didaink

"Mr. Steve Martin.. breaker, breaker... Roger me."

 

“Mama, don’t put a dessert in my lunch today,” my son barked from the breakfast table this morning.  However, I didn’t hear the “don’t” part and instead asked him what kind of dessert he wanted in his lunch.

“Mama! I said DON’T put a dessert! Hello??  Earth to Mama!”

When your five-year old quotes you to yourself using the euphemism you came up with for “Duh” you know it’s time to step up your game. 

“Well, EX-cu-ooh-oohze meeee!” my hands waving back and forth, the way I remembered it.

However, because your son is five and has never heard of Steve Martin or his stand up routine from 1974, this may not be the right response to your child while he looks at you like you are the world's unfunniest mother. 

“Listen, Steve Martin was and still is a very funny guy, a wild and KAH-razy guy, who even knows how to play the banjo and…. All right, forget it, but someday you will come to appreciate Mr. Steve Martin!”

“Uh, okay, Mama… so, anyway, NO dessert, okay?”

“Señor, are you the wildest and KAH-raziest of guys today? Why don’t you want dessert?”

“Because!”

“Yes… because…?”

“The teachers say I don’t have enough time!”

“Huh, well, okay… but, why don’t you listen to me when I tell you there’s not enough time for dessert?”

“Because you’re NOT my teacher, you’re my Mama… Hello??…”

I am now carefully plotting my next comeback line, busily thinking up new euphemisms for Smartass.

But, so far, all I’ve managed to come up with is “Earth to Steve Martin!”  haHA! Roger THAT, Señor.

 

 

Dear Oak,

 

I hope this letter finds you and your family full and peaceful after a relaxing Thanksgiving holiday, maybe still basking in the warm hum of a do-nothing weekend without homework assignments or college applications.

I hope this letter finds you having weathered the Black Friday storm and the thundering aftermath of ads and commercials reminding you that there is still plenty of valuable “stuff” you cannot live without, all available at half-off for a limited time only.

I hope this letter finds you comforted and decompressed from eating leftover turkey and stuffing and pie too many consecutive days in a row.  Fingers crossed, your feet are up on the couch now and you’re reading your favorite book because you want to and not because you have to…  and the only pressing thing you must find closure on is the movie you and your friends are going to order On Demand just as soon as you finish making the world’s greatest sandwich.

And as you look inside your fridge and find the last leftover fixings needed to construct the greatest “leftovers” sandwich known to mankind, I hope you will find what every teenager should have - health and happiness - and, of course, a turkey-mashed-potato sandwich that includes a colorful swirl of fresh tomatoes and cranberry sauce topped with mayonnaise.   

Once you’re sitting down enjoying that noble yet simple masterpiece, a giant glass of cold milk standing nearby, I hope you get to see the leaves and the wind dance the tango in red, yellow and orange from your kitchen window, as Fall turns into Winter, as we all shift and move, reach and stand up for diversity, equality and kindness… amazing how a leftover turkey sandwich on a Sunday afternoon can bring that kind of clarity. 

It really does hit the spot, though, especially before Monday strikes and the world revs its rhetoric machine up all over again in a noisy cafeteria filled with ignorant jargon and Salisbury steak.

Oak, finally, I hope this letter finds you illuminated by the light you shined on the world because you went to Mona Shores High School.  You are a courageous leader in a time when there are few, but first, and more importantly, you are a still just a kid trying to enjoy his youth when and while he can.  So go fix yourself another sandwich and enjoy every bite…. And for goodness sake, use real mayonnaise not that Miracle Whip nonsense.

Bon Appetit!

Love,

dida

The Latke Candidate

The Good News:  It was this time a week ago, Sunday, that I stood waiting for “The World’s Greatest Latke!” in Little Rock, Arkansas.

That’s what our Latkerista, Barry, announced, about to serve the first batch to a small group forming around a mini “latke-dome” at the annual Jewish Food Festival in Little Rock, Arkansas.  

Wait. Rewind. Let me enjoy rewriting that bounty of ground-breaking text all over again... the annual Jewish Food Festival in Little Rock, Arkansas. Surreal to me, as I write it again.

So, what’s the bad news? (Must there always be The Bad News, anyway?) Okay, okay! Here it comes…

The Bad News: The World’s Greatest Latke. Sorry, Barry.

However! Barry, and all the people I met at the festival made up for the mediocre Jewish food I tasted there… and I’ll admit, I wasn’t able to give all the dishes the tasting attention they deserved. For this, I will blame my new Jewish Food Festival buddy, Zhao. 

