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Some years ago, a girlfriend introduced me to tomato sandwiches. When she told me we were having them for lunch, I thought she was crazy. It turns out she was anything but. Tomato sandwiches are simplicity itself, and deliciousness itself. 

There is no recipe for a tomato sandwich. To look at one is to know the recipe. I like mine as simple as can be; two slices of really good bread (I like a slightly sweeter bread); mayonnaise on one or both pieces; a thick slice of a beefsteak tomato fresh from the garden or farm-stand, salt and pepper. But you can use whatever bread you like - toasted or untoasted. Mayonnaise or not is up to you - or substitute something else, or leave  off dressing altogether, relying on the tomato to provide moistness. One slice of a giant beefsteak or big-boy tomato, or multiple slices of smaller tomatoes, or even a pile of thin tomato slices. The only thing that is important is that each element must be excellent – being such a simple, pared down collection, each must shine on its own. 

Here I am using a bread sweetened (and colored) with honey and caramel coloring, with gray salt.

As I have come to understand, tomato sandwiches really aren’t madness. Cucumber sandwiches are just the same – slices of a savory fruit on bread. [From a botanist’s perspective, both tomatoes and cucumbers are fruits.] Watercress sandwiches live in the same flavor-space. Arguably bruschetta is at its most basic a simple bread, garlic, and olive oil affair. I am told that after a long night of drinking, nothing pleases some in Asia more than rice with soy sauce and sesame oil – possibly with sliced scallions if one is feeling wild. I have no doubt that around the world there is a simple, savory something enjoyed in each and every culture. 

So, go nuts. Have a tomato sandwich. Then tell me who’s crazy.

The kind we grow here: 'Boxcar Willie'


Earlier this summer, the Supreme Court of the United States ruled on the case of Trump v. Pennsylvania. The court decided in favor of Trump, concluding that employers have broad religious and moral exemptions from the mandate that health insurance provided to their workers include coverage for birth control. Soon the court, minus Justice Ginsberg, may rule on other aspects of ACA potentially dooming that legislation.

But that is not what I want to talk about. Every time questions are raised related to health insurance provided by corporations, I am reminded of something my dad used to say. He was very conservative and voted the straight republican ticket for most of his life. [He voted Republican up until tRump. He couldn’t bring himself to vote for a man he called an “unqualified moron”, regardless of party loyalty.] He owned a small specialty chemical business. Over the years he had anywhere from 3 employees (in the earliest days), to 50 or 60 at the company’s peak.

Every time the issue of health insurance came up, American business would vigorously declare that the government should stay out of it. My father would shake his head and growl, “What, are they nuts?” He would say things like, “I am in the chemical business. I am not in the insurance business. I don’t know health insurance, and I don’t want to have to provide it to my employees.” He would ask, “Why do these companies want to deal with this mishegas? They make cars, or sell shoes, or fly airplanes. That’s what they should do!” He would go on, “Every year I have to read through all these fucking insurance riders and choose the best insurance for my people. What if I make a mistake? I lie awake at night worrying about what would happen if I chose a bad insurance plan and an employee suffers.” [He really was a good employer in spite of his gruffness and conservative nature.] “If the government wants to take over health insurance, I say ‘Please! Please do!’ What makes these companies want to deal with this nonsense. Let the government take it over! Please.”

Of course, it was a rhetorical question. He knew why, and I do too. The vast majority of America’s major corporations are run by arch conservatives who want the government to tax as little as possible, and provide as few services as possible. They also want their employees to be stuck in their jobs due to the need for insurance. Furthermore, large corporations can carry the cost of human resources departments that handle getting, maintaining, and managing healthcare policies. It’s no skin off the back of the people at the top to have their businesses providing healthcare insurance to their employees.

But life would be so much easier for everyone if we just had universal healthcare. Corporations that aren’t in the healthcare industry could focus on their core competency, whatever that might be. For companies with religious or moral objections to certain healthcare options, the issue becomes moot. Also, companies can stop playing stupid games such as making sure that everyone is part-time, or a consultant, etc. to avoid having to provide benefits (of which insurance is far and away the most expensive.) Meanwhile, companies use health insurance as a way to handcuff their employees to their jobs. But, I have to ask, do they really want employees that are only there because of the health insurance benefit? I’ve got to believe that someone clocking in every day solely for the health care is unlikely to be a company’s dedicated performer! Let them go, taking their government provided health insurance with them, and bring in someone else who is truly invested in the work. Then the employee, now freed from the need for employer sponsored healthcare, can find another job that better suits their needs, aptitudes, and desires. Everyone wins - the worker, the employers on both side of the move, and the economy. Everyone.

