First Cut

This year, I’m in charge of the brisket.

This is no small matter.  In our family, briskets are served steaming with a large measure of pride and a pinch of vanity.   

In my house growing up, holidays meant eating in the dining room on the large chairs with rose velvet cushions, and using our fancy china with decorative edges. And despite the fact that my father always bought my mother a gigantic bouquet of flowers on the eve of a holiday, the brisket was the real centerpiece of our dining room table.

My mom is famous for her brisket.  When I was a kid, the sweet smell of simmering meat and onions would settle over our house, days before the holiday even began, shepherding us from our hectic lives into a calmer, transcendent, even spiritual zone in which even my sister and I got along.   At the holiday meal, I filled my dish with traditional holiday foods: sweet potatoes, green beans, some kind of kugel, roasted chicken, and finally, the tender brown slice of saucy meat, its juices running carelessly around my plate, soaking into the other foods. Someone, usually my dad, would take the first bite and announce, “Fantastic! This brisket melts in your mouth!”  

And it did.   The soft pieces of meat would fall off our forks as we lifted them to our mouths. The other foods often benefitted from the succulence of the brisket: if the turkey was dry, the brisket would moisten it up. If the kugel was bland, the meat’s sauce would flavor it. I never understood how my mom did it.  All the other days of the year, she served up much simpler fare: chicken, hamburgers, chicken, spaghetti and meatballs, chicken.  But her brisket was special, reserved for meals in the dining room.  It truly separated this night from all other nights.  I imagined that such a delicious entree was very difficult to make, and required superior culinary skills, which I did not possess. (Did I mention that I got a D in Home Economics  in 7th grade?) Brisket was clearly way out of my league.

For reasons not fully clear to me, my mom handed off the brisket-making to my sister a few years ago.  I don’t know if Amy volunteered or if she was asked, but there was an implicit understanding that she would be the next woman in our family to undertake the job, even though I am two years older.  Her qualifications--being a wife and mother--seemed to make her a better fit for the job.  As a single woman living in a studio apartment, I was still bringing things like salad.

But this year, Amy and her husband flew off to Puerto Rico the weekend before Passover, leaving my parents to babysit for their two boys.  So this year for Passover, the brisket-making fell to me. For the first time, I felt ready to tackle it.

Of course, I had a lot of questions: what type of meat WAS brisket exactly? How much should I buy? What goes into the sauce? How do I get that amazing smell to engulf my entire house? Does this mean I am a grown-up?

The women in my life all gave advice--solicited and not--about the one special ingredient that must go into a good brisket.  Rachel’s mom uses Coca-Cola;  Amy, Heinz chili sauce; and Maggie, grape jelly.  I decided to go with my mom’s tried and true recipe. 

She explained that the important thing is that I buy “first cut” meat.  She must’ve repeated it ten times because as I was listening to her, I doodled “first cut” and underlined it four times on a yellow post-it, lest I forget this most critical directive. I went to the kosher butcher, paid almost $100 for a piece of meat I was sure I would ruin, and lugged home my “first cut” slab of cow.

Finally, the day came to combine ketchup and Italian dressing and apricot preserves and onions on a hunk of meat and whip up the special holiday feeling that would transform my hectic house into a cozy home.  Though I hate to admit it, I asked my mom to come and help.  I figured if she was there for my birth, bat mitzvah, and wedding, she should be here for this rite of passage.

She was running late so she called from her cell phone on her way to my house to get me started.

“Take the meat out of the refrigerator” (thanks) “and season it with pepper, paprika and garlic powder on both sides.  Then cook it for 30 minutes on 450 degrees, turn it over, and then cook it another 30 minutes.  I should be there by the time you are taking it out.” 

OK, easy enough, though six and half pounds felt heavier than I’d thought as I flipped it in the tin tray.  Emmet was 7 and half pounds when he was born, but much cuter.  

She arrived just as I was taking it out of the oven. 

“OK, good, so now cut your onions into thin slices.  Do you have any diet Coke for me?”

