amazing Sushi and everyone knows that anything called Amazing (fill-in-the-blank) has got to be major crap. (I later learned, in a desperately hungry moment of weakness that it is the best sushi in town.) Then there was the traumatizing experience years back visiting an old high school friend who was staying at a hotel in Miami Beach. I had planned a day filled with profound conversation and lounging around a sophisticated pool, and knowing he was staying in the prestigious neighborhood of Bal Harbor, I was equally excited for some pampering. But when I arrived at his hotel, a rinky dink “Quality Inn”, nestled as an afterthought amongst the glorious Fountain Bleu and other equally stunning condominiums, I knew the conversation would be good but the pampering non-existent. (We ended up sneaking into the Fountain Bleu’s pool.)

So here I was given a Ziploc bag with the contents of some sort of fermentation (ahhh, I mean, starter) called Friendship Bread. And believe me, had it not been given to me by my best friend, that friendship would have ended in the trash. There it sat on my counter, testing the plastic it was encased in, simmering and bubbling in its own quiet decomposition that, alongside the list of ingredients and degrees of massaging my photocopied instructions detailed, would promise after ten days to deliver an unforgettable bread, lest I screw the time schedule up.

I’m no good at time schedules so Friendship Bread immediately became a source of stress. I’m also not too neat, so, amongst the clutter of potholders, prescription medicines, and a crazy array of coupons never-to-be-used cut out by my ten-year old daughter (she has a coupon-cutting addiction; we’re working on it) sat the gurgling Ziploc.

And like a crazed woman wondering after she left the house if she turned off the oven or not, I questioned, “Is it day six or day eight? Do I massage (or as the instructions readily put it, “mush”) , let out air, or add a cup of sugar?” These thoughts seemed to consume me throughout my day (I know, my day needs to get more exciting, apparently) and each time I’d rush back home and look at that damn Ziploc bag, it would look pretty much the same.

In all honesty, I lost track of the days with the Friendship Bread, even with the starting date being written in big bold letters on the bag. I just was never good at math or logic or following instructions, and being barricaded into a time scheme with all of the above seemed to short-circuit my culinary instinct. So, I started going with my gut and guessing it was time for a quick rub of the bag, a shake upside down, some milk and sugar, all the while praying that Ziploc would live up to its good ‘ole American reputation and not disintegrate on me, sending the Friendship goop, which had now morphed into a repressed Enemy Bread, all over my cluttered countertop.

Ziploc didn’t disappoint and I am happy to announce neither did the Friendship Bread. After ten (or twelve?) days of huffing and puffing and worrying about nurturing this dough properly, I felt relief when the day came that I’d be able to rid myself of the responsibility by baking it. I swore out loud as my husband is my witness that I would never, ever go through this stress again. And then I baked it. And I tasted it. And I was changed. It was tender and moist, with a slight cinnamon sugar crunch from the coating outside, and it quickly became my best friend, washing all the worrying away and opening the door for a perfect companion to coffee. In the end, the best friendships are worth a little trouble.

Pan Amish:  Una Amistad Que Vale El Fastidio

Cuando te den algo llamado “Pan de Amistad,” ten cuidado. No es como me dieron el producto acabado, sí no, me entregaron la masa y una lista interminable de instrucciones diarias con la promesa del producto acabado. Eso  me puso bien sospechosa. Me aseguraron que el “Pan de Amistad” era una vieja tradición Amish (este es hecho como un punto de venta, asumo) pero juraba que algo con un adjetivo tan descaradamente obvio tiene que ser malo, correcto? Quiero decir, durante años pasaba y no entraba por el sushi del barrio porque, y sólo porque, se llamaba  “Sushi Asombroso” y todos saben que algo que se llame Asombroso tiene que ser una cagada. (Más tarde aprendí, en un momento desesperadamente hambriento donde entré y almorzé en Sushi Asombroso que este es el mejor sushi en la ciudad.) Tambien había la vez, hace años atrás que fui a visitar un viejo amigo que se quedaba en un hotel en Miami Beach. Yo había planeado un día lleno de conversación profunda y tomando sol en una piscina de cinco estrellas, especialmente conociéndo se quedaba en la vecindad prestigiosa Bal Harbor. Pero cuando llegué a su hotel, un edificio sucio y olvidado con el nombre de “Hotel de Calidad” sabía que lo unico bueno sería la conversación.

