Taking a commuter train to the city from Newark. It's full of people in heavy winter clothes; there's still snow on the ground, and it's grey and rainy. The weather suits the moods and mannerisms of the people here, or maybe it's the other way around. The east coast is, not surprisingly, a far out trip from its western counterpart. Far from laid back and vibrant climes, things here lean towards black and shades of grey. Somber, stoic, and serious are the denizens of these parts, beaten down by the lifestyle, or perhaps made hard and stern by the trappings of everyday life here. The whole scene makes me feel like such an intellectual pussy in the midst of all this tough history, rough present, and somewhat bleak future outlook. The people are weathered and hard, like the ironworks that surround and give them the means to sleep, live, and get around.
Met up with my cousin the other night to see her brother, mom, and dad. Cool seeing them, I always dig on the opportunity to get in touch with family, and some of my own roots. My uncle Paul is so replete with knowledge about the family and our history, has to be more so than any living member of my mom's clan. When I goaded him to write a book about all of it. He retorted that it would be published whenever my own culinary epic hit the presses. Heh, the sound of the gauntlet hitting the dinner table is at once resounding and inspiring. He proceeded to dispense the latest family lecture, which centered around the Wermuths of a few generations past. According to my scholarly uncle they lived in the very neighborhood of Newark in which we found ourselves dining. Once an immigrant Jewish area, it has since seen a majority black population, and now boasts a recent influx of Portuguese and Spanish folks. Funny how life has a way of turning you back to your roots.
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