I pointed her towards her soda, while I began slicing onions (and just a small sliver of my left middle fingernail.  My special ingredient?)  We could hear Emmet waking up from his nap.  My mom rushed upstairs to see him.   

She yelled down the stairs, “Okay, reduce the heat to 325 and start making the sauce” and she rattled off exact measurements to the ounce of each of the ingredients.  How did she remember that you needed exactly 18 ounces of preserves? 10 ounces of ketchup?  Is this the same woman who sometimes forgets the story she is telling in the midst of telling it? It was perplexing, but very impressive.  In a few minutes, the sauce was poured over the meat, and the onions were placed carefully in the pan.  My brisket was finally in the oven to be checked on for moistness in three hours.  

For those hours while my brisket baked, my mother and my son played peekaboo and puzzles on my family room floor, my dad played ping pong in the basement with my husband, and I sat in the kitchen and breathed in the sweet smell of family.

Suburb-atory

Suburbatory

When I was eight years old, my father almost got us killed in New York City. 

Long story short, we were going to visit a great-aunt in Hell’s Kitchen (the name itself should have been a clue) and my father pulled our red station wagon into a parking spot that a “local” man had apparently already cherry-picked for himself.  No big deal, except that upon my dad’s refusal to move, the guy returned to his car, grabbed a black, metallic object, and walked back toward us with an ominous look in his eye.  We quickly found another parking spot.

We escaped unscathed except for the indelible message imprinted in my mind: anyone living in New York City was asking for trouble.  So when I landed in New York City to pursue a graduate degree in teaching, I couldn’t imagine that I’d stay there for more than a decade.  

But I fell in love.

And like the beginning of most romances, it was whirlwind and passionate.  I loved the all-night diners and coffee shops; the street fairs on the weekends and The Strand bookstore.  I found quaint restaurants and shopped at charming boutiques. (Needless to say, my dwindling bank account didn’t feel the love.)  After my stint at NYU, I moved uptown to Normandie Court--practically a rite of passage-- and then to a rental on the Upper West Side, just steps away from Zabar’s and H&H Bagels (my waistline didn’t feel the love either.)  I was dating, even had a semi-serious relationship here and there, but my real significant other was the city.  I was in my 20’s and I was having a blast.

As 30 loomed over me, I began to wonder if I was in the right relationship.   Many of my friends were getting married and starting families, and several had even gone so far as to flee to the suburbs where they would have backyards and wide hallways in which their offspring could frolic.

I started to feel the pressure of no boyfriend, and of course, that internal ticking timepiece.  I was tired of living in apartments shared by a revolving door of roommates in cramped quarters.  I felt as though I was waiting for my real life to start, the part when I got married and bought a home with my husband and galloped off into the sunset (or at least to Westchester.)   I was afraid that buying an apartment--to live in alone--would be admitting defeat. 

But the city was relentless in its hold over me, and I caved.  I found commitment on the corner of 75th and 2^nd, in the form of an L-shaped studio.   The deal was closed on September 13, 2001. The smell of smoke from the devastated Twin Towers still saturated the air as I walked into my lawyer’s office to sign the papers that wed me to New York City.

Our affair continued for six more years, as I settled into the routines that characterize most relationships. I met friends for brunch on the weekends at places designed to look like Vermont bed and breakfasts and ran races in Central Park with the New York Road Runners Club on Sunday mornings.  As always, I was searching for someone permanent to brunch and run with, but overall, I felt proud of the life I had made for myself.  

Then, Jeff came along. At first, we three got along beautifully.  He loved the city as much as I did.  On the weekends that he didn’t have his three kids (see Blog Post #2), we stayed at my studio.  But as we became closer, it became clear that I would have to choose between my sweet new boyfriend (plus three) or my dynamic old flame.  I’d read enough chick-lit to know not to move backwards.

So, somewhat bittersweetly, we relocated to a 3-bedroom apartment in New Jersey for almost two years.  It was not an easy adjustment, and I found myself in my car a lot, making the trip over the George Washington Bridge four or five nights a week.  I played in my weekly tennis league, went to my book club, and chaired philanthropic committee meetings.  Jeff thought I was out of my mind, but I reasoned that I was really only a 20 minute drive from the city (minus time spent looking for parking.) 