Oh, and another benefit of a single-payer system: all Americans can get the healthcare they need without going bankrupt. Not having your company situated in a country filled with the sick, dying, and bankrupt, has got to be worth something. And the net cost for American businesses will be almost nothing. If business stopped objecting and just let the government take over providing health care in this country, they could relieve themselves of all the overhead of providing it themselves. Sure, their taxes would probably go up, but, that tax burden would be spread across all taxpayers. I am hard pressed to believe that the portion contributed by corporate taxes would be greater than the cost employers already bear providing private health insurance. Maybe I’m wrong, but I don’t think so.

So, please, can we stop litigating who pays for what, when, and how, and just give the human beings that live in American healthcare already? Geesh.


The attack on the United States Postal Service:

This has been bugging me for a couple weeks now, and since Speaker of the House Nancy Pelosi (D-CA) recently brought it up, allow me to vent about this a bit.

The United States Postal Service (USPS) is a service provided by the U.S. government to the people of the United States. Long distance communication is so important that it was authorized in the Constitution itself. If telegraph, phone, or the internet had existed at the founding of America, no doubt the framers would have enshrined them in the Constitution as well.

[Aside: In his book The Invention of Yesterday: A 50,000-Year History of Human Culture, Conflict, and Connection, Tamim Ansary repeatedly emphasizes communication as the fundamental limiter on the size of states, countries, and empires. You can only control as far as you can efficiently communicate.]


Who decided that the USPS should be self-funding?

Even though it is a U.S. government agency, currently the USPS receives no funding from taxpayers. The USPS is required to fund itself entirely through the sale of postage stamps and other service charges and fees. I have heard that there are other agencies that are self-funded, but, I honestly have no idea which. I have not managed to find information about any of them. This may not actually be correct (if you know, please put it in the comments.)

Why is this? The post office is so important that every nation on earth has one. It is so important that it is authorized in our Constitution. It is so important that historians reference it in their analyses of world events.

We don’t require the armed forces to be self-supporting. The CIA and FBI don’t have to charge for their services to do their jobs. Some stretches of highway are toll roads, but most federal, state, and local roads are built and maintained by government agencies, with no usage fees imposed, and their operation is neither required nor expected to be revenue-neutral. The same is true for the FDA, EPA, USDA, DHS, Department of the Treasury, HUD, and on and on. All these other agencies provide services to the people of the United States, while the cost of running them is covered primarily or entirely by taxes. The USPS is no less important a service and should not be hobbled by an unfair set of funding rules.


Reliable delivery everywhere:

The USPS is a rather extraordinary service in many ways. Notably, letters sent within the United States have the same cost regardless of where it originates or where it is going. If I send a letter from my house to my next-door neighbor’s house, it (currently) costs 55 cents. If someone in the remotest part of Hawaii sends a letter to a destination in the remotest part of Alaska, it costs 55 cents. The USPS is committed to this and has been since the implementation of the Rural Free Delivery act. [In case you ever wondered about the title of the old TV series, “Mayberry R.F.D”, the “R.F.D” part refers to Rural Free Delivery, presumably suggesting the remoteness of the town of Mayberry.] Needless to say, the letter going from me to my neighbor costs far less to carry than the fee I pay, while the letter from remote HI to remote AK could cost vastly more to deliver than the price of the stamp that gets it there.

In fact, because the USPS goes anywhere and everywhere, FedEx and UPS often use the post office for the “final mile” on their package delivery. This service is of immense value to our citizens.


What services should government agencies provide?

Here’s another thing. The basis for Postmaster General DeJoy’s claim about decommissioning mail sorting machines is to increase capacity for packages. But there are private companies that carry packages quite well. UPS and FedEx deliver innumerable packages across the country and around the world, Amazon has created a wing of its business to handle dispatching their vast number of shipments, and there are common carriers for large heavy shipments as well as other kinds of specialty couriers.

