Mowgli and the Chore Chart

The other day I wrote about the bread baking event at the family reunion. Today I'm writing about something less exotic: the chore chart at the family reunion, pictured above.

If you count up those names, you'll get 47 (this is what happens when two people have eleven children, who then each have between one and three children apiece and get together 30 years later). So the chart is a necessary part of gathering for a weekend -- but it's also fun.

It is work, sure, but preparing food with someone is one of the best ways to get a feel for them; chopping vegetables, frying bacon and scrubbing pots have a way of exposing the ins and outs of a personality. I saw humor, management techniques, frustration and cubic tons of love in that big, bright room. If it had been possible, space-wise, I am dead sure that everyone would have been in there for the entire three days. As it was, we settled for scooting past each other to get at blueberry buckle, ice cream, soda and yes, children, alcohol.

Back to the chart, though. Everyone above the age of 14 or so was assigned to a team, and each team was assigned one meal and one cleanup. My husband Mowgli (not his real name) was on a team that drew breakfast duty on Sunday. I had my doubts (he is NOT a morning person), but he made me immeasurably proud when he told me, as I stumbled into the kitchen around 8:30, that he was the first one there.

The word on the street is that he made a whole mess of French toast -- my mother, who was on the same team with him, even claims to have photographic evidence.

Big loaves of thanks to the family

My husband and I just returned from a family reunion on my dad's side that was lovely in many ways and about which I will write in greater detail later. For now, I feel compelled to tell you about one particular incident.

There is a bakery in the family, and thus several bakers were on hand. These are people who make bread for fun, and tend to pass along the baker's art at family reunions. The bread we learned to make is legendary in this clan: Dilly Cheese -- it's exactly what it sounds like, and mere mention of it sent a roomful of folks into raptures.

I took approximately 8 million photographs of the bread-making process, but one of my favorites is of my husband's hands in dough. This was an unexpected development and hopefully the start of a bread-making trend at Masala House.


Below is my other favorite photo: cousin Matt, showing us how it's done. Deep thanks to him and the rest of the clan for welcoming us with open arms, and teaching us how to make something that nourishes body and soul.

India Diary, Part Two

If you're just joining us, today's post is a continuation of Thursday's post, which consisted of excerpts from the diary I kept when I went to India last year for a reception thrown for us by my in-laws. Again, this is verbatim except where noted by brackets.

On the endlessly fascinating street life:
"We saw a bunch of bullock water carts -- tanks of water on wheels being hauled by bullocks with brightly painted horns, some with decorative horn-covers:"

By the way, it turns out these water carts are supplemental -- the city provides water on specific days at specific times, and it's up to you to fill your tanks with as much as you need. If you can't get enough, or need more, you contact a supplemental water company, which then dispatches a bull-drawn tank.

On our one trip outside of the city:
"Went off to the waterfall -- about 40 KM away, north of the city. Passed farms w/grapes, bananas, sugar cane & rice paddies, in between villages with stall-stores at the edge of the road, schools, coconut vendors, groups of women, men & schoolkids. Lots of goats, stray dogs, cows (some on leads), and donkeys. Saw a donkey fight in the middle of the road -- awesomely funny."

My husband Mowgli (not his real name) told me later that donkeys eat newspaper, and something in the ink makes them crazy. I still wish I'd been quick enough with the camera to get a shot of the donkey fight. Most of the animals we saw, including horses, were wandering down the street. Cows tend to be tied up because they're very valuable; goats are allowed to wander because they'll eat as they go and it's cheaper to keep them that way; and the dogs are just semi-feral and everywhere, and not to be messed with.

On wandering around town and visiting a grocery store (at my request):
"Had a Coke at Domino's after taking pix of the delivery motorbikes outside and attracting the attention of the owner, who was amused by my tourist ways, but v. nice. [Mowgli] had suggested a juice bar, but I couldn't decide to save my life (Chickoo?!) and was nervous since mom's incident. And something familiar just sounded good.
Went to a grocery store -- Nilgiri's -- to check it out -- narrow aisles, and lots of choices just like in the U.S. Sort of like a Target in that they had housewares, dog stuff, toiletries, etc. [Mowgli] said later that produce was next door."

I'll leave you with sketches of some of the gifts we received at the reception. The Shiva was too heavy to bring back, but the Ganesh came with us and now resides in our living room.

