Waksing Poetic

Daddy Sandwiches

Those lucky enough to have grown up with their father must remember Daddy Sandwiches. Dad’s have a special way of making sandwiches. Daddy Sandwiches are rarely meals, they are snacks, gifts, late night raids, shared secrets. They have weird combinations, private meanings. My daddy made fabulous sandwiches.

When I was a teenager I lived with my Dad. I was the only one I knew who did, in fact many of my friends rarely saw their fathers. Their fathers were people who lived on the east side if they lived on the west, on the west if they lived on the east. Their fathers had new wives, new children, they saw them occasionally, rarely, they were not their primary parent.

I was envious of them, living with a mother, a person who understood things like tampons and concealer and how it felt when a boy didn’t like them back. To my handsome charming father I was a complete unknown, terrifying bundle of baby fat and hormones. The women is his life were already grown, they didn’t involve him in things like hair removal, and for the most part the were thin and beautiful. I was not thin, I am not thin, I may never be thin, but I do have a certain beauty and for that I am thankful.

I was my father’s compatriot in midnight snacks, sesame bagels slathered in Dijon mustard and butter, toasted with Jarlsberg cheese and Hebrew National salami, he would wake me up in the middle of the night and ask me if I wanted a sandwich.

On Sunday mornings, as soon as we were able to cross the street by ourselves he would send us to Zookie’s Deli, with a list, a dozen assorted bagels and bialys (no salt no egg), a pound of nova ( make sure you watch them slice it, they need to be thin so you can see through them), a quarter pound herring in cream sauce, a half pound regular cream cheese, a half pound scallion, a quarter pound whitefish salad, three black and white cookies. They made the bagels right there in front of the store. A guy who looked just like Boner from sha na na would stir a massive boiling pot of water then scoop up thewet shiny bagels and lay them on long slats covered in canvas and topping and slide them in the enormous oven. We would always get a aluminum tin packet of dutch butter cookies to eat while we waited, I can still hear the pop/whoosh the top made when you peeled it off.

When we were young he would make us bagels and lox, butter on one side, scallion cream cheese on the other, thin slices of nova, thick slices of jarlsberg cheese, few lettuce leaves, raw onion for him, but never for us., that was first breakfast, after that we would graze for hours while he read the New York Times. and then watched football. Sometimes we would go to our grandparent’s house laden with the bounty of smoked fish, sometimes they would come to us but always there was the New York Times.

To be continued…..

Yes, it happened my Daddy died, he just died, he isn’t here anymore.

When the phone rings it isn’t him, he wasn’t sitting in the brown leather couch in the TV room with the dog watching the pilot episode of Luck the other day. And I couldn’t call him to find out all the parts he didn’t like. He didn’t have a chance to taste my Christmas cookies and he won’t be opening the pool in a few months. He’s gone, well sort of gone, some of him is in a rather heavy cherry wood box on my side table near the TV, but thats not him, though I talk to that part of him sort of.

But he’s just not here anymore and its scary and I’m sad and I wish I was superman and could reverse the rotation of the earth back a few months, a year so I could have more time with him.

My father won’t be at my wedding, he won’t hold any of my children, he won’t start bugging me about Thanksgiving in the middle of September, he won’t pay my gym membership or call me every Sunday at 9 am, and we never even went to get a cheesesteak.

But he will inspire me every day, this is the speech I made at his memorial service:

My Story of Ira

If I were going to write a recipe for my father it would go like this:
2: Tony Soprano
1: Woody Allen
A Shot of Zero Mostel
A Drop of Mel Brooks’
A Hint of Don Draper
A T Winnie the Pooh
A Dash of Eeyore
A Bit of Royal Tannenbaum
Mix with a generous amount of the milk of human kindness, two scoops chocolate chips, a few gummy Bears, more than a dash of salt & vinegar.
Swaddle in cashmere, sprinkle with magic and dreams

My first word was Ira; my mother tells me I would chant Ira Ira Ira Ira Ira. It was my word for everything.

Our early years as a family were what they were in divorced families; every other weekend, the month of August, trips to Disney World, a puppy lots of girlfriends, some willing to play part time mommy, some not.

When I was 11 and my brother 8, Ira became a full time parent. He was a hard partying, studio 54 going dater of models, he had nefarious associates and activities, but we were his children and we needed a home, he took us in, watched over us and protected us. It was a rough road, we were like little wild animals, and he had his own demons to contend with. I’m pretty sure Child protective Services would have frowned on sending your 12 year old to the OTB with a note saying $40 on the 6.10, 22 trifecta in the 3rd and $30 on the #5 to win in the sixth.

