Raccoons

Raccoons are not cute.

When I was twelve, I used to lay in my bed at night and listen to the neighborhood raccoons dig through our trash and tip over the cans.  The clanging woke me up every time.  Sometimes I saw their sinister eyes glinting in the darkness and it didn't help when one of the posse bit off my cat's ear.  She looked permanently lopsided and she was never allowed outside at night again.

Fast forward thirty- two years.  I am living in Bozeman, Montana and I have taken a fancy to chickens.  I'm allergic to cats and Lollipop is just a memory with her orange fur and half-eaten ear.  The baby chicks for sale at Murdoch's have tempted me and Peter and Griffin start drawing up plans for a coop of our own.

We consult magazines and websites like Backyard Chicken, and for Griffin, Design Within Reach, while considering a plan. When Peter and Griffin design our chicken coop, they take the threat of predators into consideration.  It seems safe but to find out if a coop is safe it has to be tested.

Spring and summer are uneventful.  The hens waddle around happily going about their business.  Then on a morning in September the hens look spooked and I find a decapitated chicken in the corner of the run, against the fence.  It was Bronco, my friendliest chicken with her crooked feet.  A rancher had thrown her in for free after we bought five chickens from him.  Bronco layed lots of eggs and even some double yolks.  Bronco was a great hen.

I didn't see the problem and the next night I lost two more hens.  Then I saw that the back lock of the coop had been ripped off and was useless.  I wish I had known but now I was down to two hens and I didn't have the heart to keep them.  A neighbor of mine with a safer coop adopted them and we wrapped Pearl and Flo in old towels and drove them to their new home.

Many people who knew better told me not to name my hens.  "They are just farm animals," said the woman who sold me chicken feed. "You can't get attached to them," she added.

But I did grow attached to them.  They not only had names but distinct personalities and they were a source of entertainment.  Molly, one of the Buff Orpingtons, used to follow me around and try to come into the house at every opportunity.  If we left a window open she would sneak in and roost on the window sill,  She once marched in and roosted on the toilet.

It has been five months since I had chickens and frankly, I miss them.   I think I should give the chicken experiment another try.

Katz's Delicatessen

As I passed through the door the aroma of kosher deli meats tickled my nose--a sweet, peppery, smokey scent--and I felt an urgency to grab my punch card and hurry to the counter.  However primal, this feeling made me nervous as I stood at the counter behind which my favorite childhood food sizzled on a grill: a kosher hot dog.

We were visiting NYC, had just devoured a huge lunch at a Moroccan cafe but it didn't matter.  I was full but it didn't register.
"One hot dog with sauerkraut and mustard please."

In the brightly lit room, the walls plastered with 8x10 photos of celebrities, we managed to find an empty table.  I offered to let Griffin and Rachael sample the treat first but they declined.  Then I took a bite, savoring the crispy skin and the chewy meat inside.  What exactly the meat consisted of I didn't know except that it came from various parts of a cow.  It tasted exactly the way I remembered and I was transported back in time.

In middle school, Saturday mornings meant going to "town" where we walked up and down Middle Neck Road in groups of four or five girls with our allowance money in our pockets.  This being Great Neck, our allowances were generous enough to cover both lunch and a visit to the candy store.  Lunch usually meant Kensington Deli.

Dimly illuminated and dingy, the narrow room had booths on one side and a lunch counter on the other.  It smelled like sweaty kids and hot pastrami.  A lanky man with a permanent toothpick in his mouth tended to us.  He had unlimited patience and I wondered if any of us could make him crack.   "What do you want?" he said.

There were many choices: brisket, tongue, roast beef, turkey, chopped liver, tuna salad.  Perhaps the least interesting item was kosher franks. Every time we went through the same dialogue of indecision: "What are you having?  I don't know..what do you want?"
"I don't know."
"I don't know either. What are you ordering?"
After this routine, I always ended up with the same lunch: two hot dogs with sauerkraut and mustard and a Dr. Brown's Cream Soda.  Sometimes one of us splurged on a knish and cut it into fourths.  The pleasure from this meal was more than eating salty franks and drinking a sugary soda.  It was being a thirteen year old kid and giggling with girl friends who had mouths full of shiny braces, glittery lip gloss and pimply skin.  It was pom-pom socks and Tretorn sneakers.  It was serious questions: "Who is cuter; Jimmy Connors or Bjorn Borg?"
"Who has B.O.?"
"Who likes Corey Miller?"(class president)
"Who shaves their legs?"
"Have you heard that they found rat eggs in Bubble Yum?  It is so true!  I swear!"