Other than filling the gaps of shipping where these companies refuse to go (or charge onerous fees to do so), why should the USPS deliver packages at all? DeJoy says that the changes being made to USPS are needed to stay competitive. What? Why should it be competitive? The government is not supposed to compete with private enterprise! The government supplies services that private enterprise is unable to provide, or in what economists call “natural monopolies” - where it makes sense for the operation to be centrally managed.

The United States government could compete in manufacturing computers, providing haircuts, building cars, or creating new snack foods. But it doesn’t and it shouldn’t. The Government should provide the unprofitable but vital service of carrying mail, but the marketplace has shown that privately run companies can handle mainstream package delivery just fine, thank you very much.

Yes, there are areas where government and private enterprise supply the same product or service. Though most roads are built by the public sector, some are private. Government provides schools, from kindergarten through graduate school, and so do private for-profit and non-profit corporations. Governments provide tap water, but people can buy bottled water if they wish. No doubt there are many other such examples. But in none of these cases is the government providing a service in order to compete with private enterprise. Why should we even talk about the USPS being competitive in shipping packages. Maybe we want to assure that package delivery services are available at a reasonable cost to all citizens. To do so, being cost efficient makes sense. But, we can also provide this service to the populace by subsidizing it with tax revenue, or USPS can get out of the package business, and the government can regulate package delivery companies to assure fair pricing.


Final thoughts: 

We should all recognize that the United States Postal Service is a service. The government of the USA provides other services such as consulates in foreign countries, the Coast Guard, investigating and incarcerating federal criminals, and assuring the safety and quality of our food and drugs. Carrying mail is no less important. The USPS provides a valuable service to our people that need not be profitable. Imagining that the USPS should be competitive with private enterprise is ridiculous. The suggestion that the post office's vital task of carrying letters should be torn apart to allow it to compete in delivery of packages is even more so.


For many years, my mother was a huge fan of the cooking newsletter, Simple Cooking written and produced by John Thorne and his wife Matt. My mom had almost all the issues from #2-94 (1981-2012), missing just a few at the beginning, neatly stored in two 3-ring binders. When she was moving out of her house of 45 years, she gave them to me. I have been reading through them, enjoying them tremendously. Thorne has a very engaging style writing about interesting topics in cooking; usually 1 or 2 subjects per issue, along with book reviews, adorned with period drawings and illustrations.


A recent issue (i.e. an old issue that I read recently), included a pancake which, apparently, Mainers call “buckwheats.” Also known as "ploys", they are sourdough buckwheat pancakes. The story was fun, and the recipe intriguing. I like pancakes, sourdough and buckwheat, so a sourdough buckwheat pancake is a beguiling idea. Such a pancake with an interesting history is even more attractive. But, it is a pancake for which you need to plan the morning before you want to eat them. So, I didn’t get around to trying a batch for quite some time; after all, how often do I know I want pancakes tomorrow, and how good could a sourdough buckwheat pancake really be? How good? How good? How good, you ask? Unbelievable.

The sourdough plays off the buckwheat in an indescribable way. And the smell – oh the smell. Magic. Buckwheat and molasses with a hint of ferment. Adding butter and maple syrup (as Thorne suggests) takes it to a whole other level. You must try these pancakes. They are that good. I don’t care if you want pancakes tomorrow or not, you have to make them (and, as I discovered, you can make the starter a couple days ahead and hold it in the refrigerator if necessary.)

Side Note: As it happens, when I first made these I was out of buckwheat flour, and due to COVID-19, specialty flours were hard to come by. But I did have buckwheat groats and a flour grinder. Subsequently I used high-quality commercial buckwheat flower. Using store-bought still made and excellent pancake, but that freshly ground buckwheat flour made these pancakes even more special. Note that unground grains keep better than flour, so I have taken to keeping products like buckwheat, Kamut, and the like, whole, grinding as needed.

Side Note 2: These pancakes don't include eggs, milk, or butter. They are, in fact, vegetarian (and if you accept yeast, then they are vegan.) This is unusual for a pancake. A search online finds versions of buckwheat pancakes made with eggs, milk, buttermilk and/or butter. However, all recipes for "ploys" are void of any of these products. Perhaps Thorne was unaware of the appellation, "ploy", and its sparse ingredients, when he wrote that issue of Simple Cooking. It is also worth noting that in the original, Thorne suggests greasing the griddle with bacon fat. I have not tried that, and have left it out of these instructions.

