Matthew! Passages.

He arrived in Rockport, MA without a lot of fuss, his mother all but certain we were having a girl. But our "Phoebe" was a Matty and the year after 9/11 we decided Brooklyn was our home. Not all the transitions were easy, but through it all, Garfield Temple was always there: pre-school, summer camp, Hebrew School, and finally, this. We live 8 brownstones down the hill from Congregation Beth Elohim. It was all so seamless that sometimes it felt like home. Even on the days I did not notice, Matty made it so. Bar mitzvah is the missing thread in my convoluted fabric. Watching Matthew accept his Tallis from Grandma and Grandpa completed me. And began a new journey for him -- my Matty, my guy -- artist, singer, poet, thinker. Parents always say they couldn't be prouder. I know exactly what that means.

The Dangling Conversation

Last night I attended my first book club, hosted by a dear old friend, Jenny, whom I probably learned to read with in 2nd grade in Ardsley, New York. I didn't really know what to expect, riding out to Astoria, Queens on the N train, a tad nervous as I enjoyed the muted sun hanging over the NYC skyline on a humid summer's night. When I buzzed Jenny's apartment, I overheard her saying, "The author is here!" Somehow, those words put this whole experience into a new perspective for me. I felt like Bobby DeNiro in Taxi Driver. "You talking to me?"

 Nearly a dozen women and men greeted me. The food spread was divine, the bar well-stocked. I have only heard about book groups for the past countless years. I have never actually attended one. Even trying to write about it brings out a fairly serious bout of shyness in me. I will say but a few things. Yes, it was thrilling to be in the catbird seat as this very well-read group spent well over an hour analyzing my novel. Yes, my jitters vanished almost instantly, because the material is so near and dear to my heart that it was a joy to hear what others had to say. And most of all, I am recharged and enthusiastic about the future of books. I know all the headlines are ringing the death knell of print, and B & N is on the ropes, and Amazon is going to take over the planet. That is what you read. But one need only sit with this group and revel in their enthusiasm for books -- not just mine -- books in general. These folks like to read! And long after we had finished our discussion of Food for Marriage, the talk continued long into the night, about the pleasures of the written word and the cathartic release that reading brings for all of us. 

It was a wonderful experience and a beautiful group of people. I was grinning all the way back to Brooklyn. And on those low days when the words just won't come, or I wonder why bother at all? I will remember an evening in Queens. My first book group. Like all firsts, it is a night that will linger sweetly.

Clams!

Can't sell them to my kids. Wife won't bite. But they are so darned fun to make. Perfect Saturday night single Dad/commuter marriage recipe. (When the wife's away, the bivalves will play?)  So easy to make, you don't even need instructions. Here you go. Oil. garlic. Pepper flakes. NZ Cockles. Shake. Open. Pasta. Parsley. Done!

The Prince Shall Have No Soup

On the morning before the opening gala of the Arab Youth Leadership Summit in Dubai, I sat in the villa of a Saudi prince on the Arabian Sea. I was surrounded by his entourage as we spread out our work on a long glass table filled with fruits, yogurts and breads ordered from the 5-star hotel. For the next four hours the Prince and I forged his opening remarks. He shared his views. I scribbled notes and read aloud from sections that I had turned into scripting on the spot. Then the Prince’s people would argue interminably in Arabic as I sat alone staring out beyond the infinity pool at the flat, calm sea. The Burj Al Arab sparkled in the near distance.

The next morning the Prince delivered his opening remarks to His Highness Sheikh Mohammed and a thousand guests. Over 100 members of the media covered the event. My speech seemed to go over well, though since it was delivered in Arabic, I have no idea whether he spoke a word I had written.

That afternoon I was called into a meeting with the Prince’s attaché, a large, serious man in a robe that could barely contain his belly. The only other person at the meeting was the event producer – Della – a force from California who I have traveled the world with. The three of us sat alone at an enormous dining table in one of the hotel’s ornate banquet rooms.

As we chatted about the day’s crammed schedule, a tureen of soup was delivered from the industrial kitchen which I could just make out through the swinging doors. I was starving. I took one spoonful. It tasted of lentils and cumin, and was delicious. Before I could dip my spoon in again, a team of waiters marched out and removed our bowls. Della, the attaché, and I continued our meandering dialogue. My stomach began to rumble. A half-hour later the waiters returned. Another steaming soup was set before us in a gold and blue inlaid bowl. The aroma of mulligatawny intoxicated me. I managed one taste before the bowl was whisked away.

