The Catskill Chronicle

By Jude Waterston

“What am I having for breakfast?” I asked my mother as I  shuffled around the kitchen in my slippers. “How about a jelly egg?” she asked, opening the refrigerator and pulling out a cardboard carton of eggs. A jelly egg was how we referred to an omelet spread with Welch’s grape jelly, then rolled up into a neat log. It was both sweet and savory at the same time and a favorite of mine when I was a child of three or four.

As I ate at the formica table, my mother sat next to me, flipping through Ladies Home Journal magazine, commenting now and then on a recipe that intrigued her. There were always a couple of clipped recipes affixed with colored magnets to the refrigerator door. The recipes were usually vetoed by me and my sister Janet: judgments my mother ignored in her attempt to broaden our horizons, and her own, by trying new things.

“How would you like to go shopping with me today?” she asked, affectionately ruffling my curly hair. “I could use a couple of blouses and maybe a new skirt to boot,” she added. I nodded enthusiastically and pushed myself from the table to get dressed, flinging my pajama shirt off as I headed for my bedroom.

My earliest recollection of accompanying my mother while she shopped is of going to a woman’s clothing store on the south shore of Long Island. It was called Begg’s. Once inside the narrow shop, my mother would release my hand from her warm grasp, and I was free to wander among the silks and satins until she was ready to enter the fitting room. A short discussion preceded my meanderings. My mother would stoop in front of me so that we were eye level with each other. “Now, if you’re a good girl while we’re here, we can have a special lunch together when I’m done,” she promised. “MacDonald’s?” I asked. My mother made a disappointed face by screwing up her nose and narrowing her eyes, but she reluctantly agreed. “Okay, off you go,” she said, giving me a gentle swat on my behind.

I liked the evening clothes the best. The glitter of sequins thrilled me, and I enjoyed lazily running my hands over the stiff taffeta, shiny satin, and (best of all) the smooth velvet. When my mother had collected the maximum number of garments allowed in the dressing room, she would have to pry me away from the velvet. If any coat or jacket happened to be trimmed in fur, my mother was confronted with my whiny plea that she take another minute or two to browse. “Not yet, I’m not ready,” I said plaintively. “Well, I am, let’s go, sweet potato,” she said, taking my hand.

The communal dressing room was fascinating. It was paneled in dark wood over which were hung full-length mirrors that made all of the ladies look dramatically thinner than they really were. The heady, floral scent of perfumes and powders clung heavily in the air. I immediately squatted down a couple of feet from my mother, with my back against the wall, and gazed at the half naked women around me.  They looked oddly huge and imposing from my perspective on the floor. I noted the different styles and colors of girdles and brassieres and listened intently to the women’s comments and questions. “Do you like this color on me or does it make me look too sallow?” “Am I too buxom for this cut?” “That style is a knock-out on you!” “I can take a size smaller, don’t you think?” Their voices wafted over my head in a constant stream. My mother, on occasion, would bend down, grab my chin and smile at me or ask my opinion of something she was trying on. “Buy it!” I quipped without hesitation.

Eventually, I’d tire of the moving arms and legs slipping into and out of mountains of clothing, some of which would inadvertently drop on my head, and I would begin to whine, “I’m tired, Mommy. I’m ready for my burger.”

My mother’s seemingly endless reply was, “I’m almost done here, honey. Just another minute.” It seemed to me that she had already tried on hundreds of shirts, skirts, and dresses and that I hadn’t seen food in days. “I’m hungry,” I muttered. No response. “I’m very, very starving, Mommy!” I announced loudly, taking a different tact. Embarrassed at my outburst, my mother knelt in front of me and said quietly, through clenched teeth, “If you do that again, we will go straight home, and you will not have a hamburger. Do you understand?” she asked. A response was expected – that was for sure. “Yes,” I said hanging my head. My mother stood up and quickly glanced through the clothes on the hooks in front of her. I was astonished when we emerged from the dressing room and saw that she had taken only two items that were carefully draped over her arm. She had a special laminated Begg’s credit card, which she allowed me to ceremoniously hand over to the sales woman at the register.

