The Real Skinny: "I am sure I would enjoy making anything with her"

The real skinny (according to Boy): Evie is so darn cute. And her account here is not only cute, it is right on the money—among her many gifts is her ability to make everything an absolute joy. I do enjoy making fudge with her. I am sure I would enjoy making anything with her. Just spending time with her is fun. And, she is exactly right about her taste for fudge, and anything else chocolate—she does have a sweet tooth.

Making Fudge, According to Girl

Making Fudge according to Girl: One of my favorite current shows on television is called "The Closer." Kyra Sedgwick, who plays the adorable Deputy Chief Brenda Leigh Johnson, the driven, transplanted from the south, right by the book, emotional, menopausal chief.
She is respected and admired. On last night’s show, two of the detectives working under her were having a rocky affair. She was ending a long day, alone and relieved to be finished working. Brenda Leigh pulled out what looked like a chocolate bar, nibbled a corner off, when suddenly her door opened, revealing two of her bright young detectives in the middle of a mindless spat. With the toughness and melodramatic mindset of one very angry boss, she slam dunked her chocolate bar into the trash basket.

After promptly dealing with their issues and laying down the rules in her blunt matter-of-fact way, she dismissed them. Once they left, she remained sitting at her desk cultivating an angry countenance. Then, remembering the discarded chocolate bar, she dove into the trash, retrieved and ate it.

I think back to the time when our girls were young. We would sit down for dinner together, and Mike and I would patiently wait for them to tell us the storyline of the shows they had watched after school on those afternoons. From the intro to the end, we would hear all about Sesame Street, The Brady Bunch, The Partridge Family and the Smurfs.

These shows became part of our dinnertime each evening. They were, in fact, the major topic of conversation, keeping all of us so engrossed that it could be difficult to request the salt to be passed. It was important to listen to our little girls. I wonder where they got it from. Who passed that gene down to our five and six year old?

I have to admit that I would have done the same thing Brenda Leigh did—I would have jumped in the trash can for chocolate, I would grovel for fudge, I would lick the pan until all traces were gone.

Mike got the recipe from his mom, and we would take it out of the three-ring binder at least one Saturday evening each month. We would open up the sugar, cocoa, butter, vanilla and milk. We even experimented with different typs of fudge, from the Mackinaw famous recipe to the sugary crispy crunchy style. It didn’t matter to us—they all were good.

One of the nice things about making fudge is that it takes a lot of practice (which means there has to be a lot of taste testing). One of the recipes had us drop a small amount of the boiling fudge into a cup of cold water. We would do this time after time, until the perfect state of creamy chocolatey "yummyness" had been attained. We would know we were there when the fudge could be formed into a soft ball in the cold water.

Of course, tasting was the only perfect way to tell for sure that the fudge was cooking properly. This was my job. I was the taster. Much like a wine taster from the vineyards in Southern France, I would smell it, wafting it gently toward my face, I would examine the colors, the uniformity, the bouquet and finally, the taste. I would then pause for a moment, my eyes staring into space.

But, unlike professional wine tasters, I never spit the fudge out.

So, as the story ends, Brenda Leigh closes her eyes, reflects on the tough decisions, the important office she holds, her charges, and the terribly difficult job she has.

With her finger she wipes off the chocolate that remains in the corners of her mouth, and then slowly licks her finger clean.

There she is, alone at the end of the day, sliding down in her chair, kicking off her shoes, and in her famous Southern-fried fast talk, she addresses the empty chocolate wrapper, and says, "Thank you, thank you so much."

Chapter 32 - Making Fudge

According to Boy: From the time I was in the eighth grade I could make fudge. I learned from my sister. I remember telling her once that I preferred her fudge to any other. She loved the compliment.
"Really? What do you like about it?" she asked.

"It’s grainy," I said. "I love it that way."

I was serious. I liked my fudge on the grainy side. Little did I know she made every effort to cook smooth fudge; but, for some reason, it always turned out grainy.

So, that’s how I learned to make fudge. I would take the batch off the stove before the mixture produced the firm little ball when dripped into cool water. That way it would be slightly undercooked, and would be grainy when cooled. That was just the way I liked it.

After Evie and I got married, she would sometimes help me make fudge. As with everything she endeavored to do, she would first read the instructions.

