Katz's Deli

I've been making a serious effort to do Weight Watchers for the last few weeks.  I have failed at doing Weight Watchers at least once a day.  Which amounts to succeeding maybe 90% of the time.  But I prefer to see myself as a consistent daily failure.  Success breeds contentment.  Contentment breeds laziness.  Laziness breeds boredom.  Boredom freaks me out.

By the way, I am a little plump; most of my clothes are a smidge slimmer than I or a tad blousey.  I think that's the word I'm looking for.  Maybe "tent-like" would be more accurate.  So either I'm hiding in a big bag of clothes or I'm bursting from my clothing like I'm a well-stuffed sausage casing.  I would rather fit in my clothes.  Hence Weight Watchers.

But I really truly love food.  I love to cook.  I love to eat.  I love restaurants.  I love friends and a meal.  I love food blogs and food shows and food books and feeding people and food.  Really I do.  I have very good taste--I can taste things really well--I can tell what I'm tasting with great sophistication.  And I live about ten feet outside of Manhattan.  A few "blocks" to be exact, west of midtown Manhattan.  Across the Hudson.  So one of the great food meccas in the universe is within sight of my home, and my work, and my commute, and it's really hard to resist when I am meeting someone in a particular neighborhood in "The City" not to arrive a little early and meet them for a meal at my favorite place or their favorite place or the place that someone told us was their favorite place of a particular type.  I'm pretty discerning about restaurants in Manhattan.  I have a favorite burger joint, a favorite Chinese place, a favorite Tex-Mex place, a favorite authentic Mexican place, a favorite Ethiopian place, a favorite pub, a favorite Greek place, a favorite Greek pastry place, a favorite little Italian place, a favorite big Italian place, a favorite frozen yogurt place, a favorite Druze place, a favorite Indian vegetarian place, a favorite kosher Chinese place, a favorite ice cream place, a favorite Chinese ice cream place, a favorite chocolate place, a favorite Thai place, a favorite Brazilian rice and beans kind of place, a favorite Brazilian meat kind of place, a favorite coffee place, a favorite diner, a favorite Japanese place when I'm in a hurry, a favorite Japanese place when I have time, a favorite Japanese place when I'm with other foodies, a favorite Japanese place when I'm with tourists, a favorite place to take kids, a favorite place to get a smoothie, a favorite Cuban place, a favorite Spanish place, a favorite French place that isn't there anymore which is okay because I can't afford it anymore, and . . . a favorite Jewish deli.  Katz's.  I know Carnegie, Stage Door, whatever whatever.  I'm a Katz's girl.

So whenever I'm down on the Lower East Side like last night, for a music thing, like last night, or for any reason, I have to eat at Katz's.  I have to have corned beef.  I don't need it to be extra lean because it's already extra lean.  I have to have stuffed derma, or kishka, as some folks call it, with the gravy on the side. And if there are friends to share, I might go with an appetizer portion of chopped liver, always served with a side of divine rye bread.  And sometimes there's a knish.  ROUND.  Those square things are fakes.  There is the perfect half-sour pickle or three to start off (everyone who is my friend is allowed to be my friend because they don't like half-sours, leaving more for me); the pastrami is also divine, as is the salami; the mustard, perfectly flavored and textured, even though I generally don't like mustard all that much on a sandwich but here, at Katz's, we go with the old-school approach.

Here is an occasion when I will trade my beloved nectar of the gods, DDP, for a Dr. Brown's Diet Cream soda.  Or if I'm feeling really frisky, a chocolate egg cream.  Don't let anybody tell you that chocolate soda doesn't go with corned beef.  It's perfect.

So the pound or two up on my WW week was utterly totally one hundred per cent worthwhile.  When I eat at Katz's, I go for it.  I don't go every day or even every month.  But when I go, I go all the way.

Children are Everywhere

I've figured something out.  Actually, to be honest, I've just articulated in my mind something that I've probably always known.  Here it is: most everyone is stuck at some point in their lives prior to now.  We have all been traumatized to one extent or another by some event in our past which has anchored us in an endless loop of recreating our traumatic moment until it magically gets better.  Kind of a personal "Groundhog's Day" on some unconscious level, of the thing that didn't work and we can't get over.

