Category Archives: de rebus familiaribus

Happy Mother’s Day, Judy. Memories and gravlax.

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Mom, my goodness, happy Mother’s Day!

How long has it been since you’ve been gone? Not even a year has passed since you left us.

I found this photo deep in the trove of papers I recovered from your apartment before it was cleaned out.

Wow! That was 1995 and I’m pretty sure, based on my memories, that the image was captured in Siena, just off the Piazza del Campo. It was 1995 (a date recorded on the verso), probably January, while I was still on winter break from my Fulbright year at the Scuola Normale and Vatican.

Look at your broad smile! Look at how eager you seem to meet the day!

We sure had some good times in Italy during my years there. I’ll never forget that first dinner at the Osteria del Leone in Bagno Vignoni (in Siena province).

But then again, we also had exquisite brunch at Las Mañanitas relais in Cuernavaca, an evening repast in the same dining room as Henry Kissinger at Ducasse (not long after it opened), lunch across from Kofi Annan at the U.N. mess, supper served by a sommelier with a tongue piercing at Alinea… A Thousand Cranes in LA, Petrossian (back in the day) in NYC, sweetbreads followed by famous flan at La Puerta del Sol in Tijuana…. man, those were the days!

If you were here with us today, I know you would remember each and every one of those meals and occasions. I know I remember them, and a million more, so gladly.

You weren’t so fond of taking pictures. And when you were coerced into posing for one, your smile appeared only reluctantly.

But buried deep, under a pile of photos from your trip to Israel, I discovered a secret stash of photos from that Sienese sojourn, many of them with your beaming smile.

Oh, to share some of your favorite gravlax at Barney Greengrass on this first Mother’s Day without you! I can hear the servers carrying on about the freshly fired latkes now…

Parzen family updates and music this Saturday night.

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Folks may have noticed that I haven’t been posting much lately.

That’s because I’ve been busy with a book project and I’ve been finishing up my coursework to get my realtor license.

Tracie’s real estate business has only continued to grow (poo poo poo!). I’ve already been helping out with all kinds of tasks (media, staging, handiwork). But with my license in place, I’ll be able to support her to an even greater extent.

Now that my studies are complete, I’m just waiting in the queue to get my exam date (the process is painfully slow).

I’ve also been doing a lot of music. I upgraded my recording rig this year and I’ve been helping out with kids’ video auditions and helping a couple of music friends demo their original music. That’s been super fun.

On Saturday evening, Bela and the Bangers (above) will be performing at our beloved Emmit’s Place, our local dive bar/music club. The occasion is Bela’s birthday and a ton of her friends are coming out to jam. We’ll play a set on the early side, followed by appearances from the gazillion awesome musicians Bela plays with. It should be a super fun evening and there will be great food as well. Come on down if you’re looking for something to do and want to support local music and local business.

It’s incredible to think that I haven’t been back to Italy in more than a year. I’m sorry I haven’t been able to help out with travel recommendations for friends. But at this point, I don’t have the intel anymore.

What else? The girls are both doing well and are looking forward to their summer camp (music) and summer vacations (Florida and California).

I have so many things that I want to write about and share here. Please don’t give up on me! And thanks for being here. I’ll get back to posting regularly soon. And hope to see you on Saturday night at Emmit’s!

Lila, age 12: “if not us, then who?” Words to live by.

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One of the biggest changes in our family’s life this year has been the arrival of Tillie Billie Eilish — our rescue Beagle-Red Heeler mix.

Before she was first homed in Willis, Texas, about an hour north of us, she must have been abused. Men, in particular, are loathsome to her — me included.

The passing of our dog Rusty left such a big hole in our home and our hearts. It’s been tough for me not to be able to develop a relationship with her. The only person in the house she plays with is Lila Jane, our 12-year-old. She sleeps every night in Lila’s bed.

When I complained about how reserved she is around me, Lila gently nudged: Daddy, look at it this way. You’re the man she likes more than any other!

When she saw how disappointed I am not to be one of Tillie’s persons, she looked up at me with those beautiful brown eyes.