"I don’t think it’s quite done yet," she said, trying to form the little blob of fudge into a firm ball at the bottom of a bowl of cool water. "The directions say we should cook it on low heat until a drop can be formed into a soft ball when dropped in cool water."

"This is how I always do it. I think it’s done."

"Let’s follow the instructions," she insisted. "Just for the fun of it."

I knew she would burn it, but I went along with her request nevertheless. I poured her a soda, and just stood back to observe the impending disaster. I did not wish it on her, but I knew it was inevitable.

She lowered the flame to the minimum, and stirred the brown, bubbling concoction as directed. At least fifteen minutes later she exclaimed, "Look, it’s a ball. I can even pick it up."

And she did. She picked the little ball of fudge and popped it into her mouth. "Umm, that’s really good. Let me get one for you."

She took the spoon and dripped a little of the fudge into the water. "See how this sticks together?" She then formed it into a little ball, and put it in my mouth.

I have to admit that it was good.

She removed the fudge from the heat, and stirred it until it started to thicken, then poured it into a buttered pan. When it had cooled, she cut it into pieces. It was perfectly smooth, with no grains.

We have probably cooked fudge together more than a hundred times since then. Almost every time it has turned out perfect. There was, however, one instance when it did not.

For some reason I decided to overcook it. When it reached the stage when it could be formed into a ball, I just kept cooking it. I think I might have had Harvey Firestone in mind, the day he made synthetic rubber. I cooked it and cooked it. I was careful not to burn it, however.

Finally, I started cooling it. It took only a few seconds to start getting hard after I had removed it from the stove. Immediately I poured it into a buttered pan, and set it aside to cool.

When I returned to cut it, I found that I could not even dent it. It had hardened into a single block of brown glass. I popped it out of the cooling pan in a single piece. Taking it in both hands, I tried to break it. Nothing happened.

I then took the handle of a butter knife, and smacked it a good one. It dented, but did not break. I struck it again, this time a little bit harder. Still no success. So I hit it again.

This time I knocked it right out of my hand, across the kitchen and onto the floor. I was amazed to see it shatter into a dozen pieces. I gathered up the larger pieces, and put them in a dish.

Evie and I agreed that the three second rule could be applied here. That rule stated that when you dropped something on the floor, if you picked it up within three seconds, it was still good. In this case, I had started picking up the pieces of fudge within the time allowed, so it was all good. Besides, we had spent altogether too much time on that batch of fudge to just throw it away.

It was terrific. You could suck on a piece of that fudge for fifteen minutes. It would slowly dissolve in your mouth. If you tried to chew it at all, it would dislodge every filling in your mouth.

It did last an inordinately long time—it was just too difficult to eat.

Finally, after about a week, we threw away all that remained uneaten. I have tried to duplicate that batch of fudge, but with no success.

The Real Skinny: "It was hotter than blazes and we were really careful not to burn our fingers"

The real skinny (according to Girl): I really believe it took the two of us—one to drop in and the other to fish out. It was hotter than blazes and we were really careful not to burn our fingers.

We did make towers, as we watched Johnny Carson, we would munch. Mike kissing my ketchup mouth was a bit imagined, but it would have been a possibility.

Philadelphia did not have a stove that was capable of producing the yummy treats. I guess it just didn’t get hot enough.

And, Charlie was only fourteen.

Onion Rings, According to Girl

Onion rings according to Girl: Simple pleasures. They were golden, round, crispy, salty, dripping with hot oil and melted in your mouth. I’m not sure where the recipe came from, we used large sweet onions, beaten eggs, flour, milk, salt and a small teaspoon of baking powder. The oil was hot, one of us (usually I was appointed this task) gently placed the rings, covered with the mix into the large cast iron frying pan. When they rose to the surface, Mike would turn them, and when they browned on the second side, he pulled the masterpiece from the bubbling oil and placed it on a paper towel. Taste testing as we moved through the tower of rings, we finally found ourselves sitting on the floor, watching Johnny Carson, the rings between us, ketchup bottle in hand and yes, we could finish that huge onion in one sitting.
 
 

We were not so much into cooking. As we fed each other onion rings, ketchup would cover our faces like an eager bride and groom jamming their pieces of frosting covered wedding cake in each other’s mouths.

There were, however, no guests, no cameramen, no flashbulbs, and no preachers. He didn’t have a tux and I didn’t have a wedding dress, so we got messy. Yes, Mike found it most interesting to kiss my ketchup covered face.

