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"The Basketball Game" is a graphic novel adaptation of the award-winning National Film Board of Canada animated short of the same name – intended for audiences aged 12 years and up. It's a poignant tale of the power of community as a means to rise above hatred and bigotry. In the end, as is recognized by the kids playing the basketball game, we're all in this together.

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Byline: Dawn Lerman JNS.org

Going to camp for the food

Going to camp for the food

Dawn Lerman, age 15 in this photo, at summer camp. (photo from Dawn Lerman via JNS.org)

In My Fat Dad: A Memoir of Food, Love and Family, with Recipes (Berkley Books, 2015), New York Times wellness blogger and nutritionist Dawn Lerman shares her food journey and that of her father, a copywriter from the Mad Men era of advertising.

Lerman spent her childhood constantly hungry. She craved good food as her father, 450 pounds at his heaviest, pursued endless fad diets, from Atkins to Pritikin to all sorts of freeze-dried, saccharin-laced concoctions, and insisted the family do the same – even though no one else was overweight. Her mother, on the other hand, could barely be bothered to eat a can of tuna over the sink; she was too busy ferrying her other daughter to acting auditions and scolding Lerman about cleaning the house.

My Fat Dad is as much a coming-of-age memoir as it is a recipe collection from Lerman’s upbringing and culinary adventures. Released as part of the 2016 JNS.org summer camps special section, below is an adapted excerpt from Chapter 17 of My Fat Dad, in addition to a recipe for fruit-infused bug juice. 

My little sister April’s contract was renewed. She and my mom were going to spend the summer in Washington, D.C., where she was a principal orphan in the first national tour of the Broadway show Annie. I was going to Hillcrest Camp for a month before joining them.

Hillcrest was a performing arts camp in Connecticut where teenagers were allowed the freedom to arrange their own schedules. The activities ranged from glassblowing, to silk-screening, to acting, to stained glass-making, to, most important, free choice, which translated into hanging out with cute, artsy boys.

Marley was my best friend from middle school. We spoke daily, even though we’d both transferred schools after the sixth grade. She taught me how to line my eyes on the inside ring and the art of applying black nail polish to look edgy. Marley had already been to the sleep-away camp the past three summers and was instrumental in convincing my mom to allow me to go. She said the experience was life-changing, and she really found her voice as an artist in the printmaking shop. My mom thought I was getting too serious with my boyfriend, Hank, after I told him during the ninth grade prom that I loved him, so she signed me up immediately – even though she found the cost to be outrageous.

My mom equated every experience, every meal and every activity with cost. She talked about money incessantly, not in the normal way like other parents did. “We need to save up, we can’t afford it, let’s wait till it goes on sale, maybe next year,” she would say. It seemed to have nothing to do with if we could afford it, but everything to do with the fact she thought she was always being ripped off, unless it was a super-sale. Any normal purchase – food, clothes, toiletries – seemed to bring her physical pain and enraged her, causing her to lash out. I was usually on the receiving end of these outbursts, swallowing her rage and internalizing the message that I was not worthy of normal comforts.

I never really did anything wrong, but somehow I could never do anything right, and my mother constantly used words and tones that were so harsh that I was in a constant state of turmoil. The fact that I preferred fresh seafood and vegetables to soggy SpaghettiO’s for dinner somehow irked her, making her feel unappreciated and angered. I was not your typical kid, and my parents – my 450-pound dad and my flamboyant stage mom – were not your typical parents. The combination of our unique quirks and habits was often toxic and unsettling. So the thought of going to overnight camp – where I wouldn’t need to worry what diet my dad was on or if I would have enough money for food, as most nights I was left on my own – was a welcome relief.

Read more – and find the recipe for “bug juice” – at jns.org.

Format ImagePosted on January 13, 2017January 11, 2017Author Dawn Lerman JNS.orgCategories BooksTags camp, food
Lovin’ from the oven

Lovin’ from the oven

A young Dawn Lerman with her grandmother, Beauty (photo from Dawn Lerman via JNS.org)

In her memoir My Fat Dad, New York Times wellness blogger and nutritionist Dawn Lerman (@dawnlerman) shares her food journey and that of her father, a copywriter from the Mad Men era of advertising. Lerman spent her childhood constantly hungry, as her father pursued endless fad diets from Atkins to Pritikin, and insisted the family do the same to help keep him on track. As a child, Lerman felt undernourished both physically and emotionally, except for one saving grace: the loving attention of her maternal grandmother, Beauty. Below is an adapted excerpt from My Fat Dad, in addition to a recipe for a healthier version of a Chanukah staple.

***

When I lived in Chicago, Jewish holidays were spent either at my Grandma Beauty’s house or my Bubbe Mary’s house. My grandmothers lived near each other on Chicago’s north side. I saw Beauty every weekend, but I would only see Bubbe Mary, my father’s mother, on occasional holidays. While my grandmothers had a lot in common – they were both amazing cooks – they were also very different.

book cover - My Fat DadBeauty adored me, but Bubbe Mary did not seem to have much time to see me. Also, Beauty was all about being healthy, using a lot of fresh fruits and vegetables in all her dishes. Bubbe Mary was all about recreating the dishes that made her feel closer to Old World traditions she left behind in Romania.

Every year at Chanukah, the whole family was invited to Bubbe Mary’s for a traditional Jewish dinner. She even included my mom’s parents, Beauty and Papa. What I loved most about holiday gatherings at Bubbe Mary’s house was seeing my first cousins, whom I adored but rarely ever saw – and listening to both grandmothers speak Yiddish. I never knew what they were saying, but something about the sound of the dialect combined with intense hand gestures and the aromas of the Jewish food left a lasting imprint.

Bubbe Mary grew up in Romania and traveled by boat to the United States when she was 13. She traveled with some of her sisters and brothers, but many family members were left behind.

Bubbe Mary used schmaltz to cook everything – from matzah balls to latkes to chicken livers. Everything was fried with schmaltz, which she kept in a glass jar above her stove. For Chanukah, she often went through a whole jar. She fried and grated so many potatoes for the latkes that her knuckles would bleed. She made sure if you were eating at her home there was plenty of food, and you would not leave without a full belly and a doggy bag.

The most memorable Chanukah at Bubbe Mary’s was when I was 8, the last one before my family moved to New York, and one of the last times I ever saw her.

Read more at jns.org.

Format ImagePosted on December 16, 2016December 15, 2016Author Dawn Lerman JNS.orgCategories Celebrating the HolidaysTags books, Chanukah, food
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