MY OWN MADELEINE

 

After the wonderful cream of crab soup I slurped up so voraciously at the Lemon Leaf Café in Chestertown last week and after JR, the owner and a friend, told me the recipe began as an old family one, I searched to see if I could find an authentic recipe for cream of crab soup in one of my many cookbooks, to establish a starting point for my own creative version. Surprisingly, I didn’t have much success; most recipes were for “authentic” Maryland crab soup, but all gussied up with unusual ingredients and none of the creamed variety. But the search finally took me to a cookbook produced by the WSCS (Women’s Society of Christian Service) of the Unity-Washington Methodist Church in Hurlock, Maryland. It’s an old cookbook, one of my first, spiral-bound with some of the spirals missing and with a green cardboard cover, smeared with the dried remnants of ingredients used long ago. Probably created as a fund raiser for the WSCS, I thought it the perfect place to find what I was seeking. But, alas; there was no recipe for cream of crab soup. However, in perusing the seafood section I discovered a recipe for tuna noodle casserole, like Ribbon Salad from Mrs. Ira Brinsfield, or Apricot Bread from Mary Payne, attributed to Mrs. W. V. Smith. Like Proust with his madeleine, dipped in tea and instantly returned to his “things past,” I was immediately thrust back into 1962, when I came to Baltimore from the Eastern Shore to work as a designer/salesman in the Designer Gallery of The Bagby Furniture Company. I remembered all my fellow-salespeople: John, tall and thin, with glasses always sliding down his nose, a man very good with our dealer customers; Courtney, the somehow wayward – we never learned how - brother of the owner of the firm, a man who liked to tell off-color jokes and who blew his nose on a giant white handkerchief he always produced from his pants pocket. There was also Miss Willey, a proper old-maid-school-teacher type, with an incredibly correct posture and beautiful handwriting, who taught me how to make a white sauce and to remember to always wash the remnants of egg off my plates with cold water; hot water would only cook the eggs. And Schaffer (as we all called her), with the heavy make-up, the dyed black hair, glued-on fingernails and five-inch heels. Like Giada on the cooking channel, Shaffer was Bagby’s sex appeal. She always wore a tight skirt and had great legs. And the owner’s son, Hugh, who was so large we called him Huge (behind his back, of course), a buffoon of a man, just smart enough to be surprisingly dangerous. And I remembered the designer customers who brought their clients to me: Debby Goodman, who always said, “fine; how are you?” before I’d even asked her how she was; Emma Samuels, who lived in Temple Gardens and was married to a judge; Gert Rocklin, with red hair and always perfectly groomed; and Florine Macks who often absent-mindedly snapped her girdle to let a little air onto her thighs. I loved them all. And I sold them, and their clients, a lot of furniture.

            Seeing the recipe also reminded me of my earliest attempts at cooking, making the dish in my first apartment in Baltimore, a third floor walk-up in the 900 block of Calvert Street where, spurred on by my latent talent for design, I installed cork walls, Roman shades, felt-covered bookshelves, and a bar in the kitchen made from unfinished bookcases bolted together and covered with blue burlap. The top surface was laid with imperfect pieces of white marble originally destined for occasional tables at Bagby but damaged in transit. It was also where I enjoyed, and mourned, my first great love affair in a spectacular whirl of light and color and sound, joy and tears, like none since then.  

            Reading the recipe, I was so attracted to it that I checked my pantry to see if I had all the ingredients and, except for the cream of mushroom soup, the potato chips and the small can of LeSeur peas, things I would never normally eat now, I had everything I needed. So after a trip to Eddie’s where I procured these essentials, I created the casserole, complete with slabs of cheddar cheese layered on top and some more, shredded and mixed with the crumbled potato chips. Although I only made half a recipe, there was still far too much for one meal so I filled two casserole dishes, baked one and put the other in the freezer. The casserole dishes themselves – three in various depths, all nested together, white and tan, with star designs on the outside, probably from Pyrex – came from my brother and sister-in-law as a gift when I moved to Baltimore. I haven’t used them in years, but never had the urge to toss them out. They’ve moved with me from Calvert Street to University Parkway to Park Purchase to Maine to Saint Martin’s Lane, back to Park Purchase on now on to The Fitz. They’re almost as well traveled as I am.

