Superman, Accidents and Black Coffee

I don't remember everything about my childhood.  I do however remember waiting for Saturday morning cartoons. I had a wild imagination. I would like to pretend to be characters on TV. Sometimes, I'd be the Lone Ranger, other times a superhero. My favorite was always Superman. My mother though that I was going to jump out of the third story window so she was leary when I would wrap a towel around my neck and start running with my hands outstretched .

There was another time that I took and popped out the lenses from a pair of my father's glasses. I was Clark Kent. My mother would often play along and ask "Clark, What do you want for breakfast, Cheerios?" For those that don't know, all Puerto Rican mothers call any brand of cereal "Cheerios". Its like everyone calling a bandage, a "Band-aid". I responded once that I want pancakes and black coffee . She would ask "Why black coffee?",  and I would say, "Because that's the way Clark likes it!". We didn't have Teflon in those days so if you had a stainless steel pan that wasn't conditioned, sometimes the pancakes would stick . My mother would always use butter or margarine from one of those tubs that you can later use as a cup. The pancakes wouldn't stick with all that butter but they would always have the brown edges . I don't believe she ever told my father what happened to his eye glasses.

When I was about four for some reason my mother left my older sister by eight years babysit me while she went out. My mother was a smart lady, but I can't figure out why she would leave me with a 12 year old. If my sister wasn't listening to her Beatles records she would torment me like older sisters were supposed to. I would in turn tattle tale every chance I got. I guess we are even. Except the time she dressed me up like David Casidy from the Partridge Family.

 File Copy

I have three older sisters but was raised with one. The two older two sisters were married and gone before I was born. My mom left one morning to visit my father in the hospital. He was recovering from tuberculosis and my mother was taking him his cigarettes. It was the 60s, you could smoke in hospitals. Again, she was a smart lady,  but she reasoned that if most of the doctors smoked, it can't be too bad. My sister was playing her records on one of those portable record players where the LPs (Long playing records for you young folks ) would edge beyond the player. She was supposed to be washing clothes.

We lived humbly in a third floor apartment in Fairmount. We had one of those washing machines that didn't have a spin cycle. The water would simply drain and you had to wring out your clothes through the wringer that was a set of rolling pins that press the clothes like a pasta machine flattens dough. Of course I was curious.

I wanted to wring out my socks. I was all alone, just me and my sock. I lifted my arm and while on my tiptoes and  proceeded to wring them out. Everything went well, except for the part when I was supposed to let go. The rolling pins pulled me up off my feet. I thought i was going to be flattened like Wile E. Coyote, under an anvil. I got stuck and I was suspended in mid air. I must have screamed.

All I remember was my mother appeared and was screaming but instead of taking me off of the machine she proceeded to beat up my sister for leaving me unattended. One hand flailing at my sister and the other reaching for the emergency release lever on the machine. My father's boss at the time came to take me to the hospital and I came out with just some bruised ligaments and slightly still malformed left forearm. It reminds me of Popeye arms.

 I remember one summer I woke up before everyone else to watch the Lone Ranger, Road Runner, Johnny Quest and the Superfriends in only underwear. I had always wished that underoos were invented when I was younger as I would have surely wore them. My sister told me the night before not to touch her Applejack's. Of course I had run out of my Fruit Loops, so naturally reached for her Applejacks. Who would know?  I poured the "cheerios" and then the milk. There must have been something slippery on the floor, the next thing I knew I was doing a Charlie Brown flip and my sister was Lucy.

I must have been suspended in mid air with all limbs off the floor to what seemed like an eternity. I fell flat on my back and got the wind knocked out of me. The Applejacks and milk went into the air as well and landed on my almost naked body. I ran to my mom's room with Applejacks sticking to my chest. I couldn't speak . I remember trying to tell my mom what happened, but could only gasp for air.  My mother figured that my sister had something to do with it, so she goes to her room and beats her. I told you she was a smart Lady.