Así aquí me dieron un bolso de Ziploc con los contenido de alguna clase de fermentación llamado el Pan de Amistad. Y créame, si no me lo había dado mí mejor amiga, aquella amistad habría terminado en la basura. Puse la bolsa en la cocina donde burbujeaba en su propia descomposición, junto con las instrucciones muy detalladas con la lista de ingredientes y grados de masajear la masa durante diez dias, prometíendo resultar en algo inolvidable.

No soy nada bueno con listas ni organización así que el Pan de Amistad inmediatamente se convirtio en una fuente de stress. Como una mujer enloquecida que se pregunta después de que ella dejó la casa si apago el horno o no, pregunté, “Es el día seis o día ocho? ¿Masajeo o añado una taza de azúcar?”  Estos pensamientos parecieron consumirme a lo largo de mi día y cada vez que llegaba a casa y miraba la condenada  bolsa de Ziploc, parecía mas un ejercicio para enemigos que amigos.

Me da mucha felicidad en anunciar que el Pan de Amistad fue un gran exito. ¿Después de diez días de preocupar sobre nutrir esta masa correctamente, sentí el alivio cuando el día vino que sería capaz de liberarme de la responsabilidad horneándolo. Juré en voz alta que nunca pasaría por esta tensión otra vez. Y luego lo horneé. Y lo probé. Y ese pan me cambio. Era suave y humedo adentro, con un crujido de azúcar y canela leve de la capa fuera, y rápidamente se hizo mi mejor amigo, quitando toda mi preocupación y en vez invitandose como mi compañero perfecto para el café. Al final, las mejores amistades merecen dar un poco de problema.

Pan de Amistad de Amish

No use ninguna clase de tazón metálico o cuchara. No refrigerar. Es normal para que la masa haga burbujas, se eleve, y tenga olor desagradable. Cuando el aire entra en la bolsa Ziploc, sólo suéltelo.

Día 1: No haga nada. Este es el día usted recibe la masa. Vaya por la fecha en la bolsa.

Día 2: Masajear bolsa, soltar aire y resellar.

Día 3: Masajear bolsa, soltar aire y resellar.

Día 4: Masajear bolsa, soltar aire y resellar.

Día 5: Masajear bolsa, soltar aire y resellar.

Día 6: Añada 1 taza cada una de harina, azúcar, y leche. Masajear bolsa BIEN y resellar.

Día 7: Masajear bolsa, soltar aire y resellar. .

Día 8: Masajear bolsa, soltar aire y resellar.

Día 9: Masajear bolsa, soltar aire y resellar.

Día 10: Siga las instrucciones abajo.

Vierta contenido de la bolsa en un tazón que no sea de metal. Añada 1 ½ taza de harina, 1 ½ taza de azúcar, y 1 ½ taza de leche. Mezcla a fondo con una cuchara de de madera o espátula. Pon la fecha en 4 bolsas de Ziploc. Mida 1 taza de la mezcla en cada uno de las bolsas y sella bien. Consérvese un para usted para poder hacer mas. Reparte los otros tres a amigos junto con instrucciones.

Precalienta el horno a 325 grados. Al restante eche el tazón abajo, añade:

3 huevos ½ cucharilla de bicarbonato de soda

1 taza de aceite 1 ½ levadura en polvo de cucharilla

1 taza chupa ½ cucharilla de sal

1 taza de azúcar 2 tazas de harina

2 cucharillas de canela 1 paquete grande de budín de instante de vainilla

½ cucharilla de vainilla 2 tazas nueces picados (opcional)

Engrase 2 cazuelas de pan grandes. En otro tazón, mezcle ½ taza de azúcar y 1 ½ cucharilla de canela. Espolvoree con las cazuelas de pan con esta mezcla, reservando el suplementario para rociar encima.

