In the Kitchen with my Ancestors

Sicilia, non vi ho visti tutti, ma mi sono innamorata. E ritorneremo...

As of late last night, I’m back in New York, and I don’t even know what time zone I’m in.  My body is in one, my mind is—perhaps—in another. I run by the library and see two elderly gentlemen sitting on a bench near my path. Wait—maybe they’re my age? One is Black, one is White. They are drinking cans of something. Beer? They both turn to wave their unoccupied hands at me. They have similar waves.

I say good morning, though buongiorno is still in my throat; I pass them, and head towards Davenport Park. 

The beauty of travel—one of the beauties of travel—is that it helps you see things with new eyes. I look at the water, this time it’s the Long Island Sound, and not the Tyrrhenian Sea—whose warm temperatures, glass transparency, and sparkling turquoise embraced me just a couple of  days ago. Still, this morning, I’m standing before another sparkling body of water that I admire. The sky is clear. The sun is bright. I love this place, too. 

As I continue my run, my mind flashes scenes, people, dishes—the sounds—of Sicily. I imagine telling my parents, especially my dad, all about it: the opera singer on the street of Palermo, the gestures, the food, the vendors, the buildings, the sea, the sounds, the Sicilian expressions we learned.  I want to tell him, “ Now I really get it! I get you! I understand you more now.” 

I whisper the words aloud. My tears sting. 

Images of the markets also flash through my mind. Bold, strong colors. Vendors calling me to try the cherries, figs, watermelon, grapes. The vegetables—deep purple eggplants, bright bell peppers, the shapely cucuzza: Italian squash. And then there’s the prepared dishes. The pasta, pizza, and of course,  caponata: the roasted eggplant and tomato-based dish that was a staple in my home growing up, and everywhere here in Sicily—in slight variations. I think about the focus of the Mediterranean Studies Symposium, "Feeding the Mediterranean: Culinary (Re-) Inventions, Legacy, and Hospitality," and about the presentation I made, in which I shared my family's legacy: their interpretation of their culinary traditions. I now recognize that until I visited and saw—felt—all first hand, I didn't realize the extent to which the heritage of Sicily was sewn into my family's blanket. Beyond Sicilian hospitality—all-welcoming, loving, warm—it’s the feeling of belonging that was gifted to us—to my son and me. 

Now my father's voice whispers; "I told you this, Sweetheart. I knew you would love it all." 

I've finished my loop, and I'm heading back home now. While I’m running, I plan my menus—and how I’ll replicate, or attempt to replicate, the colors and flavors we sampled. I want to, as my parents did upon their return to New York from their visit to Sicily many years before, boast both the flavors and the presentation of the foods there. 

I’ve vowed to study Italian more, to keep more in touch with relatives and friends in Sicily, practice presenting my food and making the dishes I so admired, and grasping the memories so that I can pull them up as needed.  And, of course, to return—with my daughter and husband. In the meantime, I recognize: I'm in the kitchen with my ancestors. 

Sicilia, non vi ho visti tutti, ma mi sono innamorata. E ritorneremo...

Bringing the Colors--and Flavors--Back to New York

Home Fresh Tomato Recreation 

Caponata--and Some Cheeses

2024 Comes In

Paul Cézanne's Pines and Rocks 

“Notice the brush strokes—how he uses space, how nothing is wasted,” my mother says to me. I’m nine years old, and we’re at the Museum of Modern Art in New York City. We’re looking Paul Cézanne’s Pines and Rocks, but move to The Bather, and she points out the lines of model’s muscular leg, and the color palette of the background.  “No wasted space,” she reiterates. This was to become her mantra in art, and in life.

In my memory, it’s just my mother and I walking through the museum. Today, I’m on my own.

My mother’s voice comes through me as I admire Van Gogh, Picasso, Gauguin, Seurat, Monet, Matisse, and Chagall. Their work swims into my eyes and triggers a pool of memories. 

Marc Chagall's I and the Village

I smile at the playfulness of Marc Chagall (I and the Village), and hear my mother talking to me about artists’ phases, stages, and senses of humor. She often spoke about process, and taking time to explore different subjects as well as styles of painting and drawing. In retrospect I realize that this—taking time to explore and try out—was also part of her modus operandi. I can see a variety of style in her paintings, illustrations, sketch books, and subjects.

