Yiddish Haiku: Parenthood

8:40 PM
New Year's Eve; off to dreamland
We have a toddler

Family reunion*

It is 8:12 PM on New Year's Eve 2012, and I am contemplating whether I will be flossing my teeth in a few minutes or delay to make 2013 a year of good habits.

It is difficult to recall the last new year that saw a ball drop past my unassuming eyes; parenthood, no, make that "toddlerhood" has shifted our day clock to a more monastic style of scheduling.  5 AM is the new 7 AM and so forth.

Tonight of all nights, I am headed to an early turn down(with only Thomas Cahill's How the Irish Saved Civilzation standing between me and dreamland). Yesterday at this time, I was cooing lullabies to my feverish 2 1/2 year old, and little did I know that she would be up all night with me waxing on about the merits of Elmo and whether a focused Montessori pre school might provide some passion around learning that would serve her in ways we both could not possibly imagine now.

Bleary and weary, yet happy to be back in Seattle, I found myself in the company of an old friend this afternoon who queried how my family reunion in Utah went off over the past week.  We had only a 15 minute shuttle from the airport to Wallingford for me to answer, and I found myself pressed for time.  When you put 13 Jewish people under one roof (at altitude no less!) for the better par of a week, it is difficult to distill the experience into commute up I-5.  But my friend deserved an answer, and with only mild historical adjustment, this is what I offered.

While the Kennedy's kick-off a touch football contest each Thanksgiving morning sponsored by Mercer & Sons, the Brownstein's aspire to get a motley crew of deal makers, psychiatrists, neuro-science majors, mixology minors,bacon lovers and tzit-tzit dawners together as often as God wills it.  Typically, that's about every three years, so we are pressured to be three times as wonderful as the Kennedy's.  Here are the key details:

Official sponsor:  Russ & Daughters appetizing of late of the lower east side of Manhattan
Official activity:  2-3 years old:  curating a fan club/20-25 years old: club hopping in Park City/30-50 years old: photography and napping/50+ years old: kvelling
Official pancake batter:  Stonewall kitchen (it is sublime) unless you are gluten free in which case the brand does not matter
Official ski difficulty:  Equal parts black diamond and blue square which add up to be "boo'
Best culinary achievement:  Semi-glott kosher paella; if we can do this, surely Congress and the Executive Branch can find common ground on the cliff
Worst culinary moment:  Eating Esseh Bagel bagels and real Zabar's coffee and trying to keep a straight face for the gluten-free decaf crowd
Office TV Show:  The Tudors (I don't understand it, but my tribe loves the English monarchy, and that means everyone in it, not just Kate and sister Pippa)
Official football team:  The Seahawks (Niners were a close #2)

In reality, the ability to cook, kibbutz, carve turns, coddle toddlers, doze, dance, delight and revel in each other's company afforded all of us the opportunity to be grateful for our clan and our curious culture that we so love and adore. 

Goyishe Haiku

Fair isle wool sweater
+ dry denim from Kansas
I'm a Kennedy

Parenthood: Weekend highlights

Knowing that my child is World Cup caliber material in soccer is tremendous, even if it points more to being a fan than a star.

Nosh: Why Japanese cuisine rules!

http://vimeo.com/m/51978875

New York State of Mind

36 hours in New York feels like 48 great hours someplace else.

Parsha of the : V'Zot HaBerachah

Basically a good parsha with the cool tradition of ending the Torah and beginning it again. Moses gets velvet roped and can't get into Ha'aretz.

Digging into the past

Each Yom Kippur I find myself digging into the primary historical documents of my life. It's an odyssey laced with shoeboxes and type setting.

This year I waltzed gently through Grandma Lu's "schtick book", a tattered 20"x16" bound opus of comedy she used to deliver to Haddasah.

The material was dated, soulful and rich. It left me welled up with pride in family and conviction (sometimes conflicted) in my culture.

Weekly Portion Review:Haazinu

Haazinu is the last formal address that Moses imparts to Israel.  Nice portion as it encourages us to look back in time and to honor the past.  A sort of "seek out your elders and listen to them" feeling pervades the portion.

Also, I appreciate the irony that Moses can see the Promised Land, but he cannot enter it.  Something having the grace to gift the most grandeur in Life to others is a good thing.  In the modern age, one can wonder if all of the bloodshed in the region would have disappointed the bearded bass a**.

Working during the Days of Awe

How does one reconcile the "ickiness" of working on Rosh Hashannah?

While I don't begin to have the answer, I take comfort in putting the question out there.

Amidst the typical strum and drang of marketing products and financing ventures, I am left with one late night guiding principle; the boredome and yawndom I face attending High Holy Day services is actually outweighed by the "awe shucks" of missing out.  There is an inherent meshing of clubiness, seasonality and intimacy that Autumn ushers in, and with it blows the scent of brisket and etzrog and forgiveness.

In wrestling through this with Jacobian aggression there is actually real comfort in knowing that I am not the first Member of the Tribe to wax on about this . . . and I surely won't be the last!

The Endorsement: "Exporting Raymond" the Documentary

Phil Rosenthal's touching account of morphing his American hit into something everyday Russians has a couple of key notes of appeal.

First, it's wonderful to see the smartest guy in the room (Rosenthal himself) also be the most humble.  But more acutely, there is a scene in the film that brilliant captures the creative process, proving that comedy truly is hard.

. . . I don't know how Larry David banged out all of those Seinfeld episodes.  What pressure!