I enjoyed my portion of tuna noodle casserole at my dining room table, which started life as an old, round, oak, farm table, given to me by my sister and brother-in-law as a start-up for my new digs on Calvert Street. I remembered laboriously sanding down the top and staining it with thinned white paint in an attempt to make it look like pickled oak. Some years later, after Calvert Street, when I decided to put the green marble on its top, I had to reinforce the base to hold the added weight. Wouldn’t Barb and Wayne – if they were still with us – be surprised that such a modest $15.00 item is now having its glamorous Cinderella moment?

Like Swann, in Proust’s epic saga, I left something sweet and tender irrevocably behind in that first love affair on Calvert Street, something I never recovered. Perhaps it was my awakening to the freedom of sexual self-awareness, which once dawned, can never be re-experienced. Or maybe it was my innocence, then lost and never recovered. Life now seems faster and much more complicated. The Bagby Furniture Company building, once bordered by decrepit and largely abandoned railroad sheds, now has a resurrected life as an office complex, firmly planted between old Little Italy and the new and fashionable Harbor East. Like the nearby President Street Station, where Lincoln arrived on his way to becoming president, the Bagby building seems an anachronism, slightly out of place, old but nestled now among the new. Its modest shipping dock where I once parked my car now houses the glamorous Fleet Street Kitchen, where today I might enjoy a seared tuna salad or tuna tartar. How much my life has been altered, by, well, life. But some things never change. The tuna noodle casserole was just as good as I remembered it. Mrs. W. V. Smith lives on through her simple recipe. She would be so proud.

 

 

Phil Cooper

February 2014

 

 

 

 

PHILIP SEYMOUR HOFFMAN, LAMAR, AND ME



The many column inches and sound bites recently devoted to the life and death of Philip Seymour Hoffman, and the memories of him expressed by his friends, have reminded me of my own dear friend, Lamar, who was also an addict, in his case, to alcohol. I knew him for only a short time while he was still drinking but I saw the effects of it when, at a party I attended, he mounted the host’s wooden cocktail table and jumped up and down on it until his rage at whatever set him off had reduced the table to just a pile of splinters scattered across the floor. Fortunately for us both, shortly after that he became a “recover-ing” alcoholic – I suspect alcoholics are never “recover-ed” – and remained so for most of the 25 years I knew him. During that time, we were very close friends. He was very bright and funny, a tad iconoclastic, and an unusually elegant dresser when the (not usual) occasion suggested. I admired him tremendously and he became a kind of mentor for me. Eventually, he substituted marijuana for alcohol, but he was able to handle that – I never saw him on a cocktail table again – and I learned from those who knew him in Alcoholics Anonymous, that he had become an icon in the local chapters and sponsored many. I remember a time when I served some dessert that had been flavored with rum and so vehement was he about not consuming even the smallest amount of alcohol, no matter how innocently, when he learned what he had in his mouth, he spit it out, dramatically, into his napkin. Unfortunately, late in our friendship, he suffered many reverses in his affections, including the death of his long-time lover from AIDS, and one night at my dinner table, to my dismay and horror, he insisted, over my objections, on drinking a small glass of wine, saying he only wanted to sample it, he could manage it, not to worry. Lamar moved away shortly after that, to a small house in Florida where he immediately went on a binge so severe that his brother came from Mobile, their family home, to rescue him from the local hospital’s psyche ward and drag him back to Alabama so he could be closely watched by his family. I called him there several times but he became increasingly distant and I learned, sadly, died only a few years later from alcohol- induced Alzheimer’s disease.

            On a recent program on the Diane Rehm show, where after Hoffman’s death, she was exploring heroin addiction, I wanted to call in to ask a question about an aspect of heroin her guests were seeming to skirt. Why become addicted to heroin in the first place? What was its appeal? How, or what, did it make users feel? In truth, I guess I can answer my own questions. While it would be a disservice to every addict to compare Lamar’s situation or Philip Seymour Hoffman’s to my own, I have recognized and do acknowledge my own addiction, in my case to some food, particularly sugar. I use it for solace – when I’ve had a bad day – and for celebration – when I’ve had a good one – all of which makes me feel satisfied, that fills, literally, the holes in my psyche. I guess any addiction is like that, like (to mix my metaphors) an itch that cannot be ignored, and once scratched, only itches more urgently. (I know a lot about that, from my extreme allergy to mosquito bites.)