I have since tried adding egg and/or dairy to the batter. As far as I am concerned, it didn't improve them at all, and doing so meant that any leftover batter would spoil. Without animal products, leftover batter can be saved an reused.
So, without further ado, here is my annotated version of John Thorne’s Sourdough Buckwheats:

Total time: ~24 hours. Active time ~30 mins.
Makes 24 3” pancakes.


The morning before you will be enjoying your buckwheats, make the starter as follows:
  • 6 Tbsp (3 oz) warm water (about 110°F)
  • 3 Tbsp unbleached white all-purpose flour
  • 3 Tbsp buckwheat flour
  • a generous pinch active dry yeast
[Note: yes, technically this is not a sourdough, because it uses commercial yeast and a chemical leavener (baking soda - see below). Technically this is just a pancake with a preferment. According to Thorne, Mainers would have had buckwheats every morning for breakfast, and would have kept their starter going indefinitely. Using yeast and baking soda is a cheat.]

Mix the ingredients in a small bowl. Cover loosely with dish towel or plastic wrap and place in a warm, draft free location. Signs of bubbling should occur within a few hours. Check and stir occasionally. Note: if you should discover that you aren’t going to be able to enjoy pancakes the next day, simply put the bowl of starter in the fridge. Remove the evening before you plan to cook.



The night before making your pancakes, make the batter:
  • ¾ cup unbleached white all-purpose flour
  • ¾ cup buckwheat flour
  • 1 ½ cups warm water (about 110°F)
  • the starter (preferment)
Before going to bed, sieve the flours together in a large mixing bowl. Whisk in the water gradually to make a smooth batter. (Note: You really need to do this. Just stir in the flours tolerably well. It will all absorb water and be easy to thoroughly mix with a spatula in the morning.) Stir in the starter. Cover and place in a warm draft free location overnight to ferment.


In the morning (can't you just taste them already?):
  • fermented batter
  • 1 ½ Tbsp unsalted molasses
  • ½ tsp kosher salt
  • ½ tsp baking soda dissolved in a little water
The batter should be bubbling and fragrant. If it’s not, don’t bother. Something went wrong. Try, try again. Stir in the molasses, salt, and baking soda. The first time I did this, at this point I was heartbroken. The batter had been beautiful and fragrant, but, after adding the molasses, it was brown and just smelled like molasses. Fear not! It comes out great. Let the batter sit for a few minutes. I found that leaving it for 10 or 15 minutes produced really beautiful large bubbly holes in the pancakes. If you want fewer, smaller holes, let it sit a shorter time, or not at all. Heat a griddle and grease it well. Use a 1/8 cup measure to scoop out batter for each pancake. Turn each as soon the batter is set.

Beautiful buckwheats on the griddle. For this
batch the batter had only sat a couple minutes

A second batch from batter that sat while waiting for me to eat the first batch.
Check out them bubbles!

Serve with butter and maple syrup. Enjoy!


My father had an extraordinary avocation; he collected and restored antique musical instruments. Over roughly 50 years of collecting, he amassed an astonishing number of pieces, a remarkable expertise, and worldwide recognition as an authority on early instruments and music.

His collecting began with keyboards, starting with a broken pedal organ that his father got somewhere and gave to him with the instruction, “if you can fix it, you can have it.” It turns out that he could fix it, and so began this lifelong interest.

Eventually his collection drove us out of my childhood home and into a much larger house with what seemed like plenty of room. But as the space increased, so did his appetite. It took a couple of decades, but he managed to fill the house. There were keyboard instruments in bedrooms, in the dining room, in his study, in the family room, in the “music room”, in the front hall, stacked coffin-like in the basement, and eventually unceremoniously filling the back recesses of the warehouse at his factory.

It was around this time that he began collecting blessedly smaller woodwind instruments. Yet over the ensuing years, it was beginning to become hard to find places to put even one more piccolo, with all manner of antique woodwinds not only in display cabinets and specially made drawers, but also stacked on top of the ubiquitous pianos.

