Food, Family and Memory

My husband Mike passed away suddenly two years ago. A “catastrophic coronary event,” I remember hearing before the doctor launched into the “We did everything we could” speech. I sat motionless in the Naugahyde chair in that dimly lit room they usher people into to tell them such things.

My husband Mike could put the caption on the cartoon we call life. I can still be felled by a wave of sadness when the world calls out for his wit, but it usually passes as the business of life encroaches and forces the sadness aside. If I’ve learned anything, it’s that grief is not a linear process or a series of predictable steps. It comes and it goes, lingers or dusts by. It can overpower or gently remind. Now you see it; now you don’t.

The second year into loss, the cycles of grief had given way to the flat, dark monotony of depression. Since action is my default response, I checked out inspirational websites for those contemplating putting themselves out of their own misery, and I downloaded into my iPhone Kindle any number of self-help books about depression and the powers of positive thinking, and I answered every “Are you suffering from...” and “On a scale of 1-10...” quiz that the books offered.

Before there was IHOP, there was Gwynn’s. 

When I was a kid in suburban Teaneck, New Jersey, it was always a treat to go for Sunday brunch with my family at Gwynn’s on Teaneck Road.  Gwynn’s seemed swanky and grown-up to me.  Outside, it was painted white brick, and inside it was cool and darkish, with comfy booths.  My mother would order her coffee, and the cream came in tiny, glass pitchers with little round cardboard pull-tabs on top.  She only used a drop and then gave me the supreme pleasure of letting me drink the rest of the cream from its miniature jar.  Sometimes, if she had a second cup, I got another taste of the thick, heavenly liquid that would contribute to the need for Lipitor years later.  Compared to my very picky little sister, who ate only cream cheese and jelly, I was “a good eater” with a passion for pancakes, waffles and French toast.

Last week, I had the extreme pleasure of cooking with my Great-est niece and nephew, Lauren and Max. The question of what to make was easy, it had to be simple and memorable. My goal was for them to remember what we created together forever like my memories of cooking with my mother. Forever means to me that they will think of our afternoon when they eat any of the three things we made: butter, strawberry jam and cinnamon bread. Everyday food, so basic but rarely handmade anymore and if you want to interest kids in cooking you need to show them ‘food magic.’

We first started with activating or blooming the yeast- Not so interesting to them at first until I explained that yeast is a plant and like all plants it blooms in it’s own way. I didn’t have their attention yet, but I knew I would shortly. The yeast started to bubble and swell minutes after it came in contact with the sweetened warm water. They were watching-ish. I explained the process of bread making and my basic formula. How was I to explain gluten development to a 3 year old and 6 year old well enough for them to understand, much less care? I could hear the mantra repeatedly in my mind- DON’T TELL THEM, SHOW THEM. So, I did.

We added the liquid including the yeast to the flour/oats mixture and those small hands dove in without any prompting. I explained how cooking is visual and how important it was to watch minute by minute because magic happens instantly. As soon as I said that ‘fingers’ of dough started to form in bowl as they massage with their small hands. The gluten was forming, the magic was happening! Once the dough pulled away from the bowl, I dumped it out onto the floured granite counter-then the messy fun began.

I went to bat for my friend Tracy. She wanted the starring role in a movie my dad was producing, but it was really his friend Bob who was the money guy and director. If it were just my dad, it would have been a slam-dunk. So, I went to work on Bob. I pitched him for months, relentlessly. That’s me when I want or need to be – a dog with a bone. “Have you seen Tracy in Christopher Guest’s new movie?” I asked. “She’s brilliant.” Or: “Check out her credits, you’d be lucky to get her.” And: “Bob, let her audition, you won’t be sorry.” Finally, when I had exhausted all other angles, I went for the Boys Club Secret Society as a last try: “Your lead actor has always wanted to fuck her.” Yep, that did it. The part was hers.

We went to Texas and my best friend Tracy had the lead as the girlfriend. And I had one scene, one great scene, as the angry-crazy-ex-wife. (It would be another year before I’d play the role in real life.) And except for the hurricane threatening to shake things up and me freezing my ass off the day I was shooting, it was great fun to be on location with my dad and my close friend. I spent most of my downtime hunting for Galveston’s best fried chicken.

That was the late 80’s. Sometime in the mid-90’s, Tracy called to say she was hired to do some reenactments for the Leeza Gibbons Show and would I like to join her, they need another actress. Me, panicking: “Is that in front of a live audience?”