HUNGRY GERALD

One of the depressing aspects of old age (HG will be 86 in November) is the passing of long time friends. Two years ago it was Peter Meyerson, the gifted TV comedy writer who was HG’s uproarious companion in irreverent mirth for almost 60 years. Earlier this year, Nir Baraket, the esteemed Toronto photographer, HG/BSK’s friend for some 50 years, died. And, last week Uli Monaco died. HG met Uli (she was then Uli Beigel) at Bennington College in 1954. Uli was 19, very original, very bohemian and very talented. HG and friends all had literary ambitions. It was Uli who realized those ambitions. Her early short stories were published in Mademoiselle and the New Yorker and collected in book form as Victoria At Night and other stories. We were all thrilled to see her very young face (with its usual expression of slightly amused irony) adorning the back cover. For whatever reason, that was the last fiction Uli ever published. She went on to motherhood (three children) and a long marriage to HG’s friend Donald Monaco (who survives her). Uli had an extensive career in pharmaceutical and medical public relations. She was always vague about her career. HG only knew she was well paid and very respected in the field. Uli had a razor sharp wit and a powerful intellect. It seemed brutally unfair that such a mind be assaulted by Alzheimer’s. Uli was not in good shape when she and Donald managed to get to New York two years ago for HG/BSK’s 50th Wedding Anniversary Party. It wasn’t easy for Uli but she was there to help HG/BSK celebrate. That was the last time HG saw Uli. HG (and many, many others) will miss her.

HG has a tendency to be both impulsive and stubborn. This has led to some bad decisions and some very good ones. HG met BSK some 52 years ago. Went out on a dinner date. Never spent a night apart from then on. Married three months later. Impulsive? Yes. But, it was the best impulse HG ever succumbed to. Some impulses (all about rather minor matters) didn’t turn out so well. When HG was 15, the adolescent fellow visited a barber and asked for a short crew cut. The barber didn’t approve. “Are you sure about that, young man ?”, he questioned. Stubborn HG insisted. His head was shaved and much to the scorn of friends and family, the young man was a premature skinhead. Years later, fashionable HG had a pretentious hair “stylist”. The artiste had one name: “Vicente”. While snipping HG’s snow white locks, Vicente suggested adding a look of ‘steel” to HG’s hair. Impulsively, HG agreed to the hair treatment. Came home to BSK. A loud shriek from BSK. “What have you done? You’ve got a blue head!!” A few bad clothing decisions by usually dapper HG: A pair of 1960s vivid plaid bell bottoms. Clownish. A pair of high heeled shoes (these had a brief 60’s moment). HG tottered for a few days, threw them away, and returned to being vertically challenged. HG has made two bad food decisions because of stubbornness. Both involved Chinese food. HG was warned by a waiter in a Szechuan restaurant that a vaunted shrimp dish was “too hot for Americans, only for Chinese.” HG insisted. Waiter warned. HG insisted. Waiter surrendered. The food numbed HG’s mouth. HG’s body was drenched in sweat. His color was crimson. Tears flowed from HG’s eyes. Water. Cold beer. Nothing helped. Only time HG could not put out the flames. At another Chinese restaurant, HG saw two Chinese men happily sharing what appeared to be a very good vegetable dish. HG told the waiter to bring him that dish. “You won’t like it. This has special taste.” Once more, after much tussling, stubborn HG got his way. HG dug in. The food was unidentifiable. It tasted like shredded rubber tires that had been stewed in fermented tooth paste. The smell? Bad barnyard. Malfunctioning toilet. With a sardonic smile, the waiter watched HG struggle. To maintain his dignity, HG ate a quarter of the dish before giving in. Never discovered what was in the horror dish.

