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This autumn, fall for Moth Stories as we travel across the globe for our mainstages. We're excited to announce our fall lineup of storytelling shows. From New York City to Iowa City, London, Nairobi, and so many more, The Moth will be performing in a city near you, featuring a curation of true stories. The Moth mainstage shows feature five tellers who share beautiful, unbelievable, hilarious, and often powerful true stories on a common theme. Each one told reveals something new about our shared connection.
To buy your tickets or find out more about our calendar, visit themoth.org slash mainstage. We hope to see you soon. Welcome to The Moth Podcast. I'm Kate Tellers, Senior Director and your host for this episode.
My mom was one of six siblings, descendants of Lebanese immigrants who landed in Erie, Pennsylvania. A few years after their mother, Minona, died, the siblings decided to get together in my uncle's backyard for a weekend spent cooking and sharing the food they had been raised on. On a whim, at the last minute, my aunt printed t-shirts and, as with most things in my family, things escalated quickly.
And now, Lebfest is a decades-old annual tradition whose ever-expanding guest list includes extended family, friends, neighbors, and hundreds of cloves of garlic. More than once, we've needed to rent a tent. Our core menu is fixed. Lahamishwe on Friday, Gishk and Shishtawook on Saturday, Iji on Sunday.
but also expanding and overseen by the brilliant, watchful eyes of my cousin's wife and in-law, who is Irish and by this point could cook every dish blindfolded. There's something special about a family recipe. The idea that you're using the same ingredients as your uncle or your Nona. When you take a bite of that garlicky skewer of shrimp or swirly cinnamon bun, you can be dropped into another place and time. Whether that's your childhood home, your aunt's kitchen, or Lebfest.
On this episode, we'll have two stories all about how food can connect us to the past. First up is Terry Wolfish Cole. She told us at a New York City Story Slam where the theme of the night was fathers. Here's Terry live at the Moth. Thank you.
A couple of weeks ago I went out for dinner, my husband and I, with another family. And there was a 16-year-old girl there, cousin Lauren, and as 16-year-olds do, she asked about my tattoo. 16-year-old girls whose mothers do not have ink think that moms who do have ink are very cool. So she asked about my tattoo. What does it say? I said, "It says, 'Enjoy every sandwich.'" And she said, "What does that mean?"
So I told her the story that I tell everybody, which is about Warren Zevon. He was dying and he went on the David Letterman show and David Letterman said, well, what do you know that the rest of us don't know? And he said, well, I know you got to enjoy every sandwich. And that phrase took on a life of its own.
And that story is suitable for telling in public, and it is true, but when I tell it, it's a total lie. In June of 2013, I was in the middle of the worst year of my life. Ten months before, my father had been diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. And if you know anything about cancer, you know that's not the good kind.
My daughter, the month before, had been placed in a residential treatment center in Utah. So I was spending my time flying north, south, and east, and west. And in June, I was in Florida with my sister and her husband Adam, and we were seeing my father for what we knew would be the last time. We were joined by Jasper, who had been an exchange student in our house 30 years before.
Lisa accidentally said something on Facebook about my father dying and Jasper was like what the hell are you even talking about and he got on a plane from Denmark and came to see my father. He came into this apartment which was so strange for Florida because the ceilings were kind of low and it was always dark which is weird because Florida is a very sunny place and he came to see my father and he got in the bed right next to my father. My father didn't much get out at that point and
And we spent the rest of the weekend, you know, he gave him a kiss, he gave him a hug, and we spent the rest of the weekend playing blackjack, which is weird. But if you've ever spent time with someone who's dying, there is this massive white elephant in the room, and you really don't talk about it a lot. You sort of pretend you're just there visiting. So we played blackjack, and we hung around, and we told stories from way back when, and
It was all all right, you know? And it was the morning of the last day. We came, we visited, and later in the day, somebody said to my dad, "Do you want something to eat?" And at this point, my dad was really housebound, and he was in his bathrobe all the time. He was mostly in the bedroom. But he came out to the dining room, and he said, "You know, I could really go for a tongue sandwich."
And I've thought about this so many times since. Like, it's a cocktail party question. You know, what would you have if it were your last meal? And people talk about lobster and they talk about spaghetti. And literally no one else has ever said, I could really go for a tongue sandwich. But the boys got in the car and they went to Jacob's Deli and they came back with this clamshell. And in it was this greasy, nasty looking tongue sandwich and a couple of pickles.
And my father sat at the table in his bathrobe and he ate that half a sandwich. And I have never seen anyone enjoy a meal more than that man and that tongue sandwich. And after about half, he had had enough and he was ready to go rest. And it was time for us to go back to my mother's house a couple of miles north. And it was time to say goodbye. And I was leaving in the morning. And I knew what was happening. I really knew that.
but I had to make like I didn't, because you just don't say goodbye forever out loud. And I leaned into my father to give him a hug. He was sitting, he didn't stand up really anymore. And I noticed that my father, who had always been bald, seemed balder. I don't know how that works, but he did. And I leaned in and I gave him a hug and he hugged me back and he said to me, "I am just so proud of you both." And a week later, my father was dead.
And I know that I talked to him in the week in between, but I don't know what I said. And I don't know what he said. Those are the words that rattle around in my head. And so on his birthday, on Father's Day, on the anniversary of his death, when I light a candle, I try to forget about all the times I screened his calls. And I listen to those words instead. I am just so proud of you both. Thank you.
