LET OUT

After a year of benevolent sequestering, it’s a very strange feeling getting into my little Saturn, starting the engine and driving—not just driving—but actually going somewhere. It’s been a very long time since I drove to a destination. I hope I can remember the location of my favorite stores. I hope they are still there!

Even though I still wear my faithful mask everywhere, I am now putting on some makeup and wearing clothes a bit nicer than sweats. After all, going to a bank is now an occasion. It’s like going to a masked ball in a very expensive venue. It’s good that social distancing is still suggested, so I won’t be tempted to give the bank guard a hug.  The only hugs I have received in a year are in my Yoga class where I hug myself while twisting my legs into pretzels.

I never thought that a tiny watch battery would mean so much to me, but getting my faithful wrist watch to run again is better than arranging an exorcism.

On my first parole day, the most entertaining event I attended was held at my favorite bakery, Beyond Bread.  I followed a woman into the bakery.  Suddenly, she abruptly stopped in front of me, and started screaming. Needless to say, I made a wide berth around her and quickly walked to the counter.  Happily, she wasn’t screaming because I had taken her place in line, but she was shouting and running in circles because the store manager had politely offered her a mask to wear in his establishment. She flailed her arms about and shouted about her “rights,” and she yelled about the Governor of Arizona. She was certain that he had told her that she did not have to wear a mask. How smart is someone who takes advice from a business man, turned Governor, who couldn’t sell ice cream in Arizona, a State with 350 days of sunshine.

The Crazy Lady yelled, “No one can tell me what to wear!” Obviously, no one had told her to wear longer pants. I did agree, however, that no one should make this woman cover her nose and mouth, because stuffing the mask into her mouth would have done all of us a favor.  As I left the establishment by the far, far away exit, I heard “Security, we need you at the front entrance.”

I don’t think they let her buy a loaf of bread, but I hope she got her just desserts.

Esther Blumenfeld

WHAT'S COOKING?

My mother was a beautiful woman who relished nothing more than dressing up, going to a party and having fun, and no one deserved it more than she, but, cooking was not high on her list of enjoyable activities. However, she did make delicious chicken soup.

“When I was a child every skinned knee and sniffle was soothed with a cup of Mama’s chicken soup, and later, in college, dreams of home and soup gave me incentive to study at final exam time. So, when I asked my Mom for the recipe, I was shocked at how easy it is to prepare. Incredulous, I asked, ‘Are you sure this is all there is to it?’ Although she had never written down the recipe, she swore by the ingredients. After the third, ‘Are you sure you haven’t left something out? This is too easy.’ Dad, finally interrupted, ‘Daughter, if you want to complicate it, you can always throw in a dead squirrel.’”
(Mama’s Cooking, Celebrities Remember Mama’s Best Recipe, Blumenfeld and Alpern, c. Blumenfeld 1985)

Escaping to the United States from Fascist Nazi Germany, my parents loved the United States of America, and Mother wanted nothing more than to be able to cook like a real American. No longer did she want to cook Wienerschnitzel or Sauerbraten, but she wanted to prepare American meals. Unfortunately, it took her awhile to learn which dishes complemented one another, and how to prepare them. For instance, she took a liking to crab apples, but they didn’t quite taste the same on top of a fried steak, and in Germany corn on the cob was only fed to farm animals. Also, to my dismay, she couldn’t stand the smell of peanut butter. Salad was always a hunk of iceberg lettuce with French dressing, because bottled French dressing had to be American, because surely the French would never serve it. And, cold cuts on rye bread had to be American (except when salami was served with chicken fat slathered on the bread.) Obviously, my family was blessed with good genes, because her cooking did not kill us, and my parents died of old age, and my brother and I are on our way there.

When the United States entered the war after the bombing of Pearl Harbor, many food stuffs were rationed including butter. So, when baking a cake, which Mother planned to serve to a small group of Mahjong playing ladies, she had to supplement cooking oil instead of butter. Happily, the creation looked beautiful coming out of the oven, but when she sliced it at the table, the center sported two perfectly formed sliced hard boiled eggs. One of her surprised guests gasped and said, “Ruth, How did you do that?”