Off on the long drive from Prince Edward Island to Riverside, R.I. (home of Gifted Daughter Lesley R. and family) with an overnight stop at the Senator Hotel in Augusta, Maine. BSK is the world’s best, most alert, most tireless long distance driver. Toby, The Wonder Dog, is a happy traveler, perched on the arm rest and watching the changing scenery with interest. HG is a contented, passive passenger. BSK drove for seven hours through changing weather. Sunny. Threatening clouds. Light fog. Dense fog. Comfortable, dog friendly room at the Senator. Nice area in which to walk Toby. Excellent Maine dinner at the hotel restaurant. A pair of Maine lobsters (modestly priced) for HG. (Since BSK is allergic to crustaceans, BSK’s Maine voyages have always been marked by watching, with envy, HG devour the state’s most famous product). HG/BSK had a platter of freshly shucked oysters from Maine waters. Splendid. Comparable to PEI’s Colville Bay product. HG/BSK, on the next day drive, were surprised by the heavy traffic. (Traffic is very light, almost non-existent, in PEI and New Mexico). Lunched at the Blount Clam Shack adjacent to the lovely Crescent Park carousel in Riverside. Savory Rhode Island “Clambake Chowder” and (for HG) a wonderfully generous lobster roll, sweet lobster drenched in melted butter). Warm reunion with the Riva family. The Riva gardens, home and water views are particularly beautiful in the early days of New England autumn. Lesley and Brilliant Granddaughter Arianna hosted a woman’s group of 14 for dinner while HG/BSK and Profesore Massimo R. dined at Sun and Moon, a delightful Korean restaurant in East Providence. Korean pancakes and other down home Korean cooking (some outstanding stir fried pork bellies). HG drank much Soju with beer chasers. With Toby at the foot of the bed, HG/BSK slept soundly after a long day of travel.

Oh, well, Toby (a possible Havanese/Poodle mix) isn’t really a “wonder dog” in the Lassie and Rin-Tin-Tin tradition, but the furry little fellow is much loved by HG/BSK. Vertically challenged (like HG), Toby has a long body and very short legs. Soft black and white coat like a little lamb. Soft and cuddly (Doesn’t shed, thankfully). Impeccable toilet habits. During the one year Toby has resided with HG/BSK, he has had one minor league indoor accident. Loves to bound outdoors (Has a five acre play area in New Mexico and a lavish amount of green space plus beach in Prince Edward Island. Plus, he can paddle in the sea). He’s an excellent watch dog with a powerful bark and growl. Toby has a Marilyn Monroe-like wiggle in his walk. (A vet called him “bubble butt.”) HG should mention (without bias) that Toby is extremely cute and is so recognized by everyone. BSK and Beautiful Granddaughter Sofia found Toby at the Santa Fe Animal Shelter. The little dog had been abandoned on a Los Angeles street after some rough treatment. He wound up in a “kill” shelter before being brought to Santa Fe. Therefore, Toby’s saga is Dickensian in nature. Toby is very loving and gentle with children. He has a stubborn, independent streak. When commanded to “Come!!”, he treats it like an option rather than a imperative. However, he is a perfect companion on a walk, an indoor romp or a long car ride. Gifted Daughter Lesley R. is responsible for the presence of Toby in the HG/BSK household. HG had stubbornly refused to have a dog (travel complications, pain at having to “put down” previous loved dogs and horses, old age infirmities, etc.). Lesley R. made her case with logic and passion. .Enter Toby. Lucky HG and BSK. Since HG’s musings concentrate on food, HG should mention that Toby shares HG/BSK’s gourmand tastes. Leftovers (clams, fish, beef, pork) are always added to Toby’s Kibble. Consumed with gusto. Accompanied by water, not white or red wine. There are limits.

Yes, as HG has enthusiastically attested, Prince Edward Island is filled with very good things to eat. Sweet corn (Blum’s is the best); Colville Bay and Malpeque oysters; mussels, strawberries, blueberries; mustard pickles and condiments, jams and jellies (all natural and unsurpassed); Fenugreek flavored Gouda cheese. Breadworks provides baguettes and rustic loaves that rival anything in Paris. What has been overlooked is the excellence of local spirits, wines and beers. Gahan’s beers and ales have an extraordinary depth of flavor and rival any of the better known craft brewers in either Canada or the US. Newman Estate Winery and Matos Winery produce award winning reds and whites. HG (often to BSK’s dismay) enjoys strong spirits before and after dinner. And, here’s where PEI really shines. Myriad View Distillery provides three cocktail hour (or hours, in HG’s case) delights: Strait Gin (unique taste of botanicals); Pastis (a true taste of Provence); Vodka (smooth and pure). These three liquors are some of the best of their kind that HG has ever imbibed; HG believes that Myriad View would be much better known if they invested in proper graphic design so that their label’s beauty would match their product’s quality. Now, HG has discovered a great after dinner tipple (with a fine label to match!). It’s Bagaco, distilled by the Matos Winery. Colorless and potent, it’s distilled from pomace, the solid remains of grapes after pressing for juice. Pomace contains skin, pulp, seeds and stems of the grapes. Italians use pomace to distill Grappa, the French distill Marc and Portuguese distill Bagaco. HG’s favorite is Bagaco, smooth and strong. Provides a pleasant ending to a meal. Jaime and Heather Matos run the eponymous winery and distillery. Both were born on the island of Pico in the Azores (Acores in Portuguese). Their heritage is reflected in their delicious Bagaco.