By the time the fifth offering arrived, we had been in the meeting for nearly three hours and accomplished nothing that I could surmise. Our Arab friend with the expansive belly unwrapped his large silver spoon from a linen napkin. Della and I watched. He took one tiny, well-mannered sip and snapped his fingers. The waiters stood aside, forming a line, and out of nowhere, the chef appeared. The room hung in silence. The attaché addressed the chef in a quiet but firm voice.

“The Prince shall have no soup.”

In a flash of dark hands through flowing white sleeves, the table was cleared.  The attaché rose and bowed slightly. The meeting was adjourned.

I returned to the Villa where the sun was starting its slow descent to the sea, and began to work on the Prince’s next speech

Brooklyn-Queens Day In New York.

Kids out of school. Office is quiet. Trop Storm Andrea moving up the coast tomorrow. Light the grill tonight? Hmmm.....

How to get to Chicago

The Lakeshore Limited pulls out of Penn Station right on time at 3:40 p.m. To most, my delight at resorting to this mode of transportation between New York and Chicago is somewhere between a chuckle and a horror. Admittedly it is not for everybody. Anyone in a hurry, for example. Or not at one with a wide and eclectic mix of travelers. You meet precious few Quakers on American Airlines between LGA and ORD. Or ex-cons. Or foamers.

Amtrak Train #49 hugs the Hudson River for the first two hours of the journey. The left side of the coach car is paramount. Bring food. The snack lounge does not open until six.

In Albany/Rensselaer there is an hour-long stop where the Boston leg of the train meets up with the New York faction. This is where the smokers smoke and the foamers (rail fans who purportedly drool at the sight of a locomotive or similar) foam. It is a good time to stretch your legs. The night on The Lakeshore Limited is long. It is where the action is.

Outside of Utica we come to a halt. On an airport tarmac, this is known as a problem. On Amtrak, it barely registers. By now I have retired to the Café. If one is desirous of Amtrak pizza, or perhaps an Angus beef burger, this is the place to be. It is not as dire as it sounds. There is also a faux-elegant dining car attached, where I always go with the kids when we do this trip together. It is a cherished highlight. The pasta isn’t bad.

A tree has come down on the tracks somewhere up by Syracuse. We pace the night platform, strangers puffing away like old friends. We have nothing but time on our hands. Where else in the world will you ever hear the words: “All aboard!”

We are three hours late into Erie. I only notice because my whisky is running low and the sky edges are growing crinkly blue and pink. I find two empty seats in coach. The legs extend like business class on an airplane. I can curl up just enough to simulate bedtime. I awake to “Indiana’s early morning dew”  (thank you Billy Joel). Two hours later we are coming out into a chilly drizzle by the Chicago River. Over the course of 800 miles I’ve snacked and napped and plowed through half a pint of Clan MacGregor (Johnnie W. would be an awkward stranger on this run). I've also written 14 pages of a chapter of a new book. It feels like trains were made for this. I am rested and energized and ready to meet my wife for lunch.

Sunday Night. Who's Up For Chinese?

If you build it, they will come. Madison Square Eats, NYC

​Morning commute. An empty space. Blacktop desert. A stack of chairs. Workers with smokes. Curious onlookers strolling by.  End of day? The place is four-deep at every stand, throngs streaming in from all directions. Tables jammed with happy, chomping people. 31 days in May. Madison Square.  Good eats!

The Woman In Seat 9B

Subject: Grandma from the Plane.

Message: Ken, This is Grace. I sat next to you on the plane a couple of weeks ago and downloaded your book. I wanted to touch base and let you know I finished Food For Marriage and really enjoyed it. I was disappointed at the end, because it ended. From the very beginning I felt like I was reading about old friends and catching up with their lives and thoughts. I can see a series here where readers will want to catch up on the lives of each of your characters. Best of luck to you and maybe I will see you on a plane again one day soon. Grace

Memories That Last A Lifetime

When I think back to my camp days, I can remember the names of the counselors who led the Color War teams. I can still hum the words that we made up to their college fight songs, and smell the toasted coconut marshmallows from "trunk" - that treasure trove of candy & junk our parents sent by the pound - back when we were campers.  We watched man walk on the moon, learned how to undo a flannel shirt that was not our own, and linked arms and sang "Friends, Friends, Friends" at the end of every evening activity. 