The Philadelphia Italian Market and Live Chickens

Some of my earliest memories are from my parents taking me and my sister to the 9th street Italian Market. There were and still are outdoor and walk-in shops in the South Philly Market. Although there are Italian shops, there are now Asian, Mexican and African shops.  Historically South Philly has been a attractive area for newly arrived immigrants. I knew there were also ethnic and racial tensions but since this is about my childhood,  I never experienced them.

In the summers the smells and sounds were both satiable and pungent. I used the slosh around in the the sawdust and hay that the butcher shops had on their floors before I even know what the purpose  was. I am still not sure, I think it was to to soak up the blood from the butchered meats. My vegan daughter is wincing by now.  We would walk among the fruit,vegetable and fish stands in the Market.

My father would choose the meats at the butcher shops and then disappear to the local bar for a few drinks. Back in the late 60s and early 70s, before the plastic bag revolution people used to bring their own bags. You had to. You can't carry 30 lbs of meat in a brown paper bag for a long time. There would also be bag sellers outdoors selling heavy duty bags with handles.

Walking past the outdoor stands among the bustle of people buying vegetables, fish and fruit. There was this old fruit and vegetable seller that would bark "How many?", in a raspy old cigar voice that sounded more like he was saying "hominy". It took almost all of my childhood to figure out what he was saying.

In the winter it seemed just as busy.  You can always near one of the fires from open drums with pieces of  pallets that were lit. To me it was like a campfire. Workers and customers would warm their hands by the fire and the smoke would rise off into the sky. The City tried to get them to stop for polluting the air, but the businesses fought it saying that it took away from the open markets atmosphere and tradition and asked for  a special exemption.

File Photo: Italian Market 1950s

Later after my dad joined us he would sometimes take me down to the live poultry place. They had live chickens, pigeons and sometimes rabbits . My father would pick a chicken and the creature's fate would then be sealed. The Poultry man with his white butcher coat and black rubber boots would grab the doomed, squawking flapping chicken out of the coop and take it to the back where I would hear the squawking stop instantly. I was curious as to what was happening with the chicken so my father told me that they place the chicken headfirst in to a funnel and chop off its head. My vegan daughter is probably shrieking at this point.  Then they dip it in hot water to loosen the feathers and place it on a rolling drum that resembled a music box cylinder that would pluck the feathers . The butcher would then clean out the intestines and give you your chicken in plastic.

The chicken was still warm when my father would hand me the bag. Children today don't know that the chicken they eat was alive at one point. Because of my visits to the poultry place I knew that, even when my mother would take me grocery shopping and ask me to grab one of the cold chickens from the refrigerated poultry section of the A&P or Pennfruit supermarkets. The Live Chicken place was usually the last stop because my father wanted to get home as quickly to cook the chicken.

Since the chicken was fresh . He wanted to make sure that we cooked it right away. He would make the best Arroz con Pollo ( Puerto Rican Rice and Chicken). He would use the the back, wings and chicken feet to make the best broth that I have ever tasted. You can make both rice and broth with supermarket chicken but it wouldn't be the same.

http://philadelphiaencyclopedia.org/archive/italian-market

Our absolute last stop would be George's Sanwich shop , recently featured on Andrew Zimmerman's Bizarre foods for their tripe sandwiches . There was never air conditioning in the summer and very little heat n the winter from all the patrons opening the door. There never seemed to be enough stools to sit together. There would always be some stranger in between. Sometimes customers would  move to let us sit together. Other times I would be sitting alone while my parents and sister stood. It was great to be the baby of the family. We would all get the same thing, their Italian roast pork sandwich on a crusty Italian roll that soaks up all the juices.  They still serve it on the counter and the only barrier keeping the juices in place would be the sheet of wax paper between your sandwich.

Georges Sandwich shop never moved and is still there. Very few things have changed. The old Coca-Cola  ice cooler with the bottle opener is gone along with the glass coke bottles that I miss. But the sandwiches and the family are still there.  It is still a must, when I visit the Maket.