I was a difficult child, willful, sad, insecure. Ira had no idea what to do with a pre-adolescent girl; he knew nothing of makeup, earrings and bras, of the peculiar and fraught inner life of a chubby awkward preadolescent girl. But what he did know was that he loved me fiercely and without question.

He went to numerous horrible plays, tried to buy me the right clothes, he accepted my failings, monumental as they were, horrible boyfriends, no boyfriends, devastating heartbreaks and depression, getting kicked out of girls scouts, of college, losing my restaurant, messing up a million ways. When I was so down, I thought I would never, could never get up he pulled me up, he held me up, kept me sane and supported me,

What will I remember of my father, what memories will I share with my children?

I will remember many Thanksgivings, where Aunt Lola hid the chocolate chip cookies; I will remember him singing the wrong words off tune to the same song over and over. I will remember that he brought me to Muppets Headquarters and that he sent a knight on a horse to my school to wish me a happy birthday, and the day he took me shopping for a suit, convinced that all I needed was a blue blazer, a white shirt and gray flannel slacks, even though I was not a women’s golf instructor.

I will remember the smell of Kiehls #1 Musk on cashmere, and a vial of perfume that read Chinese Flowers for Alexandra. I will remember the basketball sound his bell made when you thumped it.

I will remember arms carrying me through the Fire Island nights and shrimp cocktail on the beach at sunset.

I will remember being woken up by a tug on my toes and late night sandwiches, many many sandwiches, really good sandwiches.

I will remember that he never yelled at me for stealing from my brother’s piggy bank, but always yelled at me to clean my room. I will remember the feeling of peace and contentment I felt just sitting next to him.

And I will carry down the rules of the world according to Ira

Be wary of Yankees Fans, particularly if they are not from New York, as it shows a lack of character

Petty theft is a relative concept: it is perfectly acceptable to eat other peoples’ cookies, especially if they are just sitting there not being eaten. Also what is eaten in the Supermarket stays in the supermarket.

Nobody gives a fuck if you’re nice, don’t worry about being nice, worry about being kind; being generous, that’s what’s important.

Nothing good will every happen to you after 2am, fun yes, good no.

Always bet the max on slots, raise your bets if you’re winning but walk away if you’re losing, you have bad luck, You only win at the casino when you don’t need the money.

Never put ketchup on a hot dog or mayonnaise on a corned beef sandwich.

Do the dishes, and don’t fill your coffee cup up all way or your might spill.

Jews don’t eat Miracle Whip or put tomato sauce on mashed potatoes.

Vote Democrat, be who you want to be not who other people think you should be, and always be funny.

Keep your eye on the ball; always have a watch, a pen, a book and fresh flowers.

Show extreme caution on escalators, especially the down ones.

I will tell my children the stories my father told me, read to me. Ira was a romantic, a dreamer, a raconteur, and at times a compulsive liar.

My father told me we were the lost Romanovs.

My father told me I was Cuban, since the original Cubans were the Arawaks I was from Ira Waks.

When I was very young and terrified of wolves, a common threat in a 3yr olds mind, he told me East Hampton was protected by prince, in the guise of the stone monster who would keep us safe, as long as we brought him candy.

My father told me of the wisdom of dogs and children, its good to go to movies, listen to baseball on the radio and to get up in the morning no matter what.

My father who loved baseball, babies, the Marx Brothers, mystery novels, bagels with butter AND cream cheese, who loved difficult women, roasting turkeys, comfortable jeans, penguins, casinos, bananas foster, spare ribs, Moby Dick, travel books, John Steinbeck, making deals, flowers.

My father who most of all taught me that when you loved someone, you loved them for who they are, not who the should be, could be or would be, but who they are, good and bad,

To my father, Ira who was my best friend, my confidant, my hero, who loved me without question or condition I say thank you, I was so lucky so very lucky to have you as a father, I love you Daddy. Happy trails to you, until we meet again.

There are days that I am accutely aware that I’m a big girl. Now, I’m not the biggest girl, I’m not a giant, I’m not morbidly obese, but I’m a big girl. I take up space , I’m tallish, I have big feet, I have broad shoulders, I have meat on my bones, (and who are we kidding a bit of fat as well). I am neither tiny, petite, sylphlike, slender, nor am I a delicate flower. I’m substantial, I’ve got presence, I’m zaftig, generously proportioned.

And there are days when I feel bad about it, like I don’t try hard enough not to be that way, like I should spend more time trying to be smaller and less time thinking about what to cook. I hate the days that I feel bad about who I am and what I look like, about the space I take up, about the bits of me that are soft and overflowing.

I lost a friend yesterday, I hadn’t seen him in a year or two, he was ravaged by drugs, and alcohol and eventually disease, he struggled with his demons and he lost the struggle.