I wondered what Charlie thought of that. He was fourteen. The age when boys are starting to think about girls. Having "just married" Mike and Evie on the other side of that bedroom wall must have peaked a bit of his curiosity.

The bed would hit the wall, the rhythms and laughter would make a sailor blush. We spent those weekends as most newlyweds, enjoying the elixirs of our fresh new relationship, along with the onion rings.

Chapter 31 - Onion Rings

According to Boy: I think Evie came up with all these food-related topics while sitting in Schuler’s Music and Bookstore Chapbook Cafe—they do make the best-smelling sandwiches.

Back in the 1960s and 70s, Evie and I used to make the best onion rings. I don’t think we found the recipe in a book. It sounds like something that she heard about from one of the girls at her bank.

I recall her coming home and telling me that she just found out how to make onion rings. We decided to make them on the next Friday night. So, Friday after work, we jumped in the Mustang and went out shopping.

"You’re not gonna believe this," she told me. "All we need are some large onions, corn oil, salt and pancake mix. We’ve already have the salt and oil, so all we need to buy are large onions and pancake mix."

"And Red Ripple," I added.

"Right."

We were living in Glendale at the time, so we found the onions and the pancake mix at our favorite nearby A&P, along with something cold to drink.

When we got back home, I poured us each a glass, and asked: "What can I do to help?"

"Don’t worry. You just take Mister for his walk, and I’ll make the onion rings. There’s nothing to it."

I took her at her word, and took Mister down to the cemetery to get his business done.

When I arrived back at our apartment, the most delicious smell was wafting down the steps. "Smells like onion rings to me," I thought.

"How do they taste?" I asked.

"I waited for you," she said, pouring ketchup onto a plate. Careful not to burn her fingers, she picked one up, dipped it in ketchup, and held it out for me to take a bite.

I had never tasted a better onion ring in my life.

We finished that batch, and made another, and another.

"We’re gonna be sick if we don’t stop eating these," I said.

"Yeah, I know, but aren’t they wonderful?"

"Should I cook some pizza, or something?" I asked.

"I couldn’t eat another bite of anything," she said, "but you could pour me another glass of soda."

The onion rings set well with both of us. We determined to do that again, and soon. I think we made onion rings at least a couple of times a month. When we moved into the East Village, we continued making and enjoying our newly discovered recipe.

Strangely enough, when we moved to Philadelphia, one of the first things we wanted to do was to make our famous onion rings. However, we had an electric range there, as opposed to gas. Try as we might, we could not get that stove to heat the oil hot enough to make decent onion rings. They just sort of set in the oil getting more saturated than browned. I guess it wasn’t as easy as we thought.

The Real Skinny: "I would mix the dough and he would put it on the cookie sheet"

The real skinny (according to Girl): Sorry, Mike, Chef Boyardee Pizza put grated Parmesan, not mozzarella, into the second can in their box. I would mix the dough and he would put it on the cookie sheet. We found that if we buttered the cookie sheet, all except the corners, we could get the rubbery dough to adhere to those corners. Mr. and Mrs. Colombo were part of my "story." I developed the characters from the mixture of people anxious to help us with our Friday night feast.

Making Pizza, According to Girl

Making pizza according to Girl: Drizzled in soft white melted mozzarella cheese, dripping with pepperoni grease, buried in fresh mushrooms, onions and jalapenos with a sprinkle of oregano. Thought I died and went to heaven every time our oven began to bake the gourmet feast each Friday night.


It did not begin that way. Back in the Midwest (where we both grew up) we were not experienced in the culinary arts. Generally speaking, if something did not come out of a can or box, we would not know what to do with it. That’s why we looked first to Chef Boyardee Pizza kits, then gradually evolved our pizza baking to encompass our additions.

The small Italian grocery store on Myrtle Avenue was run by a husband and wife team. He was graying, in his fifties, plump, mustached, and always wearing a pair of black-rimmed glasses. He was very knowledgeable on cheese and wine choices. She ran the register.

When we would go into the store, we would first spot him in his long white apron. It looked to be cleaned and pressed every morning. His wife was short, thin, her brown hair (which also had streaks of gray) was always pulled back in a bun. She had beautiful brown eyes that bore a kind of sadness. I think it was because they had no children. The little shop was their life. The customers were their family. They were interested in each person who came into the store and got to know each of us by name.

