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Food and friends – perfection

Wednesday, June 1, 2011 in food by admin | 1 comment

To say that these weeks coming up to the end may be incredibly special may sound deluded, but right this minute what I want to write about is the pleasure I’ve had eating with some friends. No big deal I know, but for me I’m not doing all the things I usually do, and the thought of food – always important to me – has become paramount.

First, the amazing breakfasts made for me by Martin, melon and berries and nuts, and sheep’s yoghurt that I fought against for ages, thinking it was too healthy.

And last Saturday I had this craving for a hamburger.  Now in America you don’t care because you get a hamburger everywhere, any time you want, but I assure you, I don’t.  My friend Richard walked in with his usual flat white coffee for me, and a croissant, and I said Richard I have to tell you the truth, I want a hamburger. So he stayed on till 12 o’clock, and went to a local supermarket and found an organic black angus beef burger, which he grilled for me, with a large tomato; it was absolutely fabulous, God’s gift to me.

Julia came over with a huge spinach pie – where did that go?  It disappeared into the refrigerator, and it was only me eating it, and now it’s not to be found.  Then it’s not my fault that the coffeeshop downstairs from me makes their own icecream, the best in London.  Asa my friend and I gorged on it (while she read her Weightwatchers magazine). We did the chocolate, the hazelnut, and the cherry yoghurt, oh my gosh too good too good, made me slightly ill but it was worth it.  My longest-standing friend Susie left me 2 great pots of chicken soup, Jewish penicillin, that she made while she stayed with me. Antonia also came over, we work on the blog but she’s also a good cook, everyone in my life is associated with good cooking, I think I’ll keep it that way.

What the hell, what a way to go out, my last few weeks, just eating the great food my friends make. The steroids keep me hungry, and my friends keep me fed, a good combination.

There’s a difference between this and paid-for care, no matter what.  My friends are foodies.  In fact it’s one of the few things they all have in common.  Asa and I used to play golf, it’s true, but we also used to peruse the chowhounds site on line, and find the best ribs and breakfast in Las Vegas, and boy did we find some strange places for great food. It’s hard to duplicate memories like that.

I started to become a tv addict.  Masterchef wasn’t on enough, so I would watch ‘Come dine with me’, which has to be one of the worst foodie programs.  People get invited for dinner, and the host or hostess is supposed to make a sumptuous feast for them, and the guests are chosen to be highly critical.  Some don’t eat vegetables, some don’t eat fish, others have never seen caviare, and they never warn their host of their idiosyncrasies.  The hapless host goes off to make vol-au-vents full of curry, throwing all the spices into the Magimix together, never tasting anything, and his guests accuse him of making them sick.  If that wasn’t enough they have to provide entertainment – I’ve seen them dress as animals. But no matter how hard they try, they will be criticized.

Margie in the old days happily making dinner with friends

This is actually the opposite of any dinner I’ve ever given – if people came and criticized I don’t know what I would do.  My specialty has always been Thanksgiving dinner, which I’ve done for about 40 years, and I try to invite non Americans, because I don’t want people trying to tell me that their grandmother makes thing a different way.  We’ve had in the past a turkducken, which is a turkey stuffed with a duck stuffed with a chicken, incredibly hard to do and ending up looking a disaster, but still we all thought it was amazing.  I was given due respect.  Every year I would try to make a significant number of pies – say 15 if 30 were coming.  For ideas I used to lean heavily on the Gourmet magazine, which has now gone out of business.  It was lots of fun, and people remembered it for years.

Recently I have loved watching ‘Two greedy Italians’ eating their way through Italy, stopping at grandmothers’ houses, heading for festivals, or finding sausage heaven.  If there is anything you need to know about mushrooms, these are the experts.  I love the fact that they cook what they find over a jury-rigged fire, maybe just in a can.

I dream about cooking at night, hallucinate making recipes (I can feel the knife in my hand, chopping herbs), and it’s always a shock to wake up and remember I’m no longer safe even to go into the kitchen.  So I leave it to my friends, and am very thankful that we share this passion.

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The best Easter vacation possible

Monday, May 2, 2011 in family, food by johnson | Add a comment...

It’s Easter vacation and my grandchildren burst into the apartment and bring a gust of hugs and love and high spirits which turns the whole atmosphere around. Ten years ago my oldest granddaughter was born here. Her parents walked to the hospital, and I could come and hold her immediately:  I feel we have a very close bond.  Juno came five years later, bouncing in with a huge smile, and we have been enthralled ever since.