Maybe this is why Griffin and Rachael let me taste the Katz's hot dog first, they could see me morphing into my thirteen year old self which either fascinated or frightened them. When Rachael finally took a bite, she looked disappointed. "It just tastes like a regular hot dog," she said.
Maybe she was right, but for me it was so much more.

Katz's Delicatessen
205 E. Houston St.
New York, New York

Kensington Kosher Deli
27 Middle Neck Road
Great Neck, NY

Hopper Hunting

When I was a kid I snacked on bagels.  Bagels covered with orange squares of American cheese melted in a toaster oven. Bagels with Pizza Quick sauce and a slice of rubbery mozzarella. (A bagel with a smear of cream cheese was breakfast)  Hummus and triangles of pita. I ate meat too.  Mini kosher hotdogs dipped in mustard.  I never considered insects.  I thought of insects as annoying (mosquitos) or obnoxious (green flies).
My childhood fell during the era of the mosquito zapper.  Warm weather brought the zappers out of storage and into suburban yards where they hung on the back porch.  Who could forget the zapping sound and the scent of burning insects.  No, I would not have considered eating insects.
Recently, my friend, Cooper, caused me to reconsider my preconceptions when he introduced me to one of his favorite snack foods: grasshoppers.
Cooper invited us over for Grasshopper hunting.  At age seven, he is an experienced insect hunter and excellent company.  When we came to his house, he explained that all you need is a bow and arrow (with a rubber tip) and a field with tall grasses.  He taught us to stalk the hoppers, shoot them and pull their heads off.

I couldn't help but observe that patience helps because it takes time to find the hoppers.  It took an hour and a half to catch a dozen.  

This snack food is ideally for a kid who owns a bow and possesses an adventurous palette, just like Cooper.  How do they taste?  According to my daughter, they taste like turkey.  To me they taste like shrimp flavored popcorn.

Fried Grasshoppers

2 dozen grasshoppers, heads removed
2 T canola oil
salt and pepper
juice from half a lime
ketchup for dipping

Heat the oil in a frying pan so that it is sizzling. Add the hoppers and fry them to that they are crispy, but not burned.

Remove the hoppers and blot the oil on a paper towel.

Put them in a bowl and sprinkle with salt and pepper to taste. Spritz lime juice on top. If you wish you can dip them in ketchup. Enjoy!

Gristedes or Waldbaum's?

In my family, it was understood that the end result of the meal depended on where you bought the ingredients and whether you got a good deal.  At meal times, the conversation usually began with the origin of the protein that was being served. It went something like this:

Tasting the brisket she has prepared for dinner, my mother turns to my grandmother and says, "Mom, this brisket tastes like old shoe leather. It is inedible. Where the hell did you buy it?"
Nan appears unperturbed.  She calmly answers. "You asked me to get it at the new Gristedes in Little Neck. It was on sale."  From time to time, perhaps out of boredom, Nan occasionally ventured to grocery stores out of her way.

My mother does not give up.  She needs to assign blame to someone. "It is not fresh! They were trying to get rid of it so they marked it down." She grimaces, pushes her plate away.

"Joyce, how long did you cook it?"asks Nan, raising an eyebrow.  My brothers and I exchange knowing looks. It this is a dual between Nan and Mom, it is now over.

"That doesn't matter! I could have cooked it for two days and it would still be tough!"answers my Mom, defensively.

Nan backs down. "I always say, stick with Waldbaum's." That settled it. For the next few weeks, no one was going to get adventurous.

Consequently, I grew up in fear of brisket and mistrustful of Gristedes. It wasn't until I left home that it occurred to me that maybe the cook's technique or lack of may have had something to do with the food that was served at our table.

Fast forward twenty years and I am living in Bozeman, Montana. My children and I are sitting in our home school classroom on a Friday morning in September. Bow hunting season. My husband comes in wearing camouflage with blood splattered on his legs and arms and a look of contentment on his face.