Midday. HG sipped BSK’s savory sorrel soup and thought of schav the sour and tangy ice cold soup HG’s Mom served on steamy New York summer days. Mom’s soup was a variation of schi, a favorite Russian soup that is made with sorrel and spinach in the summer and cabbage (or sauerkraut) in the winter. Mom also made beet borscht in the summer (always served with a dollop of sour cream) and either a boiled potato or cottage cheese mixed with chopped onions and radish. Winter was time for kapusta, a very filling cabbage and beef soup. Chicken soup was enriched with a ladle of the Russian staple, kasha (buckwheat groats). Smetana (sour cream) is eaten with virtually everything in Russia and Mom followed that custom. All of her cooking was a blend of Russian and Jewish flavors but since she learned to cook from her mother in Belorussia, she favored Russia. HG’s father drank tea Russian-style: a sugar cube clenched in his teeth (sometimes cherry jam was added to the tea). HG’s father home brewed Russian cherry brandy, vishniak. Cherries, soaked and aged in sugared vishniak, were a special treat. (Seven-year-old HG once raided a bowl and had HG’s first, but not last, tipsy experience). Vodka was never seen in HG’s home. Presumably, the family associated it with Russian peasants, Cossacks and violence. The spirit of choice, besides vishniak, was Park & Tilford rye whiskey. HG’s father always had a robust shot before dinner and poured a tiny snifter for little HG (thus beginning a very pleasurable lifetime custom). Yiddish and English were spoken in HG’s home but Mom and Dad switched to Russian when they discussed subjects forbidden to children (sex?). HG’s father was profoundly anti-Communist. A Socialist and a youthful member of the Jewish Labor Bund, he hated Stalin and always called him the Momser (the bastard). “Der Fuhrer Hitler” and “the Momser Stalin”, in his eyes, were equally evil mass murderers. During HG’s youth, HG was more sympathetic to Stalin and Russia. HG cited Russia’s support of the Spanish Loyalists during the Spanish Civil War, the American Communist Party’s battles against racism and the fact that Russia, alone in Europe, was a bulwark against anti-Semitism. HG’s father shook his head and said HG had a good heart but was deceived by Stalin’s propagandists. Just wait, young HG was advised, you will learn the truth about Stalin (“that monster momser.”) Of course, HG’s father who had no formal education but much labor union experience, was correct. Stalin was a monster, responsible for the death of 10,000,000 Ukrainians by famine during his agricultural collectivization program and the death of untold millions of Russians in purges and gulag imprisonment. His destructively wrong headed strategy toward Germany during the early days of World War Two cost millions of Russian lives and could have led to a to a total German conquest of Russia. HG has been immersed in thoughts about Russia since a recent reading of “A Writer At War: A Soviet Journalist With The Red Army, 1941-1945” by Vasily Grossman. A superb war correspondent and great novelist (“Life and Fate” about the siege of Stalingrad), Grossman is particularly moving in depicting the courage of Russian soldiers, often poorly lead (they died by the millions but they defeated the better organized, technically superior Germans). Grossman personalizes combat through the intimate depiction of the participants. A critic described Grossman as “a perceptive observer with an eye for detail.” No writer, in HG’s opinion, has ever had a better grasp of what Grossman called “the brutal truth of war.” His journalistic masterpiece is probably his description of Treblinka, the Nazi death camp (874,000 Jews were murdered there and 2,000 Gypsies). Grossman’s precise detailing of the camp’s operations is a chilling, horrible piece of Holocaust history. After describing one almost inconceivable horror, Grossman writes:”It is infinitely hard even to read this. It is as hard to write it. Someone might ask:’Why write about this, why remember all that?’ It is the writer’s duty to tell this terrible truth, and it is the duty of the reader to learn it. Everyone who would turn away, who would shut his eyes and walk past would insult the memory of the dead.” Given his humanism and his passion for the truth, Grossman became a political outcast in the Soviet Union. It was ruled his novel “Life and Fate” could not be published for over 200 years. In 1961, KGB officers broke into his apartment and seized every copy of the manuscript plus carbon paper and typewriters. However, Grossman had left a copy with a friend and it was eventually smuggled into Switzerland. Published worldwide, it was acclaimed as one of the greatest Russian novels of the twentieth century. It was published in Russia only as communism itself collapsed. Grossman died of stomach cancer in 1964. He was 59, living in poverty. His earlier works were removed from circulation and he believed his great work had been suppressed forever. If you have not read Grossman, do so. He is a treasure.