I always thought that my Mother learned everything she knew about cooking from her mother who was even a worse cook than she. The best dish that Grandma made was a concoction of whipped egg white, and the rest of the egg stirred at the bottom of the glass with sugar and whiskey.  It was supposed to cure a cold. I remember that I would tell Grandma that I thought I was coming down with a cold, just to get a teaspoon of that stuff. Tasted pretty good! Did not cure anything.

Grandma was a bit of a mischief maker (that’s a nice way to put it) and had a way of getting under Mother’s skin. One evening my parents were hosting a very fancy cocktail party at our home. Mother had prepared an assortment of hordoerves. On one tray I spied a lonely cracker with cream cheese, topped with a lonely sardine that Mother had discovered nesting in back of our refrigerator.

Grandma, the fastidious kvetcher was the first person at the table. She spied the sardine cracker, popped it into her mouth, spit it out and shouted, “No one eat anything. The appetizers are poisoned.”That was when Mother discovered the joy of catering.

Esther Blumenfeld
 

BE A FRIEND

For many years, I taught Sunday School. One day, I asked my 15-year-old students, “Do you think that “Peace on Earth” can become a reality?” They quickly responded, “NO!” Then I challenged them by saying, “Of course, each one of you can make it happen. It’s up to you. You can start by getting along with your families, then your neighbors, and then they can pass it forward, until our town becomes friendly with the next community etc.” When, I finished, one boy said, “It will never work.” “Why?” I asked, and he gleefully replied, “Because I hate my brother.” Balloon punctured.

Relationships can be hard. It has been suggested that to understand another person, you should “walk in his shoes.” However, realistically those shoes might just not fit and pinch too much to get anywhere. Also, at my age, relationships come and go in one way or another, and more and more they are going—going—gone! Consequently, I can either choose to accept the diminishing without the returns, go it alone or cultivate new friendships. Of course I could adopt a cat or a dog, but, although I enjoy other people’s pets, I am just not a pooper scooper kind of gal.  

I don’t feel the need to be with people all of the time. As a matter of fact, I enjoy my solitude. I laugh at my own jokes and occasionally dance in my kitchen, but occasionally I want to exchange ideas and quips and have fun with other people. Unfortunately, most of the time, because of masking, I am communicating with the top halves of people’s faces, but I can always tell if my friends are smiling because the eyes have it. I happen to like people. That helps.

Over the years, I have learned that it takes more than one person to form a relationship. Also, I figure that if someone doesn’t like me it’s their loss. I have also learned that you cannot change another person. You can only change your reaction to her behavior, and if you don’t expect too much and aren’t judgmental most relationships work out just fine.

Sometimes relationships make no sense except to the people in them. Someone once asked me, “How can you be friends with her? You don’t play golf. You don’t belong to a Country Club. You don’t play Bridge. You aren’t a multi-millionaire, and you can never confide in her because she’s a blabber mouth.” After that appraisal of my qualities, I replied, “She’s a lot of fun!”

Different friends bring something of themselves to a relationship, and if our friendship makes them happy, that’s good enough for me.

Marriage, of course, should be the ultimate friendship.  Here’s what Erma Bombeck advised:

“Marriage has no guarantees. If that’s what you are looking for, go live with a car battery.”

Esther Blumenfeld

CAVEAT EMPTOR

In the aftermath of the Trump Senatorial Trial, I realized that there seems to be a disclaimer to almost everything in life.

For instance; to paraphrase Mitch McConnell he said something like, “Yes, Trump is a scumbag and guilty of everything he is charged with, but I won’t vote to punish him, because I’m sure that down the road someone else will get him.”

And, then there was the somewhere-local legislator who said about one of his State Senators, “We didn’t send him to Washington to do the right thing. We didn’t send him there to vote his conscience.” That proves the disclaimer that, “Any resemblance to actual people living or dead or events past, present or future is purely coincidental.” With some people it is obvious that “Some assembly is required,” and their “batteries are not included.” Of course when it comes to some politicians it is also good to be forewarned, “May contain nuts.”

When I was a teenager, I mouthed off, as teenagers are wont to do, and I can remember my mother chasing me around the dining room table brandishing her bedroom slipper, and shouting, “Act like a lady!” To this day, I believe that sassing one’s parent should be, “Void where prohibited.”