Hornee durante 1 hora. Deje que los panes enfrien dentro de las cazuelas por 10 minutos hasta que el pan suelte regularmente de cazuelas. Resulte en el estante de alambre. Hecha el restante de azucar y canela y coma caliente.

This is one of those things I can definitely blame my mother on.  Why I never reached her long-limbed stature, had that glamorously sensual neck or movie star beauty are harder sells in the ‘it’s-all-your-fault’ department, but this, this is so very different.

It all started with my mom actually.  Come breakfast time, she’d sit amongst the tropical fireworks of bougainvillea that sprawled lazily in our back garden porch in Venezuela and eat imported toasted English muffins with imported cream cheese and imported jam.  She could have started her day with so many different delightful things bountiful in this South American culinary haven:  arepa con queso guayanes (grilled or deep fried cornmeal cakes hugging a buttery fresh white cheese that makes mozzarella di buffalo seem tough and chewy) or perico (no, not parrot as the name implies, but ...Read on]]>

This is one of those things I can definitely blame my mother on.  Why I never reached her long-limbed stature, had that glamorously sensual neck or movie star beauty are harder sells in the ‘it’s-all-your-fault’ department, but this, this is so very different.

It all started with my mom actually.  Come breakfast time, she’d sit amongst the tropical fireworks of bougainvillea that sprawled lazily in our back garden porch in Venezuela and eat imported toasted English muffins with imported cream cheese and imported jam.  She could have started her day with so many different delightful things bountiful in this South American culinary haven:  arepa con queso guayanes (grilled or deep fried cornmeal cakes hugging a buttery fresh white cheese that makes mozzarella di buffalo seem tough and chewy) or perico (no, not parrot as the name implies, but rather a kaleidoscope breakfast dish of creamy eggs, diced onions, tomatoes and green peppers slowly simmered together to make merit to its name). Those in a rush would simply grab a cachito de jamon- a freshly baked sweet bread stuffed with generous amounts ham glazed with pineapple and cloves or a bowl of tropical and sinfully sweet fruit that is as abundant there as the hookers on Avenida Libertador after ten p.m.

So you see, there is plenty to eat for breakfast in Venezuela.

But mom almost always chose her jam and that caught my eye.  She was a one-flavor gal: when she found something she liked, she tended to stick to it.  And so she seemed plenty content with her quiet jar of Trappist Raspberry Jam with its tiny image of a monk on the label elevating the whole thing to a very pious level.

I scoffed at this choice for most of my childhood, readily gobbling away all the Venezuelan tasty choices offered to me by our Colombian cook. But still, when I moved away from home and came to the States I’d be hit with the regular pangs of homesickness and find myself reaching for the same Trappist jam I’d keep in my refrigerator as a safety net. 

And then it all started: this obsessive, compulsive purchasing of jams.  Once I began, I couldn’t make myself finish.  What commenced as a one-jam-relationship (‘oh let me buy that Trappist stuff to remind me of mom’) turned into a wild and endless series of one-night stands with jams around the world:  licking off crystallized pieces of Chinese ginger from my British-bought jam is ethereal, slapping some Seville Sour Orange marmalade from Spain on thin slices of hearty pumpernickel renders delight.  Flirting with hot Pepper Jelly from my backyard of Miami feels dangerous, and the Belgium Organic Apricot is in hot competition with my French Confiture de Abricots (forever enchanting me with its secretly housed whole crunchy almonds). 

It’s a lover’s quarrel with my palate and my fridge, and what began as one tiny shelf of sweetness has turned into an invasion of the northwestern territory of my refrigerator.  New conquests occur every day and I simply can’t help myself:  wild Blueberry Peach Preserve from Stonewall Kitchen in Maine batted their tiny blues at me and stayed, traditional Persian-style preserves of Sour Cherry a left me puckering for more, and Brazilian Passion Fruit Jam afflicted me with a zing I can’t forget. 