I flash back to her trying to teach me how to translate what I’m looking at onto paper in the form of sketching.    Now I try to ingest in all the images I see, and transfer them into words.

I stop in front of Rousseau’s The dream.  I relish the personal space I have at that moment to approach the canvas, and focus. I remember my mother telling me that though he never went to Mexico (as he apparently claimed—thereby entitling his “Mexican pictures”) self-taught Henri Rousseau, was able, from his home in France, and thanks to his rich imagination and frequent trips to the Paris botanical gardens, to translate jungle images from his head onto his canvas.

Tears start to sting as I hear my mother’s voice again; she is proud of my recollection of the artists and their styles, her lessons, and for my taking the time to visit the museum, and ponder all. No wasted time.

Sonia O. Lisker Gargagliano 

I consider my mother’s “Mexican pictures,” which she created after spending time in Mexico—before I was born. I look at her brush strokes. And I can’t help but  notice in her paintings, many of which surround me at home, that there is no wasted space.

And so now in mid-January, we welcome 2024—and consider what we’ve done, what lies ahead, both anticipated and not.

Last year I had several goals: to dance flamenco, try new recipes—to read more, write more, and learn Italian. I still need to work on all, and I add to the list.

I can hear my father now, telling me—as he always did—that I have to take chances. (He was referring to talents and skills, not skydiving nor bungi jumping!)  Taking chances is on my list. No wasted time.

Life, after all, is precious.  

 

All Clear

 

 

The Day of And a Few Days Later

“Well, it’s like this all the time in New Delhi!” an older woman said to me last Wednesday, in Midtown Manhattan, waiting at the crosswalk. I had noticed her cane, her stance, and her lean on the mailbox prior to the change of the walk sign at the cross walk, and so I had asked her if she was okay. She said she was, and, in typical NYC fashion, that was the end of our exchange. The light turned green, and we separated.   

This was on the day that NYC was blanketed in sepia, the day the wildfire smoke hit the city. Dazed and masked, people twirled, phones in hand, recording and marveling at the scene. Words like “apocalyptic, smoky, orange,” echoed through the throngs on Fifth Avenue.

Fast forward to three days later. The sky is blue, the air seems fresh, and yes, it appears to be all clear—at least around here.

We are always looking for an all clear. Or, perhaps, in my case, I’m also looking for clarity—and hope I offer the same. Thinking about relationships, work, stories, and trips, I consider that all clear is synonymous with a go ahead, or that we can proceed in a positive way. I'm also equating all clear with clarity. 

The Clarity of Reflection 

I can’t help but remember a student I had at Concordia College, so many years ago. Lorenzo, from Puerto Rico, came to Concordia to play volleyball and, like many on his team, also to learn English.

At that time, I had a habit of asking my students, “Is it clear?” after explaining something in my ESL class. (Wait—maybe I still say that!)

Lorenzo frequently responded, with a grin, “As clear as mud, teacher!”

He chided me, and was often quite the jokester, but sometimes he was on target: my explanations often required a second round. I take that recognition with me, and try—whether talking to family and friends or students and teachers—to be clear. It’s a skill I’m still working on.

But back to last Wednesday, I walked up to the Museum of Modern Art, where I had decided I wanted to revisit Georgia O’Keeffe’s exhibit. I watched as people stopped in front of one work or another, saw them observe, listened to their commentary, accolades, and more.

An older bespectacled gentleman with tanned skin, a white beard, and a straw fedora, came to a full stop in front of “Evening Star.”  He stood, hands behind his back, and gazed, deeply at one painting, and then the others in that series.   

From Georgia O'Keeffe--One of the Many Currently at MOMA 

I wanted to ask him what he was thinking when he looked at them.  Was a meaning clear to him?  What was clear to him?

But he moved on as a young couple with a toddler moved in front. 

As I continued to walk around the museum, my thoughts of clarity continued. I considered how clarity comes in different realms: art, communication, movement, music, and another one of my favorites, flavors.

Recently I found clarity in a dish I made: Crispy Lemon Chicken Cutlets with Salmoriglio Sauce

Since it was quite well received,  I decided to explore variations on the theme. A few nights later, I made pork chops with an orange sauce that somewhat emulated the previously-made lemon-infused dish. The result? Another sunny, and tasty citrus-themed plate (served this time with broccoli and wine-caramelized onions, and roast potatoes). 