If we were still residing in Los Angeles, I would be petrified. I would be dialing 911. However, we have been living in Bozeman for two years and there have been some changes in our lives.

We realize that he has shot an elk and dash outside to admire the carcass in the back of his pick up truck.  In the field, the elk weighed five hundred pounds on the hoof.  Peter quartered it and carried out each piece.  He has brought home the head as well, thinking there would be meat in the neck.  In Montana, you have to carry every edible part of the elk out of the field.  The elk's head is tremendous. Without thinking, I touch the soft fur between the elk's eyes and say:" Thanks for the meat."

I send a text message to a few friends, announcing our good fortune. Some of our neighbors come over. There is a lot of blood but no one is bothered.

My phone rings and it is a close friend. I know what question is coming. After congratulating me she asks "Is it a cow or a bull?

It is generally understood that the most tender and flavorful elk meat comes from a female, a cow. Before my friend can assess the complete value of our kill, we have to establish the question of the elk's gender.

"A cow."

"Wow, congratulations!"
Not only do we have an elk to eat all winter but it is a cow.  I've come a long way from my former Los Angeles food cravings: sushi, fish tacos, anything in mole sauce.  There is nothing I would rather eat than elk meat.  O.K., maybe whitetail deer.


One of my favorite ways to eat elk is in a ragu sauce over pasta.  This recipe works for venison too.

Elk Ragu

!/4 C extra virgin olive oil
1 pound ground elk
1 onion, finely chopped
1 carrot, finely chopped
1 celery stalk, finely chopped
6 garlic cloves, crushed
1 8 oz. can chopped tomatoes
4 T tomato paste
2 C red wine
2 cups chicken stock
1 T dried basil
salt and pepper to taste

1. In a heavy bottomed casserole pan, heat the olive oil over high heat and cook the ground elk meat.  When the meat is fully cooked, put it on a plate and set it aside.

2.In the same pan, add more olive oil and cook the onion, carrot, celery, basil and garlic over low heat, stirring frequently.  Add the tomato paste and the chopped tomatoes. After five minutes, add the wine and chicken stock.  Bring to a boil and return the meat to the pan.

3.Reduce heat to a simmer and cook, uncovered for one hour.  The sauce should reduce quite a bit.  Season with salt and pepper.

Serve over your favorite pasta!

First tomato

When I first moved to Montana, a neighbor mused:"Those tomato plants in your garden don't stand a chance."

I had no idea what she was talking about. I knew that a tomato needed healthy soil, lots of sunlight, water, and a pair of strong hands to yank out the weeds.

Turns out there were a few things I didn't know. I guess I didn't expect snow in June. In Bozeman, tomato plants are lucky if they make it into the ground by July first. I also didn't expect summer hail storms. Another neighbor reminded me to build a hail protector(an apparatus of plastic pipes and a tarp) over my garden which I could unfurl if and only if I happen to be at home when a hail storm strikes. If any tomatoes survive the snow and hail, there is still a chance they will be nibbled by deer who wander into everyone's yards after dark.

Given these challenges and my lack of experience as a gardener, the odds of a plentiful tomato harvest were low. Despite this, on August 31st, a single tomato in my garden ripened. When I picked it and sliced it into fourths for my family, it tasted sweet and juicy. It was as perfect as a tomato could be!

As for the rest of the green tomatoes, if they can survive the remainder of the summer, there is still time to ripen. Or else I will make fried green tomatoes.

If I had a whole bowl of tomatoes, I would cook this recipe for my family:

Baked Tomatoes, Goat cheese and Basil
4 rounds of goat cheese
1 1/2 cups of tomatoes, cut in half (any tomato will do but cherry tomatoes are best!)
1/2 cup olive oil
salt and pepper to taste
6 leaves of fresh basil
one large clove of garlic, crushed
Four slices of French bread

Preheat the oven to 400 F
Pour olive oil into a flat ovenproof dish and add the garlic. Put the tomatoes in the oil and then add the goat cheese on top. Add a few shakes of salt and pepper.
Bake for 10 minutes. When done, add slivers of basil.

Serve with toasted French bread.

