Lord of the Lies

Lord of the Lies

Childhood is a treacherous journey. No one passes without incident or harm. Mine of course was the most horrible. I lived in a beautiful home with parents that doted on me, 3 siblings that loved me, neighbors to play with on quiet suburban streets, a country club and summer camp. So you ask yourself, “how did she navigate the horrors of such a life?” My answer is simple, I was a liar. Not a white liar with little tales, (although I told many of those as well) I was a big liar. Any accomplished spinner of untruths will tell you, while weaving your yarn, start with the truth and build you story from there. If only I had been given these directions back then.

In 1960 we moved from our Long Island home, and away from all of our relatives, settling in Greensboro, NC. We had left behind my grandparents in Paterson NJ, my great aunts and uncle In Brooklyn, and my cousins in Plainview, Long Island. Twice a year we would make a journey back to New York. We went to the home of my mother’s cousin Barbara with her booming Brooklyn accent, her husband, Mitch, and their many children. I loved my cousins so much....those visits were my very favorite times of year.

Our Christmas vacation trip in 1963 was filled with all the usual events. It was a vacation for us but also a business trip for my father. During the weekdays, my father and Mitch would go into the city for work and be gone all day. My mother and Barbara would cook, shop and play mahjong. I would play with my cousin Nancy who was just a little bit younger than I....but young enough to completely follow, trust and believe me.

The fun on this trip started with a purple ink pen. The first evening, after we had our baths, I took the pen and with Nancy as my willing canvas, I colored her entire body purple. Her flat chest cried out for adornment. I made her breasts into big purple flowers with stems and leaves trailing down to her belly button, then on and on and ever downward. Upon completion, she went into her parent’s room to show off her new embellishments. A second later, her father charged out of his room screaming, “Who did this to her?!??” I stood there with the pen in my hand and purple fingertips, my eyes searching the empty room, looking for someone to blame.... then I shrugged and said, “I don’t know”. Mitch wasn’t my father, he wasn’t going to punish me, but I knew, that he knew, that I knew, that he knew.

The following night, with no real-life drama to share, I began one of my “altered truths”. I told Nancy all about President Kennedy’s funeral. I explained that just a few weeks ago, Caroline Kennedy (my close dear friend) had called me. She had implored, since we were such good pals, would I please come to her father’s funeral. Not one to leave a friend in a time of need, of course I assured Caroline that I would come. I told Nancy how adorable John-John was as he saluted the casket.....and dead father aside; the funeral was really was a lot of fun!

These were conveniently the days before google searches. No “fact checking” to worry about, I was able to tell Nancy that there were probably photos of me standing next to my BFF, Caroline.The pictures showed me giving Caroline the consolation and strength she required in this time of need....and of course i was entertaining with an impromptu ballet recital or a song.....   This tale made me not just a great friend, but a great patriot.

Some of the particulars of my tale were left out....

1- How does a 7-year-old get from Greensboro to DC without even as much as a learner’s permit?

2- Where does a 7 year old, traveling solo, stay while in DC?

3 -Did I hang out at the White House with Caroline or with the other invited guests and dignitaries?

….. Nancy was kind enough, (perhaps because she was only 6) not to press for answers.

Before we retired for the evening, we still had time for some games. I loved running up and down their staircase since I lived in a one-story ranch house in Greensboro. As I got up to the top of the stairs it occurred to me that the wrought iron banisters were just like a jail cell....so I wanted to play “Prison”. I would be the warden and Nancy would be an incarcerated criminal. I had her stand on the landing behind the bars, then I told her to put her head through the bars as if she was attempting to breakout. I don’t understand the science behind this, but it was easy to put head through the bars, but impossible to get her head out...Nancy started to cry. Once again, her father angrily came flying out of his bedroom. This time in his tightie-whities and comb-over flapping. I knew this wasn’t going to end well for me. As he slowly maneuvered his little girl's head out from between the railings, Nancy had of plenty of time to him all about my trip to DC and the JFK's funeral...... If only she had been quiet! But Nancy was able to recite every detail that I had I told her. This was 1963 and parents still believed in spankings. Mitch wasn't standing on ceremony, he may not have been MY father, but I’m pretty sure that evening ended with me getting spanked.