 Crispy Lemon Chicken Cutlets with Salmoriglio Sauce

Crispy Pork Chops with a Fresh Orange Sauce

I enjoy clarity of flavor as much as I enjoy clarity of explanations, communication, and more. I find clarity when I run, when I cook, when I dance, when I draw, and when I write. 

Today as I ponder the message of all clear and clarity, I think of the bold, dazzling colors of nature that boast their individuality, yet work and grow together. 

 

Almost Spring's Big Dig

Mom and a Storyboard

“Look at her!” my friend Sus declares as we uncover photos of my mom.

I’ve found the black and white photos of my mother at work. She was one of the first female art directors on the “mad men” scene of Madison Avenue. I heard the story so many times, about how I was almost born at Y&R (Young & Rubicam) but how she just barely made it to Flowers and Fifth Hospital—after a quick stop to pick up a nightgown in Bloomingdale’s—and then on to the hospital to give birth to me. 

I go through photos—there are hundreds, maybe even thousands of them. They date back to the time my mom was little, posing on the Boardwalk in front of her parents’ home in Brighton Beach. Posing…they were always posing.

Words are tangled in my throat as I peruse her sketchbooks, and flash back to the times she sketched at parties, when curious guests couldn’t help but come by and ask what she was doing, look over her shoulder, admire her fluid intake and translation of the scenes around her.

I was not like the guests; her sketching made me uncomfortable.

Now, as I leaf through the dozen or so sketchbooks, I have an uneasiness mixed with pride and regret that I didn’t enjoy her drawing—while she was drawing. Why did her sketching bother me? Why didn’t I accept it more readily? Why wasn’t I proud then? 

Mom's Sketches in Spain 

As some of you may know, now over two years ago, we moved from a house into an apartment. At that big downsizing time, I took a lot of my old photos—okay not only mine, but those from and of my parents (their ex-spouses!), grandparents, aunts, uncles, parents-in-law, siblings, kids…well, you get the picture. Tons of photos! They were packed into large Rubbermaid tubs and put into storage.

One of my new year’s resolutions was to go through, sort, keep or toss: my big dig. And so, it’s begun.

It’s amazing how many blurry photos, how many duplicates, how many “unknowns,” and how many trees and sunsets were captured. And as I sift, I try to identify criteria for saving.

My criteria has yet to be defined. I do know that I’m not going to scan them all; I want to keep the “hard copies.” Not sure what I’ll do with them, but I’m enjoying going through them…remembering so very many moments.

In another box, I’ve found letters. Those I’m loathe to toss…at least some of them. Especially words from people, like my parents, who are no longer on this earth with us. I've put those aside for now. I'll read them all. Eventually.   

This all comes back to my kitchen. As many of you may also know, food is another way I keep people ever-present. Menu planning is something I enjoy daily: I think about who’s going to eat it, what the weather is like, what’s available, and what people might be craving.

I open up a recipe box, and look for one of our Christmas Eve classics: The orange Jell-O mold, complete with shredded carrots and crushed pineapple, which she always made in the shape of a Christmas tree.

I never thought I’d ever make it. Now I pull out the recipe, and look for the pan that it will set in. 

 

 

And Just Like That, It's Soup time in December

     I don’t mind when the sun paints my face, with thick broad gentle strokes, forcing me to recognize it, which I do.  It reminds me that I should focus on the now, the present.

     At this very moment, it’s all about today. Focusing on the elements around—the feelings, paired with sounds, sights and smells, has a balancing effect. My mind is racing elsewhere: thinking of the books I’m listening to, the wonderful big band music I saw and heard on Friday night, the headlines slapped across this morning’s newspaper, the dinner I will make tonight, the work I need to do, the nostalgia for family no longer here, one that profoundly infuses me this time of year. The elements, and the rhythm of my feet below, ground me and push me forward as I run.

     My mind goes back, as it so often does, to the recipes. The weather’s chill has me thinking of soup. And though I could rifle through my collection of saved NYT cooking recipes, or the many books that I still have (even after unloading hundreds haver the move!), I am set on one: carrot soup from Moosewood Cookbook. 

     And this is what brings my after-run steps to my book shelf, and right over to one cookbook in particular, to a page I have marked from long ago.

     

     Moosewood Cookbook, the original, was one of my first on-my-own cookbooks.What I mean by that is that I always had my mom’s recipes, yet I searched for those recipes I could adopt and call my own. Moosewood, at the time, was my great resource. 

