Sour Pickles

 

Momma had a small garden patch behind our cottage in the Catskills. Mostly, she was successful in growing potatoes and cucumbers. A large part of the cucumber crop ended up in huge vessels on the porch table. The cucumbers would be slowly fermented in a saltwater brine that was spiked with garlic, dill and pickling spices. The cucumbers would reach different stages from half sour to sour. These sour pickles were enjoyed all summer and were a must at every dinner meal for poppa. A successful sour pickle has a deeply sour flavor with a garlic and salty edge.  Like the swimming pickles, there were two glasses of water on the bathroom windowsill with momma and poppa’s false teeth swimming. The children always found this scene scary when they went to the bathroom at night.

At the end of the summer, the pickles were all devoured and the huge jars were retired to the basement storage. Back home, in the Bronx, poppa still needed his nightly sour pickle to accompany his dinner. So after school, momma took me to Jennings Street to get our Sabboth supply from Jake the sour pickle man. Jake was the tyrant of Jennings Street, but he was also famous for his great product. He had a long line of women that reached the end of the block. All waited patiently and nervously, with great trepidation, fearing Jake’s potential wrath. He had a famous temper and if he didn’t approve of you, you could be sent home, empty handed or with an empty glass jar. “Lady, you come here wearing a schmatta  (rag). Go home, no pickles for you!!” Anything could set him off. While he was a belligerent bully, he did have a soft spot for children. That must be the reason momma took me along . His wife worked alongside him and he must have a soft spot for her since her hands were bedecked with diamond rings that sparkled when they came out of the cold brine. Life was easier if the wife waited on you. With our jar filled and the price fair, momma was pleased. Poppa will also be pleased to have a bottle of seltzer,  potted meat, potatoes, gravy and of course Jake’s famous sour pickle.

Postscript: Our grandson Isaac loves sour pickles. His mom made him his pickle costume for Halloween . Vats of sour pickles were sent from Gus’s The Pickle Guys on New York City’s  Lower East Side to Boston for Isaac’s  Bar  Mitzvah. 

Ethyl Haber

February 2022

Culinary Events

 

Alas, I lost my sense of smell and taste April 2020. That is almost two years ago. I have tried every doctor I could think of for answers and got none.  I recently went to a Chinese herbal doctor and he gave me three types of herbal pills. A cinnamon concoction, a mushroom concoction and something else that I can’t read or understand.  

The herbal remedies work a little, occasionally I can smell something but the odor comes and goes in a moment. I rely on my memory and body reactions to enjoy eating.  

For example, I drink tea with milk and I can’t taste it but my body knows its caffeine. I eat brown rice and tofu and my blood sugar levels are steady, not like white rice what will spike my sugar levels. I am aware in my body if I need protein or water or veggies. I also have those unnecessary cravings for junk food.  

I can crave lasagna with creamy ricotta and gooey mozzarella and tangy tomato sauce. When it comes to eating this luscious meal, I cannot taste or smell anything. My belly thinks otherwise, she likes it and asks for more.  

Without the sense of smell and taste I feel like I am split in two. There is me who knows and craves normal food and me who can’t smell or taste it.  

There is new information coming out all the time about this condition. The most recent medical article I read from NYU Hospital about how this condition is caused by inflammation. I agree completely. I have chronic inflammation in my nose.  

Until there is a treatment or my senses are somehow miraculously restored, I will eat my food with my eyes, enjoy the texture on my tongue and pay attention to how my body is absorbing each glorious meal.

Georgia

The Ice Box Cake

 

Tanta Ida, my mother’s older sister did not like to cook. She did enjoy baking and was quite good at it. One of my favorites was her ice box cake.

The recipe was simple. Chocolate snaps, lady fingers, heavy whipping cream, powdered sugar and vanilla extract.  The lady fingers ere split open and placed face up at the bottom of a six inch pan, then covered with a layer of whipped cream and that with chocolate snaps. This was repeated until the pan was filled.  It was then placed into the ice box over night and served chilled the next day. As an adult I learned about baked  Alaska, but it was no match for Tanta Ida’s ice box cake.  

