My father once told me this really bad joke: in the middle of Watergate, a sleepless Nixon has his driver take him over to the Lincoln Memorial at 3 in the morning. Nixon beats his breast: “Watergate has destroyed me. The country no longer trusts me. What do I do, oh wise one, what do I do?” And Lincoln looks down at him and says “Go to the theatre.”
A very bad joke, indeed. But also a comment on the vast metaphysical power of this great Memorial, and all that it means.
Susan and I went down to northern Virginia to visit my cousins over the holiday weekend, and on our way, we passed the Lincoln Memorial, which still gives me goose bumps no matter how often I see it; I always think of those clips of Marian Anderson and hearing stories of how she sang for my mother’s Brooklyn first grade class right before the DAR made the moronic decision to not let her perform for an integrated audience at Constitution Hall, and thanks to FDR and Eleanor, she wound up at the memorial instead. I remember, too, those pictures of Mary Travers, looking pissed off and hotter than hell in that gorgeous black shift, bobbing and weaving in front of Lincoln’s statue during the 1963 March on Washington for Jobs and Freedom.
But mostly, I remember how, in 1974, my 73-year-old Brooklyn-born grandmother raced up the steps of the Memorial, leaving me and my bewildered parents behind, huffing and puffing in the May heat and humidity. She had never been out of New York before, so my father decided to include her on our family trip. We shared a room, and she was so excited to see the Lincoln Memorial that day that she woke up at 5 am and quietly stared out the window until it was 6 and she’d decided that I’d slept enough for an 11 year old. I can still see her now, in her gold octagonal glasses, her flowered quiana shirt, and the black polyester slacks that she’d only recently started wearing because the Women’s Movement said she could. One minute she was standing next to me looking up at the majesty that is the Memorial, and the next she was running up step after step, leaving me on the sidewalk to watch her, my mouth hanging open. Lincoln was that important to her, and she couldn’t wait.
It’s been a crazy few weeks where I live, and seeing the Memorial really brought me back down to earth for a lot of reasons. There’s no delicate way to say this, but over recent days, Susan and I have spent a lot of time hashing out my complicated relationship with an old college friend who, last I saw her in the 1990s, turned out to be in possession of some Nazi memorabilia (actually, she wasn’t; her husband was, and she just seemed to ignore it) and firearms; we were recently back in touch, and after much back and forth about why I disappeared so long ago having seen this stuff in her house, we both more or less decided that it would be best to not be in contact anymore. There’s the Nazi stuff, which is a very big problem for me and my family; there are the firearms, which I just can’t cope with on any level and which, together with the memorabilia, make for a scary combo; and there’s the fact that, after years of silence, she wanted to know nothing whatsoever about my decade long relationship with and marriage to my partner. Weirder still was the refusal to acknowledge on any level why, exactly, those items I saw so long ago shook me to my very core. She either didn’t get it, it just didn’t matter to her, or she was hard pressed to travel down that bumpy introspective road that might end with her looking in the mirror, long and hard. And that’s a tough thing to do. The whole ordeal left me queasy.
The flipside of all this hit me right after I drove past that great memorial to a man who defined the concept of freedom in the most profound of ways; I totally take for granted the fact that I live in a country where I have the right to free expression. Where I can sit right down at my computer and pretty much say whatever the heck I want to say without winding up in a soccer stadium someplace facing a firing squad. Where I can keep all manner of memorabilia in my house (disturbing or not) and no one’s going to come along and toss me in the pokey. (I draw the line at guns, because I just don’t believe in them unless you happen to live in a place where you have to hunt for survival.) Where, in certain places, I can marry the love of my life. But not in California.
When Memorial Day day came around and Susan and I decided to make dinner for my cousins, this confluence of disturbance and disappointment, and anger and bitterness and pride that I live in a country that’s such a mass of contradictions—it all sort of backed up on me. I was mad. I wanted to grab my old friend and say “who are you? What happened to you?” but I couldn’t. Because so long as she doesn’t hurt anyone, she can say and think whatever the bleep she wants. And there’s nothing I can do about that.
And so, on the day when everyone and their brother fires up their Weber and incinerates pre-formed beef patties and hot dogs, and someone always forgets that chicken shouldn’t be cooked rare, and that potato salad shouldn’t sit in the sun, I decided to do a little grilling of my own: I made Tandoori from a locally-raised chicken, and spicy, chaat masala-and-lime-dipped corn on the cob. I wanted to follow the culinary tradition of the holiday; but I also knew that the sharp-spiced dishes would make me feel better, and kill the bitter tinge of disappointment still left in my mouth.
Simple Tandoori Chicken
Serves 4, with leftovers
I’ll tell you right now: I cheated. I bought a very high quality tandoori spice blend (because I hadn’t thought to travel with my entire Indian spice collection), and it worked perfectly. If you’re in a bind, it’ll do in a pinch.
1/4 cup plain yogurt
2 tablespoons tandoori spice mixture
2 tablespoons white vinegar
1 tablespoon lemon juice
1 teaspoon kosher salt
1 4-pound chicken, cut into 8 pieces, skin removed
1. In a large bowl, combine the yogurt, spice mixture, vinegar, lemon juice, and kosher salt, and blend well.
Coat the chicken well with the mixture, cover with plastic wrap and let marinate in the fridge anywhere from 2 hours to overnight.
2. Remove the chicken and let it come to room temperature. Meanwhile, build a hot fire in your grill (if using a gas grill, get it as hot as you can).
3. Grill the chicken pieces over direct heat until cooked through; remove to a platter, cover with foil, and let rest while you make the corn.
Chaat Masala-and-Lime Dipped Corn on the Cob
Adapted from Suvir Saran’s American Masala
This remarkable recipe came by way of Suvir Saran, whose food I would crawl over broken glass to eat. Forget the butter and salt; once you taste the combination of sweet and sour that marks this dish, you’ll never, ever go back. I know I won’t. Leftover corn can be sliced off the cob and turned into corn cakes; top them with tamarind chutney and you’ll be a happy camper.
Serves 4 with leftovers
8 ears of the freshest corn you can find, shucked, silks removed
4 tablespoons of Chaat Masala*
Lime wedges
1. Before the grill has a chance to die down, put the cobs directly on the grate and turn repeatedly to make sure that they don’t burn. (Or bring a large pot of salted water to a boil, and cook the corn to personal preference; I prefer mine juicy, but still with some crunch.) Roast the corn on the grill until tender.
2. Provide each diner with a small bowl of chaat masala and a wedge of lime. Dip the lime into the spice mixture and then squeeze it along each cob.
Nothing short of remarkable.
*Chaat Masala is a traditional spice mixture meant to be sprinkled on Indian street food, or chaat. There are as many versions as there are kinds of chaat, but the one I make comes from Madhur Jaffrey, and contains mouthwatering, pungent mango powder as a primary ingredient.
