Another Thanksgiving Blast at the Cartagena-Roches plus I got to read my poem! / Let us now eat our daily bread

Rich drove Donna's Prince Valiant car (just made up the name) across the Ben Franklin and into Clarksboro, NJ. I was in shotgun while Donna and Nikki were in the back seat.

Donna routed us to the cheapest gas station around, a Citgo. Let's see who owns Citgo. 

Citgo Petroleum Corporation (or Citgo) is a United States–incorporated, Venezuela-owned refiner, transporter and marketer of transportation fuels, lubricants, petrochemicals and other industrial products.  - Wiki

Hey! Before we forget, what's the significance of today's date? November 22.

Thinking time.

JFK was assassinated on 11/22/63, Terry Greenstein's birthday.

Always a lot of outdoor activity on Colonial Drive.

Paddy smiles even when he's knocked down. Later, we went for a walk. He rode his bike while I walked fast. When we got to the RR tracks at the end of the street, Paddy, who is 8, asked, "Is Santa Claus real?"

We had a long discussion about this. Paddy believes he's real but that when he arrives on Xmas Eve, Paddy won't hear him cuz he'll be asleep.

We also talked about the death of a young child, Isaac, who had been a neighbor. Isaac's parents moved out, said Paddy, b/c of the sad memories they had of living there with their only son, who had a disease that made swallowing difficult.

Mom arrived with Jade, husband Matt, and Jade's brother Miles, fresh from Boston University. She's greeted by her g'daughters Nikki and Melissa.

Donna cuts our whole-wheat challah, which Mom pronounced "Dry."

"Well," I said, unruffled, "it's not sposed to be moist."

Here's my new friend Jim Sutcliffe, a super-interesting guy. Dyou believe we were both reading a recent New Yorker story called The Vast Recorded Legacy of the Grateful Dead.

He subscribes to the magazine while I read only selected articles online cuz I'm too cheap to subscribe. I told Jimmy my cousin Ray Sewell of Eugene, OR, was the chef for the Dead.

He works in marketing at Live Nation and gets to see lots of rock concerts.

I watch them at half-time at the SuperBowl.

Jimmy was recently married to his beloved Angela Cordovano at San Francisco City Hall.

We raised our glasses to the two of them. And also to Jade and Matt, who just returned from a European honeymoon.

Oops, sorry I missed your face, Angie!
Jim said that in SF public nudity was acceptable, but they just rescinded the law.



San Fran City Hall. They enjoyed the various districts, such as the Mission, Presidio....names I haven't heard since I was 19 and lived in the Haight-Ashbury with my black boyfriend Curtis Branch. He used to hang out on the corner with his buddies and drink Chivas Regal.

Where are you now Curtis?

I came running out of the house when my daughter Sarah arrived. We gave each other a gigantic hug.

I was sposed to sleep over their house tonite but I didn't bring enuf insulin, dammit! We were gonna have a slumber party like we had back in Shaker Heights when I'd sleep over Mary Truby's, my best friend.

She brought me a beautiful gift from Paris.....picture postcards, plus a silver coin. Guest what? I left them at Nikki's. Aargh!

Two simply terrible pictures of my mother, who was in fine form. She was born in 1922.

Okay, that's better! Nikki looked lovely in purple and here's Angie, the newlywed, and Quinn and Donna.

According to tradition established by Steve Roche, we hold hands and go around the room telling what we're thankful for.

Steve, we think to ourselves, the food is hot and I'm starving. Why don't we do this after we're stuffed. I'll suggest it to him next year.

Crowd shot. That's Jade with the long hair.

Ah, my nephew Al Pomper now lives in Philly. He's loved taking photographs since he was young. Next to him is my nephew Miles Greene, on leave from Boston University. And there's host Steve Roche who made sure the beer was cold and frosty.

A few times when I saw an abandoned can or bottle, I took a sip or two. I do love my booze but I don't really drink. Got outa the habit at age 38 when I took psych meds for manic-depression.

Enter the turkey! It had been soaked in brine and was tender and delicious. Sarah made the mmm-good gravy.

Oh darn! I didn't get a picture of Tyler's friend Roxanne, who wants to be some sort of teacher.

Jimmy Sutcliffe asked me what short story writers I like. Alice Munro, a Canadian, I said, and also Chekhov whose "Lady with a Lapdog" is a masterpiece and can be read here.

I also told him that I'd recently read that Turgenev had wrin possibly the best love stories ever. Here's The Torrents of Spring.

I think I'll print out Torrents and read it in bed. But, first, lucky you get to read my poem.

LET US NOW EAT OUR DAILY BREAD

Thanksgiving Day, Nov. 22, 2012

Please accept these loaves of bread
the way Jesus fed the multitudes at Cana in Galilee
I am not Jesus, though I was born on Christmas, and
thought when I was manic, I was Christ, better than
feeling like Stalin

You’ll want to know what’s in these breads
they have no label or universal product symbol
Eggs are the basis of all challahs, which, Jew or gentile,
Democrat or Republican, I insist you pronounce like the Jews,
Challah!

Now there’s a perfect challah for you.
Then we add some cooking oil for lightness and don’t forget
the sweetener, I like honey, but Donna and I used agave nectar
from Mexico or South Africa

Raise your hand if your people are from South America!

My people are from Hungary, the tough Magyar race who lived
in the mountains, but my family rode the seasick ships to America
bringing their paprika and gefilte fish

Have I mentioned yeast?
I buy mine in a jar. It keeps forever in a machine called the fridge but
if you haven’t one, you may bury it in the cold ground or under the snow

Forget measuring cups. We have hands, don’t we? Cup your left hand
and you’ll find the perfect tablespoon which is how Donna and I measured
our yeast.

This bread is made with love.
We took the time to roll, with our lovely non-arthritic fingers, long sticks that we braided like Rapunzel’s hair into one magnificent egg-washed braid – don’t forget the poppyseeds - that rose in the oven

Then we turned the oven on, not like the Wicked Witch in Hansel and Gretel, but Donna’s oven beyond the granite countertops
“Light on!” we pushed and watched carefully until the three loaves were as
golden-brown as beloved retrievers who once passed our way or a few cats who are still with us

A challah is much more than a bread.
It is the history of our people, your people, my people.
Think of this with every delicious bite.