The next day, the men went back into the city and the moms went shopping. My cousin’s house had an open front porch leading to the garage. For theatrically minded girls like me, it looked like a stage with entrances, both stage left and right. There were about a million or so kids living on their block, so there was always an audience.... but I wondered what kind of show could Nancy, her brother Douglas and I put on? EUREKA!!! Thanks to that purple ink being non-washable, Nancy was still festooned in my handiwork. Why not a striptease? Douglas could be the Barker/MC, Nancy the painted lady and I (of course) the main attraction. Douglas was great at getting all of the neighborhood kids to come over. They gathered on the front lawn, He would grandly introduce us, and then Nancy and I would run naked from the garage side door, across the front porch and into the house. With each performance, the crowds got larger and more enthusiastic. Nancy and I waited, naked in the garage for Douglas's signal for the two of us to streak across the porch. Children were screaming and cheering on the front lawn. Nancy and I charged across the front porch in our all together. At that very moment, my mother and Barbara pulled into the driveway. Seeing our two mothers, we bolted up the stairs to Nancy’s room. We jumped into the closet. Moments later in her dulcet lilting voice, Barbara shouted, “WHAT ARE YOU TWO DOING?!??” Nancy and I, naked, sitting on the closet floor, looked up at her and I answered, “Nothing.....”

I don’t remember the drive back down to North Carolina after this vacation, but I'm pretty sure it included at stop in Washington DC for lunch with Lady Bird.

----------------------------------------------------

Recipe:
Chewy Chocolate Chunk-Cherry Cookies

Family favorite cookie....perfect for relatives, even if they are liars!

Makes 40 Cookies

INGREDIENTS

3 1/2 cups all-purpose flour
2 teaspoons baking soda
1 1/2 teaspoons salt
3 sticks unsalted butter, room temperature
2 cups packed light-brown sugar
1 cup granulated sugar
4 large eggs
2 teaspoons pure vanilla extract
12 ounces semisweet chocolate, coarsely chopped (2 1/2 cups)
8 ounces dried cherries (1 1/2 cups)

DIRECTIONS

STEP 1
Preheat oven to 375 degrees. Whisk together flour, baking soda, and salt. Beat butter and sugars until pale and fluffy. Add eggs, 1 at a time, beating well after each addition. Beat in vanilla, then flour mixture. Beat in chocolate and cherries. Refrigerate dough for 1 hour.

STEP 2
Roll dough into 1 3/4-inch balls (about 3 tablespoons each), and arrange on parchment-lined baking sheets, spacing about 3 inches apart. Bake until edges are golden, 12 to 14 minutes. Let cool on sheets set on wire racks for 10 minutes. Transfer cookies to racks; let cool completely.

GENESIS

GENESIS

                                                               

    And in the beginning.... I was born on Long Island, but my strongest memories are from our move to North Carolina when I was 4.

My memories of Long Island are fuzzy. Some are actually true, some are just stories in my head from looking at photographs. Some are déjà vu that comes to me when I watch movies like “Radio Days” or “Avalon”.

   Our little house in Glen Cove was the weekend destination for our city dwelling relatives. The small house would fill up with my mother’s family; grandparents, aunts, uncles, and cousins. Conversation was loud and food was plentiful.

   The women were all bosomy and opinionated. They brought babka and rugelach from Brooklyn in big white boxes tied shut with red and white string. The house smelled of brisket and roasted chickens that were always dry and overcooked. My mother had  a big white meat grinder that was attached to the counter that pushed out streams of chopped liver. It looked like soft bowel movements pouring thru the grates and did not seem more appealing once on the platter. There were mushy canned vegetables and stuffed derma all coming out of the kitchen in steady succession.

