ready to fall apart. Let the bird cool and carve the meat off of the carcass. Toss half of the meat back into the pot and put the rest on ice for another day. Crank up the heat on the pot and toss in the potatoes. Once you get the fowl simmering again, you’re ready for the matzo balls.
Toss the matzo meal, eggs, oil, seltzer, salt and pepper into a bowl and work them over. Put them on ice and let them chill for about a half hour. Once the mix is nice and cold, take it out and, with wet hands, work over the matzo with a pugilistic fervor and form the mess into 1 inch rocks. Drop the matzo balls into the soup and cover. Continue to simmer the soup for a half hour longer. Trust me, good things will happen.
Spoon the soup into bowls and serve. Garnish with a dollop of sour cream or green onions. Or don’t. Either way it’s wellness in a bowl.
Serves 8, unless they’re greedy.
THE CASE OF THE HARD-BOILED MONTE CRISTO
Sometimes you can Count more than just cards
In this city, gambling is the organ grinder that makes the monkey dance. On the one hand, it is the topic of lectures, debates, and sermons. It gives politicians a target to shoot their intellectual water pistols at. It gives the copy editors something splashy to put on the front page above the fold. It also gives the good people of Hicksville something to raise their torches and pitchforks against.
If you dig a little deeper into the city’s seamier side, you’ll also find that gambling helps fund some of the soup kitchens in the lower East side, pays for the trash pick-ups at City Hall, and helps line the bottom of the collection plate at St. Dominic’s Cathedral every Sunday.
Don’t get me wrong. I’m no preacher from the church of the natural seven. At the same time gambling was bringing fortune and notoriety to a city growing in leaps and bounds, it was also responsible for little Joey going homeless because dear old dad put the deed to the house on a “sure thing.” It cost many a sweet young thing their diamond rings because their sugar daddies couldn’t cover the action that they asked for. And it also sent any number of schmucks to the bottom of the river because their mouths were bigger than their wallets. In fact, it seemed like some days there just wasn’t enough river to cover them all.
It was a sad story, but none of that mattered to me. I was holding kings over aces.
“It’s your bet,” said Sweet Jesse Vasquez, the man hosting this evening’s festivities. Sweet Jesse was a short, bald, round man who spent his life mopping up the rivers of sweat that made their way down his forehead. In order to keep that kind of hydration flowing, Jesse kept a personal pitcher of water and a glass nearby. The man could sweat in a snowstorm, earning him the unfortunate and completely behind-his-back nickname of “Sweat Jesse Vasquez.” As my papa always said, when life deals you lemons, make lemon cocktails. In the case of Jesse’s poker face, the man looked nervous all the time, even when he was collecting his winnings, so I had to fall back on another piece of advice my papa gave me.
Always raise when you have a full boat.
“I’ll raise you fifty, Jesse,” I said, tossing a handful of chips into the pot. True to his nature, Jesse neither blinked nor smiled. He simply tossed in a larger handful of chips than I did.
“I’ll re-raise an even hundred,” Jesse said, never taking his eyes off the pot. I found myself in that no-man’s land that Texas Hold ‘em players hate but know all too well. That special wilderness where you have just laid down too much cash to back off.
“I call,” I said, feeling a dry scratchiness in the back of my throat. It
Toss the matzo meal, eggs, oil, seltzer, salt and pepper into a bowl and work them over. Put them on ice and let them chill for about a half hour. Once the mix is nice and cold, take it out and, with wet hands, work over the matzo with a pugilistic fervor and form the mess into 1 inch rocks. Drop the matzo balls into the soup and cover. Continue to simmer the soup for a half hour longer. Trust me, good things will happen.
Spoon the soup into bowls and serve. Garnish with a dollop of sour cream or green onions. Or don’t. Either way it’s wellness in a bowl.
Serves 8, unless they’re greedy.
THE CASE OF THE HARD-BOILED MONTE CRISTO
Sometimes you can Count more than just cards
In this city, gambling is the organ grinder that makes the monkey dance. On the one hand, it is the topic of lectures, debates, and sermons. It gives politicians a target to shoot their intellectual water pistols at. It gives the copy editors something splashy to put on the front page above the fold. It also gives the good people of Hicksville something to raise their torches and pitchforks against.
If you dig a little deeper into the city’s seamier side, you’ll also find that gambling helps fund some of the soup kitchens in the lower East side, pays for the trash pick-ups at City Hall, and helps line the bottom of the collection plate at St. Dominic’s Cathedral every Sunday.
Don’t get me wrong. I’m no preacher from the church of the natural seven. At the same time gambling was bringing fortune and notoriety to a city growing in leaps and bounds, it was also responsible for little Joey going homeless because dear old dad put the deed to the house on a “sure thing.” It cost many a sweet young thing their diamond rings because their sugar daddies couldn’t cover the action that they asked for. And it also sent any number of schmucks to the bottom of the river because their mouths were bigger than their wallets. In fact, it seemed like some days there just wasn’t enough river to cover them all.
It was a sad story, but none of that mattered to me. I was holding kings over aces.
“It’s your bet,” said Sweet Jesse Vasquez, the man hosting this evening’s festivities. Sweet Jesse was a short, bald, round man who spent his life mopping up the rivers of sweat that made their way down his forehead. In order to keep that kind of hydration flowing, Jesse kept a personal pitcher of water and a glass nearby. The man could sweat in a snowstorm, earning him the unfortunate and completely behind-his-back nickname of “Sweat Jesse Vasquez.” As my papa always said, when life deals you lemons, make lemon cocktails. In the case of Jesse’s poker face, the man looked nervous all the time, even when he was collecting his winnings, so I had to fall back on another piece of advice my papa gave me.
Always raise when you have a full boat.
“I’ll raise you fifty, Jesse,” I said, tossing a handful of chips into the pot. True to his nature, Jesse neither blinked nor smiled. He simply tossed in a larger handful of chips than I did.
“I’ll re-raise an even hundred,” Jesse said, never taking his eyes off the pot. I found myself in that no-man’s land that Texas Hold ‘em players hate but know all too well. That special wilderness where you have just laid down too much cash to back off.
“I call,” I said, feeling a dry scratchiness in the back of my throat. It
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