Close Call

Who wants to eat a live chicken? Apparently, many neighborhood predators. Why not? They strut around their chicken run, plump and potentially succulent..defenseless. Or so I thought...

It was a dark and stormy night, scratch that, it was a full moon and and a clear night. In fact, the moon resembled a great slice of cucumber. Perfect visibility for our neighborhood predators. Sometime after midnight, I was awakened by gawking and screeching sounds from our yard. Peter and I stumbled outside and tried to locate the creatures making those noises. Or what remained... I prepared myself to stay calm if I found pieces of chicken. After all, I knew this could happen. My brain had gone through the scenario many times, especially on nights with a full moon.

I was prepared to defend my hens. If I had a shot gun I would have carried it high in the air. A protective instinct coupled with an angry need for revenge pumped through my veins. As I looked for them, I pictured a huge raccoon carrying away a bloody chicken in her jaws.

With a pocket flashlight I scanned the yard and found three dazed hens in various poses. Molly and Gotterfunken, frantic and squawking and Pearl, glowing in the moonlight, while she sat in a daze, surrounded by an explosion of loose feathers. I could have stuffed five pillows with feathers. The other chickens were hidden in shrubs and trees. Everyone was alive and the only thing to do was to carry them back to their coop.

I would have carried them into the house and given them sleeping bags and mugs of warm tea. However, this wasn't an option. We tried to put them back in their coop one at a time but each time they fled. Who would run back into a burning house?

Three things I have learned about chickens:
1. They are smarter than you think
2. They remember more than you think they would
3. They can escape from the claws of an owl

There was nothing to do but try to go back to sleep. I lay awake for a long time, imagining a snake or rat or coyote or bear that was going to make a second attempt at a chicken dinner. I suspected that as soon as I fell asleep they would all be doomed. Peter was already snoring.

In the morning they were gathered around our basement window, hiding under a clump of daisies. They appeared to be waiting for breakfast but I wasn't playing that game. I wanted them to return to their own turf. I caught each hen and returned her to the coop. I failed. Each one just hopped out.

The chickens would not go near their coop. They wanted new real estate and they didn't need a broker in a shiny Cadillac.

The yard was theirs until I could find a solution. A condo? A penthouse apartment?
I needed time to think it through.

I cooked myself a bowl of oatmeal and brewed a mug of my favorite tea, Lady Grey. Not true. Actually, I asked Peter to cook me a bowl of oatmeal. Why? Because he doesn't measure ingredients, cooks by intuition, and it tastes creamy and delicious!

Peter's Comfort Oatmeal

1 cup rolled oats
2 cups boiling water
1 tablespoon brown sugar (or more if you wish)
1/4 teaspoon cinnamon
1 tablespoon chopped walnuts
1 tablespoon dried cranberries or cherries

Note:
Before you begin cooking, double the recipe because chickens absolutely love oatmeal.

In a medium sauce pot, bring two cups of water to a boil and add the oats. Reduce heat to a simmer and cook on low heat for about two minutes.

Pour the oatmeal into a serving bowl and add stir in the sugar, cinnamon, walnuts and cranberries. Enjoy!

Gotterfunken

When we pulled up to the ranch in Belgrade, the ranchers were sitting on their porch waiting for us. A young couple with their toddler, they wore denim jackets and plaid shirts. Tan and strong, they resembled actors in a Chevy Trucks commercial. They had advertised healthy adult hens for 25 dollars each on Craig's List. We only had one chicken left, Molly, and she seemed lonely and pathetic.

What happened? In early July the sky opened up and hail the size of baseballs bombarded our chickens. All ran for cover but Schnitzel didn't make it in time.

Our remaining chickens suffered an unfortunate mishap with a dog who I will not name to protect her privacy. To her defense, her size may have contributed to the end result. Resembling a woolly mammoth more than a dog, she may in fact have been "playing" and unintentionally killed four chickens in three minutes, forty seconds.

We had come to Belgrade to start again. This was our chance at redemption: five new adult hens.

The ranchers led us to their chicken house, a concrete bunker with a wall of nesting boxes. Dusty, pungent and dimly lit, it was loud as a frat party. My eyes had to adjust to the low light. I noticed a nervous energy among the fowl, especially the roosters. They sensed trouble. One of them rushed at the rancher, spurs in the air.
"There he goes again!" he laughed. "We made his friend into a stew last week."