    After I married and had children, I sometimes made an ice box cake for them and they loved it. “Why was it called an ice box cake?” I was asked.  I explained that when we were young we did not have a  refrigerator. Instead, we had an icebox,  small rectangular wooden and metal lined cabinet with two latch doors. Once or twice a week Mr. Popkin the ice man came to our block with his horse and wagon. The wagon was filled with large blocks of ice covered with saw dust and a burlap cloth to prevent it from melting. Depending upon the size of your icebox or whether you could spare five cents for a small block or ten cents for a large one, Mr. Popkin lifted the ice onto his shoulder, carried it  into the kitchen and placed it into the  top chamber of the icebox. This was supposed to keep a small amount of perishables in the lower chamber cool for several days, but it was not very efficient. In the winter we  kept a small box on a window shelf facing the backyard where some foods could be kept cold.  Basically however shopping was required to be done on an almost daily basis to ensure it  was fresh. Sometimes depending on whether Mr. Popkin was in a good mood, he would chop off small pieces of ice and give  it to the young children who congregated around the wagon. It was better than candy. We had no money for candy, and the ice was free.

     “ Since we no longer have an ice box. but a  refrigerator, why not call it a refrigerator cake”, my children asked? “ I replied, “ Because, then it would not be Tanta Ida’s ice box cake.”

Ben Haber

The Long Walk

 

It is interesting to watch how some sentient beings walk. I took my usual stroll to the grocery store and passed by the European bakery with heavy chocolate ganache frosting on yellow cake and a purple coffee machine that dispenses cheap coffee. I can see through the window the lady who takes orders and parades like in protest back and forth between the jam filled cookies and unsliced rye bread. 

Passing the local park there are tons of children playing. There are 3 children wearing tee shirts and jeans pretending to march and pace and shuffle like army soldiers. Toddlers abound crawling and toddle and edge towards the grey pigeons. Lucky for the pigeons they can amble quicker than the toddlers. 

The winter trees are trying so hard to grow their spring leaves but the branches hobble and stagger and sway in the still biting winter wind.  

An unexpected man with a white coat, orange pants and a green hat stumbles and staggers to a bench to sober up. 

A black cat sashays in a confident way making sure she is seen so she can be fed by local animal lovers. I think she has kittens.  

In my distraction I tripped over and almost fell. I hopped and lunged and scrambled and looked like a waddling duck to regain my balance. Hoping no one would notice.  

It’s a long trek to the grocery store, I try not to rush or skip the aisle of bread and milk and cookies. The veggie carts are holding purple grapes, red apples, and lettuce of six varieties, orange carrots, yellow potatoes, green parsley and white turnips.  

It’s a sprint to the meat case and I have to sneak and creep past ancient women inspecting the ground beef.  

I had to stop wandering around looking at every sale item because I had to pace my walk back home.  

A lady tried to cut me on the exit line, but I loped in front of her regaining my position on the line.  

As soon as I checked out, I rushed home because I didn’t expect to do so much sightseeing time on this trip. I walked with short quick steps and advanced quickly to get home.  

Finally, I dashed up the stairs with my heavy bags of groceries and plodded to the stove to start cooking.  

After cooking and eating and cleaning up I tiptoe to my favorite chair and relax in front of the TV to watch the local walking five-mile marathon. 

Georgia

2.2022 

Someone I May Have Met

 

On one of my early rides to Montauk Point with my old friend Vinny, I probably met someone famous, but chose not to ask his identity as it was not offered. We had packed our bags that morning and after attempting to sleep through the day, while fighting our internal clocks, we arose and ate a hearty meal to fuel the trek before us.

