What’s been happening, part 2

Too long a time…once again. Now, in retrospect, (that 20/20 hindsight always gets you) I realize what was going on. I was mouring my father before he actually left our earthly domain. After my mom’s passing (unsure what to think about that term), he was never the same. He really did not have the will to live, though he never said anything to us — his 3 children. It seems, however, that he did speak to one of the women who stayed with him when things got really bad at the end. He died on May 11th — 2 years, 4 months, and not quite 11 days after his wife of 50 years died. I know now that that those winter months were about watching him slip away. Sometimes you mourn people before they die. I certainly did.

My sister Carla and brother William (aka: “the fifth” after my dad) gave our father a fitting and sweet send-off. Quite by chance (or was it?) the priest at St. Anne’s in Hoboken was one of the chaplains for my father’s all-important  football team – The NY Giants. Our father was known to say, “The secret to a good marriage is leaving me alone during Giants season.” Father Vinny gave an incredible homily. It was so very appropriate and indicative of WCW — William Charles Weinpahl IV. Father Raymond, an original  member of  the Young Friends (a group of  Brooklyn friends)  joined Father Vinny in serving Mass. It was beautiful.

The best part of the Mass for me was hearing my daughter Victoria sing Amazing Grace, Ave Maria, and Ode to Joy — Beethoven was WCW’s penultimate favorite. He was know to say, “There are two kinds of music — German music and bad music.” I was so proud of her — of her ability to sing those beautiful songs, of her courage to perform in front everyone on such a sad occassion, of her dedication to practicing 3 songs that she had never sung.

Raise your glass and sing out loud to celebrate the life of a very, very, really great man, who was in no uncertain terms the best father in the world.

What’s been happening?

Wow, I’ve been away for awhile. In the world that is social marketing that’s not good. I have an excuse, er, I mean reason. I hate the winter. I’ve never liked the winter, cold weather, or snow. And I do nothing during the winter. I really mean nothing. The meals that I cook are marginal. It’s difficult to prepare great meals if you have have no food in the house because you haven’t gone out shopping. I don’t even shop for shoes. If your know my genetic heritage, you know that this is a big deal. I cannot count how many parking tickets I get because I just can’t remember to move the car. It’s too cold to go outside. Keeping in touch with friends. Forget it. One spring, a friend saw me one the bus and thought I had moved! And, worst of all, I do not even write my all important to do list. That’s really bad. Without the list, I do, well, nothing. So earlier this week when it was warmer and sunny, I wrote a to do list. And I did something else. Something that I rarely do. I prioritized the list. And in a way that makes sense, not in a what-I-want-to-do way. So #1 on the list is something that I’ve been dreading doing and so are numbers 2 through 10. The stuff that I like to do is way at the end of the list. To catch up, I must treat myself like a child. When you clean your room, you may go out to play. When you finish your homework, you may watch television. It’s like one of those diagrams. You know, the ones where if you answer “yes,” you do one thing and if you answer “no,” you do something completely different. So I have to finish items 1 through, like, 25 before I can get a pedicure. That should put me right at mid-April. Wow, I just realized that I may go to Miami at the end of March. That’s a problem. Either I have to get seriously crackin’ or I need to keep my shoes on.

Reading

I went to the Amazon website to check out — look at, not buy — a book. It gives me the option to have an excerpt sent to a Kindle. I actually have a Kindle, but have never considered reading a book on it. It’s relatively new. I am afraid of it the way my parents were afraid of setting the time on their VCR. What can I lose; it’s free. It sounds like a good way to dip my electronic finger in the water. That could have deadly repercussions. I wait for a link. There is none. The text is sent electronically. It’s a wireless device too. Who knew! Wow. It’s only a matter of time before we have chips installed in our brains with information. Maybe learning disabilities will be extinct. That would be good. Now I need to charge the Kindle. I’m excited. My first electronic book is “Cleaving: A Story of Marriage, Meat & Obsession” by Julie Powell. The same Julie of the book and movie “Julie & Julia.” I saw the movie, which my learning disabled daughter has rented on Fios, several times. I’m looking forward to “Cleaving” after my immersion into Michael Pollan’s books and perhaps it will be a good accompaniment to Jonathan Safran Foer’s “Eating Animals.”