Daddy, she said, think about it this way: who else, besides our family, would be patient enough to help her? If we don’t do it, who else would? We have to take care of her!

Little did our Lila Jane know that she was quoting Hillel the Elder. If not now, then when?

She was also quoting the late congressman John Lewis. If not us, then who?

In a world where kindness and personal responsibility seem to be in short supply, 12-year-old Lila spoke like the sages of antiquity, like a leader of the civil rights movement.

Reading the awful daily news, I keep going back to what Lila said. We surely could use more of that today. Every morning when I sit down at the keyboard, I’m going to ask myself, If not us, then who? If not now, then when? At our house, they are words to live by.

HSPVA-bound! Congratulations Georgia!

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Ever since the girls entered the Suzuki strings music program at Parker Elementary, we have been dreaming that one day they would attend Houston’s Kinder High School for the Performing and Visual Arts, one of the top performing arts schools in the country.

It’s been a long and winding road since Georgia first picked up her violin (and later switched to viola), paved with honest hard work and genuine sacrifice.

Yesterday we learned that she has been accepted into the conservatory program there. Tears are welling in my eyes as I write this.

Congratulations, Georgia! Beautiful child, brainy teen, “old soul” (as so many people call you), you are a dream come true. You are my dream come true.

Not long before she died, my mother wondered out loud if she should have supported me more in my own music journey.

“Watching all you do for the girls’ music,” she said, “it makes me think I should have done that for you.” I really didn’t know what to say. “But you did all right without me,” she added.

Because of the tragedies unfolding in our lives during my teenage years, Judy didn’t have the bandwidth or energy to take interest in my creative or academic life. I was on my own. But I did “alright,” as she told me that day not so long ago.

Watching Georgia thrive and achieve a highest of heights feels like an empty space in my soul is finally being filled up with joy and promise. Had Georgia pursued a different field or path I would be just as happy. But that she’s doing music… wow… man… The dreams deferred (who gets the reference?) are making way for a soul fulfilled.

Congratulations wonderful Georgia! Mommy and I couldn’t be more proud, more happy, and more excited for your bright future! We love you! We love you!

How I finally found the family where I belong. (And they’re all coming over for Passover tonight!)

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One of the wildest stories of my crazy life is how I finally found the family where I belong.

Not long after I moved to Austin to be with Tracie (good move!), a man named Marty Levy started calling me from Houston. I knew who he was — my father’s first cousin. Beyond that, he and his family were strangers to me. That’s because he and my father stopped speaking in the early 1980s when I was a teenager.

As it turns out, Marty and his family like fine dining. Before long, I was commuting to Houston every week for one of the best gigs that I’ve ever had. It was thanks to Marty, a personal friend of Tony Vallone, that I began working with the legendary Texas restaurant Tony’s. The job and the Levys are why we moved here to Houston, a city that I love.

Over the years, the Levy and (Texas) Parzen families have shared countless meals and holidays. We have a lot in common (music, food, wine, academia) and we genuinely love hanging out and caring for one another.

Let’s face it: my San Diego family has never liked me. I used to be close to my older brother. That ended when he became a lawyer more than 30 years ago. My little brother and his wife have shunned me since college. In the run-up to our mother’s death, they seemed to want to have a relationship. But it ultimately emerged that they wanted me to side with them against my older brother. Nice, right? No dice.

Why is my original nuclear family so messed up? I attribute the fracture to the black cloud that has followed us in the wake of horrific crimes committed by our father. It’s not easy to love your own family, I guess, when your dad is featured in the local paper for being a prolific asshole.

Tonight the Levys are coming over for Passover. There will be nearly 20 of us breaking matzos together. It’s a miracle. I came to Texas for Tracie. But Texas gave me the family that loves me. Man, I’m one lucky son of a gun to have escaped the misery of Parzen family California. Gut Yontif! Happy Passover! I’m finally home.

To dream the impossible dream: Talarico for Texas.

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One of the most compelling speeches I’ve ever heard in my life was devoted not to the politics of nation but the politics of wine.