As I grow older, I am often told, “Age is just a number.” What they don’t say is, “Actual mileage may vary” or  “Warranty does not cover an act of God.”

Almost all products touted in television ads have disclaimers, but they are shown  at the bottom of the screen, in a few seconds, in teeny-weeny print so you won’t know, “ This product is not authorized for use by anyone, for anyone. One size does not fit all, and you are using this product at your own risk. So, change the channel before you get a rash.”

Even the sacred wedding vows have a disclaimer. “You have to be good in sickness and in health until one of you departs.”  Of course, in a Jewish ceremony you can always, “Break glass in case of emergency.”  And, on the honeymoon, “Shin pads cannot protect any part of the body they do not cover.”

One of my favorite legal disclaimers supposedly appeared at the end of an episode of THE SIMPSONS. “No dogs were harmed during the production of this episode. A cat threw up and somebody shot a duck, but that’s it.”

Esther Blumenfeld (“Please remain seated until the web page has come to a complete stop.”

BITS AND PIECES

While being sequestered in my apartment for almost a year, my entertainment involved an abundance of thinking, as well as remembering the foolish, the fanciful, and, yes, sometimes even the profane.

So, here’s a smorgasbord for you to enjoy:

My husband, Warren was a quick thinker. When we were walking down a street in New York City a rude fellow yelled, from across the street, “Ya got the time?” Warren looked at his wristwatch and said, “Yes,” as we kept  walking.  It must have been a New York thing, because a block later another man yelled (They yell a lot in New York) “Hey, Buddy, where’s the subway?” Warren pointed  down, and we kept right on walking.

My favorite Warren response was when he was about to begin a speech. A large folding screen had been placed behind him. Before he could open his mouth, the screen collapsed with a big bang. The audience gasped, and Warren said, “I think I am having a religious experience.”

There’s a story about a tourist from Arkansas who was visiting Boston. He was lost and stopped to ask a Bostonian for directions. “Sir,” could you please tell me where Washington Street is at?” The Bostonian replied, “In Boston we don’t end a sentence with a preposition.”
“Sorry,” replied the man from Arkansas. “Could you please tell me where Washington Street is at—You Jackass!”

That story reminds me of a time when I was 11 years old, and my parents took me on a trip to Chicago. Walking down the street they ran into some friends and stopped to chat in front of a store that had a “Going Out Of Business” sign in the window. Bored with the conversation, I slipped away and entered the store. I noticed a man looking at a counter display. The salesman  yelled (People tend to yell in big cities) “You want something?”  The man replied, “No, I’m just browsing.” Whereupon the salesman roared, “Then get outta here!” We both ran out.

Sometimes, even a compliment has left me speechless. For several years, I made egg salad sandwiches as a volunteer to feed the hungry. We served as many as 300 people in a seating. One man in line said, “You know what! Your egg salad sandwich is almost as good as the pizza I got out of the dumpster.”

A professor friend of mine, who was also a professional mediator, was invited to mediate a dispute between labor and management at a large company. Not only had the discussion become quite heated, the room was filled with smoke. The mediator suggested, “Let’s take a break, cool down and perhaps cut down on the smoking.”  When he returned, the labor leader smiled at him and said, “While you were out of the room, we came to an agreement.” “Excellent!” said my friend. “What did you agree to?” The man from management said, “We agreed to let you go. Mister, this is a tobacco company.”

When Woodrow Wilson was Governor of New Jersey, he received a phone call informing him that a New Jersey Senator had died. As soon as he hung up the phone, he got a call from an ambitious politician who said, “I’d like to take the Senator’s place.” Whereupon, Wilson replied, “If it’s okay with the undertaker, it’s okay with me.”

One evening having dinner in a Chinese restaurant, I heard a woman say to her husband, “Harold, it’s not the egg roll. It’s our whole life.”

Many times bits and pieces from a long time ago take on a whole new meaning:

Winston Churchill said, “An appeaser is one who feeds a crocodile, hoping it will eat him last.”

And sometimes bits and pieces give us hope for the future:

When watching the inauguration of President Biden, my 10-year-old friend, Julia said,
“This is a historical occasion. Can we celebrate with candy?”

Keep celebrating the laughter in life.  It’s good for you.

Esther Blumenfeld