Wednesday is Prince Spaghetti Day...

As implied in my last post, my mind has been flashing memories of my youth at a pretty steady pace lately, with so many friends still contending with the aftermath of Sandy back east. It was not completely by happenstance that I chose Wednesday as the day to use the crock pot to make something of a "Sunday Gravy," obviously not on a Sunday, but because I so warmly remember seeing advertisements for Prince spaghetti all over the airwaves as a young boy in NJ. Granted, the commercial is supposed to be set on the north end of Boston, but somehow the imagery reminds me still, more generically, of nearly any tenement building in a large city in the northeast, and by association, the images remind me of NY, or at least the kind of hazy and faded memory of NY that I hearken back to in the nostalgic part of my brain.

More importantly, the ad reminds me of how, in my neighborhood, calling kids in for dinner was commonplace. At any given moment, you'd hear moms or siblings yelling, "Willy [yeah, I had to endure that nickname], time for supper." Or dinner. Or whatever a family called it. We'd hear it, and the game we were all playing would either realign to adjust for those called away, or would simply dissipate as the critical mass dwindled to the few who hadn't yet been called in. By urban standards, our yards were luxuriously large in the north Jersey suburbs, but really, the block where I spent most of my youth was compact enough that no one was really ever out of earshot of their own home. I suppose there is a part of me that mourns the idea that my daughters might not get to experience the call to dinner that was so familiar to me and to my friends growing up, in part because I doubt we'd ever have that luxury in our densely urban neighborhood, but more so because it seems that we have reached a point where the cell phone, the text message, or some other digital beacon has taken the place of a good set of lungs when rounding up the family these days. 

Dinner, tonight, was a joy to cook, and the prep this morning was incredibly simple. I had a bony, cheap cut of beef and a lovely, but small pork tenderloin roast defrosted. Both went into the crock pot along with canned tomatoes, tomato sauce, tomato paste, garlic, salt, pepper, and a nice dose of herbs (mostly basil, oregano, and parsley today). I copped out on cutting up an onion, and just added a bit of onion powder today, mostly out of a concern for time (I was too persnickety about getting the garlic cut up to allow me the time to hack at an onion). I let this cook all day, and since it was a rather large batch, decided I'd keep my meatballs completely separate from the process. And for those who care, I did add a tiny dash of sugar, but I was on the fence about it. I know some folks insist that it is essential, and others consider it an abomination. For me, since I'm not Italian by heritage, I have no loyalties, and just cook as the spirit moves me.

Once home from work, I made up the meatballs. I kept them simple - beef only, some breadcrumbs (wish I'd had more on hand, but I made it work), eggs, herbs, and a healthy dose of parmesan cheese added in. I baked the meatballs, and made sure I'd have plenty to freeze along with the sauce for a week or so down the road, and to make sure we'd have enough for leftovers tomorrow as well. I was craving the simplicity of spaghetti (and not some other pasta shape; I think the commercial really got to me, but it was not Prince brand), but ended up mixing in a small bit of linguine I had opened as well.

The Verdict

(I really need to take pics on the white or red plates;
 the yellow does NOT photograph well)

Writing about spaghetti and meatballs is nor really an earth-shattering idea. Yes, the meal was absolutely delicious. You just can't rush a really good sauce, and so the slow cooker does wonders for a deep, flavorful meat sauce like this. The strands of tender meat that melt in the mouth, bathed in an herb-y tomato base are so comforting, and the somewhat saltier and chewier meatballs on the side such a delightful contrast. I have not had nearly enough wine lately, and was thrilled to find a bottle of Brunello di Montalcino in our stash. It was a great treat with this particular dinner.

So, again tonight, I let my mind drift back to my youth, to the turf of my teens (and younger), to old friends, and to old ways. I recalled a lunch at my friend Phil Mastronardi's house, and how, between his mom and grandmother, I could barely walk away from the meal. I remembered several meals at the homes of friends in the neighborhood, including a fair number at Andrew Lange's house, where his mom made some traditional German meals that I have still yet to find the courage to try to recreate in my own kitchen.  I recalled playing kick the can with my buds on 4th Ave in Westwood. I found my mind walking to any number of my old schools on brisk days like today, the smell of leaves as I crunched them underfoot, and the sound of the train whistle bringing parents back from work in "The City." And again, tonight, I wished I could do more than just remember and think good thoughts. 

Still, a rich meal like this on a cold, late-autumn evening, with my family around me, makes me realize that, for them, I'm laying the foundation for the memories my daughters will have. They will have comfort in the familiarity of the mundane things we now share, and I hope each of them will get to look back on these memories fondly, in good times and bad. And I hope they will find something that can call them back as easily as the sound of "Anthony... Anthony..."

Early Thanksgiving and Sandy

This past weekend, we took delivery of a new stove. The old one still did fine as a stovetop, but the oven had given up the ghost. Even if we "fudged" the inaccurate temperature and set the beast much higher, we would not have been able to get the oven any hotter than 325 degrees, and the cost of the repair was about half the cost of a new unit, so we swallowed hard and took the hit on the budget. I unofficially broke in the oven by roasting pumpkin seeds from our jack-o-lantern (cinnamon sugar - yum), but the official first dinner came on Sunday night. It somehow seemed appropriate to make something special, something that would make good use of the larger capacity and the full stovetop (the new unit has five burners, higher potential BTU output, etc.), so I opted for a quickie version of Thanksgiving dinner. 