I am shamelessly unfaithful to my jams, yet love each and every one of them the same and am constantly looking for any opportunity to pull them out of their respective fridge spot and parade them in my meals.  A breakfast of crêpes is the perfect venue for such celebrated infidelity.

Crêpes de Confiture: Infidelidad Desvergonzada

Esto es una de aquellas cosas de las que definitivamente puedo hecharle la culpa a mi madre. Por qué nunca alcancé su estatura larguirucha o tenía aquel cuello encantadoramente sensual o aquella belleza de estrella de cine son más difíciles de justificar como culpa de ella, pero esto, esto era definitivamente muy diferente.

Todo comenzó con mi mamá realmente. Ella se sentaría entre los fuegos artificiales tropicales de la buganvilla que se tumbaba perezosamente en nuestro jardín en Venezuela y alli comía los ‘English Muffins’ importados con queso crema importado e mermelada importada. Ella podría haber comido tantas cosas encantadoras que ofrece este asilo culinario sudamericano:  arepas con queso guayanes (torticas de harina de maíz fritas o asadas a la plancha con un trozo generoso de queso blanco fresco que hace la mozzarella di búfalo parecer resistente y correoso) o perico (no un loro como el nombre implica, pero mejor dicho un desayuno de huevos, cebolla, tomate y pimentones verdes  preparado a fuego lento para hacer el mérito a su nombre). Aquellos con prisa agarrarían simplemente un cachito de jamon-un pan dulce relleno con cantidades generosas del jamón cocido al horno, o simplemente una ensalada de frutas tropicales que son tan abundantes como las putas en la Avenida Libertador despues de las diez de la noche.

Entonces usted ve, hay qué comer para el desayuno en Venezuela.

Pero mamá siempre elegía su mermelada. Le gustaba su rutina y cuando encontraba algo que le gustaba, tendió a atenerse a ello. Y en este caso, lo que le gustaba era  el frazco de mermelada “Trappist” sabor a frambuesa con su imagen diminuta de un monje en la etiqueta que eleva todo el asunto a un nivel muy piadoso.

Yo me burlaba de su opción para la mayor parte de mi infancia, preferiendo ingerir todas las opciones sabrosas venezolanas ofrecidas a mí por nuestra cocinera colombiana. Aun asi, cuando me fuí de casa y vine a los Estados Unidos y me atacaba momentos de nostalgia yo me encontraría alcanzando para la misma mermelada que guardaría en mi refrigerador como una red de protección.

Y asi es como comenzó esta compra obsesiva de mermeladas. Una vez que comencé, yo no podía terminar. Lo que empezó como una relación solitaria de mermelada (‘ah dejame comprar aquella mermelada para recordarme a mamá’) se convertió en una serie salvaje e interminable de estancias de una sola noche con mermeladas internacionales: lamiaba pedazos cristalizados de jengíbre chino de mi mermelada británica, me sumergía en el sabor de la mermelada de Naranja Agria Española sobre rebanadas delgadas de pan negro. La Jalea de Pimienta Caliente de Miami se sientía peligrosa al tocar mis labios  y rogaba que regrasara para más, y la mermalada orgánica Bélgica de Albaricoque competía con mi Confiture de Abricots Francesa que guardaba su afrodiásico de almendras crujientes.

Asi peleaban mis dulces amantes con mi paladar y mi nevera. Las nuevas conquístas ocurrían cada día: mermelada de Blueberries Salvajes del monte de Maine, Jalea tradicional Persa de Cerezas Agrias, y la Mermelada de Parchita Brasileña representan esta pasión que desordena mi espacio.

Soy desvergonzadamente infiél a mis mermeladas, y aún así, las amo todas y siempre busco la oportunidad de sacarlas al público para disfrutarlas. Un desayuno de crêpes es la comida perfecta para tal infidelidad famosa.