Perfect sunny day on Prince Edward Island. HG was perched on the beach in front of HG/BSK’s home. BSK, GGS, SJ, EM, Haru and Teru drove to the broad sands off Maclaren Road. Everyone was in and out of the calm warm sea throughout the day. HG was engrossed in Granta, the British quarterly of adventurous writing. Fiction, reportage, poetry, etc. HG finds Granta an excellent beach companion. Thirty minutes (sometimes 40) of challenging reading. Then a refreshing swim. Repeat until shower and cocktails. Two dozen Colville Bay oysters were shucked and devoured. Then, a respite from seafood. BSK pan broiled hamburgers, topping them with cheddar cheese and an improvised, but tasty green chile sauce. SJ marinated chicken thighs in fresh herbs, garlic, olive oil, lemon and various spices and grilled them into crusty, brown and juicy nuggets. A big batch of fresh vegetables—zucchini, onions, peppers, etc. were served up as well. Plentiful Chilean Tempranillo. Another festive family feast.

The late George Burns on the subject of age: “They say the legs are the first thing to go.” Burns, who had impeccable comic timing, would pause for a second or two, and say: “The second.” Yes, age has a destructive impact on the male anatomy. HG will be 86 this November. HG has switched from saying “I’m getting old” to “I’ve arrived. I’m old.” Old age arrives with a tidy group of ailments. Unexpected arthritis pains. Faulty hearing. Rickety legs (HG walks with a cane). Lessening of upper body strength. Enlarged prostate necessitating frequent nocturnal trips to the bathroom. And, in HG’s case, an impaired respiratory system (the result of 50 years of incessant cigarette and cigar smoking). Okay. Those are some of the bad things about getting old. How about the good things? Here, HG cannot generalize but only report personal history. Pre-dinner drinks, wine with dinner, brandy post dinner. Age hasn’t diminished the pleasure of these daily rituals. (Novelist James Gould Cozzens described whiskey as “The old man’s friend.” In HG’s case it’s vodka). HG remains obsessively joyous about dining pleasures, at home or in restaurants. The pleasures of family and friends remain constant (as well as the ever growing love for wife BSK). HG’s family reports that HG remains politically incorrect and tasteless with an emphasis upon off color humor (not that they don’t still love the old fart). HG still enjoys writing (something HG has done professionally for decade upon decade). Quiet pleasures have gained intensity: Walking by the sea and swimming on Prince Edward Island. Gazing at cliffs and mesas in New Mexico while breathing tangy high desert air. Sitting by the fireplace on winter nights. Reading. Listening to music (Bill Evans, Django, Miles, Fats Waller, Mozart, Bach, Yo Yo Ma, Blossom Dearie remain favorites). Toby, The Wonder Dog, is a perpetually charming and amusing companion. These days HG is bemused, rather than made furious, by the state of the nation. Unabated racism (especially directed toward President Obama). Perpetual gun slaughter with attempts to lessen it blocked by the NRA. The useless, idiotic “War on drugs” which imprisons thousands of young African-American men while never acknowledging that addiction is a medical, not a criminal, problem. Despite progress, the ongoing denial of female equality and the continual media projection of women as a catalog of inflated pieces of fantasy anatomy. The dreary clownishness of Donald Trump and the descent of the Republican Party to know nothing stupidity rather than intelligent conservatism. Frightening income disparity, the rise of the oligarchs and the money corruption of the election process. On the world front there’s the futile response to global warming and environmental destruction. Islam, responsible for some of our greatest civilizations and most significant intellectual achievements, spawning splinter terror movements. Israel, once such a beacon of hope, now held captive by right wing politics. Russia reverting back to traditional autocracy. And, yes, there’s plenty of other dire news. HG can only conclude that the United States is still a work in progress (much work still to do). The world? It is inhabited by a very flawed species known as the human race, a species like few others, that seems to delight in the slaughter of its own kind. At this stage of life, HG tries to live in the present, enjoying the delights offered by each individual day. The French philosopher said: “When we think of the past, we regret. When we think of the future, we fear.” Wise words. As to the present, the sun is shining on Prince Edward Island. There’s a nice breeze. HG and Toby are off for some outdoor fun.