            There was a period, a year or more ago, when my own life suffered some reverses, of both health and affection, and I stopped thinking about what I was eating, until I had gained so much weight that my clothes no longer fit and I was forced to buy new ones. And then I decided, in my head, as I have advocated on my blog as being essential, that I was going to lose weight, or, to be more active about it, that I was losing weight. That’s when I started the Medi-fast program, which was, for me, incredibly successful. As those of you who’ve followed my progress know, I lost almost 40 pounds in just two months. That dramatically changed my eating habits and by remaining conscious of what I put in my mouth, I’ve been able to hold my weight loss at what is called “goal weight” since early September, even through the incredibly tempting holiday season. But lately, I’ve begun to eat again, unconsciously, to have some snacks and a cocktail before dinner, to revert to my old habits of eating what I want (except for bacon and ice cream, which I haven’t had since July), and for indulging in my nemesis, sugar. I would buy a bag of cookies in the morning and they’d be gone by the time I went to bed. During this time, my weight has varied some, up and down a pound or maybe two, but in the last month, I’ve gained a solid five pounds. This will never do. And so, I’ve rededicated myself to going back on the Medi-fast program completely. This requires once again becoming conscious of what I’m eating, of rehydrating Medi-fast’s 110 calorie meals and consuming only those every day, five times a day, drinking ten glasses of water every day, and consuming “real” food only once each day, and that made up of – as Medi-fast calls it, “lean and green,” a lean meat and two green vegetables. This works. I’ve done it before. And I know I can do it again.

            In preparation for my new regimen (now called “regime”), I’ve not only psyched myself up by making the absolute decision to lose weight, summoning my dedication to success, and setting a specific day to begin my program (yesterday), but also by purging my refrigerator of temptation. Out went the leftover soup made from the sweet brisket vegetables. Out went the little bit of whole milk, the half and half and the cream that were ingredients in my recent kugel. Out went the cottage cheese, the mayonnaise, the sauce for baked potatoes, as well as the potatoes themselves. From out of my cupboard, I tossed the chocolate chips, the peanut butter morsels, the caramel syrup. The last of the Sofia, a blanc de blanc from the Francis Ford Coppola Monterey County vineyard, went down the drain. I ate the last of the pasta with meat sauce for dinner Sunday night and slapped the rest of the sauce into the freezer. Now my refrigerator is again pristine, with only a little leftover chicken (white meat) and a few pea pods for dinner tomorrow. So far today, I’ve had a Medi-fast strawberry shake, a Medi-fast chocolate crunch bar, some Medi-fast Mac and Cheese and five glasses of water. In mid-afternoon, I’ll have some Medi-fast pretzels before dinner, out, where I’ll east some salmon and broccoli (or maybe the baked oysters), and I’ll have another Medi-fast shake, this time banana, before I go to bed. This should rev up my metabolism and reduce my calories.

            I suppose we’re all addicted to something: alcohol, drugs, nicotine, sex; our appearance, our reputation, our degree of acceptance or the acquisition of more and more things; our grandchildren, our health, the garden, food. Mine is sugar. So can I overcome my addiction? At least for now, I’m sure I can. As Philip Seymour Hoffman and my friend Lamar would say (but perhaps not in that one last moment when they gave up), “One day at a time.”

Stay tuned

 

Phil Cooper, February 2014

ON FACEBOOK

Here, at the very beginning of my comments, I should say that I’m not a huge fan of Facebook. I know its avowed mission is to surround you, the user, with friends of your own choosing, and by your own postings on your own timeline (as it is called), keep them informed of what you want them to know about your life, and by reading what they’ve posted on their timeline, to learn what they want you to know about theirs. By the very act of becoming members, millions of users – is it billions by now? – seem to approve. After all, what’s there is all voluntary. But I find most of the information shared on Facebook to be pretty mundane and well, frankly, boring. Someone is in a particular restaurant, having lunch with someone else. Another friend is in an airport, waiting to go somewhere. Someone is celebrating a birthday (so I do get a chance to wish them a happy day). Someone is posting a photograph of their Christmas tree, or a sunrise (which I have done), or a grandchild, or their new kitchen or bathroom. There’s nothing wrong with this. I've done it myself, so I can hardly criticize. And these postings do keep me informed, perhaps more than I needed, or wanted, to be. So Facebook accomplishes what it intended.