India Diary, Part One

I blame the jetlag for my fascination with the lightswitches.

I recently rediscovered the diary I kept during our trip to India last year for a reception that my husband's parents threw to celebrate our marriage. My mother and older brother went with us, and we traveled together from Newark to Brussels to Chennai (Madras) to Coimbatore. On the longest leg of the flight (9 1/2 hours) we all slept, though I noted that when I woke up I was so groggy that my husband was worried (we had only been married for six months).

Here are a few excerpts, verbatim except where noted with brackets.

First impressions of Madras:

"On the way to the hotel I was in back, trying to see as much as possible. Lots of dust, roadside shops/bars serving taxi drivers. I noticed that if I breathed with my mouth open, I could feel a fine coating of silky grit. Lots of honking. People driving fast, auto-rickshaws, scooters, trucks. We passed a modern gas station, just like ours -- big, well-lit, neon, lots of pumps."


The entry/new bride welcoming proceedings at my in-law's house in Coimbatore, which were attended by several aunts and uncles. Just before this, we'd done the entry ceremony, wherein I'd had to be the first to enter the family courtyard and house, stepping with my right foot first. Mowgli was scolded for trying to enter before me, but to be fair, we'd just traveled for over 30 hours.

" ...I lit the lamp in the family shrine. I had to strike the match with my right hand -- kind of tricky for a southpaw. All of this took maybe five minutes, then we ate, served by the ladies. I held a silver tray with dishes of kumkum and turmeric. [Amma (mother in-law)] put the gift on it, they daubed themsleves and me, then I offered the gift and they took it."



On my mom crossing the street:

"Mom's freaked out about crossing the street. There are no crosswalks and nobody stops, but nobody gets hit either. Everyone also honks. Mom stops when she should keep going."



On beggars:

"Saw a few beggars -- little kids, and an old dwarf man. [Mowgli] gave the man some money but shooed the kids away. I have to ask him why he gave to one and not the other." Note: He told me later the kids are working for a boss, so he didn't give because the money wouldn't help them.



On waiting for our driver* to pick my mom and me up at a hotel:

"Saw a few Westerners, but mostly Indians lounging, standing in groups, going here or there. Had a false alarm thinking Babu [his real name] had come -- the doorman laughed at us when we shrugged at our own eagerness. He had a great moustache:"

*My in-laws hired a driver to take us wherever we wanted, pretty much whenever we wanted, for the duration of our stay. At first it felt uncomfortably luxurious, but after about five minutes of being driven calmly through the maelstrom that is Indian traffic, it seemed more like a necessity. He also kept an eye out for unsavory types and answered all of my silly, curious traveler questions with grace.

Big Apple Masala

Mowgli and I were recently in New York, visiting family and friends and wandering around the city. We started with half a day at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, where even the museum shop cashiers have accents, and overhearing a conversation in English was a rarity. Mowgli’s cousin, who had angelically picked us up from the airport the night before, was with us, as was my mom, who had angelically taken the train up from Baltimore the day after returning from a week in Los Angeles.

At the Empire State Building the next day, all the line attendants and salespeople asked us where we were from as we made our way past posters hawking a virtual helicopter IMAX tour of the city. I realize it’s a sales ploy, but we did have a fun chat with a guy from the Dominican Republic. I asked if he’d read “The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao” (he hadn’t) because I’d just finished it, and it was written by a Dominicano. I missed my book club meeting about it because of the trip, and was aching to discuss it, but alas, all I could do was recommend it.

Later that day, we met up with the cousin who accompanied us to the museum and took the commuter train home with him to Jersey City. After seeing his (very nice) home, we went over to another of Mowgli’s cousin’s to meet his new baby, who had had a big day. In the morning, his family (mom, dad, both sets of grandparents, and one great-grandmother) had performed his naming ceremony. His name was said (softly, I assume) into his ears, and then written in a dish of uncooked rice, and he was given something sweet for the first time. We admired the baby, enjoyed visiting with the family, and had some excellent food that had been prepared and brought in for the occasion.

We were fortunate to be staying with my cousin and her girlfriend in Murray Hill, which most locals refer to as Curry Hill, as there are at least three Indian restaurants per block, many of them Southern Indian. This cuisine is hard to come by where we live (most Indian restaurants in the U.S. serve Northern food), so the first decision of the day was where to walk for amazing Tamilian food – a far cry from committing to 20 minutes in the car for so-so idli.

