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Message: <br /><br /> If you are having trouble reading this email, you may view this article online at: http://www.jweekly.com/33530/full/33530/staying-in-touch-with-family-shouldn-t-be-a-shell-game/ <br /><br /> <b>Staying in touch with family shouldn’t be a shell game</b> <br /> Thursday, October 4, 2007 | by liz harris <br /><br /><p>Every now and then, I get hungry for a "flour egg." Most likely you've never heard of it, and I've yet to find a recipe for one in a cookbook.<br /><br /> But, if you, your parents or grandparents are from the Old Country, then you might know what I'm talking about. It's a simple concoction — egg, milk, flour and, I think, a dollop of sour cream — that you stir together and fry like an omelet, only it's flat. Perfect for Sunday morning brunch.<br /><br /> But this isn't a cook column, and I haven't had a flour egg in years, because I can't remember how to make one.<br /><br /> Rather, this is a reminiscence of my father's parents, with whom I spent many mornings, evenings, afternoons and sometimes overnights when I was a child. <br /><br /> "Flour egg" was one of Grandma's specialties, at least in my eyes. She'd make other old-fashioned Jewish foods, too — chopped liver, borsht (yuck!), "knaidle" soup — but her flour eggs were unfailingly one of my favorites.<br /><br /> "Can I have a flour egg?" I'd ask on one of my spur-of-the-moment visits.<br /><br /> I can't remember ever being refused.<br /><br /> My father was one of two siblings: My uncle lived in the same block we did, just a few houses behind and up from ours, which meant we first cousins could easily get together to play, and we did. <br /><br /> My grandparents, Rose and Isadore, lived just two blocks away. If I took the shortcut through people's yards, I could get there in minutes. <br /><br /> If I arrived on a weekend morning, they'd probably have the radio on, listening to something in Yiddish, or klezmer. If I happened to be there on a weekend night, they'd no doubt watch Lawrence Welk on TV, which I tolerated only because I was with them.<br /><br /> Both grandparents emigrated from Russia as children. Grandma, while contemporary in her dress, hairdo and upbeat attitude, hadn't completely shed her old ways: sipping her coffee and tea through a sugar cube, "doity-doity-doiting" melodies rather than humming them, warbling like a canary when she whistled. <br /><br /> And I can still picture Papa sitting in his favorite rattan chair in the sunroom, smoking the ever-present cigar, or playing cards at one of the Family Circle meetings. The social gathering of extended family happened once a month and rotated among relatives, but I think the lion's share was held at my grandparents' house on Ivy Lane.<br /><br /> I never grew distant from my grandparents, though I did move far away, eventually settling in Fairfax. Though a stroke felled my grandfather in his 60s, my grandmother lived to be 80; she died just before the birth of my first child.<br /><br /> These days, growing up so close to one's grandparents is no doubt the exception to the rule. I've tried to bridge the distance between my children and their grandparents, but it's been tough.<br /><br /> From the time they were infants, my children would make the five-hour plane trip with me to Baltimore to stay with their grandparents. We'd visit every year for a week or two. Once we stayed a month.<br /><br /> And until two years ago, my parents religiously came to see us. They'd stay for four weeks, at our house. It was great for them and the kids, I think, giving them time to get to know one another through life's stages. Sometimes, if my husband and I were lucky enough to sneak in a vacation, my parents would babysit.<br /><br /> This summer, my son, who is 25, made his own quick visit to Baltimore, staying a night with my brother and his family and a few days with my parents. My mother remarked how much they'd enjoyed his company and how much he'd matured. They all agreed his trip was too brief and that next time, he'd stay longer.<br /><br /> My daughter now lives in Atlanta, and hopes to see her grandparents more often. In the meantime, she keeps in touch frequently by phone.<br /><br /> I still make my yearly pilgrimage. And sometimes, after dinner, I'll stroll round the neighborhood and past my grandparents' old house. In my imagination, I walk through the front door, past the large wooden radio in the hallway, and into the kitchen, where Grandma gives me a hug and a squeeze. Then I join Papa in the sunroom for some shmoozing and a little TV.<br /><br /> <br><br /><br /> Liz Harris is a copy editor at j. She can be reached at <a href="mailto:liz@jweekly.com">liz@jweekly.com</a>.<br /><br /> </p>

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