Lessons from My Mother

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Lessons from My Mother

 

My mother told me, Stay with your own kind.

We Jews think alike; we’re all of one mind.

But those limitations I could not abide.

I had my own values; I had my pride.

 

So among the many choices of Jews in town,

a Catholic and Protestant is what I found

to be my best friends forever and ever.

They were smart, loyal, extremely clever.

 

The girls were not snobs and put on no airs

unlike Jewish princesses with teased hair.

They cared not for status in the right crowd.

Though Mother pressured me I would not be cowed.

 

Birds of a feather flock together, she’d state.

Without Jewish friends you don’t have the bait

to find a Jewish husband which you must do

and keep our lineage pure and true.

 

But Mother, I said, I’m only thirteen.

It doesn’t matter now with whom I am seen.

Then she got perfectly serious and blunt:

You’re never too young to be on the hunt.

 

A doctor, a lawyer, an Indian chief,

as long as he’s Jewish; now don’t give me grief.

But grief was hers with pain and many tears

while I dated Irishmen for twenty years.

 

You never listen, my mother told me,

Poor and Christian is what you’ll turn out to be.

But when I heard my biological clock tick

I turned to a Jewish service to have a pick.

 

I found me a man good, kind and true

and together a baby boy we grew

with lineage that goes back to Moses.

Thus my history with Gentile guys closes.

 

Meeting Madeleine

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My journey to meet Madeleine began with a phone call. I was in the midst of cleaning out my late mother’s kitchen, standing in front of her pantry looking at boxes and cans dating back to the 20th century, when my son-in-law reached me on my cell phone. “I guess you know why I’m calling,” he said. “Caitlin and I are at the hospital. She’s in labor and doing really well.” I glanced at the clock—late morning California time, afternoon in Rhode Island where they lived.

 I said, “So you’ll call me when—” and we both laughed.

“Of course,” he said.

I called my husband at work and gave him the news: “Hey, Gramps,” I said. “Game on!” I got back to my task, accelerating my efforts so I could go home and wait for another phone call.

No one ever forgets what it’s like to be expecting that first baby: a complicated months-long dance that twirls between excitement and fear. My husband and I were so young and unprepared for what was to come, not like my daughter who is a well-trained nurse with lots of experience with labor and delivery. Even so, I told her, when it’s your time, all bets are off. Each birth is different.

“I know,” she’d replied. But you don’t really know until you find yourself living out the events you have been obsessed with for so many months. Everything planned, nothing predictable.

A million scenarios go through your mind as you try to visualize your own labor. Most of these scenarios will be pleasant ones: you will fill the air with your careful selections of birthing music— some instrumentals or the sound track from that movie you both love, but nothing with drum solos— that’s a deal-breaker. You will have a focused, prepared, supportive and minty-breathed partner/coach at your elbow who reminds you to breathe with your contractions and who will not think even once about grabbing the remote to “just check the score.”

Softly murmuring nurses will offer soothing hands and calming words; they rub your back and place a cool cloth on your brow. You are strong and brave, and your hair is clean. You have a little lipstick on, maybe. Waterproof mascara for sure. You do not sweat or swear or scream. You exude grace and confidence. Everyone around you will comment on how graceful and confident you are, and isn’t it lucky that you don’t have stretch marks anywhere. And then you will begin to push that baby out. One or two, maybe three good pushes, and the baby will be born and sunlight will fill the room, and you will hear joyous birdsong like in an old Disney movie, and the doctor will put a hand on your shoulder, smile and say, “Congratulations! It’s a perfect…whatever,” and you will smile back and reach for the beautiful, clean, round-headed, sweet-smelling baby who will fit in your arms  perfectly. You will put the baby to your breast and a maternal flood of emotions will fill you to the bursting point. You may shed a happy tear or two and your mascara will not run. Transcendent and glowing, you will fall back on your pillow in a state of contentment, or…or… pure bliss! Yes. Someone should paint this portrait right now, for the ages.

But then, of course, there is the reality…

I woke with a start from a deep sleep and a dream about babies. The phone was ringing, just after midnight. Oh my god, oh my god. The brand new father was calling: their baby had arrived healthy and pink. Seven pounds, two ounces.

I was so sure this baby was going to be a boy that I started to ask what his name was, when my son-in-law said, “And it’s a girl! Her name is Madeleine Olivia.”  I reached for a pen and scribbled the name on a piece of paper. A girl?  A little girl—born to my grown-up little girl, the child of my heart, now with one of her own.