So, after work, I stopped in to see them. The wooden door with the brass bell announced my entrance. I was interested in creating a genuine, authentic, Italian style pizza. I mentioned that to Mrs. Colombo and her countenance immediately changed to that of an excited little mama. She yelled out, "Hey Giuseppe, Evie’s making pizza for Mike tonight and wants some help." He was busy in the back, unpacking some Italian wines but, when she called out, he immediately came hustling through the small doorway from the back stock room smiling.

Together we went through the ingredients I would need to buy. Then we discussed the preparation of the crust, the process of yeast in the dough that would make it rise, the chopping of the onions and mushrooms. I was not totally oblivious to the workings of the kitchen, but I graciously let them guide me. They were so excited about the big night. They pointed out the pepperoni; that it was in a cooler with many other types of sausages. They put a medium-sized portion in my bag with the other items I was purchasing.

One of the reasons I had wanted help was the cheese. Normally, we had just sprinkled a bit of parmesan from the box and called it good. This time my mission was to find the white bubbly, drippy, stringy cheese that usually topped restaurant pizzas. That’s the cheese I wanted to crown our creation this special night.

The Columbos took me over to the other end of the shop, to the cheese cooler. Their large cheese selection was incredible. I had never heard of most of them. There were various types of American cheeses, Swiss, French, and Italian. There was cheese made from the milk of goats, cows and sheep. Some were hard, and some soft, some yellow, and some white. Some cheeses had holes, some did not. This Velveeta-raised girl definitely needed help.

"Mozzarella," she said. "That’s what you really need to make pizza." It is the whitest, softest, wettest cheese. It would be the piece de resistance.

And so it began. Our Friday night tradition. "Salud" to the Columbos.

An old Italian toast: "May your life be like good wine, tasty, sharp, and clear. And like good wine, may it improve with every passing year. Salud!"

Chapter 30 - Making Pizza

According to Boy: Within the first month of our marriage, we discovered Chef Boyardee Pizza. From that day on, I doubt we have gone longer than a month without having pizza. Usually we had (and still have) pizza once a week. That adds up to over 2000 pizzas. Assuming a minimum of fifteen slices of pepperoni on each pizza, that would be 30,000 pieces of the spicy sausage, over half of which I consumed. It’s a miracle my heart can still pump blood.

I’m not sure how we got started with them. Probably we were just walking through the A&P, and accidently knocked the little Chef Boyardee Pizza box off the shelf and into our cart. Then we each assumed the other had wanted it. Perhaps it was a little more deliberate than that—perhaps not.

Our first undertaking at making pizza was on a Friday after work, and was conducted exactly as the directions dictated. Because I was the one that usually cooked, it is a miracle that the directions were ever regarded, even the first time. Most likely Evie read them to me. With that first Friday evening pizza adventure, a new tradition had been initiated.

Even though I have not made a Chef Boyardee Pizza in many years, I think I still remember almost exactly how it was done:

First, I would dump the envelope containing the crust components into a third of a cup of warm water, and stir the powder into the warm water until it became a sticky ball. Then I would let that set (covered) for about twenty minutes in a warm place. I found that the best place to set the dough was on top of the range, while it was pre-heating to 425 degrees Fahrenheit.

Next, I would open the two cans that came in the package—the larger can contained the pizza sauce, and in the smaller some chopped mozzarella. It was important to open the two cans early on, because it was never a given that we would be able to locate an operational can opener. Sometimes I would have to punch holes in the end of the can with a steak knife, and shake the contents out.

So, with both cans somewhat opened, the dough rising, and the oven heating, I would unscrew the cap off a bottle of Red Ripple, and pour the sugary wine into two glasses. If it was not already cold, I would plop in a couple ice cubes.

Evie and I would toast to the official start of the weekend. I think our kitchen was what singer/songwriter Jonathan Edwards had in mind when he sang "Shanty."

Gonna sit down in the kitchen

And fix me something good to eat

And make my head a little high

And make this whole day complete

‘cause we gonna lay around the shanty, mama

And put a good buzz on

At this point, the party had started, but the pizza was not yet in the oven. When the twenty-minute incubation period was over, Evie would butter a cookie sheet, and I would butter my hands.