My son Ben and two of his best pals have been making those same memories for the past several years at a small camp by a pretty lake that I shall leave nameless. We heard last week that one of their beloved counselors was killed in Afghanistan. Word was passed by email. We shared the news with our boys, held them close, made our deposits, and planned for another upcoming summer. A summer dedicated, the camp has announced, to the memory of a soldier who made our kids smile - and I'm sure most of us didn't even know - tried to make the world a little bit better place through his service, in a place that is anything but camp.​

​These don't feel like very easy days to grow up in at all. My memories of camp are from the tumultuous '60s. And yet I remember it as a time of laughter, friendship and amazing love. I wonder how my boys will remember their summer camp days...

She made a museum-goer out of all of us

​It's hard to imagine anyone who writes, not influenced by this glorious, evocative book. E.L. Konigsburg, gone this week. Her beloved story remains. A reminder of why we do what we do, in words and art.

The Recipe That Inspired Food for Marriage

At the end of yet another grueling and successful business event, I was enjoying dirty martinis with a good friend and superb producer who had put me to work, doing the speeches for her company's analyst meeting. We got to talking about food -- as is always the case with the most interesting people -- and I told her about my penchant for concocting raw fish dishes at 2 in the morning. My friend, whom we shall call Lisa, asked me for the recipe. I got home around midnight, slipped into my sushi chef clothes (Middlebury sweatshirt & ripped jeans), and whipped up a late-night raw snack. I sent her the recipe on the spot. The next morning I received the following reply:

Date: Wed, 27 Jun 2012 07:39:23 -0700

From: Lisa 

 <<This is truly wonderful and if it's any indication of the writing in your book, I'll take two!>>

At that exact moment, the light went on. Enough waiting for the agents and the editors and the painstakingly slow process of the publishing machine. I was going to do this myself. Quite literally, that was the beginning of Food for Marriage. So I raise a glass to Lisa, with thanks for the inspiration. And here is the recipe, verbatim from that email,  that got this whole delicious affair off the back burner.

--Finely dice about 1/3 lb. of superior, deep red-hued sashimi-grade tuna into 1/8 inch bits. Perfection not required. Make about a fistful.

--Dump in a small glass bowl. Add a splash of extra virgin, a splash of sesame oil, maybe a splash of chili oil. Mix it all up until the wonderful aroma of the sesame permeates your nose. (Coat the poisson, but not a pool of oil.)

--Chop in your fav herbs. A little scallion or shallot for sure! Fresh cilantro works great, too. Keep mixing.

--A little fresh ground pepper! A small pinch of darned fine sea or rock salt. This is key. You hit those salt bites and that is when the whole integrated flavor explosion achieves liftoff.

--Find a small ramekin (how I love that word!) or similar: maybe 4" in diameter and a few inches high? Oil the sides. Cram full of the tuna tartare mix. Pack pretty tightly, leaving maybe 1/2" of space in ramekin.

--Take same bowl you made the tasty fish mix in and smush in half a soft avocado. Mix with fork to chunky/a little smooth. Add a little salt and pepper to taste.

--Now, finish the pretty fish ramekin by topping with the avocado mix. Pack it and smooth it. Get it right to top and then cover tightly with cellophane. Refrigerate for about an hour or so.

--Find your prettiest small plate. Turn ramekin upside down and tap (or loosen with a knife) until a glorious, small round of tuna falls delicately to the plate, tuna on top, avocado at the base. Serve with Hendricks martini or perhaps a Manhattan. Goes well with late-night rerun of Anderson Cooper Live.

Enjoy!!! Ken

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​Variation on a theme: Sesame Tuna Salad. Same recipe, sans ramekin. 

You Always Come Home

We’ve seen the gap. The Delaware Water Gap. We’ve been to Hazleton, PA and Elyria, OH. We candied and coffee-ed in Youngstown, Akron, Elkhart, and the Valparaiso Rest Stop. We consumed Twizzlers and Andy Kapps, Jerky and Gatorade by the sackful. In between, we’ve Sedered and Eastered and Brady-bunched and NCAA’ed. What is my Bible of Parenting? Throw two kids in a rented Avis midsize (major kudos to the Chrysler 3000, though that push-button starter thing is extremely unsettling) and tag on 2,500 miles roundtrip between Brooklyn and Chicago. Benchmark moment? Our “steps” have truly coalesced. We have become a family. The kids spent 5 days together and wanted nothing to do with Geri and me. High points? The beaming faces as 12 of us took in Second City. Or perhaps it was the parental joy of sharing the Rob Reiner classic “Stand by Me” and witnessing our kids glued (sans cell phones) for 2 hours. A good story still captivates. Blessed relief.

