Memorial Day 2013

The High Line.  NYC 

Stars and Stripes

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One of a kind. Fearless. Two things that come to mind when I think of my dad. I'll never forget the image of him shirtless, going out into the backyard during one of those torrential Florida storms to tie up the boat. I remember the hail coming down and hitting his back. 15 years older than my mother he regaled us with his stories. We were in awe when he would tell us about following Patton around on a jeep or that President Roosevelt knew him by his first name. The dinner he had with King Farouk and how afterwards the whole platoon came down with dysentery. He said in his 4 years in the Army he had enough experiences for a lifetime and had the photographs to back that up. The army kept his negatives, but he made sure to make prints of everything. They were all kept in those green Army photo albums up in the closet. The Yalta conference, the great pyramids and Mussolini's head. He was about to be sent back to the states to teach photo intelligence when he visited Cairo on R&R. He could talk his way into anything and that's just what he did when he saw the way the army was living there. The hotel they had taken over, the villas and sufragis. There was also plenty he didn't talk about or want to remember. Like being one of the first people allowed into Dachau after it was liberated because he was Jewish. He still remembered some Arabic and proudly used it whenever he had the chance. I remember he taught us how to make pinhole cameras and when I was older he gave me his Yashica 2 ¼ which I still have.

Memorial Day is the day to remember those who died serving our country. It's the day the sprinklers are turned on in the playground. It's the start of summer and the day I was born. It's also the day I remember my father, Staff Sergeant Arthur L. Benjamin, Combat Photographer, Stars and Stripes.

Kenosha, WI

The past two weeks I haven't had much time to write. I promised myself I wouldn't be one of those one time bloggers. I can see how it happens, life happens. I may not write every week, but I will keep coming back. Two weeks ago my son came down with a very bad case of strep throat that landed him in the ER. Having a sick child at home got me thinking a lot about comfort food. And my last post, about my friend Cybele's Aunt Lillian had me thinking about honoring those that came before. The person who fits into both of these categories for me is my grandmother Mary. 

Every summer when we were kids we would drive from Florida to Kenosha Wisconsin and stay with our grandparents for about 6 weeks. One of the strongest memories I have is when we would get out of the station wagon and step onto the grass. When you're cooped up in a car for a day and get out for the first time it's like you just woke up. Everything is crisp and clear.

I can see the grey creaky wooden porch to the white small two story house. My grandmother coming outside with those funny old fashioned black shoes she would wear. The grass with the dew on it. The dark blue sky because it was probably early evening and we had been driving all day. The clean fresh smell of the cool Wisconsin summer air. Growing up in Florida Wisconsin was like a foreign land. Everything was different, from the sidewalks we didn't have to the slender long green grass. In Florida everyone has sod, this weird thick carpet like grass sold in big squares. Thinking back to our drive I can't remember much, probably because I use to get car sick and my mother gave me dramamine the whole trip. I remember getting into the car and getting out in Kenosha with a few vague memories of motel playgrounds in between. 

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When we arrived the first question my grandmother would ask us is what would you like to eat? Whatever you asked her for she would make. I usually asked for a Lemon Meringue Pie and of course we all wanted Virtynis, Lithuanian Pirogies. My grandfather knew which mushrooms were safe to eat and would go to the field behind the house to pick them. Grandmother Mary would sauté them in butter with onions, salt and pepper to go with the Virtynis. The food was simple, but delicious. 

I remember the apple tree in the back yard. The small wooden garage behind the house that never had a car in it and the field we played in with our cousins. I remember she always had a big box of Cap'n Crunch cereal for us and lastly the candy bars we would buy at The Ben Franklin Store down the street. Wisconsin even had different candy.   

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How To Stuff An Artichoke

I'm still trying to define what I want this blog to be about. I've wanted to write for some time and this seems like an effortless way to get started. Two things I think about daily are food and my family, whether it's what I'm making for dinner or what we're ordering out, so I'm pretty sure I will be writing about both. New York City is one of the greatest cities for food. This morning while my son was playing soccer the mouth watering smell of the ovens firing up from the Pizzeria nearby drifted over the field, and this week I took great pride when walking through Grand Central I overheard a young woman looking at the pastries in the window of Zaro's say to her friend, “I think New York has better food than California.” We do have great food and the choices are endless.

Something I've been thinking a lot about lately is how families change and traditions are lost. With my family spread all over the country and my husband working this Easter and Passover we did little more with our son than an Easter basket filled with candy. Growing up we celebrated both Passover and Easter in our home. My memories are vivid of the long crowded table filled with food and the elders sitting around it. I wonder if it was as much of an effort back then for my mother as it seems to me now.

I want to share this trailer from my talented friend Cybele Policastro's film, How to Stuff an Artichoke. I think it fits in perfectly with what I'm trying to write about here. Tradition, family and food.  The film is about her Aunt Lillian and a changing neighborhood.  Lillian who was born in the kitchen of the family building on Bleecker Street lived in Greenwich Village her entire life.  In it she prepares the Artichoke dish that has been a tradition in their family for generations.   

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Lillian Graziano in her Kitchen on Bleecker Street.

Photos by Erica Freudenstein

www.ericafreudenstein.com

Live Chickens

Today driving along the West Side Highway at a snails pace I looked down at a dead chicken laying in the road, and that's when it hit me maybe I do have something to blog about. Staring at that chicken brought back memories from a long time ago, when I was fresh out of graduate school and working as an in house temp for Liz Claiborne. At the time I worked in Textiles typing contracts 8 hours a day. I remember my office mate Liz who was Puerto Rican sharing the story of the Santería with me. She told me how people in her neighborhood would go out in the middle of the night and stand in the crossroad holding a paper bag with live chickens inside, then throw it up in the air. Sitting all day typing those boring contracts I learned a lot about her and the world she came from.  Now years later stuck in traffic and staring down at a dead chicken I remembered her and the stories we shared. I love animals and certainly don't condone throwing live chickens on the highway, but who am I to judge as I put away the left over chicken I made for dinner tonight. Maybe the Santería chicken laying there, died for a more noble cause than mine.

Tonight I prepared fried yucca for my family's dinner, a dish my Peruvian husband taught me to make. I think, yes it really is true, New York brings together people from all walks of life. It is a melting pot. I also think I'm not so different from my Lithuanian Catholic mother who learned to make chopped liver and noodle kugle for my Jewish father's family. 

I hope this will be a place where everyone can share their traditions and memories.