Happy Birthday. Have many more. Continue to enlighten, illuminate and amuse with inimitable Box Cox prose. Bob Cox is HG/BSK’s friend. They met in Colorado when Bob was a columnist and publisher of weekly newspapers. He was a very positive force in the Jefferson County community and his columns were witty and sharp political thrusts. Bob sold the papers some time ago and settled in Abiquiu, New Mexico (not far from Georgia O Keefe’s former home). Unlike HG, Bob takes a minimal interest in cuisine. He reserves his passions for political comment, the outdoors and horses. Though a bit too rickety these days for equestrianism, HG shares Bob’s affection for horses. During the years when HG/BSK lived on their Colorado mountain ranch, HG spent hours each day on horseback, riding through forests and admiring endless views from mountain slopes. HG can get quite sentimental remembering HG’s favorite mounts, Peaches and Twist. Bob is still writing (HG believes there is a novel in the works) and a good way, to become acquainted with his talent is to log into his blog oldgringosgazette.com. Recently, Bob did a very moving piece on the final days of a 35-year-old horse. Even if you’ve never been on a horse’s back you’ll enjoy the eloquence and emotion of Bob’s prose. At the same time, Bob skewered that eminent hypocrite, Jeb Bush. So, log into the Old Gringo and become acquainted with a singularly human and insightful writer.

HG’s invaluable correspondent, Charles Curran, noted that his favorite sandwich is Braunschweiger on Jewish rye with French mustard and sweet onion. HG thought of this yesterday as HG munched on a liverwurst-ciabatta-Maille mustard-Vidalia onion open sandwich. HG was introduced to this hearty treat by noted news photographer Sammy Schulman. (This was 1954 when HG was an editor/ TV writer at International News Photos). Sammy had covered scores of important news events and was familiar to many world leaders. He was FDR’s favorite photographer. When Sammy was absent from a Roosevelt news conference, FDR queried: “Where’s Sammy?” (“Where’s Sammy?” is the title of a book about Schulman by journalist Bob Considine). Sammy was a chubby little fellow. But, tough. During his stay in France he had learned the French art of kickboxing (Savate) and used it to good effect when being pushed around by bigger photographers in pursuit of a picture. Sammy gave stern orders when he was composing a photo. Andy Rooney (of TV fame) was a journalist in London during World War Two, and reports this incident: Sammy had been directed to get a photo of Queen Elizabeth opening an American Red Cross center. She was leaving when Sammy grabbed her arm gently: “Hold it right there for a minute, will you please, Queen.” Rooney reported: “This wasn’t a question. Sammy wasn’t asking her. He was telling her.” Her Majesty obeyed. Sammy got his picture. There is one Schulman photo that is iconic, reproduced thousands of times and part of MOMA’s permanent collection. It was taken in Havana during a 1933 Cuban uprising. A young soldier had just shot and killed a hated security officer. An adoring crowd put the soldier on a pedestal and the soldier posed, happily lifting his rife. For decades, this photo symbolized revolution.