They came with violins packed and I dreamed of concerts and practice sessions.  The books looked like they were getting longer and I thought they might enjoy some reading.  I also thought they might like some healthy berries for breakfast instead of pastry.  Dream on grandma Marge. These children were not brought up in China, they’re imported from Long Island, New York.

Clara and Juno

Clara had brought a long lists of shops that would have put Time Out to shame… and they went to every single one on the list, and shopped until their father dropped. They managed to see the moving dinosaurs at the Natural History Museum, which they liked. The biggest moment was at the zoo when Juno’s mask fell into the lion’s cage – an event which found its way into her diary (a 5-year-old’s blog).  I had a long talk with the older one about her crazy parents, agreeing with her that they aren’t perfect – a non-traditional role for a grandmother, but I refuse to be taken in by the myth of parents who do nothing wrong.  My favorite poem remains Philip Larkin’s

They fuck you up, your mum and dad.

They may not mean to, but they do.

They fill you with the faults they had

And add some extra, just for you.

[…]

How else could I get in trouble, as a grandmother?  I probably let them watch too much television – they got hooked on an Australian teen serial where all the girls become mermaids, and they have beautiful blond hair and each has a beautiful blond boyfriend.  I was impressed that Juno still wanted her video Barbie doll to have brown hair, because it looked like her.  Strong self image, that’s good.  The other thing that amazed me about Juno is that she picked up a beginner’s knitting set that I bought her at Christmas (never handed over because the snow stopped them flying) and began to cast on, as she had seen her mother do (Hellen is an avid knitter). And she almost got it right.  She did sew a little purse (another kit) and gave it to her friend who came to play.  Doing just what her mother might do, and doing it very well.  On the other hand, when it came to practicing the violin for one hour a day, I failed miserably. I don’t know how their mother does it. I did get a performance out of each of them, which was a major accomplishment.

On the last day, Clara, my eldest granddaughter, asked to go to a nice restaurant. My eyes lit up because I was so excited not to be going out for pizza again.   She put on her best (new) party dress, and we got a table at a very popular Michelin-starred restaurant.  I’d warned the restaurant that I was bringing kids, and they said that was fine, and it was.  They made them special pasta with tomato sauce, and the children were absolutely impressed by their yard-long breadsticks, and the fact that the restaurant started to get buzzy.  Their foodie grandmother would be happy if they remember this sophisticated evening.  I hope Clara doesn’t remain a vegetarian for ever and can eat more than pasta the next time she comes to London.

It was the first time Mike had come to visit without his wife Hellen, who had passport problems.  Mike bravely came over with the girls on his own – it didn’t trouble him at all, I think he enjoyed it. As much as it was difficult for him to go to girlie dress shops, at least he had the joy of seeing them select just what they wanted, a whole summer wardrobe each – and London was so hot that they could flaunt their new wispy clothes immediately on Oxford Street. I would like to say they looked just like the Australian mermaids they were trying to emulate, but I am happy they didn’t, and don’t.  I’ve had enough of mermaids for a while, after 26 episodes.

On the last day everybody did get tired, and things fell apart a bit.  There were some interesting fights I hadn’t seen before, when they were on best behavior.   Moments of parting can be difficult. Their last hugs as they left were generously given, and I felt a warmth I’ll carry with me, a memory I’ll treasure.

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Cancer sucks and bandages don’t cover it

Wednesday, April 27, 2011 in drugs, family, food, medical care by admin | Add a comment...

My day starts out at 3 o’clock in the morning when I listen to the world service – although that puts me back to sleep – and I wake up again at 7.  In London we have a news program that begins at 6 and goes on until 9 (‘Today’) and more or less I listen to that.  At 9 I take my morphine and steroids (uppers and downers) and my friend Martin makes my breakfast.  There is nothing like listening to our mad hatter coalition’s proclamations to make him rant through breakfast. By 10 the steroids have worked and I can actually think until about 4 in the afternoon. So that’s the time I get doctors’ appointments and see friends and explore the bargains to be had at Michelin-starred restaurants at lunchtime.

Meanwhile there is the underlying hum of discomfort – I hate to call it pain.  My breast cancer has not gone to my vital organs (kidneys, lungs) – which is good news – but it has spread all over the skin on my breast, back and chest, making horrible welts.  It is one of the ugliest patterns I have ever seen.  I’ve seen the New Guinea tribal people who scar their bodies and the tattoo artists of Miami Beach but none look as scary or as truly disgusting as mine.