I remember the butcher of my youth. He was Italian. My grandmother single handedly put one of his kids through college. I think it was Harvard, seriously. He’d pull out the framed diploma to show you. My grandmother only trusted food from the specialty purveyors. Bread was from the baker. Cheese was from the cheese store on Avenue U. Seltzer was delivered. Eggs were delivered. Produce was from the green grocer on Avenue M. Does anyone say green grocer anymore? Green meant fresh food, not processed. It did not mean low carbon footprint or even organic. Though, I suspect that this green grocer’s offerings were organic. My grandmother was very picky.

Back to the book. “Cleaving” is also about Julie Powell’s affair. I wonder if she would have had the opportunity to meet this old flame again if not for her notoriety. Amanda Hesser of the New York Times wrote an article about Julie’s endeavor, and attendant blog, to cook Julia Child’s “Mastering the Art of French Cooking” in a year. The rest is history, as they say. Book deal. Movie with Meryl Streep, Stanley Tucci, Amy Adams, and  Chris Messina. I suspect that Julie sees it as the launch of her writing career, for which she was educated. Though Julie Powell likes to cook and loves to eat, she a writer first and foremost. And she certainly wants to learn about food. I mean, who sets out to apprentice with a butcher unless one desires a career in butchering. There’s a new place in Brooklyn that teaches butchering and knife skills and the like. So maybe people are interested.

I’m interested testing Julie Powell’s new book “Cleaving: A Story of Marriage, Meat & Obsession” on my new Kindle.

Food, talk, & Italians

I’m so excited. I found the book Why Italians Love to Talk about Food while I was in Philadelphia. The book has two forwards along with the standard preface by the author. It makes the case that talking about food is the great equalizer among Italians. (I suspect that there are two others that are known world-wide — money and sex, but food, well that’s purely Italian.) I knew that Italians loved to talk about food having grown up with my Nonna who devoted her life to two things — cooking and her grandchildren. Nothing made her happier than combining her two loves. She would make anything that we asked or go out to purchase anything we asked. We wanted things like ice cream cake, Cap n Crunch (my sister), Spaghetti-Os (my brother). I think I was too old for these uber American convenience foods.

Food was used in our Brooklyn household to convey love and disappointment. When my mother was angry with my father she withheld food. Those rare times, we’d spot him eating at the local diner. Though I don’t remember, I suspect she cooked for us kids and our father knew that he was not welcome.

Food withholding does not occur in our household. As the only cook in our home, I typically provide the food. Though, I am sorry to say that I do not cook on a regular basis. My cooking is based on the food in the house, my whims, and my hunger (now that my kids are teenagers). But food is definitely love here, too. I have made a gluten-free chocolate banana bread three time in three weeks. My daughter (who does not eat this) wonders why I have the sudden interest in baking. Well, my son asked me.

Gluten-Free Chocolate Banana Bread

(from Gluten-Free Girl)

3 large bananas, mashed

1/3 cup butter, softened

1/2 cup organic cane sugar

1/2 cup turbinado sugar

2 eggs

1 teaspoon vanilla extract

1/2 cup sour cream

1 cup teff flour

1/2 cup sweet white rice flour

1/2 cup sorghum flour

1/2 cup almond meal

1 teaspoon cinnamon

1 teaspoon salt

1 teaspoon xanthan gum

1 teaspoon baking powder

1 teaspoon baking soda

3 tablespoons cocoa powder

3 tablespoons demerara sugar

1. Preheat oven to 350 degrees.
2. Spray a 9×9-inch pan with coconut oil and coat with white rice flour.
3. Cream the butter with the cane and turbinado sugars.
4. Add eggs, vanilla, and sour cream.
5. In separate bowl, mix the remaining ingredients.
6. With a spatula, fold the dry ingredients into the wet batter.
7. Pour into pan evenly.
8. Bake for 40 minutes or until toothpick comes out clean.

I realize that this recipe calls for (that’s one of my mother’s verbs) several uncommon flours. My favorite brand is Bob’s Red Mill. These products are relatively easy to find. I spotted them on the freestanding in the supermarket in a small town.

Check out Shauna’s awesome website www.glutenfreegirl.com

What’s up with the weather?

I seem to be concerned/obsessed about the weather. It has been unseasonably warm outside (obviously, outside, that’s where the weather happens). It’s what they call Indian summer. Is that politically correct? Well, according to the internet encyclopedia, Wikepedia, the term Indian summer may have derived it’s name from Indian giver, which is definitely not politically correct. The all remember Indian giver from childhood. It’s the name we gave to a friend who bestowed a present on us only to take it back — a phony gift-giver. By the same token, Indian summer may simply have been a way of saying false summer. Anyway, I’m not complaining about the warm weather. It’s the darkness. Every year at this time, I seem to forget how very, very dark it becomes before 5 o’clock. It sucks.

