My father was both a simple and a complicated man. His parents were immigrant peasant Jews from East Europe who were escaping pograms, Cossacks, and conscription in the Czar's army where Jews were not treated well. He grew up on the mean streets of Chicago during Capone days, and all his life loved those black Caponish gangster hats. That was his generation's version of the backward baseball cap.
He was simple in his belief in the American dream, Bing Crosby, and his belief in social justice. He was complicated in his emotional opaqueness to himself. He made a lot of foolish mistakes in his time.
Once my cousin asked my Aunt Molly for a recipe for one of her revered Thanksgiving dishes. Aunt Molly was the only one who made this dish, and she didn't want to give it over, but my cuz was afraid Aunt Molly would die without revealing the secret. When Aunt M said, "Why do you need to know," cuz didn't want to say, "in case you die," so she stuttered, then said, "You know, in case you go out of town or something." So in our family, people don't die. They just go out of town.
Read More