I like listening to classical music to remember my father.  It was the one detail I had not divulged to anyone else.  In the years of bitterness, anger, and deception that had slowly built a calloused wall between us, I still had that stream of pureness that effortlessly floated out as notes from Beethoven, Mozart or Brahms (his favorite) were played.  I’d find myself sitting in the quiet intimacy of my car listening to the music playing loudly and softly thinking of Sunday mornings long ago when the air was thick with youth and carelessness as the bacon gently sizzled and life was good, safe and sweet.

Mom was alive and very beautiful, wrapped in her mocha-colored terry cloth robe, always an odd shade in my young mind, yet, soothing in the way it contrasted the gentle blush ...Read on]]>

I like listening to classical music to remember my father.  It was the one detail I had not divulged to anyone else.  In the years of bitterness, anger, and deception that had slowly built a calloused wall between us, I still had that stream of pureness that effortlessly floated out as notes from Beethoven, Mozart or Brahms (his favorite) were played.  I’d find myself sitting in the quiet intimacy of my car listening to the music playing loudly and softly thinking of Sunday mornings long ago when the air was thick with youth and carelessness as the bacon gently sizzled and life was good, safe and sweet.

Mom was alive and very beautiful, wrapped in her mocha-colored terry cloth robe, always an odd shade in my young mind, yet, soothing in the way it contrasted the gentle blush of her soft cheeks and opened center-stage to her unwavering blue eyes.  Every Sunday morning I’d find her faithfully by the stovetop, stirring her scrambled eggs with a withheld patience, quietly luring them to a creamy perfection never duplicated by anyone since.  Mom would turn towards me and smile as I approached her those mornings, a twinkle in her eye, the words that I knew would come from her comforted me long before they danced from her lips:

“Breakfast will be ready soon dear,” she’d say with a soft smile and I knew I was well and loved and safe.

Life with filled with a sleepy and thick layer of deliciousness.  In a daze I’d float through the wonderful smells of velvety eggs, followed by the apple tart smokiness of sweet cured bacon, sputtering shamelessly on the back burner.

This was all in perfect synchrony with the music that would be playing.  It would be whatever my father would have selected for that morning amongst his endless collection of classical albums, all stacked close together; the crumpled brown thin papers hugging the shinny vinyl and keeping it from harm.  There were hundreds of records and each Sunday my father would approach them with a studious wrinkle in his brow and decide what mood would begin our day.  Quietly and very carefully he’d pick one and gently caress it clean and place it on the turntable to come to life. 

As the needle’s scratchy touch awoke the symphony our lesson would begin.   Notes would rise and fall as my father pranced around the toasty kitchen all the while describing the music’s journey while wildly waving his arms about orchestrating his musical bliss.  My sisters and I (all under the age of ten) would pretend to be annoyed but in reality we listened to the music and watched him, enthralled at how our father would savor each note with such pure and uncomplicated bliss, just as we’d soon sit to our meal of equal delight.

“Breakfast will be ready in five minutes,” mom would promise and we’d all gather closer to an intimate table of her sour cream slow-cooked scrambled eggs, crispy bacon, hot croissants and freshly squeezed orange juice.  Some Sundays, when mom found she had more time, or energy, or both, she’d make cheddar dill biscuits and tuck them comfortably in an old wicker basket, which lay in the center of the table.  I remember breaking one warm biscuit in two and placing a perfect square of sweet butter on it.  It would slowly melt as I closed my eyes and bit down and there would be a moment where I’d be caught in that lovely circuit of love bound by music, butter and love.

These were our Sunday mornings, our very own moments of quiet and peace, laughter and love, family and food.  It was the one time where the outside world no longer mattered.  The air we breathed was clean and pure and all of father’s impending distractions would, for that instant, remain uninvited.  On those days our family was sealed from such harm.