One night after drinks with our best man and his wife, we ended up around the corner from the apartment at a greasy, brightly lit place full of cab drivers eating parathas with their hands. Mowgli ordered in Hindi, a language he doesn’t really speak, and was moderately successful – he was asked to repeat part of his order. But soon, we were tearing into parathas with our hands, too.

The next day, we journeyed back to Jersey to visit another cousin and her husband, parents and children. On the R train, an older Indian gentleman asked us for help finding the Rector Street stop, which is where we happened to be getting off. On the PATH train on the way back, an older lady from a South American country flashed three fingers at me twice. I thought she was signing “OK” so I signed “OK” back and gave her a thumbs-up for good measure. Mowgli was laughing the whole time – she wanted help finding the 33rd Street stop, so I went over to her with my map and helped her out.

Our last meal in the city was not Indian, but Ukranian (which is pretty much Polish). We took my cousin and her girlfriend out to thank them for their hospitality, and they returned the favor by taking us around the corner to an amazing Italian pastry shop where Frank Sinatra once dug into cannoli, and many of the customers were Asian. Welcome to New York.

Family Mystery Involving a Captain of Industry

Great-grandpa was always conscious of the camera.

My family is Polish, on both sides, as far back as anyone has researched, though I hesitate to describe myself as 100% Polish because of the fluidity of the country’s borders. One family name is awfully close to that of a Russian statesman, and my maternal grandmother’s lovely olive complexion led to speculation of Romany or Albanian blood. Meanwhile, my features are so solidly Central European that a Bosnian checkout lady once spoke to me in her language; we shared a laugh when I explained why she took me for one of her own.

Poland’s wealth of natural resources and strategic location smack complete with a port on the Baltic Sea conspired to make it the long-suffering scrapper of the region. Its neighbors (Germany, Prussia and Austria) continually angled for control of its lands and resources, resulting at one point in the dissolution of the country in 1795. It returned as a satellite state in 1807 thanks to a deal Napoleon made with the Prussians, and returned to the map in 1918, but for over a hundred years, its main functions were to supply food and soldiers for whatever conflict was being fought by whomever was in control.

When my great-grandfather fled his miserable peasant sharecropping life, the power in charge was Russia. At one point in his journey, he hid in a hay wagon with his boat ticket sewn into the lining of his coat while Russian soldiers poked the hay with pitchforks. If they had found him, he would have been conscripted into the Russian army, or killed, or conscripted and then killed.
He was still a teenager when he arrived in the U.S., and once he was hired onto the Ford line, he worked there until he retired. We don’t know whether he worked on Jeeps or Lincolns, assembled engines or added steering wheels, but we do know he was a huge fan of “Old man Ford” and disliked the younger Ford.

According to family lore, Henry Ford regularly walked the assembly line and knew my great-grandpa and his coworkers by name. In 1919, his son Edsel succeeded him as company president, and again according to faded collective family memory, he was interested primarily in efficiency and profits. His anti-union stance was the chief source of great-grandpa’s ire, although Henry Ford is famously quoted as saying, “The UAW would organize Ford over my dead body.” There is also the very well-documented 1937 Battle of the Overpass, wherein UAW organizers were beaten by factory security forces in broad daylight – in the presence of Detroit Free Press photographers.

I’ve been trying to get my head around this inconsistency; the best theory I have so far, bolstered by an aunt, is that Henry Ford treated his workers well as part of a strategy to keep the unions out. We do know that in 1913, he introduced the $5 a day minimum wage, doubling the going rate of the time, stabilizing his workforce, and rankling his competitors.

The aforementioned aunt shared the following story: Grandpa would spout about what they got from the union, money, blah, blah, their house, and grandma would let him go on until he got to the house. Then she’d interject, “Union, bah!” (or some Polish version of ‘bah’) “Union didn’t give us this house. Gott gave us this house!” End of argument.

My father took an oral history of great-grandpa for a college anthropology class, but sadly, I don’t have a copy of it, and since they’ve both gone to the kielbasa buffet in the sky, it’s lost for now. There may well be a copy in a barn in Phoenix, but that’s definitely fodder for a future post.