Back when the debate over Brunello di Montalcino was raging (in the wake of Brunellogate, where Brunello bottlers were caught adding unauthorized grapes to their wines, giving them an unfair and illegal market advantage), the appellation held a controversial and closely followed referendum: should Brunello be made with 100 percent Sangiovese grapes, the historic local variety, as tradition encouraged and law required? or should bottlers be allowed to add “international” grapes like Merlot, ostensibly making their wines more market-ready?

It was the legendary Barolo grower, Teobaldo Cappellano, who blew me away with his contribution to a debate streamed over the internets. He was for keeping Brunello the traditional monovarietal wine (just Sangiovese, as it had been made at least since the 1960s).

“Sometimes the battles most worth fighting are the ones you know you are going to lose,” said Baldo as he was known. To dream the impossible dream, as it were.

I’ve lived in Texas for nearly two decades. I can’t remember a year when democratic pundits didn’t claim that “this is the year we are going to turn Texas blue,” or at least “purple.” Rubber tree plants aside, it still hasn’t happened.

That won’t stop our family for believing in and block-walking for Talarico for Texas. Politically and electorally, our state remains Republican dominant. But that doesn’t mean that nearly half of our state’s residents are people like Tracie and me.

For the record here’s the opening of Talarico’s mission statement:

“Our economy is broken. Our politics are broken. Even our relationships with each other feel broken. That’s because the most powerful people in the world want it that way. The biggest divide in this country is not left vs. right. It’s top vs. bottom. Billionaires want us looking left and right at each other instead of looking up at them.”

To dream the impossible dream
To fight the unbeatable foe
To bear with unbearable sorrow
To run where the brave dare not go

To right the unrightable wrong
To be better far than you are
To try when your arms are too weary
To reach the unreachable star

This is my quest, to follow that star
No matter how hopeless, no matter how far

No matter whom you support, please vote this November 3.

WWIII is here and children are dying. We must save the children.

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When I first moved to Texas to be with Tracie, her father was still working as the pastor of a modest church in Orange where Tracie was born and grew up — a small Texas town straight out of central casting. I began helping out with the church website and we attended services regularly.

I’ll never forget Randy leading a prayer for “enemy combatants” (Obama was president and there were troop surges in Afghanistan and Iraq during those years). I’m not a Christian. I’m a Jew. But I was profoundly inspired by his prayers. This, I thought to myself, is what true Christianity is about: knowing, first and foremost, that all people are the children of G-d. Even enemy combatants.

Today, children of G-d are dying every day in Iran, Lebanon, Gaza, Israel, and Ukraine. Lives of honest, earnest young people are being destroyed for wars over weapons and oil: who gets to keep the weapons and who gets to keep the oil.

World War III is here. In Ukraine, it’s Russia vs. the West. In the Middle East, it is the U.S. and Israel who havelaunched a war of aggression on Iran, a conflict that has drawn in multiple countries in the region and beyond. The crusades of all actors are deeply intertwined.

The current American president campaigned on — let me see if I can get this right! — immigration, the economy, and world peace. When it comes to the first issue, he has delivered what he promised. I vehemently disagree with the policy and the tactics. But he has partially achieved what he set out to do. Fair enough.

But when it comes to the economy and world peace, we are clearly moving in the opposite direction from his stated goals.

Now, as always, is a time to pray for vulnerable children. But it’s also time to stand up and speak out: the war on Iran is wrong! It’s being driven by the interests of the powerful. Children — innocent children — are paying the price for the imperial aspirations of world leaders in their 70s.

There are so many things I’d like to be writing about here. But I can’t scribble another word until I say this. War is wrong. Children are dying. Stop the wars now! G-d bless the children. G-d bless us all.

“We’re cooked.” A 12-year-old’s take on the world wars.

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“At least we’re not invading North Korea.”

That’s what our 12-year-old daughter said wryly we watched the evening news yesterday. The president of the U.S. had just said that the U.S. plans to take control of Cuba.

“I think I can do anything I want with it,” said the leader of the (no longer) free world as we watched.

Either way, said our daughter, “we’re cooked.”