Of course, Facebook is also a vehicle for advertising. How else could it make money? And I also must admit that I joined Facebook to announce the publication of my book, hoping to spread the word to my friends and encourage them to buy it. Is that not advertising? And I now (mostly) use my posts to advise my friends when I’ve written on one of my four blogs. Is that not advertising? Yes. It undoubtedly is. And are not my friends who see these messages as offended as I am when they have to wade through advertising, or my boring postings, to get to something perhaps more interesting that they really might want to know? The answer to that, too, is, yes, I’m sure they are. So an essential part of the Facebook phenomenon is undoubtedly our forced exposure to posts that encourage us to buy something, or read something, or go somewhere, and those that tell us of the mundane lives we all share. So despite my sometimes irritation at this reality and my not being a rabid fan, Facebook does serve its purpose. And is that a worthy one? Millions – or is it billions by now? – agree that it is. I’m sure there’s plenty of room for debate about that, but that discussion is for another time. And so, every morning, after I’ve checked my email, I go to Facebook to read these ads and to learn of my friends’ lives (or at least what they want me to know of them, which may be an entirely different thing). Is this not catering to our lowest common denominator, my yearning to hear and to be heard? Are we all that lonely?

But once in a while, there’s a posting on Facebook of (what I think of) as of a higher nature, something that really grabs my attention and provides information I consider a valuable contribution to my life. Like the time one of my acquaintances (not really a close friend, but someone I knew, like so many of my “friends” on Facebook) posted a laudatory comment about their satisfaction with meeting their weight-loss goals with the Medi-fast program. That post, my introduction to Medi-fast, which helped me to lose 40 pounds, changed my life. And this morning, I read on Facebook a post that really shook me up, that I thought was a real (in all senses of that word) contribution to my world.

There have been many times when I’ve felt guilty of not contributing more than I have to the LGBT movement. Oh, I’ve given money, been to benefits, donated photographs or dinners to be raffled off. All passive. I did publish (myself) a book that described my life, hoping that my experiences would have some positive effect on the world (if not on my pocketbook). But I was not a member of ACT UP and I’ve never testified in Annapolis in support of gay marriage. I’ve been, honestly, pretty passive. But this morning I listened to a posted video on Facebook of an Irish drag queen share her experiences of homophobia. That speech was so much more revealing, honest, brutal and moving than the words in my book that I was amazed at how she was able to portray in only a few minutes what it took me 70,000 words to only try to convey. And, at least from my perspective, with so much more impact.

 It seems that Panti Bliss appeared on a TV talk show in Ireland where she called an Irish organization, the Catholic Iona Institute, “homophobic” because of their stand against gay marriage. Iona sued the RTE network where Panti appeared and RTE paid a penalty of 70,000 pounds to settle the suit. In response, Panti appeared at the end of a play at the Irish National Theater where she spoke about homophobia and oppression in a way that surpassed in impact all the comments in all the books, and news articles and column inches I’ve read. She was truly amazing.

I shared the post on my own timeline with the hope that many of my friends on Facebook would react to it. Some of them may have  read it; Facebook doesn't provide a way to know that. But no one, not one, clicked on a “like” button, or the “comment” button, or the “share” button, which only proves to me that my friends, at least, are more interested in who’s eating where with whom, where someone is going or who saw a bird or had a spectacular Christmas tree. What a shame. I wish Facebook, my friends, and most of all I, were a little more active.

(If you want to hear Panti’s speech, go to www.pinknews.com.uk. That will take you to a Bing list of sites where you can choose pinknews.co.uk. Choose the “Trending Right Now” column on the right and click on the top story. If you’re like me, you’ll be glad you did.)