Shortly after Emmet was born, we moved to a lovely house in Connecticut, within walking distance of a playground, a bakery, and the grocery store, but over 45 minutes away from Manhattan. My lack of proximity to the city made me anxious: would I really be able to maintain my strong ties to the city as the miles between us grew? Could this be the end of our fourteen-year fling?  I was clearly in denial about my new status as a suburbanite.  I fell into a kind of suburban purgatory--suburbatory?--in which I was caught between my two worlds.  

At the same time, I was eager to claim a place in my new community. We joined a synagogue and signed Emmet up for music class and swim class.  When we went to the Purim carnival at the JCC, I watched at how comfortably the families intermingled with each other--laughing, chasing after their toddlers, sitting at long tables together to eat pizza and hamantashen.  In Manhattan, that would've been me.  

As I looked on at this scene--somewhat wistfully--Emmet squirmed out of my lap where we had been making tambourines out of paper plates and beans.  As I chased him through the crowd, I bumped into one of my new neighbors, and then ran into a girl I went to camp with, and then stopped to chat with an old college friend who had recently moved to the area. (Oh, and Jeff had reclaimed Emmet.)  By the time we left the JCC, we had scheduled one playdate and one night out for grown ups.

I think the city would be happy to see me moving on.

Manolo-What?

I didn’t watch TV for thirteen years.

I’m not against watching television.  I love television. As a kid, I watched plenty, and can still hum the jingles from even the most obscure TV sitcoms. (Love, Sidney anyone?)  My nights revolved around which shows I’d watch.  TV was so central in my life that banishing it from me was the harsh punishment that my parents doled out when I misbehaved.  Back then, I took "Must See TV" very literally.

But for the thirteen years that I lived in New York City, from 1994 to 2007, I was not committed to one single show that would require me, in the pre-DVR era, to actually stay home to watch it, a fact I find embarrassingly unimaginable right now.  

I’m not saying that I never flipped on the tube to check out Jon Stewart, or watch Seinfeld reruns while getting ready for bed.  I even recall a flu-ey weekend when I was glued to 24 hours of Lifetime movies, which morphed into one giant afterschool special which might have been named My Baby’s Father Made Me an Anorexic Killer, starring Meredith Baxter Birney or Tracey Gold. Often, I simply had the television on as background noise to my single life.

And it’s not that there weren’t some quality programs on during those years: water cooler talk at work ranged from Tony Soprano’s psychotrauma (a gangster with feelings?) or Carrie’s outrageous styles on Sex and the City (a Manolo-what?), but I found that I was proudly, maybe even a bit smugly, oblivious to these characters’ latest foibles.

The only thing I was committed to was finding someone.  In my mind, this required me to be out every single night.  After all “Mr. Right was not just going to swoop into my apartment,” as my mother liked to remind me.

I treated going out like it was my job, and like any job, it took its toll. Television began to represent all that I desired for my life: companionship, comfort, and security.  I wanted the luxury of being able to sit at home and watch TV without the anxiety that I wasn’t out  doing all that I could to find my mate.

So I went out.  To bar crawls and dance clubs and movie screenings, in my twenties; to dinners with friends at swanky restaurants, fundraisers with catchy names like “Purim Palooza,” and wine tastings, in my thirties. I joined the boards of several philanthropic organizations and attended meetings several times a month.   I took a watercolor painting class, went to Spain to partake in a creativity workshop, and attended lectures at the 92nd Street Y.  I signed up for trips with other singles to Israel, Budapest, and Prague.  I was too busy cursing my singledom to realize how rich my life had become. 

Now, three years later, I have a husband who is kind and caring, and a one-year old son who has transformed me into one of those gushing, annoying moms who think their kids are geniuses (though really, he is brilliant).  We just bought a lovely house on a cul de sac so that when Emmet is older, he can ride his bike in the street.  I’ve made some really cool girlfriends out here.  I feel blessed in so many ways.  