For some people there's an awful touchstone of some sort in our past--potty training that didn't go so well, a birthday party where a humiliating moment took place, someone forgot to lock a door and we saw something we shouldn't have, or an admired adult said or did something that we later discovered was false or misleading or just a lie.

What's so funny about that?

It's really funny when you think about people in positions of power--wealth, fame, authority--who are actually just acting out over and over again, the moment when they were a disappointment to their parent, wanting to prove themselves.  I didn't fit in so I always want to fit in so I always gather those around me who make me feel like I fit in.  I was left alone so I always shape my world to maximize company on a constant basis--never sleep alone, never work alone, develop skills that bring people to me.  I was touched inappropriately as a child so I keep a distance from anyone who might do the same.  I  was laughed at as a child so I laugh at myself before anyone else has a chance to humiliate me.  My father only told me he loved me when something terrible had happened in the family so I am constantly searching for trauma that will remind him of my importance.

So it's an exercise . . . instead of picturing your audience in their underwear so they don't intimidate you, picture the childhood trauma that inspires your colleague to be such a douche.  Imagine the fear of clowns provoked by a bad circus experience that causes your boss to be obsessed with being prepared--he just can't stand surprises.  Imagine the way in which you and I inflict trauma on our children by honestly showing our frustration or delight or surprise or joy in their company.

"Mom.  Please don't ever wear that hat in public again."  How my oldest was traumatized by my utter lack of fashion sensibility as I wore the HeadSox during the snowstorm.  All I did was walk her to the school bus.  How will she be forced to forever compensate in her life for that humiliation?  Perhaps she will be driven to uncompromising success in the hope that she will never have to undergo that level of misery again.  Actually, as trauma goes, I'd like to wish her that one.

DDP Goes with Everything

If you know me, you know that I have a drinking problem.  If you just pictured the guy from "Airplane" throwing a glass of water in his own face, stick with me.  You're my kind of . . . whatever you are.

I'm addicted to Diet Dr. Pepper.  No, I don't mind the artificial sweetener, in fact, at this point in my life, I think it keeps my blood properly thinned.  I prefer DDP on the rocks, and please don't sully it with any wedges of lemon or twists of lime.  I'll drink it from a can or a bottle or a glass or, in a perfect world, in a mason jar, so the top closes in a bit on the glass and fewer bubbles escape.  In a pinch, I'll drink it warm and/or flat.  If I must, I'll drink Diet Coke or Coke Zero, and if I'm in the desert and nothing else is available, okay, Diet Pepsi.  I used to drink DDP all hours of day or night and wonder why I had insomnia.  Now I quit by four o'clock if I'm getting up the next morning.  In the evenings I'm usually dehydrated.  Old age is not for the faint of heart.

I've been thinking about blogging since the seventies, when our only options were those puke green steno pads and those little pale "blue books" that seemed omnipresent to me, perhaps because I grew up  on college campuses.  The technology having improved to my liking, here we are.

Everyone who knows me admits, when pressed, that I talk too much.  Most wouldn't say it's a fault, but perhaps a "feature."  I'm hoping by purging some of my thoughts into blogging, I'll become more tolerable to my friends, if I have any remaining, and especially to my husband, who is quick to remind me I'm rambling by rolling his eyes or playing with his smart phone or falling into a deep and snoring sleep.

About the blog's title, I recall Julia Child, when asked what wine goes with a particular dish, replied incredulously, "whatever kind you like."  I'm not really concerned if I've attributed the quote properly or even quoted it properly.  I like it this way.  I have to say, my preference is to drink Diet Dr. Pepper with everything.  On some occasions I will certainly try to blend in with my surroundings politely and have a cocktail or a glass of wine or a glass of port with dinner.  Now and again, ice water is fine.  But if you ask me privately, I would rather be having a Diet Dr. Pepper, poured gently on the rocks.  It goes with everything.

Today, one of my colleagues said I should start a blog, and this time, I'm listening.