The Yiddish Gangster's Daughter (A Becks Ruchinsky Mystery Book 1) by Joan Cochran (popular books of all time .txt) 📗

five years ago. The cultural center is still a beautiful complex, with large Mediterranean-style buildings of cream, fossilized limestone and orange barrel-tiled roofing. As I cross the bridge that links the parking tower to the cultural center where the museum’s located, I glance through the ornate wrought iron railing to the street fourteen feet below. It’s still packed with small shops selling cheap electronics and Cuban food. The open-air plaza that connects the three buildings is dotted with black metal tables and chairs where unshaven men and women in dull baggy clothing chat and smoke. Years ago, the plaza held a health food kiosk and the chairs were filled with stylishly-dressed business people. But I’m not surprised. These days, the homeless are as much a part of South Florida’s cultural landscape as Miami Beach’s art deco district.

But I’m not here to solve South Florida’s social problems. I’ve made this trip in search of recipes. Rosh Hashanah is three weeks away and I’ve promised my editor something unique for the High Holiday spread by the end of next week. We both agree it’s enough already with the brisket prepared fifteen different ways. I’m on a mission to learn what Miami’s original Jewish settlers prepared for the holidays. There is, of course, more to this than meets the palate. I’m growing impatient with the short restaurant reviews he’s assigned me of late. I know I can write better than that. It’s time to prove my culinary writing skills with a front-page story.

When I enter the museum, it’s easy to spot the librarian I’ve arranged to meet. She has to be the petite woman waiting in the lobby with her arms crossed and her lips pressed into a pencil-thin line. The narrow gold bar on her lapel reads “Mrs. Dupree.” I feel like a giant next to this Thumbelina of a librarian. Slim and no more than four feet nine, she wears a tailored tweed suit that might have been stitched together for a child-sized doll. Tiny pleated skirt, petite white blouse with a delicate lace collar, and a miniature suit jacket.

After a quick nod and handshake but no acknowledgment of my apology for being late, she leads me through double glass doors labeled “Archives.” The clicking of her patent leather heels stops so abruptly in front of a small wooden desk that I almost rear-end her. A single wooden chair is pushed under the desk. We remain standing.

“I found what you want, but be careful. Don’t smudge the pages,” she says, wagging a finger in my direction before lifting a book from the stack she’s set out on the desk for me. The tome is bound in faded green buckram and splotched with grease marks.

“And, whatever you do, don’t rip the pages. They’re fragile.”

I find her remarks insulting, but nod politely and reach for the book.

She retracts it and purses her lips.

“You may use the copier in the back room, but don’t press the spines too firmly,” she continues. “The bindings are old and delicate.”

She gives me a once-over, head tilted, eyes slit. I’m tempted to inform her that I do know how to handle books, yet feel an unreasonable surge of guilt, as though she suspects I’m the type of person who tears recipes out of magazines in doctors’ offices. Which, in fact, I am.

“If you have questions, call me.”

That sounds like a sign-off, so I reach toward the books she’s piled on the table. But she’s not through yet. She inserts her tiny frame between me and the table. “You do understand that you may not remove anything from this room without my permission.” This time, there’s a definite challenge in her voice.

“Yes, ma’am,” I say. I’m fifty years old, for crying out loud. Why does this little tyrant make me feel so guilty?

With a brisk nod, she turns and marches off.

I take a minute to look around the room. It’s long and narrow and a series of wooden tables run down the center. Every table, except the one at which I’m working, is mounded with books and maps, newspapers and magazines. In contrast to the librarian, who is tidiness and efficiency personified, the place is a massive and disorganized collection of . . . who knows what. The detritus of dead Floridian’s lives? I assume there’s some order to the books, magazines, yellowed newspapers, and albums crammed into metal cases mounted along both sides of the room. I’m tempted to poke around before I get started on the cookbooks. But I don’t want to get caught going through her things. So I sit down with the stack she left me.

In the last week or so, I’ve been considering what to do with myself, where to go with my career. With Daniel and the boys gone, I have more time on my hands. I’m trying to be positive and view this as an opportunity to focus on myself. But I’m not kidding anyone. I’m rattling around in a big house and need something that’ll get me out in the world. Friends have been great about meeting me for lunch and Aviva and Noah, the couple Daniel and I spent most Saturday nights with, invited me out to dinner last weekend.

I’ve been considering pulling together a cookbook since I started my food columns two years ago. I’d like to focus on Jewish cooking, including my mother’s recipes. This might be the project I need to get my mind off Daniel. I’ve already been through my own files for ideas. This morning, I hope to gather a few recipes for my Rosh Hashanah article as well as my book. It’ll give me a goal to work toward and, with luck, help me become more financially independent. Daniel’s been generous so far, giving me enough money to run the house, but that won’t last forever.

The librarian’s collection is disappointing. The Settlement Cookbook is the same my mother used and I’ve already tried most of the recipes. It was written at the turn