I have carers (professional ones, through an agency) that come every day at 12.  They look at the bandages that try to cover the worst welts. Every day someone has a new solution.  The bandages are too thick, too thin, too wet, too dry, too small, too big… and they run off to the nearest pharmacy to order more.  I have about 20 boxes of bandages, all very expensive, none of which I am going to use.

Do bandages work for Madonna? They didn't for me

Pretty soon the bill was getting extraordinarily high, for example, a bandage that had to be changed twice a day was costing £45 (about $75) for a box of 5. Then there’s an amazing thing called saline, that comes in little tubes and is just salt water.  Plus I had to pay the carers to come in and change the bandages, and they were getting more and more uncomfortable, and kept falling off.

Every week Dr Spittle, my oncologist, has looked at the welts and said she is sorry that I have to go through this.  I finally asked her, woman to woman, are these bandages helping?  Her honest answer was ‘no’.  Tee shirts can be cheaper then my bandages (and more comfortable, and hide more) so she suggested I just buy tee shirts and throw them away after each use.  It was good to hear a practical idea; medicine has fewer and fewer answers in my case.  I’m finding that very difficult to face.

I need my carers, I’m willing to admit that, but I can’t always figure out what they can do or should be doing. She makes my bed, and fixes my pills, and until today she did my bandages, and cleans the kitchen, and she shops, because by this time I don’t want her around so I send her out to get whatever I can think of. At 3 my cleaner comes in, and the apartment gets cleaned all over again.

In between all this busyness, I try to do something constructive like paying my taxes, or planning my funeral, or writing my blog, and I find it difficult to do this with a carer waiting for me to give her something useful to do.

My carers arrive not knowing the neighborhood, and very often having English as a second language. Most take the job because they are traveling – they might have some nursing experience, but they’ve never seen anything like the welts on my chest, and they haven’t dealt with terminal cancer.

Sometimes I ask them to cook for me.  I asked one if she could cook, and she said she could; I asked if she could roast a chicken, and she looked shocked – she said, her mother had always bought ready-cooked chickens.  My friend patiently taught her how to cook a chicken.  She claimed to cook spaghetti and lasagne, but I never took the chance.  Masterchef this is not.  Another cooked up a huge pan of soup that looked like a witch’s brew, and scared me off.

This is a week that has been nearly all bandages. One or two treats but not nearly enough.  But this is the way cancer is, in some weeks I become obsessed with negative thoughts, and there’s not much I can do about it.  Like I keep asking the carers what it’s like to be with someone who’s dying (they know little but I ask anyway); and then I ask my friends about their experience of hospice care; and then I look at funeral services, funeral directors, and crematoria, and agonise.

my tee shirt and me

I guess this is what is called negative thinking, but in a way it is part of the process that I have to go through, and while it’s painful, I can see that there are things to look forward to, and this obsessing will end when my two grandchildren (Clara aged 10 and Juno aged 5) bounce through the door next week.

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Luxuriating in a break from cancer: family, friends and food

Thursday, April 14, 2011 in chemotherapy, family, food, remission from cancer by admin | Add a comment...

My son came to visit from New York in the middle of a busy schedule and totally rejuvenated me. I started to feel that I could do something besides sleep and be tired, and that I needed to get out more.  He’s just written and directed an independent film called ‘Price Check’ with Parker Posey and Eric Mabius and is in the process of editing, but through the magic of new technology we managed to see a rough cut.  Of course I am going to say that it is a wonderful film, but it really gave me confidence in his ability and talent.  I will now try to live to see it in the cinema.

Price Check: Parker confronting Eric

There was a lot of business to be done during his visit: we saw an investment manager, a lawyer, my accountant, and a friend who will organize my funeral.  This wasn’t exactly what you’d call a holiday, but I was able to turn over to Michael a lot of my major problems. And it was such a relief; I feel very lucky to be able to rely totally on him, one reads so much of families not getting along.  I was a single hippy mother – the odds were not in our favor.  He  remembers little of his childhood except that a lot of people ‘hung out’ at our house on Miami Beach and that of all the druggy, political types the Buddhist phase was the worse for him,  Meetings that were full of people chanting, ‘Nam yo horangi yo’ must have been tough for a seven or eight year old.