 

TIME AFTER TIME, OR SCAM AFTER SCAM

I seem to have become a favorite of all those scammers who like to tell people like me that we're the beneficiaries of a large sum of money, anywhere from $1.5 million to $11.5 million, which seem to be favorite sums. I wonder if this is because they believe these sums are believable enough to snag a fish. Their information comes in all sorts of guises. I'm the winner of a European lottery, or my credit card has been selected at random by an official in some office in Benin, or some wealthy winner of the lottery - usually a legitimate one - wants to give part of his winnings away, or a wealthy widow is dying of cancer and wishes to be sure her legacy goes to someone who will use the money for a charitable cause. Some of these notifications come with instructions to email someone further, who will provide details of how to claim my prize. These details are usually very long-winded but somewhere there is always the catch: I have to send some money, varying from $75 (the lowest I've seen) to as much as $750 (the highest) which will assure that my ATM card loaded with my inheritance will be transported to me safely. I've even had calls, sometimes in the middle of the night, informing me that the courier who is carrying my legacy is at an airport - JFK and DFW seem to be favorites - and needs to clear customs for a sum before flying on to BWI to bring me my legacy in person.

All of this is very alluring and although I know they're scams, I've become fascinated by the gyrations of the come-ons and the instructions for collecting. I've even had calls, one right after the other (when I've hung up on the first) from two different numbers - I can see this on my iphone records - but with the same caller. The scammers must catch a lot of people for them to be so prevalent, and so insistent. Lately, I've emailed back with strident instructions of my own - "send me my money immediate, without further delay," or "where are the funds you promised me" - ignoring, and without responding, to the things, especially the money, they've asked of me.

It's become a kind of game. But I grow weary (just as I've grown weary of Candy Crush Saga and Words With Friends on Facebook - and even maybe Facebook itself, but that's for another topic) and the game has  become a bore, even though I'm still attracted to the possibility that I've actually won something. (All I ever won was a cookbook, which I surely didn't need.) So enough, already! Scammers beware. I'm not playing anymore.

There must be some new game I can play, that might give me more satisfaction.

Stay tuned.

I STAND (HERE) CORRECTED

I'm happy to report that today I received a very thoughtful and generous thank-you note from my married friends. The delay was apparently due to their wanting to use wedding photographs on their thank-you cards. It was a lovely gesture. My faith in (at least some) humanity is restored.

Stay tuned.

IN PERPETUUM

At this time every year I have the same dilemma. Should I send a Christmas card to the Brazilian couple I met in 1999? With three friends, I was then on a cruise in Chile, from Puerto Mont south through the Chilean fjords to the San Rafael Glacier. The scenery was glorious. But the crew on the Scorpios, a Chilean cruise line, spoke only Spanish - the foreign quality of the cruise was part of its charm -  and without Jose and Lisette, who spoke Spanish and English and were fortunately assigned to our table, we would have been in the dark at every meal. But they translated the Spanish menu into English for us, and our choices back into Spanish for the waiter. We all became friends. But as most cruise friendships go, I expected this one to fade into acquaintance once the cruise was over. But that next Christmas, I received a Christmas card from Lisette. How was I? Jose had been to a fabric fair in Frankfort. They had a daughter in Fort Lauderdale and visited her occasionally. She hoped she would see me again. We had had such a good time, hadn't we? Like me, my friends received similar messages from her. We were all surprised. And pleased.

As I approach Christmas each year, I fret over my Christmas card design. For many years, I sent the traditional card, usually purchased at a museum, ice skaters on a lake, a Wegman dog holding a candy cane, that sort of thing. But for the last 10 years or so, I've insisted my card be made of one of my photographs, from some place exotic I've visited in the world, some vista or object reminiscent of Christmas. A triangular cut-out in a Mayan temple complex, a doorway in China, a bell in Thailand, lighted houses here on 34th Street in Hampden. I'm sure part of this insistence is rooted in  my egotism, making people aware that I've been to this location, and showing off my abilities at photographic composition. I'll own up to that. But I also like to think the receiver will feel the card is special, that I took the time to make a card of my photograph, a kind of unique gift to them, a card like no other.

 I usually send these cards willy-nilly, to everyone in my address book, friends near and far and without regard to their ethnic or religious persuasion (although the cards have  recently always said "Happy Holidays" instead of "Merry Christmas"). And true to my Type A personality, I keep a list of those to whom I send my cards, and I admit to a similar list of those who send cards to me. So as I approach the holidays, I wonder each year about those I haven't heard from, especially those far away. Had they moved and I'd addressed the card to the wrong location? Or worse, had they died?