We played and ran around in our pajamas as mom would work her culinary magic in her remaining five minutes.  The symphony rolled on full throttle as we watched our dad in amazement, not quite understanding the look of complete satisfaction that shone in his hazel eyes, eyes that had not yet begun to tire, but rather burned brightly with youth, hope and love.   As he’d wave his arms wildly in the air imitating the moves the conductor would make to bring this grandiose piece of music together, a chuckle would escape his happy face.  He’d quickly glance at us and realize that his tiny, rambunctious and free family was together for that instant, held close by the notes of love, food, and Brahms. He’d wave his imaginary baton in its final frenzy and declare with a bow, “Let’s eat!” breaking our trance and leading us all giggling and happy to the breakfast table. We were suspended between seconds of music, laughter and food: a perfect and forever ours, Sunday morning.

The other one may cough on your food when you aren’t looking. Dirty little fingers inevitably snag a bite of your chocolate cake (they never steal the broccoli). Whatever. Either way, one of these mugrats houses some sort of cold that is silently passed on to you. So that when you wake up three days later with your throat on fire, your eyes glazed and bloodshot and your head throbbing as if a chau gong where banging ceremoniously ...Read on]]> It starts inconspicuously enough, like, when your kid turns towards you and gives a whole-hearty, sloppy sneeze in your direction.
‘Okay, that was gross’, you may think to yourself, but, being that it is your kid (the one that inevitably has crapped, puked, and pissed on you at some point in your bonding) you most likely will think nothing of it.
And so you go on your way.

The other one may cough on your food when you aren’t looking.
Dirty little fingers inevitably snag a bite of your chocolate cake (they never steal the broccoli). Whatever.
Either way, one of these mugrats houses some sort of cold that is silently passed on to you.
So that when you wake up three days later with your throat on fire, your eyes glazed and bloodshot and your head throbbing as if a chau gong where banging ceremoniously in there declaring the arrival of your newfound illness, I can guarantee you, without a doubt, you can blame it on one of your children.
And you don’t even need proof.
When I was a kid, the world would actually stop if I was sick.
People would flock to my side to tend to me as I wallowed in self-pity, not too thrilled about feeling lousy, yet quietly basking in a utopian egocentricity.
It was a careful balance of perfection and lots of tissues. For eight hours, I became an only child bathed in excessive doting and not the forgotten last kid in a rung of three.
Meals where instantly cooked up and presented on pretty trays splashed with tropical flowers: perfectly soft-boiled eggs nestled in delicate porcelain eggcups, bowls of homemade chicken soup and freshly-squeezed orange juice arrived with me just thinking of them.
Each dish was hot and soothing and perfectly blended with love and salt and pepper.
Cars would honk in traffic in the distance and I would relish in the thought of harried children or workers, rushing to their varied responsibilities while I basked in the serene and almost naughty pleasure of sleeping at 10:00am on a weekday.
Of course there was always the nagging issue of make-up homework waiting in the dusty corner of my mind, but, for most of the day, I would park that nuisance in my unconsciousness and focus on the pleasures of being sick.
Today things are a bit different.
The world dare not stop when I am under the weather, it seems to only speed up.
With two young children to care for and a weekends-only spouse, balancing the tissues with self-pity only gets me behind.
I do get nostalgic for my past when Nyquil becomes my beverage of choice.
I can almost smell the chicken soup my beloved nanny, Yoli, tenderly simmered for me or the extra dose of warm hugs my mother would offer just to perk me up a bit, but I have piano and karate and tutors to get to, and if I don’t get going I will inevitably fall behind.
Still, a quick trip down memory lane is something I simply can’t pass on, especially if this one takes all of four minutes.
Tripping over laundry and discarded toys, I make my way to the kitchen for a quick, revitalizing soft-boiled egg.
It may not be served to me in a dainty eggcup as it was in my youth, but as I crack the top, douse it with coarse sea salt and fresh pepper and take that first nourishing, creamy bite, I am instantly transported to a moment made just for me filled with time, love, and the quiet pleasure of feeling sick for a day.