And once we put Emmet to bed, we watch a lot of television.  Just like I always wanted.  To be fair, I consider most of what we watch to be creative television with good writing: Lost, 24, 30 Rock, The Office.  (OK, I am mildly obsessed with The Bachelor too). I have found commitment in my life: to my husband, my son, my three stepchildren, and about eight television shows.  But I wonder: shouldn’t I be out taking classes or attending lectures? Volunteering on committees?   Don’t I want to set an example for my son of how to lead a rich and stimulating life?  

Thank goodness for DVR.

Loose Change

About three months after we’d started dating, Jeff decided it was time for his kids to meet me.   On a Saturday morning in early June, he drove them into the city where we would meet at my apartment and then go out for pizza and the Central Park Zoo. By the time my doorman buzzed them up, I had changed my clothes twice, vacuumed my apartment three times, and called my sister five times.  (“They are going to love you,” she’d assured me.)  The doorbell rang.  Heart pounding, I opened the door to see Jeff standing there grinning, accompanied by four-year old Rachel, five-year old Caleb, and seven-year old Joshua.  I hoped I didn’t sound as nervous as I felt.

“So, you must be Joshua!” I said to the little girl.

“No!  I’m Rachel!  He is Joshua and that is Caleb!” she explained breathlessly, pointing to her brothers.

“Oh!  I guess I was confused!” I told her, breaking into a smile.  “Come on in! Have you ever been in an apartment in New York City before?”

“No,” chimed all three children, as they brushed past Jeff into my tiny studio apartment.   They immediately began exploring the 500 square feet of New York City that I owned.

“Your bed is in the same room as your couch!  And your computer and your TV!” exclaimed Caleb, who was peering into closets and corners.  

“New York City apartments are small,” I told them, “because there is so much to do that I am hardly ever in my apartment!”

Caleb had climbed onto my unusually neatly made bed and buried his face into my pillows, arms tight to his side, the way you contort yourself to roll down a hill.

“Caleb, what are you doing?” asked Jeff, who had been observing this entire scene with a smile that could break your heart.  

“I’m a sausage!” he exclaimed!  I didn’t know it then, but this nonsensical statement captured the essence of Caleb, who often seemed to operate on a different plane than the rest of us.

“OK, sausage, get off of Lisa’s bed,” Jeff said.  I tried to catch his eye to show him that it was okay if Caleb wanted to be a pork product on my bed.  

“I found a penny!” Rachel yelled, picking up the coin from my under my couch.  “Can I keep it?” she asked.

“No,” said Jeff, at the same time as I said, “Yes. Finders, keepers.”

As soon as I said yes, all three kids were on the floor, scrambling for coins.  Rachel found three more pennies, Caleb found a nickel, and Joshua found a penny, a quarter, and an old pretzel.  I silently noted that I needed to buy a new vacuum cleaner. 

“OK, time to go,” Jeff said to my newest cleaning service. 

“I don’t want to go.  It’s awesome here!” said Josh, who hadn’t spoken too much since they’d gotten here.  “I love Lisa’s apartment.  Can we sleep over?” 

“I’m not sure there is enough room here, but you can come back anytime you want,” I told him.  Do you guys want to try delicious New York City pizza?”  I asked them.

They jumped up and ran to the door, loose change and one stale pretzel in their little hands.  I looked at Jeff and heaved a sigh of relief. He smiled at me, took my hand, and squeezed it gently. 

The Window

I finally got married when I was 35.  Once I met Jeff, on what might have been my hundredth foray into the Jewish online dating scene, it didn’t take me long to realize that he might actually be “the one.”  Though he was divorced with three kids, he was sweet, sincere, and lacked a city-savviness that I found refreshing.   Our first date involved sushi, a long walk on a cool spring night, and baking cookies until 3:00 in the morning.  When Jeff called me following night to ask when he could see me again, I dared to feel giddy and hopeful for the first time in a long while.  Dating in the city can toughen you up. 

