Stories

There’s not really anything to do with noodle kugel – put it back in the oven and heat it up. There’s not really anything to do with Katherine’s Mother’s carrot ring either (which is more like carrot cake) and which we ate too much of, except wrap it in tinfoil and put it in the oven and heat it up, too.

Brisket, however, is a whole other story. Brisket hash for Sunday brunch with poached eggs on it. BBQ Brisket sandwiches. BBQ Brisket tacos (just go with this, they’re really great!)

BBQ Brisket Sandwiches

So easy. Sauté a little sliced green pepper in olive oil. Slice and shred brisket. Add shredded brisket and heat for a minute or so. Throw in a half a cup of bbq sauce and simmer or more if it seems too dry. If you’re feeling really brave, throw in some sliced jalapenos. Lightly toast a hamburger bun and spoon bbq brisket onto bun, put on top bun, and slice in half, cause it’s kind of messy!

I’m a middle-aged step-dad with a bad back. I’m unable to jog. But I have a better shot at qualifying for the one-hundred-yard dash in the next summer Olympics than I have at getting my thirteen-year-old to voluntarily eat a vegetable. Any vegetable. And the same can be said for fruit. “I hate them,” he insists, decrying, at one fell swoop, all means of natural nutrition. “Hate is a strong word, pal,” I tell him, trying to lend some perspective to this same conversation we repeat night in and night out. But if this isn’t hate, I think to myself, what is it? The smell of broccoli makes him nauseas. The sight of a mushroom incapacitates him with fear; one found its way on to his dinner plate a couple of weeks ago and he yelled out, panicked “Get it off of there!” as if it were some alien species about to attack him.

Complicating his life, not to mention mine, is his mother, who insists he eat, at the very least, one serving of a vegetable at dinner. After negotiations rivaling the Geneva Talks in intensity, we have agreed to let him eat the vegetable of his choosing – peas, peas, and occasionally some peas – at the very end of his meal, and on a separate plate – his vegetable plate. This is the only way he’ll consider, in his words, “giving it an honest attempt.”

There is a basic tenet in Buddhism that the only reality is what is happening now. The past exists only in our heads, muddled by our own unavoidable perspectives and biases, and the future may or may not come to pass. If a piano falls on you in three seconds, it’s best not to have spent that time separated from the sights, sounds and emotions of the moment.

I find this a helpful construct for many reasons; I tend to be a ruminator and a worrier, frequently leaving the moist, fragrant air of a summer second to regret the actions of a remote January morning, or to fret over what might happen as the air grows crisp and the leaves turn from green to red. I wonder, though, if it is wrong to remember places I loved, that are forever lost to me, and that live on only in my memory and the collective memories of those who actually experienced them. It’s a moot point, really, because I can’t seem to stop myself, and it doesn’t seem to do me any significant harm to remember. This happens, particularly, when I think about my grandmothers’ houses, places that still exist, but which are empty of the people, the atmosphere and any other context that gave them meaning for me.