   We were not the “no driving on Sabbath” or “always wear a yarmulke” kind of Jewish family, but we were certainly a Jewish family. We had a varied assortment of relatives.  Camps were divided between my mother’s family and my father’s. They didn’t mix.

   My father’s team was Manhattan. His father lived with us. Living with us was against his will and my grandfather made sure anyone within earshot knew it. He thought my mother’s family was very déclassé. My grandfather believed that my father had "married down", and took every opportunity to express that opinion to everyone.

   My mother’s was Eastern Parkway and Paterson. Yiddish speaking face-pinchers, card-carrying communists, intellectuals, bad joke tellers, cigar smokers and the rest of the casting couch for Woody Allen movies were all in attendance. 

   My father was a textile salesman and traveled all the time. Never being home was hard on him. It was also hard on my mother, who was left for weeks at a time to care for four children and my grandfather. This was the reason they decided to move to North Carolina and leave all of their family.

   For our move to Greensboro, we split into two groups; the flyers and the drivers. My brothers, sister and father drove down in packed cars; my mother and I flew with my very sick grandfather. He was so sick actually, that his doctors told them that this move could likely kill him. But we were moving. Grandpa was coming with us, like it or not....and he did NOT!

   My grandfather was angry and vowed he would never live in Greensboro. Proving the doctors correct, my grandfather was collected by ambulance on the tarmac at the Greensboro airport, and died a few weeks later. His massive heart attack on the plane was possibly his final act of defiance. Grandpa never stepped foot in our new house.

  December 1960, the white meat grinder was unpacked and put in the kitchen of our new house in Greensboro North Carolina. Leaving behind all of our assorted relatives, we started a new life in a  New World.

RECIPE:
ROASTED CHICKEN

1. • One 2- to 3-pound farm-raised chicken
   • Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper
   • 2 teaspoons minced thyme (optional)
2. • Unsalted butter
   • Dijon mustard

1. Preheat the oven to 450°F. Rinse the chicken, then dry it very well with paper towels, inside and out. The less it steams, the drier the heat, the better.
2. Salt and pepper the cavity, then truss the bird. Trussing is not difficult, and if you roast chicken often, it's a good technique to feel comfortable with. When you truss a bird, the wings and legs stay close to the body; the ends of the drumsticks cover the top of the breast and keep it from drying out. Trussing helps the chicken to cook evenly, and it also makes for a more beautiful roasted bird.
3. Now, salt the chicken—I like to rain the salt over the bird so that it has a nice uniform coating that will result in a crisp, salty, flavorful skin (about 1 tablespoon). When it's cooked, you should still be able to make out the salt baked onto the crisp skin. Season to taste with pepper.
4. Place the chicken in a sauté pan or roasting pan and, when the oven is up to temperature, put the chicken in the oven. I leave it alone—I don't baste it, I don't add butter; you can if you wish, but I feel this creates steam, which I don't want. Roast it until it's done, 50 to 60 minutes. Remove it from the oven and add the thyme, if using, to the pan. Baste the chicken with the juices and thyme and let it rest for 15 minutes on a cutting board.

With Love to Patty Duke

    With Love to Patty Duke

   With the sad passing of Patty Duke yesterday, I was reminded of a story. I loved Patty. “The Miracle Worker” was the first drama that I saw as a little girl. I walked around the house for weeks with my arms reaching forward as if I was sightless. My obsession though was not with Helen Keller, but with Patty Duke playing Helen Keller. She was my hero! A year later “The Patty Duke Show” came to TV and I couldn’t get enough.

   I watched every Wednesday night, as the Lane cousins, Patty and Cathy, would “be identical in every way”. The magic of filming two Pattys made my imagination soar....i just knew that I could do that too....I could be identical cousins!!