 As Jeff and I became closer, I dragged him around New York City to the social events that were so painful when I was single: wine-tastings, birthday dinners, black-tie fundraisers.  We went on double dates with my married friends, who gave me secretive, hopeful glances over glasses of Chardonnay.  He came home with me for the Jewish holidays, and was amused by the collective buzzing of my parents’ friends.

“Do you think this is finally it?  Is he the lid?” my mom’s friend Jan whispered, pulling me away from the buffet and into the kitchen, as Jeff loaded up his plate with bagels, lox, and whitefish salad in the other room. She was referring to our longstanding observation that  “every pot has a lid.”  My family has a close-knit group of friends, all of who were waiting for me to find my lid.   

From my end, I tried to ingratiate myself with Jeff’s three children who lived with him every other weekend, planning excursions to the zoo and beach; sharing my favorite picture books with them; making my special stuffed French toast for them on Sunday mornings.  After about a year, Jeff and I moved to a new apartment in Englewood that was midway between his job in central Jersey and my job in Westchester.  Plus, we needed more room for the weekends we had the kids. When we got engaged a month later, a year after our first date, I intentionally planned the wedding for December, a month before my 36^th birthday: 35 would look less pathetic if we made the Sunday Styles section.

At the wedding, everyone teased me about my ticking biological clock, about how Jeff and I had better hurry if we wanted to start our own branch of the M_________  family.  They joked as if I had been living carefree and unconcerned about this very issue.   As if I hadn’t considered the methods and measures I would take if my body didn’t want to cooperate in producing a child naturally.  But I smiled appreciatively, posed for pictures, and fretted inside.

Early in our courtship, Jeff and I had discovered a mutual love of travel, but because of my teaching schedule, we decided to postpone our honeymoon until the summer following our December wedding.  We were back in our apartment the day after the wedding, now with one name and two bejeweled fingers. 

I had only been a Mrs. M______________ for a week or two before the women in my life swooped in with well-intentioned, yet cautionary tales that seemed intended to make me jump into bed with Jeff and stay there until I got pregnant.  

“You really should start trying.  It’s not so easy at your age,” warned my best friend and mother of 18-month old Henry.  

“We’re going to start trying after our honeymoon,” I replied reasonably. 

“I’d start now if I were you.  You’re 36, you’ve never had a regular period in your life, and you’ve been on the pill for ten years.  It could take a long time and you don’t want to miss a window of opportunity.”

I knew that she was right, so we set out for the Hackensack Target to buy the digital ovulation test which would predict the days I was most fertile.  She chose the most expensive, top-of-the-line test, which set me back at least three sushi dinners.

“You’re not getting any younger and you need all the help you can get,” she reminded me, as she hopped into her car and headed back into the city, a screaming Henry in tow.

I took the kit home and sat on the bright white tiles of my bathroom floor. I read that my chances of becoming pregnant would be maximized if we had intercourse within the 48-hour window determined by the Ovulation Test, a calculation ascertained at the cross-stream of urine and menses.   So I peed on a stick and found out that my most fertile days this month happened to fall on a weekend that we did not have Jeff’s kids.  

I planned a Rita Hayworthy seduction scene.  I would prepare Indian food, spicy and pungent, and Jeff’s favorite. I would actually wear the embarrassingly sexy, slightly cheesy lingerie that my friends had taunted me with at my bachelorette party, only a few weeks ago.  I was determined that this 48-hour window would not be wasted.  After all, I wasn’t getting any younger, as everyone liked to remind me.  

But that night, Jeff and I had a fight.  I can’t remember now what it was about, but it was mean-spirited and hurtful, and fraught with miscommunications.  I was so upset that I slept with my back to him for the first time in the 20 months we had been together.  We didn’t talk for two days or say “I love you” before we went to bed (as we swore they would always do).   Our apartment became too small for the largeness of our hurt.  Sunday night rolled around and we couldn’t stand it anymore.   We made up.  We vowed to try harder to understand each other.   But we had missed the window.   I felt the weight of another whole month of getting older bear down on me.

But old windows are drafty.  Nine months later, Emmet was born.