I would reach into the dough bowl, and scoop out the sticky soon-to-be pizza crust, and plop it into the middle of the cookie sheet. After rubbing more butter on my hands, I would flatten out the dough until it covered the entire cookie sheet, including the edges.

Then, I would pour the pizza sauce over the crust, spreading it out with a tablespoon.

Next, I would sprinkle on the cheese, and slide it into the hot oven. I think the directions called for twenty-five minutes in the hot oven, but it was always better to pick up a corner of the pizza with a spatula after twenty minutes or so, and check to see if it was slightly browned on the bottom. If it was brown, and if it did not bend too easily, the pizza was probably done.

After baking a few Chef Boyardee Pizzas by the book, we started to improvise. First, we found that we could buy pizza sauce separately. That allowed us to make our pizzas a little thicker.

Next, we found one-pound chunks of mozzarella in the cheese section of the grocery store. We would shred about one-third of the block, and sprinkle it over the pizza. That addition made our homemade pizzas a lot more like those served in pizza shops.

We soon realized that the pizzas were better if we put the sauce on after adding the mozzarella. That way the cheese was not as likely to burn.

By the third or fourth pizza, we were including sliced fresh mushrooms, fresh onions, hand-sliced pepperoni, and jalapeño peppers (jalapenos only on half). We experimented with green peppers, but neither Evie nor I were terribly enamored with that addition. So that improvising soon ended.

We stuck with this recipe for a couple years, and then started experimenting again. One of our pizza adventures consisted of all the before-mentioned toppings (with the exception of green peppers), but using sliced eggplant for the crust.

I think we dipped the slices in raw egg, and then in cornmeal. But I am not totally certain about the cornmeal. I am not sure why we ever did this, but I think it might have had something to do with the perceived carbs in the Chef Boyardee crusts. It might also have been to save money. If you think about it, by the time our pizza recipe had evolved, we actually had no need for the Chef Boyardee Pizza mix, except for the crust. I think we may have made only a dozen eggplant pizzas before reverting to the Chef’s box once again.

By the time we were ready to evolve from New Yorkers to Philadelphians, our pizza recipe was fixed. We were always using the Chef’s components, with our additions. The only thing that changed was the amount of oregano we sprinkled over it.

We would always make just enough to cover the cookie sheet, and we would almost always polish it off, along with a bottle of Ripple, on a Friday night. Seldom was there any pizza left to stick in the fridge.

If there was, you can bet that it was because Ev and I had "hit the sack."

The Real Skinny: "It won the hearts of my family. Mike also loved my yummy finger foods"

The real skinny (according to Girl): The ride down Myrtle Avenue happened five times a week—an adventure in travel by itself. Mostly we rode the first phase of the trip together, as I jumped, I always kissed him goodbye. Mike continued on to Manhattan. Janice, my best friend and trusted confidante, was the Julia Child of West Side Grand Rapids. Dad did like this amazing dish. It won the hearts of my family. Mike also loved my yummy finger foods.

Tacos, According to Girl

Tacos according to Girl: "I’m cooking this weekend," I remarked to Mike, as we parted ways on the bus ride from Glendale to Brooklyn. My stop came first. We always stood for that few miles of diesel-powered, jam-packed New York Transit Authority bus ride down Myrtle Avenue. We would hold onto a stainless steel post, steadying ourselves to avoid landing in someone’s lap, or even more embarrassing, landing on the floor. As I gave Mike a quick air kiss, he replied, "What are you making?"
And I was gone—past the crowd, down the back steps, and onto the street.

Janice had been my nearest and dearest friend throughout the last few months I spent in Grand Rapids before heading New York. She was an amazing woman with endless talents. One weekend night she invited me over for dinner. When I walked in, I saw she was deep frying something she called "tortillas." I watched, and learned how to make tacos.

She had me cut up tomatoes and lettuce, then grate some cheese. She browned about a pound of lean ground chuck, added a small can of refried beans, and mixed in some special seasonings.

The tortillas started out flat. When she removed them from the fryer, she bent them in half. Then she added the ingredients we had prepared. First she spooned in the meat and bean mixture, then the tomatoes, lettuce, and cheese. Finally, she drizzled on some hot sauce.

My first bite told me I needed to remember this recipe. Outstanding. Before the world knew about Taco Bell, Janice from the west side of Grand Rapids had the inside track. Knowing then, what I know now, I should have invested in a taco stock.

