Of This I Am Certain

How often do we recall an event, a meal, a transgression of one sort or another and say “I am certain” about that memory?  And we are, we would swear, we would bet money, we’d bet the farm… Memory though is a funny thing, and though we can see an event in our minds as clearly as if was happening right now, often, over time that memory has changed, or been altered at least a few times. Holidays, when families convene is a great time to test those clear memories. We reminisce, we compare stories, and find someone has a completely different version from ours of the same event.

Some memories we dredge up, piqued by a scent, a song, or even a fragment of one, while others are stories we retell verbally, or possibly in our heads, over and over, like rubbing our fingers over a worry stone none of which has any bearing on accuracy. And really, how often is accuracy even the point? There are the sweet, pleasant memories we  replay, perhaps to just enjoy, like an old, favorite movie, those we use to remind ourselves of people gone from our lives, and even those painful and humiliating memories we just can’t seem to delete from our brains, that seem to appear just to kick us in the ass or the gut. For me writing is a way to exercise, and sometimes exorcise my memories.

When I was in college I lived in the not yet fashionable Soho. This was definitely an area in transition, and getting more gentrified all the time. I was surrounded by a broad mix of neighbors, as well as shops and restaurants, many of which I couldn’t afford, but would take advantage of when my parents came to the city for dinner. Two years ago on a trip to New York I took my daughter to a restaurant that was just a few doors down from my  college apartment on Sullivan Street. I showed her my building, the windows of what had been my bedroom. Though the neighborhood had changed, my old building looked exactly the same.

I moved into that apartment with two friends in the winter of our sophomore year in at NYU, and I stayed there for a few years beyond college, so, as you can imagine just standing below that window flooded me with memories. Every morning I would walk out of my building to look north and see the Empire Stare Building, then look south to see The World Trade Center, I was a New Yorker! One of the best deals I negotiated in my life was that I would do the cooking and my roommates would clean up. We started out taking turns cooking, but Debbie had just one dish she made, and though it was a good one— her roasted chicken and Syrian rice were wonderful, and Julie made great Mexican food, the night she made us clam pilaf (it was even worse than you can imagine) I made my pitch.

It was there that I really started cooking in earnest. I’d been cooking most of my life, but now I started going to Chinatown and the original Dean and Delucca on Prince St. and all the wonderful markets of NYC. I’d go to Joes’ up the street for fresh and smoked mozzarella, Little Italy for prosciutto bread and all kinds of olives, and salumi, and to the East twenties to the fragrant Indian markets. I subscribed to Gourmet and Cuisine magazines and fell in love with playing with new textures and flavors. Everyone flocked to our house for a break from dining hall food, and to hang out and eat. Eventually I moved to Brooklyn, and it was much harder to lure people across the river… Standing outside that building brought all that back in a terrific rush, and I felt so grateful, and so old…

Does it matter if all those memories are accurate? They feel real, and both close and distant. After all this time, the petty annoyances fade, and I just recall the good times we shared. I don’t know where Julie and Debbie are now, but I hope their memories of me are as fond as mine are of them.  

Here is Debbie’s Syrian rice recipe:

• 1 stick of butter
• 1 cup of rice
• 1 cup of orzo
• 4 cups of chicken stock
• 1 tsp of cinnamon

Melt the butter in a wide pan (with a lid) on medium heat, when butter starts to bubble add orzo and cook, stirring until it starts to get golden brown, add rice and cook another few minutes until rice is translucent. Stir in cinnamon, add chicken stock and bring to a boil. Reduce heat to a simmer, cover and cook for 20 minutes. 

You could probably make this with much less butter, but this is Debbie’s recipe, and it sure is delicious!