That was the business side.  For fun, we went to several of my favorite new neighborhood restaurants, but the best nights were spent at home watching Mike’s film, when he made supper for me, which in itself was restorative.  I find something special in my son’s cooking.

The whole experience of being at home, watching a film he made, eating a dinner he had cooked for us, made me feel proud and gratified, and excited for him and his future.  We have done some kind of turn around and now he seems to take care of me.

The last four days reinforced my decision not to have more chemo. Just think: if I had been full of that poison, really sick, I wouldn’t have been able to concentrate on meetings, or the film; or enjoy any food; and no doubt I’d have been in bed all the time.  It is again the idea of false hope (even if you just never know whether it is really false), but there’s a lot of it around, there’s no doubt. I prefer to keep my wits about me, to be realistic, and to face things the way they are.  And most of all, to keep enjoying a really good meal. I think all my money is going to go to expensive restaurants, can’t see buying clothes anymore.

Soon after Mike left, Sweetpea arrived (my friend who had come with me to the Truffle Festival in Alba last October).

The way I feel now is that – I feel normal now.  This is very strange, as I’m on heavy morphine, and steroids, which is not normal.  It’s bizarre to feel normal, but there it is.

out to Dinner with Sweetpea

Sweetpea and I are foodies, and I wanted to take advantage of it while she was staying. I called for a lunch reservation at Dinner, Heston Blumenthal’s restaurant at the Mandarin Oriental, and was told that the list was closed for three months.  I persevered and got through to the dining room where I was waitlisted for Mothering Sunday.  Dream on, I thought.

Sunday came and Sweetpea and I were half way out the door when she suggested we check the waitlist.  Amazingly we got a table and off we dashed. We were bemused to be given a lovely table overlooking Hyde Park.  The service was impeccable, but the young man who delivered the bread had a shaking hand.  It was as if he was doing a solo at the Royal Opera.  It must be something of an honor to have even the lowest level job at what has got to be one of the finest restaurants in – London? Europe? The World? Who can say.

The menu is made up of historic British dishes (1500-1900) transformed to modern British tastes.

'Meat Fruit', strange but succulent

My starter was visually stunning and delicious.  Called Meat Fruit, from 1500, it was a chicken liver pate shaped to form a mandarin orange and dipped into a mandarin gel.  Try that at home. I can’t remember having such a succulent taste sensation.

Sweetpea had two fat duck legs, Powdered Duck (1670), for her main course.  This is not a minimal menu.  The portions are generous and rich.  You won’t leave hungry.  I had a large delicious Black Foot pork chop (c.1860).  I think they ate well in those olden days.

Still, we managed dessert.  The signature dish, Tipsy Cake (c.1810), was a drunk brioche accompanied by spit roast pineapple; my friend went for the Chocolate Bar (c.1730) – any restaurant in London would have been happy to serve this (c.2011).

The expense of the meal was not of overriding importance.  It felt like we had been treated to the best of everything.  I was impressed that we got taken from the waiting list.  I get sick of having to be ‘Someone’ to have an ordinary Sunday lunch at the Ivy.  We were treated beautifully from beginning to end, never rushed. It also is quiet … hurrah.  There is something honest about the food: the joy of the best ingredients cooked perfectly.

I may not be in a remission, but whatever I’m in, it allows me to have some special days and special experiences, to treasure my family and my friends and our times together.  As long as I don’t check my bank balance all will be just fine.

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Cancer Remission Celebration: The White Truffle Festival, Alba, Italy

Saturday, January 8, 2011 in Decisions, delusions and befuddlement, Life after Cancer, after cancer, food, remission from cancer by admin | Add a comment...


I began to feel feisty after the fifth month of cancer remission and – googling the internet – found that the Truffle festival in Alba, Italy was on in October.  I knew I would feel better by then, it was a month away, five months after my last treatment.     I decided to go for it.  My friend Sweetpea, a great traveling companion, took a week off from her shops in Miami and we met at Heathrow and flew to Milan. Then a train to Turin and a car rental and we were there.  I arrived tired but not too tired to have dinner at the organic restaurant “La Contea” which adjoined the inn. Then Sweetpea walked into Neive and I went to sleep.

Truffles for sale!