If I were doing a "real" Thanksgiving dinner, a whole bird would have been brined. The stuffing would have been made from scratch. The veggies would have been fresh, not frozen. And I might even have made a bread from scratch as well, rather than just buying a tub of croissants. Even the cranberry sauce would have been homemade, not from a can. Instead, the turkey was a breast only (bone in, at least), and I did a simple sage, salt, and pepper rub on it. The mashed potatoes were the real deal; I couldn't let the little one down, as she seems to have developed a fondness for daddy's mashed potatoes. But the rest was as I have described.   Thankfully, the oven worked wonderfully, and I was even able to work in the croissants for a quick warm up at the end of the turkey's cook time. And the stovetop got a reasonably good workout, even if not all burners were in action at once.

Frankly, I hadn't considered writing about the meal. But reading about so many of my friends and family back on the east coast who have endured hurricane Sandy gave me pause, and made me reconsider. As I was finishing up the last of the leftovers at dinner tonight with my wife and two girls, I realized that this pre-Thanksgiving meal was just that; something to make me reflect on what I am grateful for in my life, the comfort of the mundane, and just how fragile these things are.

The verdict

The meal is not generally what I write about when I write here, and this is certainly the case tonight. I think back this evening on my childhood and early adult years in NJ, and hearing about and seeing pictures and footage of the places in NYC and NJ that were so familiar to me has had me swimming in memories (if you will pardon the awful pun). I recall celebrating with family at my Aunt Betty's in Westwood for Thanksgiving dinners, and so many other memories of that town that I could write several books. I remember flood waters in the mid-1970s when I was living with my Uncle Billy in Kendall Park, and how the stream a good bit behind his house had turned the back yard into a mucky lake (and how I swam in it with my cousins, even though it was far from safe). When I heard about the towns of Little Ferry and Moonachie, the former where I lived for a year with my dad, and the latter where he had worked at the time, I think about how I would never have imagined that area being overrun by water. I remembered the frequent flooding in Hackensack (was it River Road?), and visiting the USS Ling submarine docked along the river there. I thought about trips to the Palisades. I thought about heading to NYC with my father to visit relatives (and his old stomping grounds near my birthplace in the Bronx), and later by myself, sometimes on the sly, sometimes not. Trips down the shore. Hours on the Parkway and the Turnpike, with friends, with family, and alone. All of this seems so very different and very distant right now as I see the images on TV, on Facebook, on the local newspaper sites from around NJ, and the like. It's been years since I called the area home, but I was shaped by my childhood there, and seeing the destruction and loss so many are facing there pains me to my core.

I know what it feels like to live with the kind of devastation my friends back east are facing now, having endured a few hurricanes myself. I will do what I can to help. Maybe slate a blood donation later this week (if I can hydrate and keep the blood pressure up), donate to a good cause, offer what I can in kind words, good thoughts, and other distant deeds - whatever is possible from halfway across the country. I am already thinking that a visit when spring or summer comes around might be nice; put some money back into the rebuilding economies along the shore that will surely need it. But as is all too often the case, when we are physically removed from a disaster, we are largely at a loss to think of how we can really help those in need. 

I thought to myself tonight that, if I had a job that allowed it and didn't have a family relying on me here, I would get myself out there and help cut up downed trees, clean up flooded basements, help tarp up some rooftops - anything to be of clear and direct help. But having a pre-Thanksgiving meal also made me realize that having a job that needs me and, more importantly, a family that needs me, is the very thing that many of my friends are realizing right now as well. As they get together to grill up the perishables with neighbors (knowing that if they don't, things will spoil), many of them will grow closer to their neighbors over a meal shared from the heart. I try to do this without a disaster at hand, but I also know the special kind of camaraderie folks can build in those moments when the lights won't work, and all sense of normalcy has been removed. I am sure someone is running an extension cord from their generator to help out a neighbor tonight, sharing what they have, and in doing so, giving thanks for what they have. Some folks are feeling the stress and strain of loss. Loss of power, sure, but also loss of property, and a loss of the sense of security and stability that ordinary life brings. Thankfully, I'm not aware of any friends grieving for lost life directly, but I am sure that they mourn the losses they hear about just as I do, and in doing so, they are thankful to have survived intact.

I hope that in a few weeks my friends and family back east will have some of the comfort returned, some of the stability, security, and normalcy back, and I sincerely hope that they will have a solid recovery to be thankful for. Tomorrow, I will enjoy a kind of special normalcy, one of trick-or-treating in the neighborhood, another comfortable meal at my table, and of course, the love I share with my family. But I will hold all of you on the east coast in my thoughts as I do these things, knowing that many of you will not have these simple joys tomorrow. I ask that all of us who weathered this storm unscathed do something above and beyond to help. Tonight, I am thankful for all I have, my safety, the four walls and a roof, passable roads, and relative peace and calm in a way I wasn't on Sunday when I first cooked our meal. In the spirit of my Quaker friends, please hold all who are suffering in the light, and please do what you can, if you can, to help ease the pain, loss, and suffering. Give someone else something to be thankful for.