About Lori Berhon

Lori Berhon is a New-York based novelist and playwright. Her work is distinguished for its intelligence and for the vivid humanity of even her most impossible characters. She is actually taller, slimmer and far more elegant than she appears to be.

Fourth of July

Maybe it’s the effect of coming off a holiday weekend, but I decided this month’s 4 F post would, after all, be about food.  And maybe because it was specifically July 4th weekend, my most satisfying moments were with some very simple American foods.  No, not hot dogs, potato salad and the berries + whipped cream flag cake.  I live in an urban neighborhood and three blocks from the firehouse, so outdoor grilling is out of the question.  And to my mind, the only excuse for the flag cake is that it follows a pile of barbecue or a sandpit clambake, so it’s a decoration and not a dessert.  Come to think of it, the dishes that seemed so right to me this weekend were almost equivalents for that barbecue and clambake, and the dessert might not have been wearing bunting but it had an American soul.

Usually it’s all I can do to get to the end of a Friday at work. By the time I get on the subway, all I want is to have a glass of wine, eat some dinner and throw myself in front of the most escapist offering I can hunt up with the remote (making a decision about watching a specific video would be too much effort!).  This weekend, just knowing that there were three days ahead of me gave me a sudden surge of Friday energy.  I called The Mom and suggested she run out and pick up some soft shell crabs for dinner.  Then at lunchtime, I ran out to Chelsea Market (where I spend far too many lunch hours), to hit the Manhattan Fruit Exchange.  That shop itself is a source of much simple satisfaction.  It boasts a dazzling variety of produce (the mushroom section alone sets me dreaming) as well as most of what you need to round out your dish after the unexpected item has called out “buy me NOW!”  Because it was the start of a holiday weekend, there were more than the usual number of foodie safaris in the market, and I had to do some nimble navigation to get to my rhubarb.  It was crazy enough there that I actually forgot to get a tomato, which I later wished I had.

The recipe I was focused on was the Lemon Buttermilk Rhubarb Bundt Cake from Rustic Fruit Desserts, by Corey Schreiber and Julie Richardson of Portland OR’s Baker & Spice (book is available all over, but I like to promote Jessica’s Biscuit whenever I can; they “simply” specialize in cookbooks and always have — even before we started doing all our shopping on The Internets).  Like all the recipes in the book, this cake is about showcasing the fresh, honest flavors of seasonal fruit.  There was nothing remotely complicated about it, other than the usual challenge of prep work in a kitchen that has no counter space (remember that kitchen in Julie & Julia?  consider it typical).

I popped the cake in the oven to bake, and after doing enough of the washing up to have a sink again (not only is it small, but the kitchen is also in an old apartment building that is not set up for dishwashers), I sautéed the crabs for a favorite seasonal dinner of mine — the soft-shell crab sandwich.  This is a superb dead-easy urban picnic dish.  It takes less than 10 minutes.  Dredge the crabs in a seasoned mixture of flour and cornmeal, then sauté in olive oil while you toast some hamburger buns.  If you like, after you’ve turned the crabs you can add some white wine or even water (just a few tablespoons), a squeeze of lemon, a few splats of Tabasco and a pat of butter, all of which creates a little faux sauce to keep the little critters moist.  If you’re going deluxe, use homemade rolls.  My own failsafe is a roll I’ve been baking out of Bobby Flay’s Bold American Food for as long as…well, apparently since 1994, which seems to be when that book first came out; make them plum-sized to use as dinner rolls, but make them the size of oranges and you’ve got a great sandwich bun.  They freeze beautifully. Since I had no big ones in the freezer, it was store bought burger buns for me this weekend, which was fine.  And definitely store bought mayo (you need that level of emulsification to hold up against the sautéed crabs).

Now, in a better world, I’d have remembered that tomato.  And in a perfect world I’d have planned ahead and made some potato salad and jicama slaw.  This being imperfect and somewhat improvised, i just used up the basil I had in the refrigerator and, when the crabs were out of the pan, gave a quick stir to some asparagus that was also pushing it’s luck.  And you know what?  Even without a ripe red slice of tomato, it was a very happy sandwich.  Crunchy crabs, lathered in mayo and wrapped in a nice sweet roll, and just a touch of something garden-y.  Mmmmmm!  Since a crab sandwich is a drippy thing, you get to lick your fingers and it truly feels like a picnic, no matter where you are.