   My next-door neighbor was a little girl who didn’t get out much. I was 7 years old and thought of myself as worldly because I was originally from New York. She was only 6, born and bred in Greensboro, not as enlightened. My neighbor was an only child at the time. Her parents kept her locked up much like a veal calf. She was never allowed out of their fenced yard, she was kept out of the sun, never allowed to be messy,  and most importantly she never got to watch “The Patty Duke Show“

   For the sake of anonymity, let’s call the girl “Sally”. Sally and I had been neighbors and playmates for 3 years by this time. She knew me as well as any child who had never been allowed to come to my house possibly could. We played with each other nearly everyday...BUT Sally was about to learn some shocking news...news that would rock her world!

   We were playing Barbie in her perfect bedroom with the frilly eyelet canopy bed. There were immaculate shelves lined with Madame Alexander dolls that were never allowed to be touched. I looked up from playing with my Barbie, who was wearing the skintight, black, sparkly, nightclub singer outfit that came with a microphone, and revealed to Sally that I was a twin...An Identical Twin!! Describing my twin sister, i said, “We laugh alike, we walk alike, at times we even talk alike”.  Sally gave me the eye-popping reaction that I was hoping for. I said that I would go home and have "Sis" come to play.

    I ran home, changed my shirt and ran back to Sally’s house. Speaking with my best British accent, I introduced myself as Donna. (where Donna had been keeping herself all these years- and why she had an English accent were details I hadn’t fleshed out yet) We went back to her room and played with the dolls. Sally was wondering where Ruthie had gone. I said I would go get her. Once again I ran back to my house, put the other shirt back on and returned to Sally’s. This back and forth went on for quite a while, then, as “Donna” sat on the floor in Sally’s room, giving Beachwear Barbie another ensemble change, Sally’s mother came in, saying it was lunchtime. Sally introduced me as “Donna” to her mother... Ruthie’s much more sophisticated twin sister. One look at her mother’s face and I knew the jig was up. Her mother always found fault with my creative side. With her bright orange, nail polished index finger pointing to the door, I was sent home and banished for a few days. 

     So ended “Donna”, my refined, civilized, British accented identical sister.




                                                                                   RECIPE

 

The Family Decorator: Part 4 - The Final Chapter

The Family Decorator

PART 4

    No longer working at the design store, I was now free to take Betty shopping anywhere her heart desired. Her heart desired stores that were not my usual haunts, but I was only interested in pleasing her. Betty was furious that I had been fired and told me she would like to talk to the owners. Not wanting to be in the middle of a story on the front page of the Post, I said not to bother. We had decorating to do and I was now free to give her my undivided attention

    London Betty, was short and a little bit plump. My knowledge of regional English accents is not acute, but I was pretty sure her early life in London wasn’t spent with the Queen. Although this story takes place in the not so distant past, it was before easy Google searches existed. It was hard work for me to find out about this charming funny woman. I think that I might have read somewhere, that London Betty had been a showgirl at one time. I can’t remember if this is a fact or if it just seemed like the most plausible scenario.

    Betty and I selected her recliners and nesting side tables that could easily accommodate drinks and dinner plates for watching TV. Betty was definitely not from the “Less is More” School. To tie in with the mix and match multi-surfaced walls, we selected plaids and florals in pinks and greens. All of this would go perfectly with the sea-foam Naugahyde and the Pepto pink carpeting.

     When we had picked out everything, I sat her down and gave her a choice of furniture floor plans that I thought would make the most sense. The room was large and even with two recliners in the middle facing the TV, we had plenty of room for sofas and other seating areas. I suggested a layout that I explained made the most sense. My plan, I clarified, was the most conducive for conversation. Betty looked at me, then she had me follow her through the living room and dining room. She turned to the left and opened the door to a dark windowless room with a desk and a few chairs. London Betty looked me straight in the eyes and said, “If my husband wants to have a conversation, he comes in here.”

    Everything that I had ever learned about design was now out the door. Usually I would worry about people seeing my decorated rooms. The thought of bad design showing up in my portfolio worried me. In this house, absolutely no pictures would be allowed to be taken. My design reputation was safe.