Eventually, at the request of many in the early music world, he produced a beautiful catalog:
One thing he didn’t do was to make any real plan for what he wanted to have happen to the collection after his death. He had left letters, unsigned wills, and varying codicils to his one official will. He also told me at the hospital, a few days before he died, what he would like to have happen to all these instruments. After he passed and I read through his papers, I found none of these documents, formal or informal, agreed with each other, nor did they agree with his verbal instructions to me. But there was one thread that remained constant; if possible, he would like the collection to stay together, and to be made available to the public for education, appreciation, and research.

It turns out that giving away hundreds of antique instruments is not as easy as it sounds. Keyboards in particular take up a lot of space – something of which the family was painfully aware. Moreover, many of the instruments were made of wood, with bits of leather and other temperamental materials thrown in. These ancient ingredients require a lot of care and feeding to make sure they don’t degrade. As if that weren’t enough, many of them contain ivory (for example, the keys of the pianos). Though it was 100% clear that the animals had died hundreds of years in the past, the current regulations from the Convention on International Trade in Endangered Species of Wild Fauna and Flora (CITES) make any transportation or sale of ivory of any vintage difficult, if not impossible. If that wasn't enough, some of the instruments contained bone, or other material that looks like ivory, and thus would require DNA testing to prove that it is not ivory before being transported in or out of the country.

I won’t bore you with the details of the search for a home for the collection, except to say that we spent months talking to representatives of various museums and universities, had them come and visit the collection, and listened to their proposals. The family had endless conversations, wrung our hands, and bit our nails. I went so far as to research the elevations and distance inland for the various institutions in consideration of how climate change and rising sea levels might impact the housing of the collection into the unknowable future.

After months of conversations and negotiations, we chose to give the collection as a whole to The Carolina Music Museum, in Greenville, South Carolina, along with a gift to help with the care and maintenance of this trove of material. In recognition of this, and my father’s contributions to the world of musical instrument preservation, the museum changed its name to the Sigal Music Museum.


The name was officially changed in mid-2019. However, due to the installation and removal of existing exhibits, the effort in moving the collection from Boston to Greenville, COVID-19, and other things, the name change wasn’t publicized until now. The new signage is up on the building, labeling is changed, t-shirts are printed, and the new website is ready… and it looks wonderful.

The Sigal Music Museum website is beautiful (and I'm not just sayin' that.) Check it out at https://sigalmusicmuseum.org. Plans for the "Sensational Sigal" exhibit are going full speed ahead. None of us can wait until my father’s collection is unveiled to the world in its new home - which, pandemic willing, will occur later this year.

Please do check out the web site, and if you are in the Greenville area, go to the museum itself. Online you will find a terrific series of videos that have been done by the curators, showing off the several collections that are in the museum’s charge. These can be found on SigalMusicMuseum.org, YouTube, and Instagram.

My whole family is exceedingly proud of the collection and the work done by the Sigal Music Museum to preserve and display it. We are thrilled that our hand wringing and brow furrowing decision making process paid off in the selection of a most excellent new home for my father’s legacy. I'm sure he would be pleased.



Thank heavens for COVID-19! For it has brought to the fore awareness of the way our government and institutions feel free to oppress us. I am speaking, of course, of being forced to wear masks. The anti-mask rallies and mask-protesting speakers at local government meetings have opened our eyes to the way masks are a symbol of the yoke of governmental regulation.

There is one group in particular that has been systematically oppressed by mask wearing for literally generations. I speak, of course, of doctors, nurses, and other medical professionals. These brave individuals, of singular importance to our nation, have gone unnoticed for decades as they are choked to death by mask-wearing requirements.

It's not just the masks either. Agencies at all levels of government require our front-line healthcare providers to not only bear the brunt of facial coverings, but also to scrub their hands till they are virtually bleeding, and even to wear gloves. In fact, in many cases, they are compelled to not only scrub their skin, but to then wear gloves over their now pristine hands - a clear message to this cultural minority that society considers them to be unclean, and no amount of bathing can wash away their filth. It is obvious to anyone who dares to look that these gloves crush fingers, and impede doctors from the very actions we call on them to perform.

There is no doubt that this wasteful activity was put in place solely to keep these workers in their place. Shockingly, medical schools, nursing programs, and others have been complicit in maintaining the notion that these rules are somehow necessary, and not blatant repression of the freedoms and creativity of doctors and nurses.

So, thank you staunch protesters. Thank you outspoken advocates. And thank you COVID-19, for bringing common sense back to the covering of our bodies and the systemic oppression of the medical community who were heretofore disenfranchised and unable to resist these soul crushing, demeaning, regulations.