In the car, as we headed to my favorite MacDonald’s – the one with the little man-made pond out back where two regal white swans and a handful of cocoa colored ducks peacefully swam – my mother ruminated over her purchases. “Maybe I should’ve gotten that rose silk blouse. No, no, it was way too expensive,” she countered. “Your father loves me in that color,” she mused. A moment later she shook her head, driving the rose silk out of her mind. We stepped from the car and entered MacDonald’s hand in hand.

I took my burger out to the little wooded area by the pond and sat on a large slate rock not far from the water. My mother took a packet of fries with her to a bench a few feet from me. It wasn’t long before she was back to mulling over her selections. I took a bite of my burger and watched excitedly as one of the swans glided effortlessly to the edge of the water and emerged, shaking its feathers as it stepped on shore. “Juju,” my mother called over to me. I turned to face her. “Do you really like the cream-colored skirt?” she inquired. Before I could respond, I felt my burger being snapped from my grasp. I turned to see the swan standing in front of me with the entire burger protruding from its hard black beak. It snapped its head toward my hand, hoping for more food, and I began to wail. My mother was instantly by my side and scooped me from the rock and into her arms. I clung to her neck as she headed toward the back door of MacDonald’s to complain of the theft, but she stopped suddenly, realizing I was more frightened than anything else. She turned and carried me to the car. She kissed me on the head as she lowered me into the seat and snapped on my seat belt.

As we drove home she turned repeatedly to check on me in the back seat. I was still shaken up when we arrived at the house. I bolted through the front door and met my father coming out of the den. “A crazy goose stoled my hamburger!” I announced as my mother entered the house behind me. My father looked appropriately dismayed, though he still had the wherewithal to correct me. “Stole my burger,” he said, then added, “Tell me all about it,” leading us into the den. My mother headed for the kitchen. When I’d told my story to my satisfaction, three or four times, I let my father leave the room to join my mother. I settled down to watch cartoons. I heard the rustling of a bag being opened and a few moments later my father saying, “Mattie, that looks terrific on you. Why didn’t you buy more than one? Go back tomorrow and get it in another color, will you?” “I’m too exhausted from that ordeal,” my mother answered wearily. After a pause she added, in a whisper, “I don’t believe we’ll be going to that MacDonald’s ever again.” She was right. That swan who, incidentally, was not a pristine white, but, up close, a rather drab shade of dirty gray, had put an abrupt end to my burger days.

Tuna Steak Burgers

Serves 4

Though not technically a “burger” because the meat is not ground, these are an unusual change of pace from your typical beef pattie. The piquant green sauce that garnishes the fish adds a burst of flavor.

For burgers:

4 6-ounce tuna steaks, about ¾” thick

4 teaspoons extra-virgin olive oil

4 brioche hamburger buns, split and lightly toasted

1 bunch arugala (or watercress), washed and dried well

Salt and freshly ground pepper

For sauce:

1 tablespoon capers, rinsed well

6 pitted green olives (preferably Italian picholine)

4 anchovy fillets

1 garlic clove, minced

1 small shallot, roughly chopped

1 teaspoon Dijon mustard

½ teaspoon lemon zest

Juice of one lemon

½ cup coarsely chopped Italian flat-leaf parsley

3 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil

1 heaping tablespoon mayonnaise

Place the tuna steaks on a platter and drizzle each with 1 teaspoon of oil. Turn them over to coat both sides. Season both sides with salt and pepper. Set aside. Add all of the sauce ingredients, except the mayo, to the bowl of a food processor. Process until well combined. Scrap into a small bowl, add the mayo, and stir well. Set aside. Heat a large non-stick skillet or stove-top grill over medium-high heat. Add tuna steaks to the skillet and cook, turning once, 2 – 3 minutes per side, until seared on the outside and medium-rare inside. Remove to a platter. Place ¼ of the arugala on the bottom half of each brioche bun. Top with ¼ of the sauce. Place a tuna steak on each and cover with the other half of the bun. Serve immediately.