Welcome to the past

The long drive today up the 101 was a strange one. This was something I had never done on my own, and never dreamed I would do. For one, I never dreamed I would go back home.

Now, most people know my home as being the town I grew up in, Thousand Oaks. Others would tell me I am from Long Beach -- and I am proud to say that I am. But San Jose and the towns surrounding it -- Santa Clara, Cupertino and Saratoga -- all make for a strange and interesting glimpse into my past.

From the ages of five to 10, I lived in this area, walking the dogs, going to synagogue, and overall just being a kid. It's very different from when I grew up -- the stores have changed, and obviously the Silicon Valley is not what it used to be. But the fact of the matter is that in strange little glimpses, I see where I spent carefree days and peaceful nights.

Our life in Northern California was far from idyllic, though. At that age, I never knew that my father was out of work for so long, that we struggled to stay afloat, and that life was difficult. I got slight looks of it, from when dad commuted back and forth to Southern California for work, or when my mom found inexpensive ways to make us food. I remember around this time my mom halting her purchases of kosher meat -- mainly because there was only one kosher butcher in town, and she didn't like him much. He seemed to take advantage of the fact that he was the only game in town.

This wasn't a large Jewish community, although there were Jews here and we had Jewish friends. We were very active in this community, particularly at the Hebrew school at the temple. There were teachers at my elementary school that didn't know Yom Kippur from kippers and eggs. But we lived in diversity, which was a very sweet part of the life down here.

I remembered that, as a child, we seemed to live a double life -- one where any holidays were spent driving down the I-5 or 101 to Los Angeles and my grandparents' apartment. We rarely took vacations as we were always coming down to have the family coo over us and how big we were getting. I remember passing all the stops -- from Casa de Frutta to rolling down the windows in Gilroy, smelling that delicious garlic wafting in the car.

Although we didn't have much, we took joy in the simple pleasures of life -- even something as simple as the smell of garlic. My mother taught us to enjoy, to appreciate everything despite the fact we had nothing. It was a lesson that I have taken into the current state of my marriage, where Ari and I don't have jobs. But there are times where I look into his soft brown eyes, lingering on them as we're talking, and realize that we may not have all the money in the world, but thank G-d we have each other through these trying times.

On that note, I leave one of my mother's recipes on here from when we were growing up in San Jose. It was for Italian chicken, and it was a big favorite of my sister's and mine. Little did I know, it doesn't take that much to cook it.

ITALIAN CHICKEN

1 cup Italian dressing
3 boneless, skinless chicken breasts or 1 whole chicken, cut up
1 teaspoon oregano
1 teaspoon basil

Put the chicken in a deep pot. Cover with Italian dressing, basil and oregano. Cover and cook for 45 minutes over a low heat. Serve hot, preferably with pasta.