 Leaving at ten o’clock p.m. we headed out into the night. As it was late Summer, the sun had set a little over an hour before. The roads were quiet as we headed south down Woodhaven Boulevard bearing left onto Rockaway Boulevard and down to South Conduit East which hugged the Belt Parkway. This highway would eventually change into Sunrise Highway at the Nassau County border. Avoiding potholes, we rolled through the battered streets of the poor neighborhood. Groups of people sat on their stoops and leaned against parked cars. Caribbean music played as men played along on bongos and kettle drums while the smell of exotic tropical foods intoxicated the hot summer air with a wonderful bouquet from various islands. Stores advertised live chickens and goats for slaughter as we had been miraculously transported to a tropical island somewhere in the Caribbean Sea. A few people waved at the white boys traveling through the neighborhood at this unlikely hour. No one bothered us.

 The night rolled along as urban streets eventually gave way to rural roadways without potholes and our pace quickened. As the first light of dawn began to peek over the horizon and the energy from our previous meal was almost spent, we pedaled along in search of a diner or delicatessen. My gas tank was almost on E at this point, and I hadn’t looked at the map in a while but from occasional road signs I determined that we were somewhere in the Hamptons. Finally, a General Store came rolling by and we stopped for a break. The store smelled wonderful to two hungry teenagers like the fragrance department in Macy’s on 34^th Street to a woman being treated to the latest fragrances by attendants as she walked down the main aisle in the cosmetics department. Eggs, bacon, cheese and toast seduced us as thick, nutty brown Colombian coffee bubbled in the pot. Sirens could not have been more alluring as we were drawn to the shoals of the counter happily turning out our pockets for this much deserved feast. There must have been an orange grove behind the store as the orange juice tasted fresh squeezed! We happily disposed of overlooked pits, into our provided napkins.

As we sat on the steps of the General Store enjoying our breakfast a large black, shiny Rolls Royce pulled into the parking lot stopping a few feet away from us. A chauffeur got out of the driver’s seat in a trim blue suit and cap and proceeded to open the door behind him to let out a small man dressed in a suit and overcoat, sporting a Fedora with a wide band around the base. His skin had a white, pasty pallor and he wore dark black sunglasses which revealed little of the face beneath. His overcoat seemed too heavy for the time of year.

“Good morning, gentlemen,” he said with a southern drawl intertwined in a lisp.

“Good morning,” we responded in unison.

“You picked a nice day for a bike ride, how far have you come?” He queried.

“We left Queens at ten p.m. last night to take advantage of the cooler temperatures and quiet roads devoid of maniac drivers. We are heading for the Montauk Lighthouse,” I told him.

“Very impressive,” he said!

Vinny and I looked at each other and Vinny said under his breath,” Do you know who that is?”

“I think so,” I whispered.

Truman Capote did have a place out here in the Hamptons during that time and this man certainly fit his description to a tee. I had seen him on The Tonight Show with Johnny Carson. There was something about the thick sunglasses and tinted windows on the limousine which told me not to ask his identity. I was curious though as my father had just finished reading In Cold Blood and told me that it was very well written. I left the subject alone.

The chauffeur came out of the store now handing his purchase to our new acquaintance. He opened the rear door again and the man got in. The chauffeur closed the door and with a thin smile tipped his hat to us and got back behind the wheel. The rear electric window rolled down now, and the mystery man said,” Godspeed on your ride and be safe!”

“Goodbye and Thank You,” we responded.

The car pulled out of the lot and disappeared down the road bringing the man back to his secluded abode. 

“Was that Truman Capote?” Vinny asked.

“I am pretty sure it was, but something told me not to ask. He comes here to be left alone with his thoughts and write; you have to respect that,” I said.

We agreed that this had been the best course of action as we pedaled on to the famous beacon at Montauk.

 

Jim

Feb 2022

Eric Satie

 

Here I am in one of the many cafés where Eric Satie plays his trance like music. Let’s see if I can get his attention. 

I cough loudly and raise my hand waving to get this master musicians attention. 

“Mr. Satie, Mr. Satie, can I have a few words with you?” trying not to shout. 

Mr. Satie swings around on the piano bench, lowers his glasses and smiles.  

He gets up from the piano and heads in my direction. I am almost speechless. 

I am star struck and Mr. Satie knows it, I am sure he has seen this look in many of his fans. Graciously he sits down and kisses my hand. So romantic, so gallant.  