By the time we’d finished eating, the cake was ready to cool in the pan.  Following directions, half an hour later I removed the pan and drizzled on the lemon-&-sugar glaze.  A perfect amount of time had passed in which to digest the meal and be ready for coffee and the cake.  The cake was a joy; buttery, lemony and delectable.  A toothsome crumb, just rich enough for the tongue, and yet amazingly light. I say amazingly because no eggs were separated to make this cake, which does use a full cup of butter plus has buttermilk as the liquid (helpful hint for any bakers who haven’t yet caught on — King Arthur sells an excellent powdered buttermilk; keep it on hand as I do and you’ll always be only 20 minutes away from warm soda bread or scones!)  It’s a cake that can easily serve 10 – 12, so it’s a good thing for me that it keeps tasting great for several days.  It may have helped matters that I suddenly remembered my old Tupperware “cake saver” (they now offer an updated model), one of many designs of simple genius from a brand that, suitably for this story, also screams “American” to me.

Saturday was, s those in the same zone will know, a gorgeous summer day.  I decided to take advantage of the weather and indulge in another of my lifestyle diversions — raiding the final markdowns.  This is a ritual that can be observed twice a year.  At the end of the seasonal sales, after the department stores have reached a certain plateau in selling down their leftover merchandise, it’s time for my favorite words: “take another 30% off” (more or less).  This is my semi-annual chance to possibly acquire clothing from designers whose labels would otherwise hang only in my fantasies.  Shopping this way is for gatherers, rather than hunters: you can’t go out with expectations; you forage for what you can find.  I had a lucky day and gathered up some wonderful buys — simple (yes, I said it again), classic and entirely satisfying garments I’ll be happily wearing for years.

After a shopping binge, my adrenalin rush insists on being fed.  Since I was in the neighborhood, I decided to stop by Todd English’s Plaza Food Hall for a bite.  I could call this the “hunting” portion of the day as it was my second time there in as many weeks, and I was going there purposefully in search of one thing — the prime rib sliders.  Nothing intricate — perfect ingredients prepared with exquisite care.  Three oblong buns, slightly soft and slightly sweet.  A touch of fontina and onion. All in discreet support of moist, flavorful shavings of prime rib that melted into the mouth with every bite.  Accompanied by a pour of extremely pleasant grenache, this made for a soul-satisfying urban “barbecue”.

When I think about it, the only thing I missed this weekend was corn on the cob. On the other hand…there’s still that one last sliver of cake.

How NOT to get my money

For me to write this column at this time of the year may seem unduly  Scroogish to many readers.  But when better to consider this issue?  Between the holidays and the rush to make the end of the calendar year, I get more fundraising mailings in the final quarter of the year than even catalogues.  Two weeks ago, I spent the better part of a Sunday bent over a shredder.

With so many worthy institutions vying for a slice of my donation brownie (not big enough to call it a “pie”), I can’t begin to give to them all.  And for those to which I feel a strong commitment, unless I  make the very hard decision to pick only one each year and donate all my money to that one, my giving is limited in amount and dictated by pay periods.  This being said, if you work for a not for profit, here are the best ways to NOT get my money.

Send Money

It’s simple.  I don’t send money to you if you send money to me.  My donations are, sadly, small.  If my entire donation is going towards nickels to send to other potential donors to guilt them into donating, that’s not a charitable request — it’s a chain letter.

Send Stuff

You make me angry — not guilty — by wasting precious donation money on junk.  Piggy banks with your logo, slogan-imprinted totes and potholders that don’t survive a second usage, sheet metal crucifixes…  And since it is such junk, you’re also clogging up landfills.  Together this equals irresponsibility, which is not a characteristic I’m looking for in charitable institution.

Send PERSONALIZED Stuff

Labels, bookmarks, notepads, calendars….Great. More stuff to shred.  Not only does this irritate me, but it’s short-sighted — every hour I spend destroying stuff that might compromise my identity is an hour  I’m not doing things that might eventually bring me more money to donate.