"How was it?" I asked.

"It didn't taste too good." He answered. "But he learned a lesson."

Apparently, the ranchers had to show these birds who was boss from time to time.

With the aid of a net on a long pole the rancher darted around catching hens for us. We choose a Buff Orpington, a Leghorn, a Wyandotte and a White Crested Polish. The rancher offered us a Red Cup hen with crooked feet for free. We accepted.

We hadn't brought a cage to transport them so the rancher gave us an old cardboard box. All the chickens fit inside, except the Buff, who I named "Fanny." The ranchers exchanged a look when I offered to let Fanny ride home in my lap.

When we opened the box in our yard, the chickens stepped out looking a little dazed from the journey. The White Crested Polish sprinted out like she was on fire and ran into a wall. She really couldn't see because her feathers covered her eyes. Griffin named her Gotterfunken, which means "Spark of G-d" in German.

The rancher had called our attention to her plight. It seemed the roosters had been plucking out the feathers from her head. Behind her skull she had a bald spot. We weren't just adopting this bird, we were saving her from rooster abuse. This was a rescue.

That evening, the hens followed Molly up the steps into their warm coop. Even Gotterfunken eventually found the entrance. They hopped up on their roost and closed their eyes. I dreamed about fresh eggs sizzling in a frying pan.



Texas Eggs

My father used to cook Texas Eggs for breakfast. It is a fried egg with a hat.

1 piece of whole wheat bread
1 egg
butter
salt and pepper

Cut a hole in the center of the bread. Save the round piece of bread. Butter the bread on both sides. Put a 1/2 teaspoon of butter in a frying pan and turn the heat to medium. When the butter melts, put the bread in the pan along with the bread circle. Carefully crack the egg into the hole in the center of the bread. Cook a few minutes and then flip it over. When you put the bread and egg on a plate, place the circle of bread on top of the egg. Serve with a generous dash of salt and pepper.

Molly

Growing up in Great Neck, I encountered chickens in a multitude of ways, never alive. They were wrapped in plastic at the grocery store, spinning on a rotisserie at Poultry Mart or baked and cut into pieces on our dinner table. Here in Montana, we raise chickens in our backyards.

This is not just any Buff Orpington chicken; this chicken is a survivor. She has survived lightning storms, sub zero weather, hail the size of baseballs, and two dog attacks. She has survived winter in Montana. Need I say more?

When Molly was purchased from Murdoch's, she came home with five other chicks in a box. I felt like I just gave birth, only I had more energy. There was no formula or diapers in the picture and they ate and drank from their feeder whenever they had the desire.

Some people shelter baby chicks in their house and although I wanted to keep them in the kitchen, Peter would not consider it. The garage was insulated so they would be fine. (We hoped).

We made a nest for the chicks in a basin filled with wood shavings. The February cold kept the chicks huddled together under their heat lamp. Three Buff Orpingtons and Three Jersey Giants seemed like safe breeds for our first experience with raising chickens. Or so it seemed.

I felt like Godzilla when I tried to pet the chicks. Five of them ran for safety in terror of me. Molly, however, was fearless. She came over to my hand and walked up my arm. Maybe she was hungry, maybe she was looking for her mother, but, for some reason, she always hopped into my hand. Molly and I had a bond.

What kind of bond? Mother/daughter? Teacher/disciple? Chef/dinner? None of these. Molly was becoming a pet chicken. So many people have pet chickens that they sell diapers for "house chickens." I didn't want this relationship. But it was developing, every day.

Montana is a place where people raise chickens for eggs and meat. Most people don't give their chickens names like "Stretchy" or "Smiley." There are reasons for not getting too attached to a farm animal. (Stretchy didn't make it past ten days)

In Montana, people harvest their hens after about two years when the layers become less productive. I learned this at my doctor's office from the phlebotomist as she was drawing my blood. She was getting ready to harvest her thirty chickens and looking forward to a new crop of chicks.

To harvest, or not to harvest? This was the question...


Chicken Snack

4 leaves of romaine lettuce
2 zucchini
2 apples
4 carrots
4 bananas

Chop up all the veggies and fruit into bite sized pieces. Toss lightly in a metal bowl and carry out to the chicken run. Serves four chickens.