I nudged my sleeping husband. “Wake up,” I said.  “It’s a girl!”

 The next night I would get on the red-eye to Boston, willing the airplane to fly faster. I would race off the plane to baggage claim, rush to grab my suitcase, and hop on the Silver Line bus to South Station so I could catch the 8:30 train to Providence. I would check into the Radisson near the river, brush my teeth and rake a comb through my hair, take a cab to Women and Infants Hospital, pick up a bouquet of tiny pink roses in the gift shop and let the woman behind the counter know, with a catch in my throat, that they were for my granddaughter.  At last, I would walk into room 5120 and hug my tired daughter.

And there, in her lap, swaddled in pink—a sleeping baby. “Hello, Madeleine,” I whispered. “I came a long way to meet you.”

Stars

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We ate ethereal soufflés and listened to the pianist sample the Great American Songbook till closing.
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Alice’s Restaurant

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In 1971, I was living in Berkeley, California. I attended classes on campus and also worked there as I put myself through school at UC Berkeley. I lived in a house with three roommates, a large tank of tropical fish, my two cats, and an Old English sheepdog.

My boyfriend spent his freshman year away, but had then transferred to Cal. Most days we went to class and/or to work, and had the occasional weekend date night. Or, we would throw dinner parties for our friends because we enjoyed cooking together–something we started doing once we’d become an “official” couple in our senior year of high school.

We heard about a new restaurant just up the street from my house on Shattuck Avenue. Word got around that it was pretty good. We decided to give it a try. The place had a fancy French name, Chez Panisse, but looked like just another brown shingle arts-and-crafts-style Berkeley house. Although we didn’t know much about the restaurant, other than it sounded French, we’d heard some things about Alice Waters, the co-founder and chef.

For our big evening out, I wore one of my favorite Gunny Sax dresses. The dress was, coincidentally, Alice blue, with long ecru lace sleeves and a bit more lace on the bodice. With my long, flowing dress–and my boyfriend’s long, flowing hair–we fit right in with the hippie ambience of the place. None of the flatware matched, nor did the plates or glasses. This was a restaurant that obviously cared about the food and its preparation, but didn’t get hung up about stuff like matching china. In fact, it reminded me of cooking at my place, where we certainly didn’t have enough of any one thing to set a table for eight.

How I wish I could remember the meal we were served! But I know we enjoyed the dinner–even without the wine we were too young to order. We felt as though we were part of something new and innovative; Chez Panisse, for all its French culinary influences, was nothing like the pretentious old- school fancy places we’d gone to with our parents on special occasions.

After dinner, we were presented with the check–and there was an awkward moment while my boyfriend counted the cash in his wallet. We were also too young (and were on shoestring student budgets anyway) to have credit cards, so it came down to paying the bill and not having enough left to leave a respectable tip. We slipped out, a little embarrassed. He swore he would return the next day with tip money. Which he did. His parents raised him right.

In the intervening decades, Chez Panisse gained a world-wide reputation for its locally sourced food, its innovative menus, and the notion of California cuisine– which resulted in celebrity status for Alice. The restaurant also proved to be a training ground for generations of talented chefs who started out at the bottom of the ladder, worked their way up, and then moved on to their own careers in the restaurant or food business. Chez Panisse and Alice Waters as its executive chef were pioneers in using ingredients that were locally, organically, and sustainably grown. The restaurant is in the heart of what became known as the “Gourmet Ghetto” in Berkeley.

We’ve been back to the restaurant (and to the cafe added to the upstairs later on), many times–often to mark a special birthday or anniversary. Now, of course, reservations are harder to come by than they were in the early days. Alice has had to build and rebuild after a couple of fires caused a great deal of damage to the structure. Most recently, she was able to track down one of the original guys who worked on the restaurant in the ’70s for the necessary renovations and repairs.

A couple of years ago, I spotted Alice Waters in Telluride, Colorado at the Telluride Film Festival–which also has roots in Berkeley. As we walked along the same path, I said hello and that I wanted to share a story about my first dinner at Chez Panisse, which would have to include the unfortunate financial debacle that followed. When I got to the part about leaving without tipping our server, she raised an eyebrow. “But he went back the next day and took care of it,” I said. “And are you still with this guy?” she asked. I said yes, and that we had just celebrated our 43rd anniversary. “Come back on your 45th,” she said with a smile, “and make it special.”