The next day we drove into Alba. Truffles, salami, porcinis: at the Truffle fair; one drowns in them.  I used to think white truffles were rare, but having seen at least a million that day, I’m not so sure. Every stand had hundreds of truffkes and there were enough left over to stuff mega salamis.   I saw truffles that cost over one hundred euros each, but that was just the first week of the month-long festivities.  I guess the thousand-dollar truffles come out later  for the arrival of the stars attending the famous truffle auction.

My first close encounter with the white truffle came when I had about 4 grams (think about 30 Euros) shaved on my lovely soft-boiled duck’s egg at the organic restaurant the night before.  Delicious if you love fresh eggs, which I do.  I basked in the delicious smell of white truffle, but then the whole restaurant had a truffle kind of odor.  It is the taste I’m not sure about.  It seemed like the emperor’s new clothes.  I decided that the restaurant owner (also the waiter and maitre d’) had been too parsimonious when shaving off the thin layers and the dish needed many more grams – big bucks, big tastes – but it also might have been that chemo was still interfering with my taste buds. The ritual is that the waiter, or owner in this case, brings out a small scale and weighs the truffle before it has been shaved.  As the dinner went on more and more shavings are taken from the truffle.  At bill-paying time what remains of the truffle is weighed again and the cost calculated, this is added to the cost of the food and the service charge.

Shavings of white truffle make even a pile of raw meat look like art

The next day we went for the big experience: Piazza Duomo,  a restaurant which had just won two Michelin stars.  If you can’t taste the truffles here forget it.  The restaurant is my idea of perfection.  It serves about 40 people about eight tables; six were taken.  The walls were very light, pastel murals done by Francesco Clemente. The service was supportive without being pompous or over zealous.  There were many different tasting menus and even à la carte. We chose the truffle menu, of course: this was why we were in Alba.

The ritual of the weighing of the truffle commenced.  We had a truffle the size of a golf ball to start with and we were going to have the waiter shave away.  This time it was completely at our discretion.

For the first half hour we were offered one after another fabulous amuse-bouches.

The first sounds uninteresting but was delicious:  the very ends of cauliflower served with a light broth and the smallest leaves of the flower for decoration;  this is the way to get children to eat vegetables.  Then we had a small portion of potato soup (very thick, like jelly) with a quail’s egg lurking at the bottom, served in a glass dish in the shape of an egg shell.  The top is removed for serving. A few shavings of truffle went over this. I think I got a bit of truffle taste, but the smell and the taste are so closely aligned it is difficult to know.

The New Yorkers at the next table ordered à la carte and had the most tantalizing salad. (I was asked not to photograph them, but althoughI have chutzpah when it comes to food pictures I never had the nerve.)  From my vantage point, a glass dish holding a small green hill of tiny salad leaves was visible.  A dentist’s utensil, like a pincer, was provided for eating this delicate masterpiece of baby green leaves. A saucer in the bottom caught the dressing so that it could be drunk. I was jealous.

Next came scallops with a black truffle and anchovy sauce, and I gilded the lily with more shavings of white truffles.  Then came the carne crudo, which was outstanding.  Again I piled on the truffles because I had eaten beef tartare once before and thought the truffles would improve my negative feelings about it.  I need not have bothered – with or without the truffles this was memorable.

Then came the home-made pasta – of course, pile on the truffles.  At this point you would think everything would have tasted the same since every course had truffles.  It doesn’t, because white truffles are like transparent paint on canvas, where you can distinctly see hints of the color beneath.

Out came the partridge, in a fois gras tree (not pears this time).  I had cooked partridge twice in the last weeks because it was in season and I kept buying it at our farmers’ market (the first time mistaking it for pheasant).  Just the breast and the leg were served making it easy to eat and even with the fois gras sauce it was very subtly flavored.  I tend to go heavy on the thyme and lemon, but here it would have overpowered the very, very subtle truffle; and if you have it at my house you have to tackle the whole damned bird.

Mont Blanc Better to eat than climb

The main dessert was a Mont Blanc, a chestnut ice cream, with a chestnut pudding topped with snow, and a chestnut-flavored chantilly cream. I stuffed the extras (cookies, chocolates) in my handbag, but ate the angelic chocolate foam.  And then the bill came and I realized the taste of truffles is the taste of money. (Approx. $400.00 for two – and my friend doesn’t drink wine.)

Walking through Heathrow on the way home,  I realized that I couldn’t carry all my paraphernalia, and I worried (needlessly) that there would be no porters.  But I was right to worry for another reason:  Dr Spittle knew immediately that my cancer was back.  Lucky I got away when did.

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