Two Cents Plain

Michigan "Coney" a hot dog (it's under all the other stuff...) covered with beef chili, chopped raw onions and yellow mustard.

I cleared myself
I sacrificed my blues
And you could complete me
I'd complete you

Joni Mitchell- "Court and Spark"

So- you may be wondering- did the kugel arrive in Detroit? The short story- well, if you wanted a short story you would read O. Henry, wouldn't you?

I was on the bus to the airport- excited to be once again on the road- travelling for my own pleasure- and filled with the great happiness and maniacal glee in anticipation of a reunion with my evil twin, Kiwi. My carry on bag was loaded with the haul from Russ and Daughters. Suddenly my cel phone rang- it was Syd calling me from O'Hare. "Mel," she said- "they just put me through PURE HELL at security. You are never getting that kugel on the plane."

Drat. No kugel, no journey. No reunion with the twin. No Sunday morning Looney Tunes filmfest. No Jewish Food Yom Kippur break-the- fast. No way. I had a mission.

I marched up to the security person outside the screening area. The officer was busily snapping her gum like she was trying to beat a world's record- slowly and dispassionately but with genuine focus and determination. "Hello." I said- trying really hard to emulate Michael's hypnotic stare and smile. (It would help if I were 6 foot something and my head was shaved but I was trying it anyway.) " I have a question regarding items prohibited in carry-on bags" And then perhaps a bit too fast I said: "I have a kugel in my bag".

Her eyes widened and she said- "Whut? You got a Whut?" This was the time to be very very clear. I replied "It's a noodle casserole, I am bringing it home to my grandmother in Bloomfield Hills." (When relating this to Kiwi he groaned- "BROOKLYN- you didnt use the grandma alibi?? NO body believes that one...") "A casserole?" she said- "A noodle casserole? You mean like tuna- you bringing FISH to Detroit?" Now things were getting sticky. "No, not tuna-but I do have some SMOKED fish..." I was being totally honest- except for the grandma thing- Kiwi is as much a grandma as the wolf in Little Red Riding Hood is. "You can't smoke NOTHING on the plane- and no lighters in the carry-on either" She said sternly. I sputtered "Um- nono- the fish is - the pudding doesn't have... it's got raisin...". OH for Pete's sake. I told her- "Thanks, I think I'll check my bag." and stomped back towards check in.

As I walked away I heard her talking to her supervisor, who had come over to figure out what the fuss was. As I walked away I could still hear her fussing: "Damnedest thing I heard yet- wanted to smoke a damned fish on the plane- now I heard it ALL" and mutterings about how she was too old for this- 28 years old if she was a day and the extremely low financial compensation offered for what a woman in her position had to endure on a daily basis. I knew how she felt- I PAID the airline to go through this.

Checking my bag was my only option. I figured maybe the guy at the x-ray wouldn't look TOO closely as everything was labeled and sealed... containers all proudly bearing the Russ and Daughters logo. Problem was- my bag was STUFFED- a sort of ricochet effect from travelling on the motorcycle and having to pare down for all those trips. I packed EVERYTHING- winter coat, bathing suit- flippers- you name it. And there was not ONE chair near the check-in area. In desperation I found a clear spot on the floor and plopped myself down (in my spanky new black suit...desperate times call for desperate measures) and opened my bag- I swear the little suitcase sighed like a fat lady getting out of a girdle as I unzipped it. I pulled my motorcycle boots from the bag (I was hoping maybe the weekend would break out in Harleys... I can dream) And placed the plastic Russ and Daughters Bag on top- logo facing up. I contemplated writing a note to the airport screening crew telling them about my Grandma- the nursing home.. Jewish Holidays, etc.- but my flight was BOARDING. It was squash it in and zip like a madwoman (which I HAD to be to get it shut) or remain seated on the airport floor having a little nosh while I cried. So I checked my bag- for which Spirit Air charged me TEN DOLLARS. Next thing you know when you get to the airport they will ask if you want to SIT on the flight and charge extra for the chair. On the following flight there will be a surcharge for a plane with WINGS.