Call Me a “Member”

Sadly, this is the habit of a number of extremely worthy organizations.  Clearly their consultant has decided this generates a sense of inclusiveness and community.  Not for me.  I’m not a “joiner.”  And calling me a “member” won’t make me one.  I’m a donor.  We don’t get together to share secret handshakes and bad punch.  I don’t have a personal relationship with your staff or volunteers, good and generous people though they undoubtably are.  I simply support your work, and want it to continue.  Telling me my “membership is about to expire” is putting on a cheesy kind of pressure that makes me want to run far away from you and your good work.

Put Me On the Wrong Mailing List

Be honest — you spend at least as much money on fundraising as you actually funnel into your cause; the competition for donations means you pretty much have to.  So I know you have the technology to be selective.  Buying lists?  Of course you are!  Just buy the RIGHT ONES.  It’s not enough to purchase a list of people who give something to anything — you want lists of people who give to funds with synergy to yours, or subscription lists to periodicals with similar demographics. So say that’s exactly what you do?   So what’s with all the begging letters phrased with prayers, and decorated with angels and crucifixes? I am SO not that target audience.

Overdo It

Finally, to those organizations I support with all my heart and wish I could support with deeper pockets.  Ease up on the mailings. You keep your donor notes on a computer — you know my giving pattern. Every time you send me a mailing weeks after I’ve sent you a check, you move right to the end of the list.

5 Best-Sellers I’ll Never Write

The only thing between me and and a best-seller is that the things I want to write about don’t seem to interest that many other people. And with so few hours of the week for writing (all that nasty  making a living keeps getting in the way), I can only make myself sit down to write about something that really grabs me.

That said, I know I COULD write a best seller…


The Goya Encryption

The day after Thanksgiving, a shriek rings out on Madison Avenue when Barney’s “The Nude in Art” holiday windows are unveiled.  Sprawled on a divan, in the tribute to Francisco Goya’s “Maja,” is the body of a window dresser who died after managing to scrawl “Make it Work“ on the glass in his own blood.  Interpreting this as a message to Project Runway’s Tim Gunn, who has mysteriously disappeared, NY Culture Squad detective Tiffany Glasz partners with the window dresser’s handsome model/protegee to solve both mysteries. They find themselves plunged into a hidden international world of codes, secrets and a shocking secret society of vampires to which Goya himself belonged.

The Sorority

Housed in a women’s residence in Foggy Bottom, The Sorority is a secret society of righteous Christian babes, recruited by Phyllis Schlafly and groomed to inveigle their way into U.S. political dialogue.  Following extreme surgical intervention, and at great risk to her own life, Huffingtonpo reporter Shifra Goldstein went undercover and actually lived within The Sorority for a year.  Her first-hand report rips the roof off the incubator that begat everyone from Anita Bryant to Carrie Prejean, not to mention roguish big gun, Sarah Palin.

Barry, I Am Your Father

 The true story that finally puts to rest all the rumors, while simultaneously explaining everything! Barak and Michelle Obama are both actually androids, created in a secret laboratory at Skywalker ranch and programmed by George Lucas according to the ur-mythos described by Joseph Campbell in Hero With a Thousand Faces.  This behind-the-scenes look at Lucas’ greatest saga ever will enthrall politicos and film buffs alike.

Amit, Amish

Ten years ago, the CIA’s covert Operation Ploughshare raided a number of radical madrashes in a country designated only as “I___” and relocated the young students to the USA.  Determined to separate the boys from explosive vehicles, and consulting with a crack team of pop psychologists who theorized that the alienated youths required a firm religious structure, the operation placed them with Amish families in Intercourse, PA.   This heartwarming inspirational tale is told from the POV of one such boy, Amit, who used his rumspringa to write the book at an internet cafe, in the hope that his words would reach from his My Space page to give hope to other children like himself.

Bail!

In the tradition of Carl Hiaasen and Elmore Leonard, this wacky thriller follows former-Lehman-Brothers-Managing-Director,  turned hit-man, Albert “Bucky” Finster on a roller-coaster ride from the canyons of Wall Street to the Hills of Beverly, with a quick jaunt down the Vegas Strip and a paddleboat chase through a Carolina swamp.  Having already lost the retainer on bad penny stocks and a night at the Moonlight Bunny Ranch, Bucky is desperate to deliver on his first hit.  When his target, the mysterious Woman in Mauve, turns the tables and starts hunting him, hilarity ensues.