In an attempt to answer this question, I once called a girlfriend I'd known since childhood, a widow now living in Florida, someone with whom I exchanged cards each year but whom I hadn't seen since 1997 when I visited her on my way to Key West and from whom I hadn't received a card that year. Was she still alive, I wondered? Yes, she was. But very cool on the phone. I could tell she wanted to end our conversation almost as soon as she realized who I was. Had something I'd said in my previous year's events letter offended her? She'd always known I was gay. Had she gotten serious religion in her elder years and decided I was sinful? I never knew. But I never heard from her again either. Sad. I'd known her since we were in grade school, when she had a pet alligator she kept in her bathtub. How could someone so grounded in the unusual decide late in her life that I was too unusual to be acceptable? And this year, I received no card from another friend I've known for close to 50 years. We even used to exchange gifts. But this year not even a card. Have I offended him? Or have we just drifted so far apart that he no longer considers us friends? I'll never know. 

I've made some efforts this past year to simplify my life. I almost didn't send cards at all. But I found a lot of what might be called leftovers in my card drawer, extra cards not sent from many years before. So I rationed them out to friends I really care about, leaving out my Jewish friends who'd never sent me cards in the past, and some of those so far away I haven't seen them in many years. I pondered over the address for Lisette and Jose, and decided to skip them this year. But yesterday, her annual card came. Bless her heart.

The thing is this. If I leave someone off my card list this year, and I receive a card from them, like I did from Lisette, I'll feel it necessary to send them a card next year. But not having heard from me this year, next year these people will cut me from their own list. And then the next year, I'll cut them, but since they heard from me the year before, they'll add me back again. And so it goes. In perpetuum. 

Stay tuned.


 

CHRISTMAS DINNER

Oh. I forgot the palmiers. They're little elephant-ear-like hors d'oeuvres, made with folded puff pastry layered with goat cheese, pesto, sun-dried tomatoes and pine nuts. I'd never made them before and I'm a little leery about puff pastry, but I remembered to thaw it, and I'd seen Ina do this many times. It looked easy. It wasn't so hard. I made two rolls, covered them with plastic wrap and put them in the fridge. I could slice them and bake them just before my guests arrived. I wanted them to be warm when served.

I made the ganache and assembled the cake. Glorious! But would the cherry jam run over the edges? Would the ganache harden properly over the wet jam? At this point, it was done. What will be, will be. Que sera and all that. I put the cake on a pretty cake stand (a wedding gift to my parents), covered it with the top and put it on top of the buffet, the only surface left open.

I still had the Oysters Rockefeller to prepare, a tenderloin to cook, the potatoes and now-infamous gorgonzola sauce to reheat, the tomatoes to bake and the palmiers to cut and bake. How to do it all? I realized I needed a time table. Not my usual casual time table I sometimes use to prepare for guests, but a complete, minute by minute schedule of how to make all this work, and including the changing oven temperatures. So, from 3 PM, when I took the meat and the gorgonzola out of the fridge to bring them to room temperature, until we sat down to dinner at 6:30, I followed my own instructions, carefully printed out from my word processor, and I kept my timer in my pocket, even after the guests came. A sample of the schedule: 4:00, heat oven to 400; 4:30 palmiers on a cookie sheet, 4:40, palmiers in the oven for 14 minutes;  4:54, palmiers out, plate, raise oven temperature to 500; gorgonzola sauce on low heat; stir. 5:00, guests arrive. You get the picture.

And eureka, it worked! Still, as might be expected, there were a few bumps. I almost spilled the (very hot) sheet pan that contained the oysters (in their shells on a bed of rock salt) when I took it out of the oven, raised the rack, and put the oysters under the broiler. Can you imagine the mess on the kitchen floor? Hot oysters, hot rock salt, a hot pan? Fortunately, I saved it just in time. I only forgot to release the timer once and had to guess at the timing, so crucial to successful medium rare beef. It came out a hair early and was a little on the rare side, but no matter. And when I heated the now cranky gorgonzola sauce, it separated. I had to whisk it like mad to get it back together. But the candles got lit, the champagne and wine got opened, the meal was served and my guests said everything was delicious. I was very pleased.

Oh, and the guests? They melded very well,  even voluntarily mixing it up at the table so they got to talk to people they hadn't met before. I pronounced the dinner a big success. But never again. It's too much work. And I'm not as spry - or as daring - as I used to be.

I'm having the leftover tenderloin in a sandwich for dinner tonight, just spread with cold gorgonzola sauce. I'm not risking put that venomous stuff back on the stove again!

Stay tuned.