I texted Kiwi "The kugel and other delicacies have fallen into enemy hands- fate undetermined. See you soon" When the going gets tough- the tough get coffee and haul tuchas for the plane. I managed to get on the plane and poured out my woes to my seatmate- Mal ("as in malcontent") he claimed. Mal was good company and let me rant over a gin and tonic (two, actually) about the deterioration of service in the airline industry. And Spirit CHARGES for anything on the plane to drink except bottled water. If I was going to pay for a drink- it wasn't going to be tomato juice. But I forgot- as I do not drink much or well on any kind of regular basis and that on a plane the effects of alcohol are seriously intensified. I was pretty woozy by the time we screech-screeched into DTW. I bid Mal a fond farewell and staggered off the plane trying desperately to stay upright- fortunately remembering to take the bag with the boots in it and turning on my cel phone as I walked into the terminal. The phone's screen said "You have nine messages..." I didn't even turn my phone off til halfway through the flight- the device barely had time to cool. Who could it be? Could ANYONE be that distressed over kugel-napping by airport security?

I listened to the 1st Message-

" Hi there B- it's me. Bye."

Kiwi.

Then the 2nd message

"Heya B- me again- was just passing the Ford Factory and all the guys say "hi" "

Kiwi again.

Then the 3rd

"B? They're playing Beethoven on the radio... thought you would want to know"

You guessed- Kiwi

And again ... the 4th call

"B- forget what I just said. It wasn't Beethoven- it was somebody else that started with B"

There is a reason why he is the evil twin. Letting Kiwi get bored is a threat to the health and welfare of the general populace under the best of circumstances- and compounded by the added strain (and excitement) of having me visit, and the fate of the kugel being as yet unknown- he had gone straight over the edge of reason and wanted me to come along for the ride- even if it was just by phone.

I left the remaining five Kiwi issued messages on my phone for later and focussed on walking. Cue music swell and big huge hugs. Seeing Kiwi again after a 4 month separatiion is a feeling I can't describe- it's like you are a jigsaw puzzle and have just been presented with the last missing piece. The one that completes you.



Me in Kiwi's Eyes


We grabbed my bag and headed to Kiwi's house where I THREW off my work clothes and changed into comfy pants and shirt. Starving, we headed to his favorite neighborhood haunt-Ellie's Coney and Grill. As we walked in the door I fell in love, the restaurant featured a variety of formicas not seen in such diversity outside of a Smithsonian exhibit about building materials of the 1950's. The booths sported dark heavy vinyl covered banquettes which wheezed ever-so slightly as you sat down. Our waitress was a somewhat frazzled looking dark-haired girl of twenty or so. She looked like a gypsy- beautiful and long and lean- waiting impatiently (I imagined) for the moment she could throw off her apron and dance the night away. But she couldn't just yet because the cel phone in the pocket of that apron was ringing- "her mama"- she told us (Gypsies can get into all kinds of trouble when away from the watchful eye of their mamas). She asked if she could get us something to drink while mama waited on the open cel phone line. Kiwi ordered black coffee and I, dehydrated from the flight, asked for seltzer. The Gypsy looked at me blankly- as if my lips had moved but the sound had cut out. "Sel-tzer" I repeated, carefully pronouncing each syllable. The Gypsy and I both looked to Kiwi for assistance. Translation, please? "They call it club soda here, B" Kiwi said, smiling sheepishly. "Woo-hoo, fancy-schmancy" said my inner grandma. They don't have seltzer in Michigan? "It's the midwest..." he said apologetically. No seltzer. For a New York Jew this was unimaginable. But as my ancestors have done for thousands of years-when we travel, we prepare and always pack a little something from home. It's a good thing I brought the kugel. :) X

P.S. Please do not miss Ellie's Coney and Grill if ever you are near 2033 Coolidge Avenue in Berkley Michigan. The food, despite not having seltzer, was terrific- and if you are lucky- a beautiful Gypsy will wait on you in between calls from her mama.