Publisher's Synopsis
My family's story is a story of survival, tenacity and occasional intransigent endurance that allowed them to survive and ultimately flourish. There was no other choice. In 1979, I moved to Los Angeles. My parents and I packed up my car and my mom and I began our journey from New Jersey to Los Angeles. For us, there was always time for a road trip! My father stood in the driveway with tears in his eyes and said "You know", your mom and I did our best and you kids have led a charmed life. But it's not always going to be strawberries and pancakes on Sunday morning. As we drove off, my dad stood in the driveway, waving goodbye, with tears in his eyes. Halfway across the country, we experienced some mechanical problems with my car and had to spend some extra time in Newton, Iowa. I remember taking the car to the Ford dealer for repair and the mechanic commented on the New Jersey license plate. "Where is that?", he asked. Ah hah! It was confirmed. Dorothy was no longer in Oz! The rules of our household were simple. Eat your vegetables, do your homework, and listen to Count Basie! The recipes and photos in "Strawberries" are my parents', grandmothers', my and mine. The stories are our stories. The love that went into writing this book is reflective of the love you felt when you walked into our home and my home today. It is a warm journey into a time when there were no cell phones or tablets, and conversations were not interrupted by ringing phones and incoming text messages. "Strawberries and Pancakes on Sunday Morning" is about the childhood I had, the unrushed family breakfasts on Sunday mornings, and the family dinners where there was always room at the table and enough food for the unexpected visitor who dropped in at dinnertime. It's about the words of wisdom my sister, brother and I always received from my parents, and the endless laughter about something too silly to recall. It's about never having to worry about where the next meal was coming from or the roof over our heads. It's about watching my grandmother deciding what she would cook for dinner based on what was ready to harvest from her garden. Finally, it's about the hundreds of people who attended my father's memorial service, and the man who introduced himself to me at the repass after the service, saying "You don't know me. I went to elementary school with your dad and I never forgot him."