He was my favorite mirror, I loved how I looked in his eyes, I was almost always FABULOUS!. One day we were all sitting around bullshitting, and the subject came up “what kind of animal would you be”, I volunteered that I would most likely be a house cat or a golden retriever..and my friend Craig said. Oh no, oh no you would be a gazelle. Ridiculous right? There is nothing gazelle-like about me, I have a short neck! But that was how my friend saw me, he saw me as graceful, and elegant. The me that I always hoped to be. And I saw him as a remarkable force of talent, and kindness, with impeccable manners, I had my first Cosmo with Craig (Pre- SATC!!), I learned about restaurant culture with Craig, I sang and danced with Craig. And now he’s gone.

On my big girls days, I’m going to try to see myself as Craig did, hoping that I accomplish he could not and banish my demons, my insecure, unhappy, scared demons the ones that tell me that I’m not good enough, not thin enough, not pretty enough for success.

I made these pretty babies for my friend Lily’s Birthday BBQ.

I made sweet shortbread type crust using lemon lavender sugar, a Lavender Lemon Sabayon/Marscapone filling (based on a Jeremiah Towers recipe) I glazed them with strawberry lavender jam. I’ll have the recipe up shortly

I stopped by my favorite cheese store last night on the way home to pick-up some burrata for this grilled pizza I was making

While I was waiting to wrap things up I spied something new, Pigs Head Porchetta (courtesy of one of my favorite restaurants Southwark). It looked intriguing, very hammy and pink with a distinctive white curve of cartilage running through it.

I am not much of an odd parts eater, I’m squeamish, I need it in small bits, a random chunk of tendon in my Pho is a nice surprise a bowl full, is disturbing and ever so slightly murderous. Perhaps I have carnivore guilt,  I just can’t fully relish glands and stomach linings, ears and feet. Blood sausage and kidneys make me gag, I would probably faint if I had to eat an eyeball,  cockscomb or a nose. Tongue has always made me uncomfortable, I first confronted a whole tongue in my grandmother’s fridge, next to the orange juice, I almost cried.

I love chicken liver, goose liver, duck liver, I am an impassioned gnawer of bones, a slurper of marrow. I enjoy cutting up a chicken, performing what small bits of butchery I can manage in my impractical kitchen, de-boning, butterflying etc. I cheerfully crunch my way through quail, feeling like a mighty giant with a dainty leg in my hand.

But still some things, well quite frankly they scare me.

The Porchetta was lovely and soft and delicately porksome,  each slice had a thin strip of ear or maybe nose running through it. It was that one bit, that tiny crunch, that unmistakeably animal texture that sent a shiver of fear and revulsion down my spine, I got goosebumps.

I wonder if this is what it is this thing I can’t understand, the lure of eyeball tacos and raw liver, is it pleasure mixed with fear, like riding a motorcyle, another thing that I can’t fully commit to, the fear  overrides whatever thrilling feeling of speed and freedom may arise. The confirmation of carnivorousness, of a fierce animal appetite scares me. sickens me, and fascinates me. Amazing that a small sliver of salumi can do that.

RECIPE FOR White Pizza with Burrata, Dried Chilies and Ramp Oil

Friday night I dreamt of buttered toast with jam. Slightly charred thick white bread, gleaming with butter  and  great dollops of red jam.

Deeply satisfying, effortlessly simple, I am at the moment mad for toast. Toast is love food, it really is, a shared breakfast, a comforting nibble, an ad hoc supper… toast with butter toast with jam, toast with honey, toast spread thick with pork rillettes,  smeared with mustard, dotted with cornichons.

Is there anything more lovely homey sweet than making toast for someone  Yes, in fact having someone you love make toast for you, presenting you with a small gift of time, of bread, of butter.

Saturday morning I sat in my garden and ate toast, sourdough toast with fresh local butter, one half spread thick with handmade strawberry lavender jam the other with aforementioned pork rillettes, also handmade and stored in a tiny jar. I took my time…small bites, sips of coffee, reading a few pages in between bites relishing the calmness and the stillness.

I  rarely have the opportunity to eat peacefully, solely. I work in restaurants, most meals are hastily consumed half standing, sometimes over the sink or garbage, or else, sustanence level snacks , eaten on the way from one job to the other to school and back, protien bars, dried fruit, cheese sticks, maybe half a Starbucks sandwich either picked at over the course of an afternoon, or gobbled quickly.

I cook a few nights a week at home, shared meals sometimes filled with talk and laughter sometimes romance, others resentment and quiet. There are nights when I create transient masterpieces, quickly reduced to bones and stems, crusts and slicks of olive oil. Other nights something quick some thing easy slurped from bowls on the couch, eyes glues to the TV.

Last Saturday though, I sat in my garden and I ate toast, alone, and it was wonderful.