That means less outdoor time for the kids, which means they’re home. And they’re looking for stuff to do unless I let them watch TV or stay on the computer. At some point in the deep, dark winter, I do succumb and allow electronic use. There are only so many art projects, books, and board games children (or my children) can endure. So, here we are in darkness. The start of another winter. I’ll be cooking. Reading. Parenting. Healing. And, blogging.

Keeping summer in the house

The summer is definitely over. The leaves are falling off the tree in our yard. I love that tree. It’s the only one we have. It takes up the entire view from our kitchen window. It’s especially beautiful for two weeks in April when it flowers pink and again whenever it snows. Today, it’s orange with a tiny bit of green hanging on. Summer is over. The season has always been my favorite. The heat. The beach. The long days. What’s not to like? For the month of August, the kids are home and I don’t have to make breakfast and lunch simultaneously. Both meals can be leisurely and fresh. This summer I was introduced to a wonderful salad that I interpreted. We’re still getting tomatoes from  our CSA,* so I can still make it. Cut tomatoes and seedless watermelon (which is available still, too) with olive oil, basil, and sea salt. It can still be summer.

*Community Supported Agriculture

Books & plays about mothers & daughters

I am really looking forward to Ruth Reichl’s new book Not Becoming my Mother. It certainly would have been the gift (with witty inscription) that I would have given my mother for this birthday along with a brown and cream striped Bergdorf bag and a calling card featuring a letterpress shoe. Instead, I’ll buy the book for myself and go to see the Ephron sisters Love, Loss & What I Wore with my sister. My mother loved both Ruth Reichl and Nora Ephron. She learned to cook really well by reading Gourmet, The New York Times Cookbook, and Mastering the Art of French Cooking. The demise of Gourmet would have saddened her terribly. I cried.

The Sisters Ephron

An anniversary of sorts

When I think of anniversaries, I think about celebrations marking happy events in personal histories. That is not always the case. Anniversaries also commemorate deaths — decidedly bad events. I think that the original idea was to celebrate the deceased life on his or her last day on earth anniversary. So it it in this spirit that I am joining my sister Carla and cousin Regina shopping today on the second anniversary of my mother’s untimely death. My mother did a lot of shopping. Shopping of an olympic nature. It was mostly for shoes and clothing and make-up, but also included household decorative items. My mother was killed by decorating. Having purchased a small dresser (which was not needed) and in an effort to conceal the purchase from my father, she chose to move the furniture by herself. A misstep was taken and she went backwards down the stairs. I saved the receipts from her last day of shopping, which included that piece of furniture, make-up, and probably a return or two. Returning was part of shopping. I have a return to make today, too. And some drinking, which my mother did not do. That would mean less time for shopping.

Doing nothing

For about two weeks since we returned from our most glorious summer vacation on the north fork, I have been doing, well, nothing. Meaning that I have not gone food shopping or cleaned the house. Now, in my defense, I have purchased a sofa and printed my business cards, brochure, and exhibit panels. Not much else. I know why. I am sad, thinking about my mother’s death two years ago. It was an accident. I still have not visited the house where I was when my sister called me with the news. We will celebrate her life by shopping (which my mother did) and drinking (which my mother did not do). After next week, I will improve and on with the business of life. Right?

The 80s: a forgettable fashion era

The 80s is not a fashion era that I wish to revisit. I appear to be the only one who feels that way. Stores, well-known, not desperate merchants, feature 80s fashion prominently. And people buy it. Mostly young people who weren’t alive when the 80s were actually happening. My daughter is one of those people. She rifles through my closet searching for clothes that I wore then. She comes out with clothes from the 90s insisting that they are 80s clothes. No, I didn’t save anything from that time in my life. I have some stuff from the 70s including my parochial school uniform. Do you want me to get that from storage? How about my candy striper uniform? Well, I may have one pair of dungarees, not jeans, with zippers on the ankles with a waist higher than 2 inches. They may be very tight. I recall laying down to zip them. I knew someone who put on her pants damp out of the spin cycle so they would perfectly contore her body. I wonder if she had a terminal yeast issue. There was no spandex back them unless you were getting your clothes in the plus size department and were over the age of 50. Was that old then? My mother didn’t begin wearing pants until the early 1970s. And then she wore what every mother wore — Gloria Vanderbilts. They wear the very first designer jeans. You could not buy them at Hy Friedman on Avenue U. They had spandex.