     As we ordered everything, we were now rushing to get all shipments and installations done before her husband’s return. She had ordered a lot and unlike my other customers, did not use a credit card. One morning Betty had me come over to collect her deposit. We went into her kitchen, and she took a wooden carved box from a shelf near the stove. From this little box, she took out cash for the payment. Betty handed me $16,000.00 in crisp hundred dollar bills. Then she put the rest of the money back into the box. My mind went all over the place, but as she returned the box to the shelf, it became clearbto me....NO one would EVER touch that box....it was safe.

    A few weeks later, everything was delivered and installed. It was a cacophony of pink and green and Betty could not have been happier. That last day, I went to the house to finish the job at ten in the morning. Who was sitting at the kitchen table, but Betty’s husband, himself. He was Matty “The Horse”, the notorious Head of the Genovese family. Fresh from his all expense-paid vacation in federal prison, Matty was wearing a pair of gray flannel slacks and a wife beater tee-shirt tightly tucked into the pants. He sat with both elbows on the vinyl covered kitchen table. He had an oxygen tank on a wheeled cart with a breathing tube in his nostrils. Although it was two hours before noon, Matty was wolfing down a big plate of manicotti. London Betty chirped introductions and gushed that I was the one responsible for how perfectly beautiful everything was. Matty barely looked up from his bowl of marinara then grunted something. It was hard to understand what he said to me with his mouth full of pasta, but I was relieved that he didn’t find it necessary to tell me his opinion in the “Conversation Room”

    

Recipe:

( thank you to Lisa De Paulo for this family favorite....HER family, not Betty's!)

Manicotti

 

First, the shells (or crepes):
6 eggs (or 4 jumbo eggs)
2 tablespoons oil
1 and 1/2 cups flour
1/2 teaspoon salt
1 and 1/2 cups milk and water (half of each)

Beat eggs first. Then add other ingredients, beating with hand mixer or egg beater until smooth. Cover in bowl and refrigerate for an hour or so.
Use a small Teflon pan (8 inches or smaller). Butter pan only once and very lightly. Pour just a thin layer of batter in, so the manicotti is very light. Cook on one side only. Put cloth on table and lay out all the shells as they are made. Then fill with seasoned ricotta. Then roll them up.

Filling:
2-3 pounds ricotta
2-3 eggs
Handful of grated parmesan or pecorino
Handful of fresh chopped Italian parsley
Salt and pepper


Bake the manicotti in a lasagna pan with a thinned marinara sauce. (Put some sauce on the bottom, then the manicotti, then cover with more sauce).

make sure the table has a fresh vinyl tablecloth

The Family Decorator PART 3

 

The Family Decorator

PART 3

   After checking out London Betty’s house, with my black marbled composition book full of notes, I went back to the furniture and design store where I worked. We carried very traditional, mid-high to high-end furnishings. A  sea foam green, Naugahyde recliner was not something that we sold. We also had a strict policy of not buying anything from any other stores to complete our designs.We would push our product as an only option.  I had never crossed that line and taken anyone shopping. I always convinced  the customers that our product was the best choice. I was dutiful and up until that moment, a team player. But now, I looked around the chintz and passementerie and knew I was about to break some rules.

   London Betty’sjob was really the straw that broke the camel’s back with me. I was working long hours and the commitment to my job was apparent to the customers who often asked me if I was the owner. I was certainly not the owner, I was an underpaid laborer, making a draw with a very small commission. I was a good decorator and a better sales person. I had just sold more than any other salesperson in any of their stores the previous month, but never got even as much as a pat on the back. I wasn’t going to let rules get in my way anymore....if ever there was a time to break the rules, the time was now!

    The days at the store were long. Some days felt like ten
extra hours had been tacked on after lunch. One day I received a phone call from a woman who was looking for a $5 piece of drapery hardware. I said I would put it to the side for her and she said she would pick it up before we closed at 5:30. The day just dragged and I was in charge of closing up the store and locking it. With only one other salesperson there, I made the executive decision to close early. My shoes were already off, I counted up and locked the register, and then I went to each door and locked them as well. As I locked the door nearest to the front window, I saw a woman pull into the parking space directly in front of the shop. It was the $5 sale...it was my 30 cents commission....I should have opened the door.