I took this simple, tasty recipe home to Dad. He was the cook at my house. Generally he was a meat and potatoes guy. He only diverted from the standard to enjoy a can of baked beans, which he learned to like in the Marines. Other than that, we had lots of mashed potatoes, veggies, pork chops, and sometimes roast beef. On weekends he would make the best hamburgers, usually serving them on pumpernickel bread.

So, when I suggested that I was going to make dinner for the family on a Saturday night, the whole family thought I was out of my mind. This was not done. Mom did not even exert much authority in Dad’s kitchen. It was his castle, and my job was to clean up, not cook in it. Before I began, I made sure there was a can of baked beans in the cupboard, just in case my plan backfired.

Just as I had learned from Janice, I took the big heavy cast iron fry pan and started with the tortillas, keeping them warm in the oven after they were fried. Then, I chopped, grated and put all the ingredients in small bowls. I set the table and said a prayer.

Everyone sat. Everyone ate. Everyone, even Dad, loved my tacos!

From that day on, until the day he died, once a week was taco night at my house.

On the way home from work that night, I stopped at a small grocery store. I was thankful they had tortillas along with all of the other ingredients. Mike was going to be so surprised. It was four blocks from the store to the apartment. I sang all the way. Sometimes I hum, sometimes I sing. Some days I am like a bird and cannot stop singing.

Throughout history people have asked, "What is love?"

I think love is a little like listening to music being played in another room, and singing along with it because I really love the tune. Even if the door closes, or a train passes, I don’t stop singing. Even if I can’t hear the music anymore, I still keep singing. That’s how I think it is with love.

Anyway, I made tacos for Mike that night, and he loved them. He kissed the cook, and we also started having a taco night once a week. This was exactly how it happened. Thanks to Janice.

Chapter 29 - Tacos

According to Boy: Certainly this is another topic that Evie came up with—I like tacos, but I do not much have much of an emotional attachment to them. Notwithstanding that fact, here goes.

Some things about tacos I am pretty sure of, others not so much. For one thing, I do not remember ever having bought one at a restaurant in New York during the years we lived there. I do, however, recall helping Evie make tacos. The hard shells were available at some stores, but there was a real dearth of Mexican restaurants in the Village at that time. In fact, I am sure we never went to a Mexican restaurant in New York during those years. We went to Italian restaurants fairly often, and to French and Asian, but I do not recall there even being a Mexican restaurant accessible to us. I have read that there was one just a block off Washington Square in the late 1960s, but I never noticed it.

I believe we might have had tacos in Michigan, prior to or during our New York era, and that we started making them occasionally.

I do remember that there was little available at the stores, aside from the shells. Eventually the pre-packaged "taco kits" hit the shelves, but early on all we could buy were the shells, hot sauce, cheese, ground beef, and vegetables (tomatoes and lettuce).

Enchiladas and tortillas are another story—we tried what we could buy in the stores in the 1960s, and we both hated them. Neither of us even heard of burritos until the mid 1970s.

I think one of the reasons why we developed such a taste for tacos during our early years was that they were relatively easy to make, and they went down so well with a cold drink.

The Real Skinny: "It was the kind of food that melts in your mouth as you savor each bite"

The real skinny (according to Girl): Zum Zum was a real place, on the East Side of Avenue of the Americas, between NYU and the bank where I worked. We would order one paper mug of the German Potato Salad with two spoons and a coffee. This provided the lunch for our day. It was the kind of food that melts in your mouth as you savor each bite. I tried making it at home, but it did not have the same zing. I think I was missing some ingredients. Maybe the original had some brown sugar in it. Now that I think about it, brown sugar does seem to make everything sweet and yummy.

Hot Potato Salad, According to Girl

Hot potato salad according to Girl: Falling in love with Mike was easy. He looked good—salty sea-colored eyes, tan skin (always tan). Perhaps it was the contrast I liked. I was as white as a china cup, and he was the healthy color of dark sandy beach.
Most of our early relationship was "easy-breezy." We had no kids, no mortgage, no car payments and a only a single credit card that we paid off each month.

It was a very simple, basic life.

We found a good diner, and a few friends. Our parents lived far away, so our life could be centered around "us."

Then, one day, I spilled my guts, "Mike, I am so excited, stop and look at me, I have something important to say."

It was difficult to talk and walk while trying to share that type of conversation as we dodged traffic and oncoming pedestrians.

