55 Forsyth

Today I went in search of my great grandmother Molly, the one who used to make Baked Barley with Mushrooms.  I pushed Ethan in his stroller through the streets of lower Manhattan while he slept, and there, at the foot of the Manhattan Bridge I came upon a forgotten corner of the city where she used to live in 1911 at age 20.  The original building is not there anymore.  There's a small parking lot, some Chinese men smoking and spitting in the street.

For a little while I walked in her footsteps.  That woman I've never met, who died long before I existed.  Maybe her DNA is responsible for my long fingers and toes or my rare blood type.  Maybe her composition is why I have never broken a bone.  Perhaps she is the reason I love pumpernickel. 

Today, on my walk, I could see things in the grand scheme.  I think it's important not to forget.  Even though I never knew her, and know almost nothing about her.  It doesn't matter though.  Molly came long before me, and three generations later, I'm here because of her.

Next door, looks like an original building.

So even if all I do is make her barley with mushrooms, or maybe a rice pudding (certainly she ate that too) I will think of the strong women who came before me.  They lived harder lives than me, there is no doubting that.  I think that means I can rise to the challenge.

In Molly's time this was a Jewish Synagogue.  It's now a Greek Orthodox Church.