A New York City Education

This week has been somewhat of The Perfect Storm if you happen to be the parent of two New York City public school kids: one, a 10th grader in an urban high school and the other, an 8th grader staring down the face of auditions for New York's elite performing arts campuses (if you're not from the city, think FAME).  

In between my normal work week and daily commute on various subways between Park Slope and Manhattan, I have been to three high schools spread out from Queens to the far reaches of Brooklyn, watching young Matthew test the waters of where he will spend his next four years. On top of his AP homework load, we have been out past 10 o'clock every night going through the tour and audition process. Add on Ben's parent-teacher meetings and getting the full scoop on learning Latin, Chem and Trig in classes of 34 people in a school of 4,000 and you get a good flavor of why so many friends outside of NY are daunted by our choice to put kids through this. The results are not always easily quantified. 

 Last night, both my guys were out with friends in the city. Geri and I enjoyed dinner at a superb neighborhood Japanese restaurant (Yamoto on 7th), and testimony to Brooklyn parenting, truly did not worry a lick about subways, our kids, or their whereabouts in Manhattan on a Friday night. They are street smart and they've earned our trust. That's part of living here, too.

When Ben got home around 10:30, he was starving (probably because he is a teenager and had only eaten 14 times so far yesterday!). I handed him a twenty and shooed him out to score some Chinese. He came back 10 minutes later with a sack of food and no change. I gave him the "huhhh?" look and here is what he said.

"Jake looked hungry and cold, so I bought him a big thing of eggdrop wonton soup." 

Jake is our local -- what is the politically correct word for this? -- homeless guy. We have known him for years. He is a friendly smile, a craggy-toothed hello, sometimes a thousand-mile stare, but never a threat. Not even close. He's been telling my boys to "read a good book" since we moved here. In a way, he is nearly family. None of us has a clue where he goes at nights. Maybe we should, but you can't fix everything. Not in New York. 

Words cannot convey what I felt as a parent, hearing that my son, of his own accord, bought a guy on a cold street corner a hot container of soup. There is no grade for that. It doesn't add points to his PSAT. It doesn't go on the high school transcript. But it is a beautiful example of street education. Life lessons learned outside of the classroom. And a reminder of why, as a parent, even on the hardest of weeks, I am so darned proud watching my kids grow up in NYC. 

The Casting List: Round One

Thank you, all, for your many suggestions, ideas, and directions that helped create this initial list. It is a template and a great start for the ongoing collaborative process that will help us spark the next steps in taking FOOD FOR MARRIAGE from book to screenplay to the screen! The list is both aspirational and inspirational. Please, please keep sharing your ideas. It is fun, inspiring, and hugely appreciated.

Food for Marriage: Casting Call

When Lucy awakens one New York morn and hits the Greenmarket...

She decides with her conductor husband, Lionel, to throw a party. 

The occasion is the arrival of Lucy's best friend, Nicole - the first of the group to divorce - and now appearing with a new beau in tow. 

In honor of Nicole's debut, the whole gang is invited. Dan the aspiring actor is just one scene away from his big break.

And his wife Nora, the writer, is awaiting that first book deal.  

Paula and Chuck fight their way in from the 'burbs.

While epicurean extraordinaire Lucy throws herself into prep for the grand affair.

4 couples, eight friends, one day... 

And an evening no one will soon forget. 

Food for Marriage. A Novel by Ken Carlton. Soon to be a film that asks all the important questions about, well, you know... 

Veil of tears

Walk down Garfield to 7th Avenue and look past Old First Church towards the city. The air is thick with humidity and visibility is damp -- if that is possible. You can just make out one of the beams from the Twin Lights Memorial. It is easy to spot. The streets are so quiet tonight, but the few people who are out at 10:30 p.m. are all looking up. That's what we do on 9/11 here in New York. You look up and remember -- where you were that day, who you knew, what you were doing. If you have kids maybe you watch a little trauma TV and relive those awful moments. I've been wondering for this whole first week of school what it was going to take to get mine to put their cell phones down for a moment. The site of those planes, and the cascading towers sure worked. 

The intensity of the beam is forming what looks like a well -- a directionless cannon of light -- seemingly moving both up and down against the backdrop of thick cloud. I swear it looks like some weird Twilight Zone scene, a waterfall of tears stretching from above the trees of Park Slope into the night sky. I'm not an insanely spiritual kind of guy, at least not in that way. But it is really hard not to gaze into that pulsating beam and imagine all the lost souls being remembered tonight. Thoughtful day. Sad evening. 

Sunday Morning Sunshine

Morning coffee and a spin into Manhattan. 

A Visit Down Under (Brooklyn Smorgasbord)

Fear of Hip can be daunting. I have heard and read so much about some of the groovy Bklyn food scene that there are experiences perhaps I have missed. My trucker's beard is graying writer's grizzle. My single gear bike is actually a 1984 Raleigh 10-speed. And my kids are so much infinitely cooler than me that I worry anywhere I take them mgmt will demand ID, and I'll be the one left out in the rain. So I was pleasantly surprised when Matty & I -- solo with the older bro off at sleepaway -- ventured down to Dumbo in the shimmering midday heat. The food was good. The people, excessively normal. The views, well. Yeah. But the discovery of the day? The plum blueberry People's extremely frozen, fruity, and zestfully tangy pop may well have been the best piece of food product I have ever tasted in my life. At least yesterday. I am definitely going back for more.

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.