"Uh Oh, Spaghetti-O's!"

Photo courtesy of http://coopcitycommunityforums.yuku.com

For a time, in the early 70s, during my childhood, me and my family lived in a section of the Bronx called Co-Op City, a place where owners and tenants entered into a cooperative housing arrangement. Meetings were held to determine every facet of life within the community. I suppose it was designed to be some sort of a socialist utopia; a way for families looking to "move on up" to have more of a say in how they lived. Only in hindsight do I realize the political implications of such a choice, because as kids we certainly didn't. 

One of my brothers has a Puerto Rican godfather, an undercover cop we knew from the projects in Queens. At the time, he was married to a beautiful white woman named Lillian. They were glamorous beyond belief, because they had motorcycles and wore all-leather riding gear. We used to bump into them in the hallways, holding helmets under their arms, collecting their mail, and taking in their bikes. We had German neighbors, too, whose little girls decided to play Barbie on me one afternoon, by cutting off my bangs completely.

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My most lingering memories from that period are of food. I remember the Saturday Shabbos, because I held my mother's hand as we walked to the corner deli, staring up at the big wooden vats of kosher pickles, which were tended to by men in Orthodox dress. My mother's closest friend was our neighbor Myrna, a warm, ebullient Jewish lady with a tall, brightly colored and elaborately-curled orange hairdo, who was the mother of my oldest brother's best friend. Looking back, I realize Myrna must have had her hair set weekly, as ladies did back then, though my mother did not, as she prefers a more natural look.

A rain lamp from the 70s.

Myrna was a foreign land to me in many ways. She had a loud, cheerful, booming voice that I was unused to, and their apartment held all sorts of fascinations for me. Strange, clear plastic covered the furniture in the living room, making loud sounds when you sat on it, which frightened me off quickly. They had one of those hanging oil lamps with a nude lady in the middle, sort of like a mood lamp but even more exotic, because I couldn't figure out how all that hot liquid didn't pour out over the floor. Delightful!

But, there is one afternoon I will never forget. We often visited Myrna during the day, when my brothers were at school, and I was still young enough to remain at home with my mom. On this particular day, I distinctly remember sitting at her kitchen table, overwhelmed by the sights, sounds, and smells. Myrna started laughing at me as I stared at the t.v. blaring in the living room, one of those big console types we couldn't yet afford. "That's alright, hon!" she boomed, smoking a cigarette, "go over and take a look! It's a soap opera!!" I had never seen one before. In a rare act of bravery, I actually got up from the chair by myself and toddled over to the screen to place my little hands on the set. Who were these people?! Well, whoever they were, they weren't half as interesting as Myrna. I hurried back to my seat at the kitchen table, where more intrigues awaited me.

On the table was a can with a most appealing and friendly label pasted on it. Why would I find that alluring? Dear readers, I had never see anything like it. To this day, most of my meals are home-cooked, by me. My mother, being a rare female science worker for those times, was hip to nutrition and the pitfalls of preservatives, way ahead of the curve. She made most of our meals from "scratch", every day, three or four times a day, for the entire family. Here in front of me was some sort of brightly colored food stuff in a can. It boggled my mind, because it looked like the packaging equivalent of a box of crayons.

As I turned the can around and around to get a better look, Myrna sat watching me with a twinkle in her eye. "Those are Spaghetti-O's, hon!! Haven't you ever had them before?! You want some? Come on, I'll make some for you." She went to the stove, turned on the burner under a little saucepan, returning to the table a short while later with a bowl of, well, I had no idea what is was. Her eyes crinkled up with laughter again, as I sat there trying to find some sort of reference for it.

"It's pasta, baby! In circles! Like this," she took a drag off her cigarette, and blew several perfect smoke rings. She poked her finger through the center of each, with long, perfectly manicured fingernails, "See? They're circles!" I'll never forget how her hands looked to me that day, moving through the air, with the sun behind her head, from the windows overlooking the sink. The first manicure for me would be at age 28, the day before I got married. While I sat there, uncomfortably taking in this new experience, I thought of Myrna and her beautiful nails. She had passed away many years ago, when we were children, after we had moved out of the Bronx.

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After Myrna performed such an incredible magic show for me, I had to at least try it. So I did, and I lifted the spoon to my mouth, for her. And it was horrible. Because, readers, my spaghetti and meatballs were made and cooked for me by my mama, who is of partial Italian-American descent. It is still my favorite comfort food. I think I must have inadvertently made a face or wrinkled my nose in disgust, because that set Myrna off again, into loud peals of laughter. "That's OK, baby, you don't have to eat it!" My mom joined in the fun, too, smiling and explaining for me shyly, in a softer voice, "She's never eaten food from a can before. This is her first time."

I was three years old :)

May all your food adventures today be memories forever.