The Shiksa

The first time I met David Levine's new wife, she served us paella that was rich with saffron and hot pepper. The pan glistened with black mussel shells and scarlet lobster tails. She poured sangria from a tall pitcher into the adult's glasses. The year was 1979 and most of my parents friends were divorced, separated or just plain miserable. Megan and her two sons had moved into David's new house. Tan and blond, she wore no make up and dressed in a loose peasant blouse and worn jeans. My mother glared. As soon as we said goodnight and were in our car, she turned to my father and said,"David is going to regret marrying that divorcee. She is too young for him! And her kids seem slow; the older one must be retarded." My father, who had clearly enjoyed the evening, pointed out that David was divorced too. I could see that Dad appreciated Megan Levine. He laughed with her and enjoyed her cooking. The only one who looked tense was my mom. "I think the clams were spoiled. I feel sick." she added, clutching her stomach. The second time we went to Megan Levine's house, David poured glasses of scotch for my parents and Megan invited me to help her in the kitchen. She handed me a serrated knife and I sliced a baguette as she told me stories about a summer she worked in a vineyard in Southern France. I tried to picture myself picking grapes with a basket on my arm. "Can you check the recipe for me? How much olive oil?" she asked. No one in my world would ever consult a cookbook. Why would they try a new recipe? Why not eat the same food all the time? "Sure," I said, eagerly opening the book. For my thirteenth birthday, Megan surprised me at my house, to my mother's discomfort. I could hear the false greeting in her voice:"Great to see you! How are your sons?" Megan gave me a hug and I unwrapped her gift. It was The Good Housekeeping Cookbook. The same one she used. My initiation had begun. I could become one of the women who use cookbooks. I loved the bright color photos of Ham Steak Hawaiian, Cheese Fondue and Banana Cream Pie. All I had to do was follow the directions. What could be easier? My first attempt was cheese souffle, the photo on the book's cover. Just the word "souffle" sounded dangerous and French. It looked like grown-up food. In the back of the kitchen cabinet I found a souffle dish. I was on my way. While I was beating egg whites, my grandmother, Nan, barged into the kitchen. "That is not how you whip eggs. All wrong. Let me show you," she demanded. "This is how the cookbook says to do it," I answered, still holding the electric beater in my hand. "Who knows better, your grandmother or a cook book?"she challenged me. I pictured Megan Levine with her confident smile in her kitchen. I could hear Simon and Garfunkel on her radio. Megan gave me this cookbook for a reason. "I'm just following the recipe," I said, shrugging. I should have winked at her but you couldn't wink at my grandmother. She smelled a traitor. "You'll be sorry. It won't rise if you don't listen to me." she warned. I held up the book as if it was a talisman. The choice had been made. I had chosen the way of the shiksa. Classic Cheese Souffle from The Good Housekeeping Illustrated Cookbook 1/4 C butter or margarine 1/4 C all purpose flour 1 teaspoon salt 1/8 teaspoon cayenne pepper 1 1/2 C milk 2 four oz. packages shredded cheddar cheese (2 Cups) 6 eggs, separated 1. In a 2 quart saucepan over medium heat, melt butter or margarine; stir in flour, salt and cayenne pepper until smooth. 2.Slowly stir in milk and cook, stirring constantly just until sauce is smooth and thickened. 3.Add cheese and heat, stirring, just until the cheese melts. Remove pan from the heat. Preheat oven to 325 F. 4. In a small bowl, beat egg yolks slightly. Beat in small amount of the hot sauce to prevent lumping when added to saucepan. 5.Slowly pour warm egg mixture into hot sauce in pan, stirring rapidly to prevent eggs lumping. 6.In large bowl with mixer at high speed, beat egg whites just until stiff peaks form. Lightly grease bottom of a 2 quart souffle dish. 7.With rubber spatula, gently fold cheese sauce into beaten egg whites. 8.Pour mixture gently into prepared dish. For "top hat" effect, with spoon, make a 1-inch deep circle in top of cheese mixture, 1 inch from side. 9.Bake souffle in center of oven for 1 hour or until puffy and golden brown. Serve immediately.