    Moosewood was also the first cookbook I ever endeavored making just about everything from. The book itself, now decades later—food stained and a bit unsteady in keeping all the pages together— represents a period of time, my twenties, when I expressed a lot of my independence and creative energy through food. (Wait, am I still doing that?!) 

     This carrot soup offers the balance of two flavors I love combining:  sweet and salty. But as I sit to write this blog, I recognize that you might not share my passion for cooking. Still, I’m guessing you probably share my joy of eating.  It’s funny how when I teach, I touch on the topic of food and almost all my students have a positive reaction; though they are still struggling with English, their second, third, and even fourth language, food remains a first language. They wax nostalgic about their grandma’s cooking, dishes that say “home” to them. Food is their common ground…our common ground. This is why I still say if we could just all sit down and share a meal, we might have peace in this world.

       In the meantime, now and in the next year, I will continue my ever-expanding exploration of dishes (so many recipes, so little time!), as well as travelling, dancing, reading, writing, teaching, and of course enjoying the many meals I look forward to composing, creating, and consuming with family and friends. 

     With these thoughts, and this note, I wish you and yours lots of peace, and many many delicious soups and other dishes with loved ones during this holiday season, and in the year to come.

      

Carrot Soup Garnished with Roasted Apple, Toasted Almonds, and Parsley

 

 

In Walks September

 

“Is this the writing class?” A twenty-something, light brown-skinned woman asks  me in a slightly marked  accent as she steps into the doorway. “Can I come in?” she adds. It’s about 8:50, and class will begin at 9.

She’s slight, bespectacled, and smiling broadly, though I hear some nervousness in her voice. She sits right in the middle of the u-shaped  tables that face the front of the room. She’s the first of my 16 students to arrive.  I welcome her in, and she tells me she’s from Ecuador, from Cuenca.  I want to tell her that my son lived in Ecuador, but I save that.

“Yes! This is the writing class” I declare, and welcome her into the room. “Please tell me your name.”

“Alejandra,” She announces. “But you can please call me Alex.”

“Okay, Alex,” I say as I scan my roster and tell her, “My name is Arlen. And wow, Alex! You are the first to arrive!”

 “I like to be in time,” she proudly announces.

“I do, too!” I say.

Prior to that morning, I had seen all my forthcoming students' names on my roster, and considered how those names would “translate” into actual people, and how these same type-written names will look differently on that page after today, the first day of class.  

It’s the same feeling I’ve had for years: the anticipation, the excitement, and even some of the nervousness on the first day of school. All of my white board markers are ready, I’ve written the date and my plan on the board, along with a “Welcome!” I’ve played with the colors of the markers so that—I think—the board is visually pleasing. I like to alternate between colors, at least a bit. I’ve got my folders with handouts, and my pads with paper, in case someone needs paper.

Several students follow Alex's lead and enter the classroom. I welcome them in,  and ask their names, trying to commit them all to memory.  They unpack their bags, reveal new notebooks, pens, and sharpened pencils. We are all poised, ready—and so we start a light conversation.

“Probably some will be late today, but let’s get started!”  I declare. They nod, albeit nervously—not knowing what to expect.

And so, it’s September. A time I’ve always embraced as a new beginning. Whether it’s in my classroom—or my kitchen—it’s a time to start something new, I think.

I play with my lesson plans, just like I play with my food. I try to find something new—something that will inspire. Something that sparks interest. Something that will resonate with my students. 

At home, I look for something that will resonate with my dinner guests.

Appetizers for an End-of-Summer Dinner 

For now, I’m still enjoying the farmers’ market bounty. Tomatoes are still out. I’ve even got some green beans from the community garden that Seth, my husband, tends.

I put all the ideas together, and come up with a fresh version of perhaps a dish I’ve enjoyed before. Building—or scaffolding (as we say in the ESL teaching world) so that one idea or dish flows into another. 

The beach is still fresh and welcoming. Pumpkins are out.  September has walked in. 

 

Living Art at the Beach

Pumpkins on Display 

Mid-July Contemplations and Colors

“It’s like we are all on a bus,” Silvia begins to tell me her theory of life, and death. "And then," she continues, "often without warning, the bus makes a stop, someone gets off. Still, the bus continues on, stopping from time to time.” 

Silvia’s life analogy resonates with me now more than ever, as it seems too many people in my life are getting off the bus, and, at this point, I can only see them in my memories.  

