Rubber Soul



Image: MTV



Today, the 30th anniversary of John Lennon's murder, I mourn him as do millions of fans the world over. Though I was very young when he was shot and my memory is fuzzy, I remember my parents giving me the shocking news. More than what was said, I recall images and emotions: I pictured Lennon being gunned down in front of his apartment on that dark, cold night. I felt confused, sad and angry, and I asked my parents to explain the inexplicable: why.

Music was as revered in my family as food and education, and my relatives -- whose record collections were staggering -- exposed me to a range of genres. My grandparents and their siblings appreciated classical and opera; my dad loved rock and roll and the blues; and my mom was partial to jazz and reggae. They took me to the opera and the symphony; to music appreciation society meetings; and to festivals and concerts (some of which they organized). I even met Stevie Ray Vaughan once, at a blues festival where he recorded a promo for my dad's weekly radio program, "Blues People." 

I loved all of the music I was exposed to -- still do -- but The Beatles were my favorite. As a child I listened to them for hours while I played with my toys, singing along to the tinny tracks warbling from the Panasonic cassette player I carried everywhere.

Rubber Soul was my favorite Beatles album (probably in part because my dad had nicknamed me Rubber Belly Tomato Seed), and Michelle was my favorite song. Alhough Paul McCartney sings vocals on the track, today I'm listening to it and remembering Lennon and my dear, departed family members. Especially my mom, who would tirelessly translate the French lyrics for me over and over again (which was silly when you think about it). We reminisced about this during her final days; I treasure that conversation and the intimacy of it.

Sometimes I like to imagine that my family is having a big jam session up in heaven. Stevie Ray Vaughan, Jimi Hendrix, Janis Joplin, Bob Marley, John Lennon, Mozart, Bach, Bizet... Maybe they're all up there performing for Dad, Mom, Papa, Mama, Aunt Flora and Uncle Ben. (Wouldn't that be something to see and hear.)

They're no longer with us, but the music they wrote, performed and loved is. And I'm forever grateful for it and them.

Rubber Belly Tomato Seed

Baby Maggie

I've thoroughly enjoyed Summer Fest 2010, particularly the inventive and entertaining recipes over at Simmer Till Done. Cherry Tomato and Maytag Blue Beignets? Yes, please.

I had every intention of contributing a post on Wednesday for Tomato Week -- perhaps cioppino or a tomato tart -- but every time I sat down to write about tomatoes, all I could think about was my most vivid childhood memory, of sneaking out of the house early one morning and eating cherry tomatoes from our garden.

It must have been the August a couple of months before my second birthday, because I was old enough to walk but my brother hadn't yet been born. (Meeting him the following April after his middle-of-the-night home birth is the second most vivid memory from my childhood.) Wearing only a cloth diaper, I climbed out of my crib, creeped out of the house and toddled down the flagstone path to our backyard garden.

I don't actually remember the climbing out of the crib part, but I vividly recall standing among the rows of beans and snap peas and tomato plants, plucking cherry tomatoes straight from the vine and smashing them into my mouth. And then I was back in the house, peering over the the edge of my parents' bed on my dad's side, asking with raised arms to be picked up.

I remember my dad taking in the sight of my rubber ball of a tummy streaked with the tomato seeds and juice that pooled in my belly button, and laughing and calling me Rubber Belly Tomato Seed. And my little toddler self squealing with delight at my silly new nickname.

That last month my dad was in the hospital, I would hold his hand during the increasingly frequent procedures to drain fluid from his abdomen. It was a lengthy and anxiety-producing process involving a resident with hopefully steady hands and a very long needle in close proximity to vital organs. And it required my dad to lay very, very still.

To lighten the mood and conjure happy thoughts, I'd playfully point to his swollen belly and whisper, "Who's the Rubber Belly Tomato Seed now?" And we'd talk about that morning so long ago when he picked me up from the side of the bed and held me up above him, tomato juice raining down as he lay there on his back. And he'd tell me that his favorite thing in his whole life was scooping up his children and holding us close.

So I suppose my recipe for Tomato Week goes something like this: get some cherry tomatoes (preferably homegrown and still warm from the morning sun), smash them in your face, let the juice and seeds run down your torso and into your belly button, and hug someone you love. Because tomatoes, like life, are messy and juicy and sometimes best savored in your underwear.