Wednesday, February 2, 2011
THE GIRL FROM MARSEILLE - FALL, 1956
On Monday, the day before this snowstorm began, Levon and I went shopping at the local Shaw's Supermarket, and there we saw beautiful red strawberries on sale -- they looked like summer; I couldn't resist. Purchasing the strawberries along with some eggs and bread to weather the 2 day snowstorm which was forecast on every radio station, we headed home and placed the strawberries on the center of our kitchen table to remind us that yes, there is a summer! But seeing those strawberries reminded me not of summer, but rather of the fall of 1956, when Pauline, Martha and I met Michelle. Michelle, an Armenian girl born in Marseille, and newly arrived in Needham, became (soon after we met her at the then recent efforts by Barkev Khaligian and Prof. Vahe Sarafian to organize a Newton AYF Chapter), a dear friend. One fall day, long after strawberry season had passed, we cousins visited Michelle unannounced at her home on Highland Avenue in Needham, a welcoming sprawling wood-framed Victorian house. Her mother and father were as sweet and charming as Michelle and immediately invited us into the kitchen for a bit to eat. And that bit has stayed with me to this day. Here is what happened. While we all sat around the kitchen table, Michelle peeled and sliced three bananas into a bowl, cut a fresh lemon in half and squeezed its juice over the bananas, then opened a package of strawberries frozen in sugar syrup, poured them over the bananas and gently stirred -- voila -- there she had in minutes prepared an elegant, delicious and nutritious dessert just for us, one that I remember to this day.
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whatever happened to Michelle? she was my favorite. i fell in love with her at first meeting. her brother, alan, was extraordinary in his own way.
ReplyDeleteI have two memories of alan,
First, when he was visiting during the summer, we walked down to the school field together and saw several high school kids throwing a football around. They were the local Italian toughs from nonantum, away from their lair. They were dangerous enough when happened upon in singles, but in a group, as they were today, the school field was never large enough. I remember having the same feelings toward a Siberian tiger, lounging in repose in the Memphis zoo, with just a moat separating the two of us. the moat was not big enough. No moat would have been, and that is the way I felt, always, when crossing paths with these Sicilians, pirates all. They knew me as inconsequential. They did not know alan. He was an outlander, from Needham. When he motioned them to throw the football to him, my insides froze, though it was a summer day in July. They looked at him, with curiosity. Belligerence never surfaced, as their surprise got the better of them. Someone had deigned to interrupt them, and it was someone not of Sicilian breeding. What they could not have known was that alan was from Marseilles, a meditteranean seaport town reputed to be the toughest and roughest on that sea’s littoral. Alan was a couple of inches taller than I, but physically mature to the max. he could have passed for a captain in one of alexander’s battles. He had that look about him, a look of having passed through the battle field, blood worn, and blood best, and not his own. He asked them again. still no response. the third time he began moving toward them, all three of them. The leader of the Italian wolf pack shifted his body toward us and his arm came down. It did not signal an attack as I had expected, but released the football, perfectly thrown into the waiting hands of my guest. He threw the ball back and they exchanged several throws until alan, bored of it all, broke off the engagement to turn his attention back to our conversation and the journey we were making across the 27 acre field.
The second memory of alan occurred 10 years later. I was driving my newly minted BMW 2002 sport sedan down Boylston street toward Harvard square, having just turned off from Storrow Drive. I had my honey blond Pennsylvania bred, Wellesley college alumnus, Juliet, in the front seat. The traffic came to a halt, as it was wont to do at that time of the day. There we were directly in front of the Patisserie Francaise, my favorite place to smoke greek cigarettes, drink French coffee, and read the NY times on a Sunday morning, having long ago abandoned church and the feeding of my soul for the succor of my body and mind via the puff pastry of the patisserie and the hubris of blowing smoke while reading ‘all the news that was fit to print’. There he was, curbside, speaking to the owner of the patisserie, Jean, whose upbringing to the left of the left bank made him a perfect rendering of the belmondo spirit, swag and all. Alan saw me, and waved, as did I. His eyes fell upon Juliet whose presence drew him to the car. I introduced him to my girlfriend, the love of my life, up to that moment, anyway, and he smiled, broadly. It was then that I came to realize how much there was to a name, and the pronunciation of a name. I pronounced her with an American accent. He said, 'non, non, her name is JJJuuuliet'. He had transformed her instantly by the love handle of the French accent. From then on, it was JJJuuuliet, and never again did I introduce her to another Frenchman.
@Peterson A beautifully written memory by a wonderful young man (my brother) of a wonderful young man (Michele's brother)! Thank you so much!
ReplyDeleteI love that banana-strawberry salad, and it is true that often the simplest recipes are the best. Another one came from my friends in France who used to make a tomato-feta salad. It was just cubes of tomatoes and cubes of feta, with a home made vinaigrette (olive oil, vinegar, grainy mustard, salt, pepper). They only make it in the summer when the tomatoes are at their most flavorful. It is delicious.
ReplyDelete