That anniversary is coming up in September. I may try to find something long and flowing to wear, and maybe my husband can grow out his hair by then for old times’ sake. No matter what, if we go back to Chez Panisse, it will be special.

 

Scenes from an Italian Restaurant

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Billy Joel probably never ate at the Italian restaurant my family favored when I was young, since he grew up in New York, not New Jersey, but he must have had a similar place in mind when he wrote the song “Scenes from an Italian Restaurant.” Don’s 21 was located on McCarter Highway in Newark, which was also known as Route 21, and I assume that’s where the “21” in the name came from. The featured photo is of Al Martino, a popular Italian singer of the ’50s and ’60s, performing at Don’s. The picture, which I found online, was taken in 1979, after my family had left the Newark area, and when Al’s career was on a downward trajectory**, but it gives a sense of what Don’s looked like, with the white tablecloths, low ceilings, and tables crowded close together.

The food there was good, but what I remember most was the clientele. Everyone was Italian, and they were always dressed up, the men in suits and ties, the women in dresses and high heels. Flashy jewelry on both women and men. The men generally sported diamond pinky rings. That fascinated me, since the men I encountered in my daily life generally didn’t wear any jewelry at all, and certainly not diamond pinky rings. Almost all the cars in the parking lot were big black Cadillacs. (We had a Cadillac too, but it wasn’t black, it was pale green. later replaced by a white Chrysler Imperial.) These guys were Mafiosi, there was no doubt in my mind. We eavesdropped shamelessly on their conversations — my mother was known to say “shush” if one of us started to talk when the neighboring table was saying something interesting. We never heard any Mafia hits being planned, but I’m sure it happened there.

Before we started going to Don’s 21, my family had two favorite eateries that we patronized, the Claremont Diner in Verona, New Jersey, and the Arlington Diner in North Arlington. The Claremont Diner has been beautifully described by Marian in Hot turkey sandwiches at the Claremont Diner. While I vividly remember going there, the only food memory I have is of their incredible cheesecake. It was the best anywhere around, so creamy and delicious. I’m sure my parents made us eat “sensible” food before we got the cheesecake, but what that might have been, I can no longer recall.

The Arlington Diner is still in existence, I discovered by googling it, so I will have to make a trip there if I ever go back to New Jersey. It was there that I discovered the delights of veal parmigiana, and then later fried oysters. Thinking of both of those dishes makes my mouth water even now. My middle sister loved the shrimp cocktail appetizer, so my parents actually let her order two shrimp cocktails and no entree, which was unusual for those times. The waitresses, who were all middle-aged, wore hairnets, and called everybody “Hon,” didn’t know what to make of her lack of an entree the first few times she gave that order.

We knew the importance of not ordering more than we could eat. Since there was no concept of a “doggy bag” yet, anything you didn’t eat got thrown away, and my father would get furious if we didn’t finish our meals. “Looks like your eyes were bigger than your stomach,” was the worst possible condemnation.

In my adult life, there have been two restaurant experiences that stand out, although in neither case can I remember any specifics of what I ate. The first was at Lutèce in New York, an icon on East 50th Street from its opening in 1961 until it closed in 2004. It was proclaimed the best restaurant in the US by Julia Child and other food critics for many years. My oldest sister and I took my parents there for a milestone anniversary, 30th or 35th, so it must have been either 1973 or 1978. We ordered the food ahead of time so that our parents would not have a chance to look at the menu, because we knew they would be horrified by the prices. I remember thinking at the time that it was the best food I had ever eaten in my life. I think the bill for four people came to $150.00. That doesn’t seem like much for an elegant dinner now, but according to the inflation calculator I consulted, this would be about $800 in 2018 dollars. It was worth every penny though, because my parents were so delighted.

The second experience was The French Laundry in Yountville on my 50th birthday. I actually saved the menu from that meal, and if I were more organized I could post it here. If I find it, I will add it to the story. Eight of us enjoyed this fabulous dinner, which was paid for by my beloved mother, who was more relaxed about spending money by then. This meal has made an appearance in two other stories of mine, They Say It’s Your Birthday and The End of the World.

All of these establishments, the lowly diners as well as the Michelin extravagances, were one-of-a-kind places. There is no way you can get the same kind of quality dining experience from a chain restaurant, and yet nowadays that is what they mostly seem to be.

**Al’s career got a small boost in 1972, when he played the role of singer Johnny Fontane in The Godfather. Johnny is most memorable for being the reason that the horse’s head winds up in somebody’s bed.