The refusal to socially isolate is so small minded. Bad things happen in this world, and then you have to deal with it. Guess what? You had a heart attack. Deal with it. You cant just decide that you didn't have a heart attack. Running up flights of stairs is going to be harder than it used to be, for a while, or for the rest of your life. A loved one died. That can be terribly painful. But there it is. They died. Do what you need to do to preserve their memory and salve your hurt, but, they are dead now. Your car got stolen. I'm sorry to hear that. Depending on your circumstances that can be anywhere from annoying to devastating. But no matter the impact on your life, you cant pretend that it didn't happen. You can sit in a chair in your driveway making "brummm brummm" sounds, but until you get a new car, you ain't going anywhere.

There's a pandemic going on. You cant go to work, or school, or the gym, or the playground. Wow. That sucks. Its gone on for months and months. That's gotta be really hard to take. Social isolation is depressing, boring, and getting really old. I know. Tell me about it! But guess what? There's a pandemic going on. Try as you might, you cant just pretend that it is over. You cant just return to life as usual. That sucks. Deal with it.


Stay Safe! Practice Parking Social Distancing!



“I’ll make you a bet,” he said. “I’ll bet you that if we come back here in 20 years we’ll find the world indistinguishable from today. The loser buys dinner.” 

“Wait, Dad.” I said. “What’s the bet? If I’m right the world is laid to waste and I win. If I lose, I have to buy dinner. I’m not sure I like that bet.”

“OK, I tell you what.” My father arched an eyebrow. “We’ll come back to this restaurant on March 21, 2000, and flip a coin. The loser pays.”

At 18 years of age, twenty years seemed like more than forever. If it amused my dad to make a bet for twenty years in the future, it was fine with me.

We had arrived at that dinner table during my senior year in high school. It seems that my parents had become increasingly concerned with what they considered to be my overwhelming case of adolescent angst. Apparently, I had become insolent, lazy, and sloppy. As far as I could tell, I had become a typical teenager. They were convinced that something had to be done to snap me out of this rut. So, in March of 1980 my father let me skip a week of school and took me with him on a business trip to London.

Our final night in London he had taken me to dinner at Simpson’s-in-the-Strand, one of London’s fine old restaurants. As our plates of prime rib with Yorkshire pudding worked their way down to rinds of fat and crumbs, our conversation had turned to the future. From my arrogant, nihilistic, “child-of-the-bomb” point of view I opined that either the flower-children of the ‘60s would assume power in the government, resulting in a world of peace, love, and free drugs for all, or we would destroy ourselves, leaving the planet in a state of ruin. Furthermore, my money was on the latter. My conservative father, perhaps goaded on by my extreme position, asserted with Ivy-League certitude that in the year 2000, the world would be virtually indistinguishable from the place we knew and loved in 1980.

“All right, Dad,” I said, “you’re on. March 21, 2000.”

Over the years, from time to time my father would remind me of our appointment. Of course, I was busy growing up, going to college, getting jobs and building a career. The year 2000 was still infinitely far away. I didn’t think much of it.

In January 2000 I was arranging a round-the-world trip as part of my new career as a travel writer. The planning was not going well. I decided that to get a handle on things I needed to map it out on a calendar. I went to my computer, launched my schedule program, and had it spit out monthly calendars through June. There it was, smack dab in the middle of my trek through the Australian outback: “March 21: Dinner with Dad in London.” I couldn’t recall when I had put it into my computer - it must have been years prior. Frantically I picked up the phone and punched the digits for my father’s office. “Uh, hi Dad. Do you remember that bet we made to meet in London?”

“Sure do. March 21st, wouldn’t miss it for the world,” came his reply.

---------------------------

I met my father on the morning of the 19th at the Oxford & Cambridge Club of London, a place chosen not because of its unique charms but for nostalgia: it was where we had stayed in 1980. Desperately I searched for signs of change to feed my argument that the world was indeed different, but few institutions change more slowly than the O & C Club. The deskman still looked down his nose at me for wearing jeans and sneakers; the lobby still had a tomblike silence in which every whisper echoed; the elevator still ran at geriatric speed. The only distinct difference was that on our prior visit my father and I had shared a double. This time I was able to afford my own private room to avoid his snoring.