“Mr. Satie” I say, and he interrupts “Please call me Eric.” 

“Eric thanks for sitting at my table. I so admire your courage to create your own music in your own style and in your own time. How did you do it, how did you keep from buckling under peer pressure and the expectations of society to fit in with everyone else?” 

Eric gives a belly laugh “It was quite easy for me; I just knew in my bones and intuition that the only route for me was my art. Nothing else mattered; I just kept going and handled any obstacle that came up. Peer pressure became nonexistent and a large part of society was accepting of my music. Those were just two of the markers that kept me going.” 

“So simple and wonderful advice, I needed to hear this.” I said. Eric looked at me and muttered something about being glad to help and rushed away because he had to begin a new concert.  

I listened to his three gymnopedies and was swept away; his work is minimalist and abstract at the same time, serene and notes drifting in the air moment to moment. 

I relaxed my mind and reentered the atmosphere of the café. Feeling renewed ever so gently I exited the café and walked down the rain-soaked cobblestone back to my home with the advice of Eric Satie: stay close and true to your art, this is all that matters. 

Georgia P

FAMOUS

 

I get very excited when I meet a famous person. Maybe I think their aura will rub off on me. “Attention, attention!! The Pope will be appearing shortly,” the announcer blared. We were in the Vatican courtyard. What a blessing! He sure is famous and I sure am excited. What ecstatic joy. “Ben, look, look that man standing on the corner of 5th Avenue is famous. I recognize him, but I’m not sure where I know him from.” Ben is looking at me as a pathetic groupie,” Ethyl, he just waited on us in Saks men’s department store.” No; he’s not famous.

But you know who is famous; my husband, he’s famous. I married this plain young man from Middle Village, Queens over 65 years ago, and who would imagine, he would become famous? He might be considered famous for staying married to me, but no, he has greater fame even though he is no dignitary or celebrity.

I think that if there is a picture and a chapter in a best seller nonfiction book about you, one can say you’re famous. City For Sale by Jack Neufield and Wayne Barrett came into the bookstores during the Koch administration. He and Mannes had much reckoning to do about all the unsavory events going on in NYC.  Among these events, Mannes was pushing the development of a Grand Prix racetrack in Flushing Meadows Corona Park. Ben was the head of the committee to stop the building of the track in a city park. “Parks Are for People” was one of the slogans. His role is described in the book. Wayne Barrett inscribed Ben’s copy with, “You’re a citizen crusader.” Neufield writes, "You’re the first Donny buster.” (referring to Donald Mannes). Ben continues to be a park activist and fought a losing battle to stop the building of the tennis stadium in Flushing Meadows Corona Park, an aesthetic eyesore to anyone who loves a verdant green park.

In more recent years, Ben’s fame took a whole other direction. He got very involved in adult education classes in sculpture. Ben began sculpting pieces he called Meditation. A number of these have found a home in the window of an exquisite eyeglass store called Occhiali on Lexington Avenue. People have purchased them during the 10 years the store has chosen to keep them as their window decoration and they are replaced with others.  His most successful work, however, is a Holocaust bar relief he calls MISHPOCHEH. He successfully made five copies and his fame follows him in each venue. They are on exhibit at: The Holocaust Memorial Center in Glen Cove, N.Y., the Kupferberg Holocaust Center at Queensborough Community College, The Holocaust Resource Center of Temple Judea (Manhasset, Long Island), Temple Hillel B’inai Torah in Boston, Ma. and Kew Gardens Hills Synagogue in Queens, N.Y. The sculpture in Temple Judea was just installed this past December. Over fifty friends and relatives attended the unveiling of the piece and the press honored the event with an effusive article. Ben, at his age of 94 is honored to be honored by the presence of his work on the walls of this emotionally wrenching structure. 

To summarize, the famous man I married has other attributes as well:

1.Sculptor

2.Cabinet builder

3. Writer

4.Gardner

5. Park Activist

6. Jewelry Box builder

7. Mensch (look it up)

Ethyl Haber

February 2022