"I found the most incredible hot German."

He did not understand. His deep blue-green eyes looked into mine with a "What the heck did she just say?" look. His quick pace came to an abrupt halt. The parade following behind us did a quick stop as well, trying to avoid a rear ender, as we stood in the middle of the sidewalk.

Those were the days before the pooper scooper laws, so it was always essential to watch where every foot landed when you walked, otherwise you would end up carrying some bad dog DNA home with you. That meant if you suddenly stopped walking, you could easily have someone run into you.

Mike did not get it. I was a text messenger before it was born. I abbreviated or shortened much of my conversation, talking in shorthand, using acronyms, fragments and a lot of made up words.

There was a new little bistro, situated between my bank and his school. So very convenient for a lunch date. It was German, and it was so very good. My favorite was the hot German potato salad. As I was trying to explain this fabulous side dish to Mike, he stood on the sidewalk, blocking traffic, and he said, "Please explain what you just said."

"Warm. No, hotter than warm, just hot. Sour, vinegary, bacony, mustardish, lots of potatoes and onions with a bit of salt and pepper. It’s called Zum Zum."

Zum Zum was counters, oak stools, butcher blocks, with real butchers carving, cutting, and slapping meat between horseradish and mustard-smothered breads. Chalkboard menus above the counter shouted out to me "HOT GERMAN POTATO SALAD."

It was cheap, fast, and filling. When a white plastic spoonful hit your mouth the hot vinegar brought tears. And when you closed your eyes, the sensation the warm potato salad brought to your tummy made you think you were dining at a restaurant in the Rhineland, with beer steins, hummels, wiener schnitzel and sauerbraten. You could almost see fat little ladies in aprons sloshing frothy beers to thirsty travelers.

So, I introduced Mike to my Zum Zum.

Chapter 28 - Hot Potato Salad

According to Boy: There are several ways to make hot potato salad. One way is to start with three to five peeled potatoes, boil them until done, then cube them while still hot. Fry some bacon, and blot out the grease. Cut into small pieces. Chop up a small onion, and heat it covered in a frying pan with a little butter. When the onion is no longer crisp, toss the bacon pieces in with it. In a separate bowl, mix an egg, a little vinegar, a couple tablespoons of water, a little sugar, and a pinch of salt and pepper. Pour this mixture into the pan with the bacon and onion, and cook for about five minutes, stirring constantly. Then pour the mixture over the cubed potatoes.

I am not sure exactly how Zum Zum made their hot potato salad—perhaps it was much like I described above. But whatever recipe Zum Zum used, their salad was certainly delicious.

There were, during the early 1970s, a few Zum Zum fast food restaurants in Manhattan—we knew where they all were. Evie and I would frequently run into one of these establishments and order one of their authentic German sausage sandwiches, with a container of their German hot potato salad.

The potato salad alone made it a party.

The Real Skinny: "We could smell it wafting around the streets and sidewalks, drifting from slightly open kitchen windows"

The real skinny (according to Girl): The German neighborhood where we first lived always kept family traditions. Sundays and Sauerbraten was one of those traditions. We could smell it wafting around the streets and sidewalks, drifting from slightly open kitchen windows. Each matronly wife kept and passed down the family recipes from generation to generation. On occasion, Mike and I were invited to share a Sunday dinner with our truly wonderful landlord. It was always very enjoyable.

Sauerbraten at the Robinson's, According to Girl

Sauerbraten at the Robinson’s according Girl: Sauerbraten, Spatzle and Sundays. Some things just go together.
Chocolate and coffee go together, too. This was a concept explained to me by my much beloved Aunt Val. She always had her own ideas. She was the spinster sister of my grandmother.

She was refined, elegant, beautiful, always smiling and always giving positive feedback to family and friends.

Aunt Val loved going out to eat. She was never in a hurry, if at a restaurant, she always had time for a second, third even fourth refill on coffee. And she re-read the already memorized menu for her most important decision—the dessert of the evening. She might have had only a cup of soup, or a small sandwich; but she always had room for a piece of apple pie a la mode, French apple, coconut crème, or pumpkin pie with whipped topping.

She simply enjoyed a good meal, savoring every precious moment with me, one of the highlights of her later years. She treated the busboys as she would lovingly treat her only son, had she one, but Aunt Val did not have children. I was chosen to step up and enjoy her company for the winter season of her life. It was during this time I closely watched her and listened carefully to those conversations over our chocolate and coffee.