Yes, it was all Zhao’s fault… had he not been such a “Chatty Kathy," (those who know me or Zhao might find reason to argue this description) I would have had more time to try the kugel and the blintzes and the corn beef and pastrami. But, then again, Zhao had nothing to do with the falafel snafu at the festival, so he claims… but now, all of a sudden, he decides to take The Falafel Fifth? All I know is, I never saw any falafels at the festival, as they were apparently en route from another location. Yet, Zhao’s backpack looked suspiciously puffy.

So, who in the world is Zhao? Does he actually exist or did I simply dream him up?

Some might say, yes, I invented him right out of thin air, because I wanted to experience a Jewish food festival in the South through an unlikely set of eyes and taste buds... a student from Beijing who now makes his home in Little Rock, Arkansas.

It sounds a little like a scene from the final season of Lost. Imagine Jin asking Sayid to pass the sour cream at Sawyer’s house on Hanukkah, while Ben fries up another round of latkes for Locke and Charles Widmore.

I first noticed Zhao in the crowd, not necessarily because he looked noticeably different, but because of the amount of items he was toting.  He seemed ready for anything and everything, camera in hand, rain jacket tucked under his arm in case he got caught in a torrential Southern downpour, hauling a very large pack on his back ~ a soldier prepared for a long trek in unfamiliar terrain. 

The next thought I had was that his tour bus driver took the wrong exit off Interstate 430, landing him at the Jewish Food Festival instead of The Waffle House, the scheduled lunch stop on his tour of the South.

“Have you tried anything yet at the festival?” I asked him. He nodded no, politely. 

“Would you like to have a latke with me then?” He couldn’t help but look startled and a little worried that a strange woman was asking him on a semi-lunch date at the Jewish Food Festival in Little Rock, Arkansas.

“Have you ever had one before?” I continued.  

He shook his head and then spoke with a thick, broken English accent, “Have no tickets yet…”

“Oh, I’ve got plenty. Let's go? They’re almost ready,“ as I whisked Zhao away and turned him into, The Latke Candidate.

~ Stay tuned for, The Latke Candidate, Part II 

didaink links & favs

http://www.boulevardbread.com

Italian Cappuccino

http://mrespresso.com

Scottish Cured Lox

http://www.brownetrading.com

MorningSide Bagels will be featured at the Jewish Food Festival on May 16! 

http://www.jewisharkansas.org/index.aspx?page=1

http://www.morningsidebagels.com

Capps & Lox in Little Rock?

Where does a self-proclaimed Metropolitan Foodie from San Francisco, an Italian girl who’s mostly mistaken for a Jewish girl, find a proper cappuccino in Arkansas? And what if she craves a warm, out-of-the-oven, bagel, smothered in cream cheese? 

Piled high with fresh lox, capers and a smidge of red onion, she wants to construct a bagel and cream cheese (almost) the same way her Jewish brother-in-law from Scarsdale, New York builds his... but where? She is standing in the “deep” South, as one of her San Francisco friends puts it, but she is suddenly optimistic and summoned by her conviction! 

She jumps off her porch in The Heights district of Little Rock, pocketbook in hand, and begins her quest for the perfect Jewish-Italian breakfast.

_____________________________________________________________________________________

I missed San Francisco more than usual that misty morning in Little Rock, remembering all the hours I had spent at Caffé Trieste and Puccini reading Cervantes and admiring Don Quixote, my hands laced around a brown ceramic cup, feeling like I was vacationing in Rome. I didn’t want to believe that the same feeling couldn’t be found somewhere in the South. So, why not Little Rock? 

I was determined to report back to my San Francisco friends that there was ethnicity and diversity in the little city that Bill Clinton made famous ~ the city I now temporarily call home.

I was glib as I walked past Starbucks on popular Kavanaugh Boulevard. I tried not to stare shamelessly at all the sell-outs standing in line. But those people had settled! They had thrown in the towel on their cup o’Joe, choosing corporate America’s version of espresso in a cardboard cup over the little guy – that beloved café owner who likely knows the story of Luigi Bezzera and Desederio Pavoni who fathered Espresso in Milan at the turn of the century.

Then suddenly I heard the voice of reality shouting, What are you doing? You are in Arkansas now! There are no immigrant Italians or Jews for thousands of miles! Turn around, order your Half-Caff, Grande, Carmel Macchiato and put a stop to this ridiculous charade!  And that’s when I saw her…a little woman with a nose resembling mine.