On the ride home, as we are want to do, the boys and I swung off the interstate and wandered the back roads of Indiana for 6 hours. We happened upon the Dari Point café at a crossroads on US Highway 6. The most expensive plate on the menu might have been five bucks. The eggs were delicious and the breakfast ham burnt around the edges and juicy in the middle. Just right. By noon the next day we were enjoying slices in Park Slope. This morning on the Q, an early morning mist was obfuscating the towers of lower Manhattan. A woman in a stylish leather jacket, spring-colored slacks, and striped Tom’s shoes was reading a paperback novel. She sported a leather briefcase on her shoulder and a thin silver band cleanly piercing the middle of her lower lip. Home. So, so good.

They get bigger

But there is no denying the seed is planted early. Ben assures me he remembers this game, where we sat, and who did what in this, his very first Yankee game. Next week he starts his first season as a 9th grader on the Midwood JV baseball team. Tonight, I don't think he has missed a pitch of the opening night of the 2013 MLB campaign. ​All I've ever wanted from my kids is passion. Passion for something. I can rest easy on that score.

Crazy Good, 10 minutes prep, works with a Manhattan

Too easy and too fun to not write about. Here's the deal.​

--1 piece cleaned squid

--1 crisp jalapeno, sliced thin

--5 cremini mushrooms

--2 baby bok choys and a few sprigs of basil

--Soy sauce, nam pla, fresh garlic, chili garlic sauce

--1 pack, what else? Ramen!​

Wash and chop the bok choy. Slice those mushrooms thin. Chop up the garlic. Fire up the wok. (Boil the Ramen while prepping. You know the drill, fellow ramen-ites.) 

Here is the best part: scoring the squid. Yup, as easy and satisfying as it sounds. Cut into squares. Gently make score marks like a game of tic tac toe. Done.

Heat sesame oil in Wok. Sautee garlic and mushrooms. Dump in bok choy and a shake of soy. Fire it up. Flash cook for 2 minutes. Plate it. Add chili oil, chili paste and jalapenos to Wok. Sautee fast. In with the squid. Marvel as it curls just like your fav dish at the local Thai. 3 minutes. Slap in the Ramen. Shake in some Nam pla. Toss it all together like a dancing madman around your kitchen. No one's watching. ​Onto the plate and off to the blue couch. Flavor? Out of this world. Fat content? Sanjay Gupta move over. And cost? Six bucks maybe. Enjoy with Air Afrique on iTunes Radio or Richard Ford's Canada. Dinner for the sleepless. Enjoy. 

R Train Jesus

Riding in this morning after a sun-drenched work-week in Southern California, I was reminded -- yet again -- of why I belong in only one place in the world. All faces down, noses in books (thank god! -- books), when the between-cars door at the rear of the uptown R local opened and three middle-aged black men entered the train. The leader of the pack announced his intentions, and then in a glorious, triumphant baritone,  began singing "This Little Light of Mine." His trio joined in, a capella, accompanied only by the rhythmic clapping of their hands. I do not exaggerate: every head in the car turned, smiles materialized, scuffed boots tapping along, as NYers paused for a ray of musical sunshine on their way to work on a cold February morn. 

Night Sky in Winter

It is maybe 10 degrees in the city tonight and coming out of the gym, I was bowled over as I turned up Seventh. It was the perfect James and The Giant Peach sky, the moon rolling out from beneath the scudding clouds. You could nearly make out the centipede if you looked hard enough.

The Story of e

4 years ago I wrote a novel called Paper Trail – a speedy little potboiler about a man who has it all, sends an ill-advised email that goes viral, and it nearly costs him everything: his job, his family, his life. 

I sent Paper Trail out cold. In the space of seven days, it garnered me a hot agent and a deal offer from a major publishing house. The letter from the editor said, “We want to do this as a hardcover.” We, in writer-world, call that a very good week.