Silvia was an ESL student of mine at Concordia many, many moons ago. Like so many—if not all—of my students, she taught me way more than I could have ever taught her. Silvia introduced me to Pedro Almodóvar; I believe we saw, Mujeres al Borde de un Ataque de Nervios (Women on the Verge of a Nervous Breakdown)” together. It was my first Almodóvar movie, and I was blown away by his humor, his cleverness, and his irreverence. (Of course, I loved hearing the Spanish, too.) 

Silvia also gave me a copy of Gabriel Garcia Marquez’s El Amor en los Tiempos del Cólera (Love in Time of Cholera). This book has made the move from our house, and survived with an inscription: Este libro y mi amistad, para Arlen, para Siempre –This book, and my friendship, for Arlen, forever. …And signed it. On this steamy and stormy mid-July day, I pull the book off my shelf and make a note to myself: it’s time to reread it. 

Also thinking about timing, food, reunions, and colors. More specifically, I’m especially focused on colors on my table. Some from the flowers that Seth brings from the community garden he so carefully tends, and others, from food. Long ago, I became aware of the importance of presentation of food. I learned a lot from Harry—of Harry’s Sauteuse—who wouldn’t let a plate go out unless it was garnished; parsley, for example, (his most popular of garnishes), had to be artfully placed on the dish. 

I also learned a lot from my mom, who was all about the creation of a plate/platter, as well as attention to detail. Maybe it was her artist’s eye that transposed a canvas, so to speak, onto a plate. Actually, it wasn't just the food and the table. All aspects of her meals and dinner parties were carefully choregraphed: the guest lists, who sat next to whom, the menus, the wines, the presentation, and of course, the music.  

July Garden Bounty 

Purple Potato Salad 

Coleslaw

Sautéed Shrimp in White Wine and Pepper Flakes 

Color on a plate, and a combination of textures—and of course flavors—that all complement each other, is something I still strive for and gain great happiness from. Yes, my ol’ dear Mambo 64 customers know I loved combining these key elements. 

These days, I’m combining at home—so when I can mix the deep blue/purple of a Peruvian potato, or the cream-colored meat of new potatoes, and contrast it with bright yellow of mango (yes—in a potato salad!) I do it. And yes, my friends, I do try to keep it more local for the most part, which is so much easier to do this time of year. And even the simple fresh green beans, cucumber, tomato, fresh herbs, and scallions (purple ones) radishes—and much more, topped with a sprinkle of fresh basil leaves, still dazzles.  

I guess it’s the freshness and immediate gratification of food –admiring it before devouring it—that still gets me. But it’s not too different from the way my body reacts to a beautiful scene—wild flowers, sunsets, a new baby connecting with a parent—sibling, or grandparent. 

Pre-Yoga Class View of Bryant Park 

Last Wednesday, when I was walking by Bryant Park in Midtown Manhattan, I saw a different kind of connection. There was a yoga class going on, and several hundred people were participating. As the teacher directed, they reached up to the sky, they all stretched up, in unison, and the sea of arms—not unlike an Esther Williams swimming movie, only more colorful as far as shades of skin. The collective movement was evocative. There they were, all different people, all different ages, moving in the same way, reaching for the same goal. It was an illustration of togetherness—of human contact positively and constructively achieved. 

I walked away from that scene, got to meet my son for a quick coffee,  and headed to my flamenco workshop. Still, a few thoughts about that Bryant Park yoga scene, along with some others from recent days, have stayed with me. I’m sharing four of them with you here: 

 1) Life is so crazy short. We need to take care of ourselves, and our loved ones, as best we can. So much is out of our control, so we need to foster the things we can. 2) We need to express our love, enjoy our loved ones, and celebrate what and  when we can. 

 3) It’s important to speak out about what we believe in, but equally important to listen to others, and hear where they’re coming from.

 4) There’s so much to live and learn—languages, books, music, art, dance, recipes—ah, places to visit! People to meet! 

My list grows in all different directions and I hear both of my parents’ voices encouraging me to continue on all fronts. As they would often say, “If we’re lucky, we keep learning—always.”

I wish you all days rich of joy and laughter, the courage, confidence and assistance you need to work to change things that you are unhappy with, and the opportunity to find happiness in learning,  and living,  many kinds of experiences.

With love always,

Arlen