The Best times were when my uncles and Grandmother came to visit from New York. My Grandmother bring us pastries from her favorite bakery and gifts for me and my sister. Always pajamas for me. She was obsessed with pajamas. Yea, they would always have footies. I would barely understand her since my Spanish was limited. I would try to look surprised with the pajamas even though what I really wanted was some kind of toy. She would make the trip to Philly to visit us and to to buy meats at the market to take back home. My father and his brothers would cook and play musical instruments. Sometimes there weren't enough instruments, so we would make some out of kitchen supplies. A standing grater became a Guiro ( the puerto rican scraping instrument usually made from a dried gourd). Pots would be drums, wooden spoons sticks and an old coffee can with dried beans became a maraca.

Jack Delano Photo(not my family, maracas  boy would have been me)

The house would be full of cigarette smoke, beer and food fortunately for the cigarette smoke I was close to the ground. They would sing and joke and eat in Spanish. The ash trays would fill up until they faded one by one to sleep. I only assumed this because I would wake up in my new pajamas  adjusting the footies that would slide from my heal and see fewer uncles around the living room on the plastic couches.

Today there are fewer uncles and my grandmother is long gone. When I  visit the remaining uncles and my parents we still bring up the old times.

Food, Mr Bill and the Philly of my youth

I have lived in Philly all of my life. I have also traveled to some great places. I wanted to create a blog so that I could share my experiences growing up here, traveling and eating.

I come from a time and neighborhood that families were a community and also cooked food from scratch. I have vivid and great memories growing up there  

I am Puerto Rican, but grew up humbly in a North Philly neighborhood with no other Hispanics. The time was the late 60s and early 70s. The children used to play outside, play marbles and stick ball ( I was never any good at either). My friends were Irish -Turkish and African American. When we were thirsty we would go to my surrogate grandfather, Mr Bill who sold sodas to the kids and corn liquor to the adults, so my father knew him well.

Mr Bill used to take me to the North Philly and Germantown  rib-shacks  where I would eat a wood-smoked barbequed rib sandwiches on white bread (Who knew about bad carbs back then?). He would also take me fishing in the Jerseys waters on the summer weekends.  I would often hang out at his house during the hot summers of my childhood just listening to this weather-faced, white haired, African American man who reminded me of Red Fox as Fred Sanford then, but now I  would compare him to the older man in Henry Ossawa Tanner's painting of the "banjo lesson", the man that i considered grandfather deserved more dignity in the remembering.   He would sit down waiting for customers in his work pants and suspenders and old winged tipped leather sole shoes and tell stories on the summer porch while he sold sodas and prepped his tackle box. Other times I would play with friends on the block.

We used to be on the block,  so much that the grow-ups used to complain that why don't we use the park that was just across the street.  We never had a real answer and most if the time we just stayed on the block.  My mom was a good cook. She cooked the typical puerto rican dinners: rice and beans, rice and corned beef, Chuletas ( pork chops), stewed beef,  cubed steak and onions. My dad however was the special dinner cook .

My dad was worked hard during the week at a local car repair shop as a body and fender man and a big drinker on the weekends . He was old school Puerto Rican . He worked hard, drank hard. He would always cook the holiday food. He made the  Thanksgiving turkey, the arroz con gandules( rice and pigeon peas) the Roast pork and the Pasteles (the Puerto rican version of a tamale, made with green banana other root vegetable and stuffed with  picadillo(seasoned minced pork) wrapped in banana leaves and boiled every Christmas.

I enjoyed all of this wonderful food still liked to go over my neighbors houses to eat dinner.  I would have pot roast at my childhood friend Mary Ann's house. I would have Soul food, chicken, collards and rice and gravy at Donald's moms house . She had a deep southern drawl that was hard to understand but I always could make it out when she said, " Ricky! You won sompon eat?" My fiend Donovan's grandmother gave me her recipe for sour milk biscuits, yeah I used lard.

I later worked in restaurants and still love to cook.  I use cooking for entertaining and sharing with loved ones. I learned cooking techniques from celebrated chefs and friends grandmothers.

Gems can come from anywhere, but only if you are looking.  

This is a good starting point on my blog.  More to come.