All or Nothing Read Free Page B

parents loved Joee and me. They wanted us to be happy. So they smoothed everything over, doing everything they could to avoid conflict and constantly trying to placate us.
    If my mother had had her way, we kids would have been disciplined more. My parents were never on the same page when it came to laying down the law. It was like a cat-and-mouse game between the two of them, and I quickly learned how to play this game to my full advantage. My mother would tell us to pick up our toys, do our homework, or call our grandparents, and behind her back my dad would tell me, “Don’t worry about what she says. Just do what she wants and make her happy.” So I forced out some crocodile tears or said “yes” to my mother if it would help me avoid confrontation or get me what I wanted. But I never adjusted my behavior because I knew at the end of the day there would be no repercussions.
    Both of my parents cared a lot about image, especially my mom. She used to show up to my soccer games decked out in designer clothes and high heels, while all the other mothers would come in sweats and T-shirts. My mom stood out, and I already felt like an outsider. The other kids teased me. “Dude, your mom’s hot,” they would say. I hated hearing that. I just wished she’d put on some fucking mom jeans or something. But she always wanted to look her best. It wasn’t just her looks that made my mom stand out. She was always the first to volunteer to be on the board of a charity or run a fund-raiser. Now I can appreciate how giving she is of her time, but as a kid who just wanted to fit in, my mom’s conspicuousness bothered me.
    Joee and I absorbed the message that looks were important, and over time we learned how to stuff everything down and act like we had no problems. For a kid as full of angst as me, this was a dangerous combination. I never learned how to deal with my feelings. For the time being, cooking was a productive outlet, but the restlessness simmered and would eventually find another way out.
    As soon as I started school I was breaking the rules. I was the class clown for sure, bored, restless, and looking for a distraction to break the monotony. I whispered lewd jokes to my friends and ignored the teacher when she called my name just to see what she would do. I was only in the first grade when I was suspended for mooning the bus driver. But I was never punished at home. I apologized, pled my case, and managed to manipulate my way out of a punishment every time. And then I went ahead and did something equally disruptive again. I had zero fear of authority. If anything, I liked the attention that came with acting out.
    Some of this behavior was intentional, but there were times when I couldn’t control it. When I was still in the first grade, I went to get a haircut and was moving around in the seat so much that the hairdresser cut himself and had to get stitches. My mother was furious, but it wasn’t like I did it on purpose. I just couldn’t sit still.
    Sometimes my dad’s parents, Grandma Rosie and Grandpa Laz, picked up Joee and me from school and brought us back to their apartment. Then I could leave the class clown act behind at school and focus on having fun in the kitchen. Grandma Rosie picked up where Nana Mae had left off teaching me to cook. She was always making something interesting and was eager for me to hang out in the kitchen with her and help.
    The day before Passover, Grandma Rosie made split pea soup with flanken bones, the Jewish version of short ribs. She had a little stool for me that she pulled up to her stove, which was an old electric coil one. Then, as she worked, I slid the stool across the tile floor to go fetch her ingredients. I climbed up and used all my might to pull open the freezer door and grab the frozen peas. But the best part was when I pushed the stool over to the stainless steel sink, rolled up my sleeves, and rinsed the peas, thawing