As I waited for all the players to generate the happy paperwork, I was called to serve on jury duty in downtown Brooklyn. For five straight days, I was sequestered and forced to keep my cell phone powered off for 8 hours at a time. At the end of the week, we awarded a man who got hit by a bus $450,000.

Right after the judge thanked us for our service, I popped on my cell phone to check messages. This is what I found. “It breaks my heart to tell you, but we are not going to be able to make an offer on Paper Trail.” No explanation followed. Fifteen rejection letters later, Paper Trail was over. That is the day my e-Book career began.

There was a step or two in-between. You see, I LOVE writing. I just can't help myself. Meanwhile, my chef-y friend John had just signed on to open a hot little bistro in the Village called The Waverly Inn with Graydon Carter, and all of New York was buzzing. So I called John and said let’s write a book. Sure, he said. Three espressos at St. Ambroeus will do that to you. We hammered out a quick proposal. A week later we landed an agent, who sold the book in a day for what amounted to about a half-year's year’s salary for each of us. By the time we finished The Hunger, I think we each earned about 12-cents an hour. But I had an inkling that The Hunger was going to be hot, and I was hardly done with my aspirations as a novelist. Hence: Food for Marriage was born. But the coming-out party was not quite so fast in coming.

A few weeks after The Hunger was released to great fanfare, my agent put out a tasty little number I’d written called The Dinner Party. Having had my heart stomped out like a brushfire once already, I was apprehensive. Okay, that’s not true. I was scared shitless. But Victoria knew I had a winner and she held my hand and we were off – again! A dozen glowing rejection letters later, I was back to square one.

Any doubts I had about self-publishing were quashed. I tamped down my terror of technology. I ignored the fact that I was all thumbs when it came to software. And I decided to publish this book.

In the end, I could not have done it without all the amazing people credited at the end of Food for Marriage. I had incredible artistic and technological help. But mostly, I had 100% confidence in the material from the best readers and hand-holders in the world.

What is the end of The Story of e? I am hopeful that Food for Marriage will put a smile on a few faces. I’ve learned how to operate the moving parts of publishing a novel and I am already preparing my next e-Book. But make no mistake: I love “books” – the paper kind – and while I believe in choice, I hope that Food for Marriage will lead to that elusive goal that so many writers crave and slave for -- to see their work in print. No one writes to get rich, and I am not holding my breath. But as the father of young children and an ardent lover of the printed page, I hope this story is just the beginning: one small step for one hungry writer, in the shared effort of all of us, to keep books alive, bookstores in business, and everyone availed of the opportunity to savor a dog-eared copy of a book they cannot put down.

The Ramen Blog

With all due respect to David Chang, this site is about the real story of Ramen noodles. You see, long before Momofuku, Ippudo, and all the other fabled fifteen-dollar bowls of noodles, there was Ramen. 25 cents a pack. Food of the artist, sustenance of the writer. Ramen was not trendy. Ramen was not hand-pulled. It was, however, frequently available for 8 for a dollar. Now since this is incidentally a site dedicated to taste, flavor and hunger, a recipe is in order. 

--1 pack Ramen soup

--1 package of pork for stir fry

--1 scallion

--1 tbsp olive oil

--That packet of soy sauce leftover from Chinese

Boil noodles. Chop up the scallion. Fry up the pork. Throw ingredients in any pan without actual rust showing through. Heat until steaming. Enjoy with Letterman.

The Ramen Blog is intended as a hungry artist's menu to possibility. It's a tough world out there. Hyper-charged media makes it sound like every writer should be on the 30 Under 30 list, every actress developing the next "Girls," every artist enroute to Art Basel Miami, and every purveyor of food opening a farm-to-table eight person restaurant to stellar reviews in some part of Brooklyn. It's a tough sell out there on the street. And a worthy one. Pull up a bowl of 25-cent soup. Chime in.

We are hurting terribly for our Devil Dogs.

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Here is my caption.

Prowling the aisles of Key Foods in Brooklyn there is an empty space. Cookies? Plenty. Bad, bad pies. Not a problem. Health bars? Puhleeez! But there is nary a packaged cake treat to be had. Man cannot live on Hagen Dazs alone. Item one: Talk to manager to stock Little Debbie snacks. A paltry second to Yankee Doodles, but a temporary fix all the same. Larger solution? Someone, someone please buy out the Hostess Company. I am volunteering to lead the maktg campaign. Bring back our Twinkies, please.