In the wee morning hours, home delivery trucks dotted the streets of our suburban neighborhood. White-capped milkmen ran from house to house filling galvanized tin boxes with fresh milk and dairy products. And snack foods like potato chips and pretzels went to other homes. Out from behind a brown speckled van, with the logo “Charles Chips,” a deliveryman would balance two or three impressively huge cans and drop them at their destination. We were, however, the first family to get delivery of Cott soda. Two cases of heavy glass quarts arrived every Friday: an assortment of grape, cola, black cherry, and the coveted cream -- always the first one tapped. No wonder there was always a milk-fed friend begging to have dinner with us.
Mom liked to sleep in. Getting up with the sun to serve a warm breakfast to her school-aged children wasn’t high on her list of priorities. She waited till the house was empty -- free and clear of questions and demands -- before having her coffee and buttered roll with a paperback romance novel. The day I started kindergarten was the day I received a crash course in the morning routine.
“Get up and get dressed,” My older sister, Lisa, ordered, like a drill sergeant. “Mom, laid out your clothes last night,” she said, pointing to the ensemble at the foot of my bed.
“Where’s Mom,” I yawned.
“Upstairs, don’t make any noise,” she said, tiptoeing down the hall.
The worst transgression in our house would have been to wake a sleeping parent. My sister and I had already been taught the moral principle of “consideration,” after it had been smacked into our asses.
“Isn’t Mom going to make us breakfast?” I asked, hoping for a hot bowl of Farina.
“Mom doesn’t get up early, get used to it,” she replied derisively, walking off to forage through the assortment of Drake’s cakes stored in the oven.
So my folks never had a problem finding a teenaged babysitter, because the word was out about our junk-food stockpile. Whipped cream from a can was a trendy delicacy when it hit the market, and we always had a can or two. That stuff which miraculously propelled itself from the funny white nozzle was good for a half an hour of entertainment. Lisa and I would compete by standing with our mouths gaping open as the babysitter injected as much whipped cream as the space would hold. Whoever gagged, lost.
We ate Yankee Doodles for breakfast and had Swanson TV dinners every Saturday night. Even after I had been to college, had revolutionized my dietary world, and returned home with an armful of bottles from the health food store to concoct a soy lecithin, wheat germ and organic honey gruel, Dad was still doing the morning cup of coffee -- with a cupcake chaser.
My father was a cosmetics salesman, and, though he was raised in an orthodox Jewish household by a mother that adhered to the kosher principles, he lived on a steady diet of quick-stop specialties, regardless of their orientation.
Mom liked to sleep in. Getting up with the sun to serve a warm breakfast to her school-aged children wasn’t high on her list of priorities. She waited till the house was empty -- free and clear of questions and demands -- before having her coffee and buttered roll with a paperback romance novel. The day I started kindergarten was the day I received a crash course in the morning routine.
“Get up and get dressed,” My older sister, Lisa, ordered, like a drill sergeant. “Mom, laid out your clothes last night,” she said, pointing to the ensemble at the foot of my bed.
“Where’s Mom,” I yawned.
“Upstairs, don’t make any noise,” she said, tiptoeing down the hall.
The worst transgression in our house would have been to wake a sleeping parent. My sister and I had already been taught the moral principle of “consideration,” after it had been smacked into our asses.
“Isn’t Mom going to make us breakfast?” I asked, hoping for a hot bowl of Farina.
“Mom doesn’t get up early, get used to it,” she replied derisively, walking off to forage through the assortment of Drake’s cakes stored in the oven.
So my folks never had a problem finding a teenaged babysitter, because the word was out about our junk-food stockpile. Whipped cream from a can was a trendy delicacy when it hit the market, and we always had a can or two. That stuff which miraculously propelled itself from the funny white nozzle was good for a half an hour of entertainment. Lisa and I would compete by standing with our mouths gaping open as the babysitter injected as much whipped cream as the space would hold. Whoever gagged, lost.
We ate Yankee Doodles for breakfast and had Swanson TV dinners every Saturday night. Even after I had been to college, had revolutionized my dietary world, and returned home with an armful of bottles from the health food store to concoct a soy lecithin, wheat germ and organic honey gruel, Dad was still doing the morning cup of coffee -- with a cupcake chaser.
My father was a cosmetics salesman, and, though he was raised in an orthodox Jewish household by a mother that adhered to the kosher principles, he lived on a steady diet of quick-stop specialties, regardless of their orientation.
On Sunday mornings Mom would fry up some bacon and eggs, and then we’d pile into Dad’s ‘67 Impala; headed to Brooklyn for a visit with his parents. They were Polish immigrants who spoke only Yiddish and had raised four children in their two-bedroom apartment. For most of his youth Dad slept on a cot in the cramped kitchen, only acquiring a bedroom once all of his older sisters were married.