Cheffing: Minute steak, a cut for the 99%

Inspired by a trip to Whidbey Island a month ago, the Wallingford Brownstein's have joined the ranks of "quarter cow"splits.


Along with three other nice families, we are the proud owners of an 1/8 of a cow.  I feel somehow elated and sad all at once, knowing that every burger, roast, steak and rib I consume over the next 90 days will be thanks to one single animal.  As my uncle Fumio, the Buddhist monk, says "The animal gave it's life for your plate; DON'T mess up the recipe!"


Over the weekend, I enjoyed preparing a "mystery cut" known as cube steak, or more descriptively, "minute steak".  A cut for the 99% (vs. the premium steaks that go for $10/lb), it hails from the upper round of the cow, and it makes a terrific homey meal to feed a growing family.  I thawed our minute steak and discovered that the butcher had kindly tenderized the cut for us.


Pounding it down a bit more to a "king's fingernail of height", I then applied the true "minute" technique, allowing each side 60 seconds with a hot cast iron skillet.  The aroma smacked much more of burger meat, transporting me to my Mother's kitchen of "burger steaks".


Thinly sliced and spiced up with an uber-simple chicken stock + bbq sauce + butter reduction, it had a wonderful, approachable flavor.  It's the kind of red meat you remember from summer camp.  Absolutely not gourmet, and absolutely satisfying in a mildly guilty way.


Here's a winning preparation from Chef John (Food Wishes/Allrecipes.com) that I followed almost to a tee.

Sales Genius: A nice lesson in persistence

I admire Haven's persistence here.

And there is a subtle note; he blurts out "cerrado!" (meaning "closed!" in Spanish).  I believe that SaaS Sales professionals often UNDERESTIMATE the value of setting the demo/appointment.  That in and of itself is a "close".

Father's Day musings: progress, not perfection

When I was eight years old, my parents returned from a long overdue date night with a shocking development.  

Nestled alongside left-over chicken cutlets ensconced in a foil swan shivered a foundling toy poodle.  Part Disney ruse (pure blanca but sullied by the grit of Palo Alto's mean streets), part ruffian (her paw nails were adorned with kiss-me-red nail polish), she was vulnerable, authentic and just what we needed as a family.

Carrying on a long standing tradition of naming dogs after exotic dancers, we called her "Misty."  A bitch with a affable demeanor, she exhibited talents that my brother and I grew to love over the years.  Of note, Misty could address the meaty bone of a porterhouse steak (charred to perfection by my Dad on the Weber one-touch) and return it to the kitchen floor as clean and white as her curly coat.  

This Father's Day, I set-out to recreate the T-bone experience of days gone by.  I guess that parenthood affords the perfect opportunity to live in the past and savor its flavor in the present moment.  Sourcing the steak meant a journey to the Saturday Farmer's Market, a daddy-daughter ritual that Emma and I have come to embrace.   At the Olsen Farm vendor stand, we forewent the massive coolers of rib-eyes and filets (the "Stratocaster" cuts of red meat due to their ease of preparation and approach-ability).  In the corner cooler, we hoisted behemoth t-bone chops, tipping the scales at nearly 1.5 pounds.  The porterhouse, a thicker endeavor and never skimping on the filet side, is the Les Paul of beef.  Massive, brooding and only wielded by the fearless ( . . . or the foolish).  

Sunday morning over my usual Hair Bender free pour, I was absorbed in fashioning strawberry/blueberry pancakes for a much jet-lagged Megumu and a much hungry Emma.  In between flap-jack flips batter-sullied fingers frantically checked weather reports.  According to google, weather.com and my long Sunday run, it would likely rain on the grill master's parade.  

What to do?

And then it dawned in me that the inspiration for my Father's T-bone Sunday dinners was not some Texas oil bbq pit, but the classic/clubby environs of Gene & Georgetti and Peter Lugers.  If these institutions could produce the perfect porterhouse indoors, than surely so could I!  A digital audible call landed me on the perfect recipe, one that leveraged my go-to cast iron skillet (a purchase I made more than 10 years ago with no knowledge of what a wise move it would turn out to be).

With Megumu fresh back from Tokyo, I had the kitchen to myself , as the mother and child reunion unfolded in the family room.  I was focused, deeply determined and utterly confident that I would deliver a buttery, elegantly crusted, piping hot steak that many would be willing to travel in a black town car across a bridge to wolf down.

As my dear brother would say, I achieved "progress, not perfection."  A little overdone.  A little too cool.  A little less salty than we would have liked.  

But unlike the blokes under the L and in Brooklyn, I had the world's most forgiving diners.  Megumu and Emma scarfed down my near-masterpiece and proclaimed me the double Grammy winner; world's greatest Dad and world's top chef.

The perfect Father's day gift. 

2012 Resolutions that might happen

1. Allowing my wife access to my workflowy account to assign me random tasks and chores
2. Deleting the Huffington Post application from all "i" devices as HP proved to be a TS in 2011 (Time Suck!)
3. Abstaining from coffee 14.29%* of the time
4. Scoring coffee beans that are 14.29%* better to make the coffee days count
*14.29% = 1 day a week
5. Walking my dog two blocks longer 
6. Aimlessly reading tech blogs at night 20 minutes shorter
7. Cancelling the NYTimes physical newspaper as 80% of the time it goes into recycling
8. Re-instating the NYTimes physical newspaper as the view of it splayed out across the dining room table on Sunday mornings is a thing of beauty
9. Happy Family
10. Happy Customers
. . . If I only follow-through on two, it will be #9 and #10