She was in a hurry, making a beeline for something or somebody, moving quickly past Starbucks and me. Her resemblance to my Jewish sister, Deb, was uncanny. She was just as petite and nimble, sporting a nose as elegant and crooked as Deb’s, but also Roman and long like mine.  I wanted to run up and hug her… Had she somehow heard my cry for diversity? Had my tug for ethnicity helped to pull her down Kavanaugh in my direction?  Had I just stepped into The Twilight Zone?

She crossed the street, and I sprinted to catch up. My quest for the perfect Jewish-Italian breakfast was a virtuous one, so Mr. Self-Respect would just have to take a number and wait next to Mr. Pride and Mrs. Humility. 

“Excuse me!” I rallied from behind, my hand finally reaching her shoulder. “Do you know where I could get a bagel and maybe some lox in the neighborhood?”

She didn’t flinch. She didn’t cackle or shake her head. And she didn’t ask how long I had been stalk… uh.. following her.  Instead, she grinned and I thought I saw her distinguished nose wriggle. Then she pointed to a red awning across a small parking lot. It read, Boulevard Bread Company.

<http://maps.google.com/maps?client=safari&q=1920+N+Grant+Street,+Little+Rock&oe=UTF-8&ie=UTF8&hq=&hnear=1920+N+Grant+St,+Little+Rock,+Pulaski,+Arkansas+72207&gl=us&ei=yAw2TKiHDIOknQfCtqCHBA&ved=0CBQQ8gEwAA&ll=34.770031,-92.339401&spn=0.007756,0.016286&z=16&layer=c&cbll=34.770115,-92.339409&panoid=qjXK6EXI9sxLsxaUa8aqgQ&cbp=12,272.18,,0,5.87>

“There you are! I’m starving!” blurted out a woman with an accent, exiting her car.

“I know, I know… I got here as fast as I could!” she tried to explain to her foreign friend.

My tummy rumbled. My mouth trembled. I stepped in the red door behind them and my knees buckled, while the globe spun. I was suddenly standing in a San Francisco sound bite, amid a hubbub of baguettes and ciabattas baking in commercial size ovens. I was surrounded by hungry people chatting away, starting their day in front of a multitude of ethnic dishes and gourmet delicacies ~ and a surprising collection of well-priced imported and domestic cheese. There were Italian salamis to the left, lox, capers and olives to the right. All housed in a grand New York style deli case. 

http://www.boulevardbread.com

artisan bread • imported cheese • gourmet take-out

As I took it all in, a wave of oak roasted espresso curled inside my Romanesque nose.  My eyes darted east and found rows and rows of a very familiar brand of Italian coffee bean, Mr. Espresso, lining the shelves. My heart skipped. Mr. Espresso is based out of Oakland California, just across the San Francisco Bay Bridge. It was started by Salerno born, Carlo Di Ruocco. He began importing Italian espresso machines and beans to San Francisco area cafes and restaurants from his Bay Area home garage in the late Seventies. 

Carlo Di Ruocco is the quintessential “little guy” who started out just wanting to get a good cup of coffee when he first arrived in San Francisco from Italy.  I couldn't have found a better espresso bean for a proper cappuccino!

http://mrespresso.com

My gut instincts have never failed me ~ nor has my elongated nose. They both led me right to the doorstep of “the little gal “ Christina McGehee, the sole-owner of Boulevard Bread Company and Café.  Her perceived motto for quality food and service shine through… give your customers the highest quality imported and local ingredients that you can, without gouging them in their pocketbook.

While ordering my Mr. Espresso cappuccino, 

I also spotted some of the best lox available on the wholesale and retail market, for a good price, cured from scratch by lox expert Browne Trading Company in Portland, Maine and shipped overnight to Boulevard Bread.

https://www.brownetrading.com

Then my eyes welled up… below my stunned expression, sat two plump jewels facing me on the deli counter – a traditional Bialy bagel with poppyseads and carmelized onions, and an Asiago Bialy.  Here's a close-up pic of a family of Bialy bagels originally from Bialystoke, Poland.

I was in The Twilight Zone… or possibly Manhattan? Chicago? Boston? I might have been in any metropolitan hotspot and yet I was standing in Little Rock, Arkansas.  The typical cultural stereotypes of the South that my fellow-San Franciscans joke about had been debunked, even if for a moment. I couldn’t help but feel triumphant. There ARE signs of cultural diversity in Little Rock ~ something I’ve come to admire and require from any progressive city.