Somewhere along the way we’d stop for burgers and fries. McDonald’s, before the dawn of the Big Mac, was the ultimate roadside attraction. Outside, a red-and-white-tiled wraparound bench ran below impressive glass walls. Pressing our faces up against the window, Lisa and I spied burgers sizzling on an automated circular grill and an assembly line of men in starched white clothes churn out perfectly packaged sandwiches. The graceful beauty of their aligned posture, accurate aim, and controlled speed captivated my imagination.
When Burger King debuted in our hometown, we actually got dressed for dinner, eager to line up and sample their flame-broiled brand. There was no drive-through in those days, and the term “fast food” wasn’t common knowledge.
We ate the stuff in the backseat, balanced the cold soda cups between our knees and used the fries as swords in a duel, while Dad drove and Mom bit her nails. Before arriving at my grandparents’ third-floor walk-up in Flatbush, a small, dank apartment that was filled with the aroma of garlic and onions, Dad would stop at a dumpster and throw away any remnants of our lunch -- including all the paper packaging. The four of us would get out of the car so he could spray it down with Lysol. Then we’d jump back in, turn the block and arrive. Dad had always led his mother to believe that we were the fruits of an authentically kosher womb. He figured what Grandma didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her.
And she had her own way of faking out the powers that be. We would bring shopping bags of fruit from the farmers market on Long Island for her to use in the apple cake recipe that came from the old country. If the previous weeks’ produce hadn’t been processed; she had an ingenious, if not totally devious, method for letting us know.
“Hello, this is the operator with a collect call for Mrs. Noapel,” the long-distance lady would say.
“I’m sorry, there’s nobody here by that name,” my father answered, declining the incoming charges. As Grandmother and Father silently listened, using the phone line as the operative, “NO APPLE” was decoded.
“No fruit, straight to Flatbush,” Dad would proudly announce after hanging up the receiver.
Somewhere along the way we’d stop for burgers and fries. McDonald’s, before the dawn of the Big Mac, was the ultimate roadside attraction. Outside, a red-and-white-tiled wraparound bench ran below impressive glass walls. Pressing our faces up against the window, Lisa and I spied burgers sizzling on an automated circular grill and an assembly line of men in starched white clothes churn out perfectly packaged sandwiches. The graceful beauty of their aligned posture, accurate aim, and controlled speed captivated my imagination.
When Burger King debuted in our hometown, we actually got dressed for dinner, eager to line up and sample their flame-broiled brand. There was no drive-through in those days, and the term “fast food” wasn’t common knowledge.
We ate the stuff in the backseat, balanced the cold soda cups between our knees and used the fries as swords in a duel, while Dad drove and Mom bit her nails. Before arriving at my grandparents’ third-floor walk-up in Flatbush, a small, dank apartment that was filled with the aroma of garlic and onions, Dad would stop at a dumpster and throw away any remnants of our lunch -- including all the paper packaging. The four of us would get out of the car so he could spray it down with Lysol. Then we’d jump back in, turn the block and arrive. Dad had always led his mother to believe that we were the fruits of an authentically kosher womb. He figured what Grandma didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her.
And she had her own way of faking out the powers that be. We would bring shopping bags of fruit from the farmers market on Long Island for her to use in the apple cake recipe that came from the old country. If the previous weeks’ produce hadn’t been processed; she had an ingenious, if not totally devious, method for letting us know.
“Hello, this is the operator with a collect call for Mrs. Noapel,” the long-distance lady would say.
“I’m sorry, there’s nobody here by that name,” my father answered, declining the incoming charges. As Grandmother and Father silently listened, using the phone line as the operative, “NO APPLE” was decoded.
“No fruit, straight to Flatbush,” Dad would proudly announce after hanging up the receiver.
Grandma Sylvia’s Apple Cake
3 cups flour
2 cups sugar
4 large eggs
1/4 cup orange juice
1 cup vegetable oil
3 teaspoons vanilla extract
3 teaspoons baking powder
6 apples
3 teaspoons cinnamon
6 tablespoons sugar
Directions:
1. Preheat oven to 350 degrees F. Grease and flour a large rectangular pan (lasagna-type).
2. Combine the first seven ingredients and beat at medium speed for 10 minutes.
3. Peel and thickly slice the apples and add cinnamon and sugar.
4. Layer half of the batter in pan; add apples, then the rest of the batter. Sprinkle top with additional cinnamon and sugar.
5. Bake for 1 hour and 15 minutes, or until the top crust is crisp.
Serves 16.
3 cups flour
2 cups sugar
4 large eggs
1/4 cup orange juice
1 cup vegetable oil
3 teaspoons vanilla extract
3 teaspoons baking powder
6 apples
3 teaspoons cinnamon
6 tablespoons sugar
Directions:
1. Preheat oven to 350 degrees F. Grease and flour a large rectangular pan (lasagna-type).
2. Combine the first seven ingredients and beat at medium speed for 10 minutes.
3. Peel and thickly slice the apples and add cinnamon and sugar.
4. Layer half of the batter in pan; add apples, then the rest of the batter. Sprinkle top with additional cinnamon and sugar.
5. Bake for 1 hour and 15 minutes, or until the top crust is crisp.
Serves 16.
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