"Baseball and boys" is another one of those concepts that just go together—get one, get both. They just come together in a magnificent package of energy and bliss. Whether it is Grandson Lukie making a baseball team from my glass chess set and hitting and running the bases around the checkered etched glass, or his brother Eddie pulling out the sky blue bases with the plastic bats and balls from our deck box, then begging anyone on two legs to throw him some pitches.

It just seems to work out that way. Baseball caps, short little legs, missed pitches, fly balls, some balls going into the wintery slime pool or the duck creek, bases run (sometimes missed). Sometimes bases run backwards starting with third, with the batter also acting as the catcher. Almost always there will be big tears and scraped knees. Yes, baseball and boys just go together.

Sundays and Sauerbraten: In the German neighborhood on 73rd Street you could begin to smell the marinating process on Saturday nights. Tradition involved the vinegar, sugar mixture to soak deeply into the meat prior to roasting on the next day. Mrs. Robinson shopped at 11 a.m. promptly every Saturday morning. She would get up early, grab her very noisy canister vacuum, connect the extension cord, and start at our door, vacuuming the landing and stairs, hitting the baseboard on the other side of our bedroom. Most of the time, we just rolled over or on top of each other and groaned. Then, we figured we might as well do some banging ourselves and perhaps get the day started with a romp in the hay.

After putting away the incredibly noisy vacuum, she would pull out the metal hand cart for her shopping trip for the week. She did not own a car; she walked to the store, three blocks away. The first stop was the butcher shop. There she would carefully examine the display, as if she were intending to spend thousands for diamond earrings. She would ask the butcher to show her both sides of the cut of meat. She would buy only the best, because this was to be for her Sunday dinner.

Once the decision was made, the butcher would rip off the white butcher paper from his roll, place the chosen beef into the large white rectangle and wrap it up like the flag fold of Germany, tucking in each corner and sealing it with white tape. He would take his black crayon and write the weight and price on the outside for the cashier.

Mrs. Robinson would then go through the rest of her list. Sunday was always a special day at her house. Not only did she serve her famous Sauerbraten almost every week, on this Sunday she would surprise her family with Spatzle. (The word Spatzle means tiny sparrow. The shape of the Spatzle was thought to be like a small bird.) Yes. For that she needed fresh eggs, flour, salt, milk and nutmeg. She would find all the required ingredients at her little German shop. Sauerbraten and Spatzle went together.

Two more things that just went together were Mike and Evie. We were two of a kind. When Mike was young, he had a big wooden box filled with his toys. They were not the typical "Red Ryder BB guns," etc., although he did have one of those as well. This box contained what he called his "take apart and put togethers." He would spend hours working on clocks, radios, watches, motors and other electric components—some worked and some did not. However, after doing his chores, he found his fun spending time solving the questions of why this or that did not work.

When he first told me about this wooden box, I thought a lot about us. I think we were (and are) one of his major "put togethers." Sometimes our gears need greasing, sometimes things get rusty along the way. There have been times when "Team Mike and Evie" had slight breakdowns—perhaps needing fresh batteries, or a flat fixed.

But just as Sundays and Sauerbraten always went together at the Robinson’s home, so always did "Team Mike and Evie." Someday, I am sure, there will be a checkered flag waving for us!

Chapter 27 - Sauerbraten at the Robinson's

According to Boy: The name for eating horse meat is hippophagy. I am glad that the Robinson family was not a traditional German family—they were a generation or two removed. Were they traditional Germans, the wonderful Sauerbraten they served would have been made from horse-meat or venison. Instead, Mrs. Robinson’s recipe called for roast beef.
 
 

Some of the other ingredients in real German Sauerbraten are raisins and a sweet bread known as Lebkuchen. Lebkuchen contains, among other things, honey, cloves, ginger and various nuts (such as almonds, hazelnuts and walnuts).

One of the reasons that horse-meat was originally used was because horsemeat is a naturally sweet meat, and tends to be more lean than beef. The same is true with deer meat (venison).

Like so many ethnic foods, one of the greatest charms of Sauerbraten is lost when you examine too closely what actually goes into it. The same can be said about the process of making laws in the US Congress. In fact, I think making laws and making Sauerbraten have a lot in common—neither one is a very pretty thing to behold.