We had arrived in London two days early for a little father/son re-acquaintance time. He had flown in from Boston, I from Prague, he from the 19th century, I from the 21st. I was both excited and nervous; three days as an adult with my father – a man I barely knew. Because of his workaholic bent we had spent very little time together as I was growing up. My deepest insights into his personality seemed to come from examining myself. When I was furiously impatient waiting for a table at a restaurant, I would recognize my father in myself, nodding silently at the new understanding. When girlfriends complained that my face was an impenetrable mask of stony silence while I felt cheerful and connected, I realized that maybe my dad was not the cold gargoyle I imagined as a child. At times I have said or done things that have given me the strange sensation that he is inside me, looking out through my eyes. How many of my personality traits were his? How many of my beliefs about him were wrong?

That first day we went for a bit of culture at the Tate Gallery. We compared our tastes in art and I was shocked to find that mine had become quite stodgy - preferring Flemish and Dutch masters - while my father regaled me with praise for impressionism. Go figure. Following the museum with a leisurely stroll through London, we managed to carefully avoid any talk of how the world may have changed, favoring instead light conversation about the family, the town, and issues of the day. With two days until our dinner, we had to pace ourselves.

That night’s dinner was my opportunity to push us outside the stream of our former visit. If there’s anything that had changed in London in the past 20 years, it was the quality of the food. I had chosen a restaurant called Quaglino's, a stylish, see-and-be-seen place full of handsome people of all ages with a very chic attached bar. We both agreed that the food was excellent – certainly the match of restaurants in any metropolitan center of gastronomy. Further father-son bonding occurred as we realized that we were each ogling the same buxom woman at a nearby table. I had ceded my father the seat with the better view, which he seemed to fully appreciate.

The next day my father took me on my first trip into the English countryside. We took the train out of London to visit a friend of his in Kent, where we spent a pleasant afternoon. Riding back to London, regarding this man snoozing in the seat next to me, I couldn’t help recalling how difficult our relationship had been when I was growing up. Long days at the office left him short tempered and craving only peace and quiet. Time with children was not big on his calendar. I was a grownup before I began to understand. I have never known how to deal with kids. I’m sure he was the same way with me. The day I comprehended this it was like a curtain being pulled aside, affording me a new insight into my youth. Although it was illuminating, this recognition had provided little comfort. Now that we were both adults, a meeting of the minds was finally possible.

For our final day, what better way to gain perspective on the way things had changed than a visit to the British Museum - full of antiquities that even my father must declare “old.” Along the way I pulled us into a coin shop. This evening would be the big dinner. I felt sure no ordinary quarter would do for our bet. I asked the dealer for a coin from 1980, one with heft, weight, and significance. They had the perfect thing: a one-pound coin commemorating the birthday of the Queen Mother. Full of pomp and history, the coin showed a bust of the Queen Mother surrounded by bows, arrows, and stylized lions.

That night we took a taxi to Simpson's-in-the-Strand. My father had alerted them to the historic nature of our dinner, a fact that was not lost on this august edifice. On our arrival the maitre d’ welcomed us, shook our hands, and presented us with complimentary glasses of champagne as we were seated. The restaurant hadn’t changed a bit. Our booth in the back corner was dark oak padded with leather. The dark paneled walls, cream colored ceiling, and subdued lighting only added to the elegance of the place. Though the restaurant was full, I hardly noticed – my concentration was absorbed by our conversation. From our exclusive corner we ordered a meal from our past: prime rib with Yorkshire pudding, steamed vegetables, and a bottle of wine.

Suddenly it was all very real, and in our own private way it was important. Like opening a time capsule buried in the town square of our family, we were here to inspect the passage of the years. In my case it spanned more than half of my life – from lost, confused adolescence to the independence of adulthood. For my father it had covered the no less significant transition from middle to old age. Though we discussed the changes in the world, it was the changes in ourselves that were noteworthy. He asked me why I had never married, and why he had no grandchildren. I asked him what it was like to be closer to the end of life than the beginning.

In a rare display of emotion, he tried to convince me to move back to the city of my youth. He said that my mother missed me and wanted me closer to home, but the crack in his voice told me that the request was his own. I tried to convince him to take more time off from work, to enjoy his life and relax. He reminded me that it was work he enjoyed; without it he couldn’t relax.

