Roots
If you know me you’re well aware of my issues with sleep. It’s been decades of insomnia, and I’ve tried everything…almost.
I quit a few things at the same time- martinis, reckless romancing (and complaining about the reckless romancing), going to the laundromat, eating piles of sugar, and sleeping. The first four areas of abstinence are splendid and life-enhancing, the fourth not at all. I’ve read every book and tried every drug and performed every behavior modification technique, and still suffer from this shitty sleep. So when my friend Pam came up with a new idea that was working for her I was intrigued, and more than willing to do it. I’d do anything.
This is the deal...as you’re laying in bed let your mind drift back to your childhood home. Visualize in the deepest possible way the front door, open it and walk into the first room in the house, noticing all the details...the furniture, the rugs, the paintings on the wall. Walk slowly into the next room and do the same. As you continue your journey you will fall fast asleep before you’re half-way through.
The sheer idea of visiting the scene of my lousy childhood with the miserable shouting arguments and the thick tension between my parents, and my bossy impossible sister…I remember hours spent in my room with my fingers in my ears to block out the noise of the fights. My childhood dream was to live in a house big enough so I wouldn’t have to hear those fights...maybe there could be an attic. That’s as far as my little girl imagination would take me. Really, would you want to go back to the place you fought so hard to escape? As soon as I could, I ran from there, and got as far away as I was able to without actually drowning in the Pacific ocean. I returned only for the occasional birthday or deathday, always armed with plenty of vodka and cake.
But desperation is a great persuader, and as I lay there in bed with no respite in sight from my busy busy mind, in spite of having turned off all the ‘devices’ hours before, having had no coffee since breakfast, and having avoided a nap all day, I manage to paint myself back into the Bronx, and I’m standing at the door of 7F in the Stratford building at 2391 Webb Avenue. Back in 1960 the Bronx was a pretty nice borough, and we lived in a housing project called Fordham Hill. Whoever built the complex thought it might be elegant to name each building after a British town. There was The Kent, The Oxford, The Avon...10 buildings in all, each 12 stories tall. The place was indeed on a hill, and all the buildings were white. As you drove north from Manhattan you could see it clearly from the Major Deegan Highway. You might think it was a hospital up there.
The door was metal and heavy, with lots of locks arranged in the order of security, Deadbolt/Spring bolt/Doorknob lock. I get it all opened, clickedy click, and walk into the living room. Looking down I see the parquet floors...big squares, shiny. There’s a wall of windows that flood the room with light, and shelves of giant healthy plants, some of which reach up to the nine foot high ceiling. Mom had an extraordinary green thumb. The walls are covered with my childhood artwork, which is surprisingly good. One thing my parents did right was sending me to art classes right off the bat. A lot of the work was from the years I went to the Art Student’s League over there on 57th street. Right across the street was Schrafft’s, where dad and I would go for lunch after class. I cannot have a BLT without being thrown right back there into a red booth, chatting with him as he had his cheeseburger and a beer.
I peek around the corner in the living room and there is a long teak table with 4 streamlined wood chairs. Now they would call it mid-century modern. Then the kitchen…small and nondescript. Mom always said she would love to have a kitchen with a window. I wish she could see my kitchen...it’s all window and not much else. I travel through a hallway...two tiny bathrooms...and the first bedroom, small and rather dark. This was the parent’s room, with my father’s writing desk in the corner. At the end of the hall was the room I shared with my sister. It was big and airy with a view of the Hudson River. It was the best room in the house. They gave us the best room...so generous...so bright...wait a second...that’s the morning light. It’s seven AM. I slept! All day I’m thinking about that Bronx apartment, with paintings, and plants, and that view out our bedroom window. There was so much there that was so lovely, so bright.
Where I came from...the roots of my childhood, so dark and troubled, all embodied in that apartment...that bright and inviting place. Memory is a trick you cannot trust. Those gnarly beginnings contain something different under the surface. You just have to peel the skin.
Maybe the ugliest item on the produce shelf is the ginger root. If you didn’t know better you’d walk right past, giving a shrug, wondering what it could possibly be, sitting there all twisted and brown. You’d never buy it if you didn’t know the kind of flavor hidden underneath that monstrous science fiction surface. Let me tell you though...peel it, grate it, and use it in a sauce, and you’ll experience a taste of sparkling bling, like a wall of windows or a river view.
Maud’s Tahini Ginger Sauce
2 tablespoons tahini
1 tablespoon ponzu sauce
1 teaspoon dijon mustard
1 tablespoon grated ginger
2 tablespoons neutral oil, like grapeseed
1 teaspoon rice wine vinegar
¼ cup water
Let me tell you about Ponzu, a Japanese sauce easily found in the Asian section of supermarkets, or readily available online. This stuff is magic. It’s salty with a aftertaste of citrus. I use it in all kinds of things. Take the ingredients I’ve described and throw them in a bowl and mix with a whisk. You can add more water for a thinner sauce. This goes well on dark greens, or with a grilled piece of salmon. It might not help you sleep, but your waking hours will be transformed.