Pete “Buck” Sheridan recently posted a video of McLean Avenue during Christmas season on FB:
https://www.facebook.com/reel/1263935501378696
It brought back a lot of Bronx memories, including a lot of wonderful meals shared at the restaurants and diners along that stretch.
It got me thinking about the importance of sharing meals, especially during holiday seasons.
While I am naturally an extrovert, and enjoy interacting with people – even complete strangers – I do find that my current lifestyle pleasantly leans more towards curmudgeonly isolation.
That is most likely because of my rural location and odd hours. Could just be that I am becoming more of an asshole, and prefer spending time alone with my creatures at Casa Claire. Don’t ask Lisa’s opinion, she’s biased.
So, I eat when I’m awake and hungry. That often occurs on the run and alone. More out of necessity. Never a social event. A recurring snack easily reached for and rarely healthy.
Lisa and I still share meals together – usually an Einstein’s bagel/coffee run, or a special trip into Grandpa’s Cafe for breakfast, or a late lunch grabbed at Mike O’Shay’s when we are out shopping or the like, and on occasion after Lisa gets off a per diem shift at work. You see, it’s really not worth making the mess or going to the trouble in the kitchen for one or two folks, so you pay someone else to make and serve that meal. Use that time to “catch up.”
My Thanksgiving feast at Georgie, Luke & the Grans was the first time I have gathered for a multigenerational family meal in a while. It was fun. It was nice. It was love and laughter.
We do catch an occasional group meal when family swings through NoCo, often over the Christmas holidays, on their way to ski and snowboarding adventures at the Fairy Godmothers’ Chalet in Breckenridge. My sister(s) V&B always organize something, and sometimes bring a group meal with them to Casa Claire or Brecky. Always top shelf.
And I also grabbed some excellent family and friend meals when I swung through New York this past September.
I shared some lovely meals with the real Jimmy Moran, his wife, Liz, and Mark and Sara (NYPD Proud). Loved it all.
One of the most memorable Bronx meals was catching up with Sal and Flora over a heavenly eggplant parmigiana at Dino’s. And even though we talked so much the meal got cold, it was still delicious.
You see, I grew up in a multigenerational house, where community meals were shared regularly. They were command performances. You missed them at your peril.
When my grandmother Posie cooked, it was standing room only. She used to cook for the WASPS and Lace Brahman in Manhattan. Everything she served was delicious.
And there were always guests at the table. Especially on weekends. Irish Clan extended family – who I always assumed because of their closeness to the elders and their extensive knowledge of shared family history (and secrets), were blood relatives – and often priests, who became more interesting and less religious as the the drinks and meals carried on into the later hours.
Of course every one of my childhood friends has sat around that table. The McCaffrey Compound had an open door policy. And artfully executed Irish Exits (the Ginger was magnificent at it) always freed up a place at the table.
And of course, high Holy days were anchored around mass and meals. Sometimes the entire house became one continuous make shift dining room where the tables and three meals never really ended, just flowed from one into the next.
I didn’t appreciate it at the time but I learned so much about the Celtic oral tradition through osmosis just sitting around those tables and listening to people share their humanity.
Most of the time, it was humorous, boisterous and competitive. A story would begin through one person and then others around the table would seamlessly leap into the telling without missing a beat like a double-Dutch champion. I guess it would be comparable to a musical mashup. That was the gold. You knew you had earned your wings the first time you hijacked a story around that table. Even my friends got their chances.
Yes, sometimes fists flew, but that was part of the charm.
When the Burke Clan came through, there was always something memorable. For example, back in the early 70s, I mentioned the mock Volkswagen ad I had spotted in the centerfold of some lampoon:
And my maternal grandfather. Thomas Burke, who had a photo of St. JFK hanging in his home (as we all did) shouted quite angrily, spittle flying from his lips, in his best West of Ireland brogue, “I’d vote for the devil himself, as long as he was Irish.”
But you generally tried to avoid discussing politics around an Irish table.
Sometimes, because of Posie’s position as Clan matriarch, you got to eaves drop on more poignant conversations.
I loved trying to decipher the Irish elders brogue laden exchanges. Not one of them was like any other.
Spaghetti often sat by her side, puffing mightily on his ubiquitous pipe, the steam engine trail of Prince Albert smoke circling above his head like a mountaintop. Spaghetti considered each burning bowl of PA an effigial statement against the royals. And yes, McCaffreys smoked in their houses, like Hobbits. You can still smell the smoke in the walls of the Mosholu homestead.
The only way you knew my grandfather was listening to those conversations were moments when he would remove the pipe from his mouth and point its glistening stem at the speaker. A visual exclamation point.
Posie’s counsel was given in soft voices and warm hand pats. And unending refills of tea (pronounced Taay), served always with a saucer in case the person wanted to blow on it and cool sip it with an appropriate soft slurp. That was always done during listening moments, while Posie spoke. You could see the listener’s eyes glancing around the saucer at their lips, like they were trying to read the remnants of any tea leaves that made it through the process. It gave them a reason to avoid looking Posie in the eye during these moments of truth.
Posie was often the one who would hear the Clan priests whispered confessions at the far end of a table while the rest of us cleared off the meal, put away the food and washed, dried and put away the pots and dishes. (I didn’t have an automatic dishwasher until I moved to NoCo. Still don’t know how to work it.) You never heard much of those exchanges, those priests know how to whisper, almost a purely direction driven performance, no peripheral soundwaves. Something they teach in the Seminary that allows voice to softly travel through a confessional’s wafer screen without being heard outside the confessional. Confiteor Deo.
And an icy glance from Posie usually meant you better move on quickly or face the consequences. For a tiny Mic, she was tough as cat shit. And of course, there was always the fear of going to hell if you overheard something terrible. Turns out, most priests are more human than humans. Everyone needs a mother. Posie was good at it. God bless them all.
So, while you fine five readers are trying to figure out what you can buy for your families this abbreviated Christmas shopping season, why not turn that intellectual industry into planning and sharing a magnificent meal with as many as you can cram into your homes. And command that everyone contribute something interesting around the table, no physical presents. A story, a joke, a song. Trust me, the gifts of the future memories that will arise in those moments will last far longer than any quickly forgotten toy, electronic game, or wrong sized soon to be culturally passe article of clothing that you may hand them.
Maybe one of your guests will write a book about it. One of the recurring observations reviewers leave about The Claire Saga is their wish they could join in at the group meals.
Well, that was fun, now I need to go do some chores.
But first some kitty cuddling and my rounds.
And remember, no matter what else we get up to, let us make today a great one.
2 Responses
Seems that McLean Avenue has become “Pearl River-ized” in a stunning reverse progression of “Bicycle Irish” American evolution…. Lovely, though (?)
This is my first holiday season after both parents have passed. I will dearly miss our large family Thanksgiving and Christmas meals, but will make an effort to reimagine them throughout the year. Even if just with neighbors and friends.