That was Terry Wolfish Cole. Terry is the producer of Tell Me Another, a true live storytelling show in Hartford, Connecticut. This was the first story she told on stage. She misses her father every day. Enjoy Every Sandwich is tattooed inside her left wrist in his memory. If you'd like to see photos of Terry and her father along with her Enjoy Every Sandwich tattoo, just go to our website, themoth.org slash extras.
As with many family dishes that have been passed through the generations, I don't have a lot of our family's official recipes. And there are enough strong opinions in this family that if I did attempt to write something down, a strong-willed uncle or aunt would have notes. But I have a recipe for salad dressing from my mother that is in her own voice and indisputable, and a popular staple at many LebFests.
You can check it out on our website, themoth.org slash extras. Garlic Pounder, essential. Up next is Michael Imber. He told this at a New York City Grand Slam where the theme of the night was Between the Lines. Here's Michael live at The Moth. A simple recipe. Hershey's cocoa, sugar, vanilla extract, K-Rose syrup, a pinch of salt, heated to perfection, poured into a pan, and then cooled. Cooled.
in an ice water bath. This was my grandmother Millie's recipe for fudge. Fights would break out at family gatherings in St. Louis if anybody dared to take more than their fair share. This was no ordinary recipe. When the grandchildren all left for college, Nana would make batches of fudge and package them up in old Russell Stover candy boxes and mail them to us.
And the recipient of the latest batch of fudge would lay claim to the title "The Real Angel Boy" or "The Real Angel Girl," which was her nickname for all of us. But we held it as the moniker for the most favored grandchild. I was always close to my grandmother, but all the more so after my father passed when I was 10 years old. And she was just a rock for my mother and for my siblings and me.
When I left for college, I made a point of calling her every Sunday night. When I moved to New York, I continued that tradition, and I was so happy that she was able to walk down the aisle at my wedding. In the winter before Nana's 79th birthday, she suffered a transient ischemic attack, a mini stroke. And the emergency room doctor said it was so mild, there was nothing they could do. They just told her, "Go home and rest."
And my brother Doug and my cousin Teddy were with her at the time, and they drove her back to her apartment. They arrived about midnight, and Nana said, I'm wide awake. What do we do now? And the boys looked at each other, and they said, Nana, make fudge. And so she did. The next day, my brother calls me, and he tells me about Nana's health scare and the story of the fudge. And while he wished Nana many more years of life, he did remark...
that he and Teddy easily could have had the last batch of fudge and lay claim to the title "Angel Boy" forever. About a month later, I get in the mail a package in the size and shape of that familiar Russell Stover candy box. Postmarked from St. Louis, but no return address. When I opened it up, of course there is my grandmother's celebrated fudge. And I called her to thank her,
And she said, "What fudge?" That was an odd response, but it gave me an idea. Rather than eat the fudge, I wrapped the box in a plastic garbage bag, sealed it tight, and I stuck it in the back of my freezer with the prayer that it would be many years before I would defrost it to realize my visionary plan.
What nobody realized is that Nana was suffering a series of mini strokes that spring. And that explained why she couldn't remember that she had sent me the fudge. That August, my grandmother suffered a massive stroke and it sent her to the hospital just as my wife and I were getting ready to leave on a California vacation. My mother said, "Take the trip.
And I was warned, do not show up in St. Louis for fear that it would frighten Nana that her condition was serious. The day after we arrived in San Francisco, we got word that my grandmother had passed. And I was devastated. And as if that were not enough, I had another problem. The last batch of fudge was in Brooklyn. And we had to fly from San Francisco straight to St. Louis for the funeral. Undaunted,
I took my key and I FedExed it to a friend in New York who went to our apartment, got the fudge, and FedExed it to me in St. Louis. On the second day of Shiva, my package arrived. As I walked into the living room where the family had gathered and everybody saw I had the Russell Stover candy box, you could hear a pin drop. This was much more than a recipe. And as I shared the last batch of fudge,
The tears turned to smiles and everybody began to tell their fudge stories. Someone remarked, Nana's catering her own shiva. Nothing could have been sweeter. And as for the title, Angel Boy, immortality. I love you, Nana. I miss you. Thank you.
That was Michael Imber. Michael lives in Weston, Connecticut, where he and his bride of 35 years, Nancy, have raised their twin sons. He loves to cook for his family and celebrates the stories they share over meals. And don't worry, if you have a hankering for Michael's family fudge recipe, we'll have that on our website, along with a photo of Michael and his grandmother. You can find them both at themoth.org slash extras.
That's it for this time. Remember, if you liked the stories in this episode, be sure to share this podcast with a friend and tell them to subscribe so they can take a listen as soon as it comes out. From all of us here at The Moth, have a story-worthy week. We hope your hearts and bellies are full.
Kate Tellers is a storyteller, host, senior director at The Moth, and co-author of their fourth book, How to Tell a Story. Her story, but also Brink Cheese, is featured in The Moth's All These Wonders, true stories about facing the unknown. And her writing has appeared on Mick Sweeney's and The New Yorker.
The rest of the Moth leadership team includes Sarah Haberman, Christina Norman, Jennifer Hickson, Meg Bowles, Marina Glucce, Suzanne Rust, Brandon Grant Walker, Leanne Gulley, and Aldi Caza. The Moth would like to thank its supporters and listeners. Stories like these are made possible by community giving. If you're not already a member, please consider becoming one or making a one-time donation today at themoth.org slash giveback.
All Moth stories are true, as remembered by the storytellers. For more about our podcast, information on pitching your own story, and everything else, go to our website, themoth.org. The Moth Podcast is presented by PRX, the public radio exchange, helping make public radio more public at prx.org.