Tracie and I struggle with how to talk to our girls about the world wars that unfold nightly on television. We feel strongly that they need to be engaged with world events. They will be exposed to the news, our thinking goes, no matter what we do. But we can help them deal with their feelings by guiding them through nuanced issues they may not understand. Giving them the opportunity to articulate their emotions is the key to their better health, we believe.

But how do you talk to your 12- and 14-year-olds when you can’t contain your weeping at the sight of children dying every day?

Here in America, it can be easy to tune out the wars. In other parts of the world, from what we can see, that’s not the case.

I have an Italian friend, a woman roughly my age, who posts updates on the number of children killed in Iran and Gaza nearly every day. She has kids not much older than ours. As hard as it is to see each night, I try to check in with her feed regularly. We mustn’t ever forget, I say to myself over and over, that children are dying every day in imperial wars driven by petroleum and humans’ will to power.

“All things are subject to interpretation,” wrote Nietzsche. “Whichever interpretation prevails at a given time is a function of power and not truth.” The philosopher’s (in)famous aphorism seems more relevant than ever, especially in the age and rage of social media.

We teach our children to look beyond the projections of power, to seek truth, however ethereal it may be.

Our truth? We must stop these wars before more children die. G-d bless the children.

Image: “Boy seated in wreckage of building after a bombing raid of London during World War II,” Library of Congress, 1945.

The Oscars won’t be the same without her.

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Everyone who knows me well knows that I used to speak to my mother nearly every day.

Even when I was living in New York in the late 1990s, we always made time to catch up, if not every day, then every other day.

After she passed in October of last year, it’s been really hard to fill those 30 minutes we would spend on the phone.

This is the time of year that she would be telling me about the Oscars, one of her favorite events of the year.

She would watch nearly all the films in competition and handicap them with her friends. And then on Oscars night, she would cook dinner and host a watch party for a friend (usually Marie; I would provide the wine).

It was a sine qua non day in her calendar.

There’s a great line from the song Gram Parsons wrote for his mother, “Brass Buttons”: “And the sun gets up without her/doesn’t know she’s gone.”

That’s how I’m feeling today knowing that I can’t call Judy and ask her who her favorites-to-win are. And she won’t be drinking that bottle of Etna white that I left her in her fridge.

Tracie, the girls, and I will watch the red carpet tonight. It’s the first year of the Oscars without Judy. I miss her so much.

A need for joy as the world falls to pieces.

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As a 19-year-old student of Italian, I was obsessed with Neorealist cinema.

That’s a shot from the closing scene of “Rome Open City,” Roberto Rossellini’s iconic 1945 film, one of the most famous works made during the war era.

Watching those movies — “Paison,” “Bitter Rice,” “Bicycle Thieves”… — as a young adult was a life-changing experience for me. Their characters were superhumans in my mind, capable of facing the worst that life could deal them: war, persecution, hunger, loss of liberty, death. It helped me to understand the hardship endured by my paternal great-grandparents, who were born into deep poverty in Russia (they fled the Cossacks in the first decade of the last century).

Yet those characters, often real people who had been recruited from the street, were also all too human. Italian filmmakers’ brilliant work brought their suffering to the screen in a (neo) real way that the world had never seen before.

I dreamed that I could be as strong when confronted by the life-and-death decisions that people in war are forced to make. I hoped that I could be as graceful were I ever to find myself in the bellic worst-case-scenario like those victims of imperialist war.

Today, Tracie, the girls, and I watch scenes on TV that seem plucked from a Neorealist film: the raids targeting brown people in our country, protesters being shot by federal agents, the concentration camps where brown people are treated like animals (see Pontecorvo’s “Kapò”), the imperial wars in Iran and Ukraine, the plight of Palestinian children…

Sometimes I wonder if we are just another bourgeois family in 1933 quietly pretending that the world isn’t falling apart. Actually, it’s more like 1939 at this point.

At our dinner table, we talk every night about the tragedies unfolding across our planet.

But like those Neorealist characters, we also try to find beauty and joy in the world around us, in the mundane as it were, in each other. If we didn’t, all would be lost. Maybe it was those characters’ fleeting joy, however ephemeral, that gave them the courage to withstand the unthinkable. I hope so.