Life Begins at 90, Blog
by Nika Fleissig
Sunday, March 8, 2015
All previous blogs
were written triggered by some event that reminded me of the past. Today
is no exception.
Yesterday I had lunch with
two friends in an elegant hotel with a magnificent view, and the conversation
turned to cooking and enjoying food.
The two educated,
successful, retired ladies both said in unison, “We never cook!”
Here goes what I
remember vividly about arriving in the U.S. never having made a meal in my
life, as I had had no opportunity to cook while growing up in my parents’ home…
there was a maid who cooked.
And…during WWII there
was not much to cook!! So here
comes the end of the war and I arrive as
a total greenhorn in America, the Land of Plenty.
In Poland, a
chicken was bought live and the maid, a peasant girl from the country
usually, had to kill it and clean it – a big job.
Here I saw for the first
time a chicken in the supermarket (there was no such thing in Krakow,
Poland when I was a young girl…only small neighborhood little stores run by the
families who knew what every customer ate and liked).
I see a clean,
appetizing chicken wrapped in plastic ready for the oven. I could not believe
my eyes.
Back to my married
life as a young refugee after years of war and deprivation.
All was here in
front of me and yet I had no idea what to do with it or how it
is called by name - the appetizing meat I saw.
Ladies in the neighborhood
tried to teach me- and it usually ended in disaster. My husband, a metallurgical
engineer who came to buy machinery in the U.S. before the War, had gotten stuck
in the States with other people who had come to America in 1939 for the Worlds Fair and could
never return to their homes in Europe.
They all lost their families.
Today I marvel at his
patience. I once wanted to make him a
delicacy… I thought I was buying brains which cook up in a short time, and I
bought lung instead which takes hours and hours of cooking and
tenderizing. To you this might sound
like an awful dish, but truly it was a treat in Poland. However, since I bought the wrong cut it had
the consistency of rubber. The poor man said “not so bad” as he valiantly chewed
this impossibly tough piece of organ meat.
Ah, but rescue came!
Fred had three assistants in the Loewy firm of heavy industry. One of them was Howard Libby, in truth, not a
great engineer but a marvelous cook - this was a hobby he had acquired
while living in Paris before the war and taking rich ladies to the
best restaurants.
One day Howard said
to me, “I love and respect your husband, and this cannot continue. I offer to
come every week end and teach you to become a gourmet cook.”
And so it was. We started at the beginning. When I was
very good he invited me to NY apartment (no worry, he was gay), and
prepared a feast which I thoroughly enjoyed and asked for the recipe. The
sauce alone took 3 days to make - “Poulet
en Cocotte” by name.
One day when I felt I learned
enough to dare inviting a senior vice president of General Electric and
his wife who had been introduced to us to dinner, I decided I was going to cook
the elegant and tasty chicken dish I had just learned how to make. Every other person at the table ate it with great
pleasure, but Mr.Young's plate had all the chicken still untouched. He kind of pushed it around, but I could tell
he had not really eaten any.
Usually I had something
small prepared in case someone did not like what I made-but this time I was
so very sure of my offering that I had nothing else prepared.
The story goes, Mr.
Young told us that as a young employee of General Electric he had had
to travel a lot. There was the inevitable undercooked chicken served with
blood showing, and since then he had vowed that anything F.O.W.L. he would not
touch. Forget it.
When my children Alicia
and Willy were more grown up, every time something especially
good tasting was served and they oohed and aahed and complimented me, I looked
to heaven (as Howard had passed away) and said to myself, “Thank you
Howard!”
When I got stuck painting something very
frustrating and difficult, and needed to accomplish something, I looked
in my Gourmet Magazine to find a delicious sounding recipe. I made it and then worried who to invite
to eat it with us. In America at the time the normal dinner was steak
and potatoes, but I wanted something with more taste, sauce, spices, finesse.
Cooking enriched my
life. Now as an old woman I rarely cook any more… my daughter
took over. I am left with
memories and funny stories.
I thought this will
amuse you on this day of the Purim spiel where everyone in the synagogue
dressed up in costume and had a great time, as a cast of members retold the
story of Esther with a British updated twist and songs adapted from Beatles and
other British songwriters. I am sure
each one of you has a similar story to tell about the beginnings as a housewife. I would appreciate your
comments. Shalom!!!!