As beef and bread transitioned to crème caramel, we tossed the Queen Mother commemorative coin. When we had made the bet long before, paying for dinner would have wiped me out. Such a coin toss would have been met with clenched teeth and raw nerves. But now, as the coin landed heads up, it really didn’t matter. My Dad lost the toss and would pick up the bill, as he had twenty years before. The food, and who paid for it, was not the point.

“So, Dad, we’ll meet here again in twenty years?”

“Hah! I should live so long,” he replied.

“Oh, I think you’ve got a good twenty years left in you.” This time I was the optimist.

“All right,” he said, “you’re on. March 21, 2020.”

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Postscript: It turns out that my father was right twice. First he was right that in the year 2000, the world was remarkably similar to that of 1980. Second, he was right that we wouldn't have dinner at Simpson’s-in-the-Strand in 2020, as he passed away in 2018. Sitting here in "shelter-in-place" lock down during the Covid-19 crisis, I have to wonder, will I go to Simpson's-in-the-Strand in 2040? Will I be alive? Will there be a Simpson's-in-the-Strand in 2040? Will international travel be possible? Will prime rib be a foodstuff that people eat? And if I can go, who will I take with me, and who will pay? Perhaps I will live long enough to find out.


The Recipes of my 15 grandmothers: Unique Recipes and Stories From the Times of the Crypto-Jews During the Spanish Inquisition, is the third volume in Genie Milgrom’s “My 15 Grandmothers” series, a project to which she has clearly dedicated a great deal of heart and time. In this volume she invites the reader to learn about her discovery of a trove of recipes written by her “15 grandmothers” – a chain of her female ancestors stretching back to the age of the Spanish Inquisition. From these she has created a cookbook for the modern American kosher kitchen, modifying the recipes as necessary to make them conform to the dietary laws of Kashrut, and work with the products, weights, and measures in use today.

Unfortunately, the very things that make it useful for the Jewish home cook, leave it lacking for the reader that wants to learn about the foods of the crypto-Jews of any generation. As a culinary historian, the exciting title of this book left me disappointed in the reading.

Milgrom’s introduction delights us with her discovery of a collection of recipes found after her mother’s death. We learn that her mother had denied their existence, yet, apparently, during her lifetime she was hiding them, just as Jews hid their religion through the centuries. Sadly though, Milgrom does not share the original recipes with us – only her recreations. How wonderful it would be to see reproductions of the pages in her ancestors’ handwriting! Milgrom also doesn’t give us an indication of when these manuscripts may have been produced. From her notes we can tell that some of the pages she possesses are no older than the mid-nineteenth century. She tells us of recipes calling for corn starch and providing metric measurements. Each of these are mid-19th C. inventions. She further tantalizes the reader in a note that some of the original recipes would call for things like ‘…a small goblet of water, or “an egg full of oil.”’ I want to read those originals! At the least I would like to know how much oil she calculated filling an egg, and what her thinking was in that conversion. Was it a whole egg’s worth, or did her grandmother’s grandmother mean filling half of an eggshell? Milgrom leaves me to guess.

Another unfulfilled promise of the book’s title is of stories from the times of the crypto-Jews living in Spain in the 15th to 19th centuries. The stories in the book largely center around Milgrom’s direct family, her own experiences with her family’s culture, and her work researching and recreating the recipes provided. Perhaps her earlier books about the 15 Grandmothers provide more of the stories bringing to life the experience of being a Jew hiding her identity from the Inquisition?

To my eye, the recipes in the book appear to be a tasty collection of Spanish and Latino dishes that can be cooked by kosher chefs. She writes, “I have only included in this book those recipes that meet the kosher guidelines and that have also been modified and tested with the meats and products available to us today”. To me this says that she has painted only half the picture. What recipes did her grandmothers cook that that could not be converted for today’s kosher kitchen? To the historian, this is every bit as interesting as those that could be, and knowing about them would shine even more light on the way that hiding religion affected their culture.

It could not be more clear that Genie Milgrom wasn’t writing this cookbook for me. I, for one, would have been much happier if she had made that clear in the title. If she had named it, “My 15 Grandmothers: Spanish and Latino Recipes for the Modern Kosher Kitchen”, I would have no complaints at all. Depending on the reader, this book will either delight or disappoint.