I have a vivid memory of my parents entertaining friends on Christmas
Eve in 1982. My mother threw all of her Protestant tradition out the
kitchen window and ordered Zingerman’s pastrami on rye sandwiches with giant garlic
pickles. I was enthralled by this rebellion at age six, although I had no
understanding of what pastrami was. I just knew it was special.
The ingenious ingredients and thoughtful, bountiful preparation is half of the magic pf the pastrami sandwich. The other half is the Zingerman's magic, the palpable feeling of community provided by the owners, Paul Saginaw and Ari Weinzweig, who instill in all of their endeavors a familial rhapsody. (I have dined at the Roadhouse and had Ari come to the table to fill up my water glass more than a few times…enough said). In a town high on intellect, Zingerman’s employment is looked upon as social cache (or junior college).
Since I photograph at least 50% of what I cook and bake, just in
case I might someday wish to write about it and preserve an ephemeral
cupcake or casserole for posterity, my camera is always where I can
easily find it. Today, however, my camera was at a Minor League
baseball game with Sam, after a prolonged series of
“pleaspleasepleasei’llbe caaaaaaaaareful!” attacks wore me out. It
didn’t occur to me until after we had eaten what I considered to be an
interesting lunch that I could have photographed it using my phone – I
just scrapped the whole project when I remembered that my camera was on
walkabout among a herd of sugar-addled sixth graders.