    I didn’t open it....i yelled to the other saleswoman in the store, “Duck!!! Hide!!!” I have no idea what she thought, but she complied immediately and threw herself behind a chair in one of the vignettes. I ran and hid next to her saying, “I am NOT reopening the store,  I'm going home as soon as she leaves!!” The other salesperson seemed simultaneously both horrified and hysterical. She couldn't believe two grown women were hiding behind a chair while a customer was hammering
furiously on the door. I felt the need to cover her mouth so that her laughter wouldn't be heard, but controlled myself from do that. We sat there for what seemed an eternity, then like a dough boy peeking out of a foxhole, I slowly checked from behind a cushion to see if she was still there. RAT-A-TAT-TAT.... she fired at us...banging and incensed... shouting, “I SEE YOU!!!!”

    There was no way I was getting up now...what would I say? “Oh, did you want to come in?? I’m so sorry...I always crouch on the floor behind chairs and sofas....puhhhleeeeze, come right in!”

    So there we two stayed until we felt that the coast was clear. We both carefully crept from chair to chair as if we were dodging bullets...but she was gone ...we were able to get to the back room and out the door to the alley.

    The next morning, to no one’s great surprise I was fired...I took my black marbled composition book and called my customers. First call was to London Betty, we had sea foam green Naugahyde recliners to buy!

SAINT PATRICK'S DAY

IRISH MOSS LEMONADE

I am not very familiar with Irish cuisine ....

I looked through my cook books, searching under "Irish" 

and this was the only recipe I could find. 

It is in the chapter titled "Invalid Cookery".

My guess is, this will be a handy recipe for those of you who take your 

Saint Patrick's Day celebrating very seriously.

Josie's Easter Pizza

               Easter Pizza recipe, aka Pizza Rustica

This is a recipe shared with me by the multi-talented, author, correspondent, and gifted gourmet
Lisa DePaulo.....she said it is "really killer"..... so I believe it would be a hit in Betty's house!

Mangia!

The following is for a 10-inch square or 9x13  ceramic or glass baking dish.

Crust:
2 cups flour
1/4 cup sugar
2 tsp. baking powder
1 stick margarine (yes, margarine)
2 eggs   

Mix flour, sugar and baking powder together in large bowl. Work in the margarine with your fingers. Make a well in the center. Drop in the eggs. Knead from sides to center. Let dough stand under a bowl for at least 10 minutes while making your filling.

Filling:
2+ pounds ricotta (if I have a 3 lb container, I add a little more than 2 lbs)
4 eggs
1/4 pound prosciutto, chopped
1/2 to 3/4 pound sweet Italian sausage, baked (about 20 mins), skinned and chopped
1/2 pound mozzarella, diced1/2 cup grated parmesan or locatellia heaping 1/4 cup fresh Italian parsley, chopped

Beat ricotta and eggs (I just use a whisk). Add the rest of the ingredients and mix it all together.

Divide the dough into quarters. You'll want 3/4 of it for the bottom and sides crust and the other 1/4 to cover the pie. Roll out the bigger portion, using a bit more flour to roll it out.  Dough should be the consistency of Play-doh, and the sides can be pieced together with your fingers. Do not grease the baking pan. Put your bottom and sides crust down in the pan. Then add the filling. Then the top crust, rolled out. Prick top of pie with fork. Bake at 400-degrees for 15 minutes. Then lower the temperature to 325 for another 45-55 minutes. You will know it is done when a knife comes out wet but clean and top is beautifully browned. Do NOT overcook (it will set more as it cools).

When it is totally cool, cover with foil or saran and put in the fridge. It tastes better after a day or so. Serve it cold or room temperature, sliced in little rectangular wedges. Or whatever. Yes, cold or room temperature. Do NOT heat it up.