Waldbaum's

For most shoppers a trip to the grocery store is an uneventful errand. In the larger scope of life it is painless. It can even be pleasant, as far as chores go. It certainly ranks above cleaning the bathroom.
Going to the grocery store can also be an opportunity to bump into friends, gossip, zone out. Not for me and my mother at Waldbaum's. This wasn't just about running an errand. This was a mission to get a low number in line at the delicatessen.

"Run!" she commanded before the car pulled into the parking space at Waldbaum's. "Get a number!" I sprung from the car and darted into the store across the slippery linoleum floor. Was it dangerous? Yes. I had to avoid huddles of women in bright lipstick exchanging gossip about their neighbors.

"Have you seen Ida's new Mercedes?"
"What was Bobbie thinking? It is fluorescent yellow!"
"Bobby told Saul he is sick of her car accidents. Now they will see her coming."
"Yeah, you can see Ida from five miles away!"
"You can see Ida from the space shuttle."

I had to choose a route. Some aisles were so jammed with carts that I couldn't pass through. I had to move fast so I chose the baking aisle, which was deserted. No one in this town would ever turn on their oven to bake. Maybe to reheat a frozen pound cake, but not to bake from a mix that read "Duncan Hines."

Prepared food was Great Neck's daily bread and the busiest part of the store was the Mecca of prepared food: the deli.
I saw my destination: the bright red machine that printed numbers for the line. Women swarmed around the machine, clutching their numbers in their fists. I plunged in and grabbed a number. 198. The deli man's nasal voice announced, "Number 122. Serving 122." I had time.
I decided to check in with my mother.

"198!" she exclaimed as she perused ten pound mounds of ground beef. "We'll be here all day!"
My mother was always in a rush for no apparent reason. No job, a full time house cleaner, gardeners, etc. but she had little time to spare. I suppose she had places to go that were more pressing than Waldbaum's.
I felt defensive about my high number for the deli line. I should have knocked someone down to get a better number.
"You don't know that for sure." I said. "The line could move fast."
What a liar! I knew the line never moved fast. Why? Because of the sacred ritual of samples.
"I'll have two pounds of tongue," said a lady with orange hair. The deli man opened the case, extracted a log of tongue, lay it on the slicer and sliced off one piece which he offered to the lady.
"O.K.?" he said.
"Fine." she replied after chewing her sample.
As he commenced his work on the log of tongue I wondered why she needed to taste it. Does tongue vary in flavor from week to week? Did the meat processor in New Jersey change the preservatives and spices in the tongue? Anything is possible.
Everyone who orders cold cuts engages in this ritual. Everyone except me.
When my number was called I spoke quickly."I'll have two pounds of pastrami, two pounds of smoked turkey, two pounds of roast beef, one pound of potato salad, one pound of cole slaw and half a pound of scallion cream cheese."
"Anything else?"
"Half a pound of whitefish salad."

The deli guy opened the case and removed a piece of roast beef. He heaved it onto the slicer and cut one slice. He leaned across the counter and offered me the pink slice of meat.
"O.K.?"
"No thanks."
"What?!"
"No thanks."
He chewed on his toothpick, considering the situation. Something was clearly wrong, but what? People were listening to us. I had become a curiosity, maybe a freak. I had to say something, anything.
"I just ate breakfast!" I blurted out.
It was 2PM. The hum of the crowd resumed.
Still working on that toothpick, the deli man sliced meat, scooped salads into plastic containers and placed everything into a brown paper bag. Handing me the bag he said, "Have a nice day," without making eye contact. I guess that was part of the ritual too.

The Essential Pastrami Sandwich

This is a classic deli meat lovers sandwich and the absence of vegetables is essential. That means that lettuce, tomatoes and onions have no place here. Coleslaw, however, is a welcome addition and it is best to place it on the middle layer so the bread does not get soggy.

two slices of rye bread, preferably dark rye
deli mustard, preferably Hebrew National
ten to twelve slices of pastrami

cole slaw (optional)

Spread mustard on both slices of bread. Put five slices of pastrami on one piece and add four tablespoons of coleslaw. Add another layer of pastrami and put the bread on top. You will know you have enough meat on your sandwich if you have to open you mouth very wide to take a bite.

This sandwich tastes even better when accompanied by a dill pickle.