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FOR RENT

HELP WANTED

HAPPY
TUESDAY!

By Michael Krebs and Theodore Krebs
©2018 Tribune Content Agency, LLC
12/11/18

Los Angeles Times Daily Crossword Puzzle

Edited by Rich Norris and Joyce Nichols Lewis

12/11/18

ANSWER TO PREVIOUS PUZZLE:

Release Date: Tuesday, December 11, 2018

ACROSS
1 With 18-Across, 
R.E.M. guitarist
6 Microscope glass
10 All snuggled in
14 Support piece
15 1998 Sarah 
McLachlan hit
16 Black-and-white 
cookie
17 Anglo-__
18 With 35-Across, 
10-time “SNL” 
host who was 
Belushi’s straight 
man in samurai 
routines
19 Restaurant 
handout
20 Gritty film genre
22 “We are gathered 
__ today ... ”
24 “Say that’s 
true ... ”
27 Speedway event
29 Entertainment 
award quartets, 
for short
33 Swiss skiing spot
34 Pops, to tots
35 With 44-Across, 
hitter of 755 
home runs
36 “Perhaps I’m 
wrong”
38 Takes effect
39 What six people 
in this puzzle 
might be said to 
possess
41 Climbs, as a cliff
42 Staggered
44 With 57-Across, 
“Breaking Bad” 
actor
45 Gives (out) 
sparingly
46 Passé TV 
accessory
47 Sediment layer
48 Courtroom cry
49 Big Apple team
50 Weak end?
52 Anti-cruelty org.
54 Green gemstone
57 With 68-Across, 
Garfunkel’s 
partner
59 Zest
63 Big Aussie birds
64 Taj Mahal city
65 Worker, briefly
66 Ocean motion
67 Depend (on)
68 With 1-Across, 
one of the Twelve 
Apostles

DOWN
1 “Arthur” TV station
2 Notable time
3 Withholding __
4 Lodge opening?
5 Nevada casino 
city
6 Chocolate dog
7 Emory email 
ender
8 Wall recesses
9 “For heaven’s 
__!”
10 Impatient after-
school text to a 
parent
11 Salem is its cap.
12 Buddhist sect
13 “__ busy?”
21 Tehran residents
23 Warms up, as 
leftovers
24 Dr. Seuss’ 
Sam-__
25 Sideless train 
unit
26 Invasive 
computer 
program
28 Scratching-post 
attachment
30 With no breaks, 
as a tennis set
31 Cut into four-inch 
pieces, as a 
footlong sub

32 Dict. entry
34 Pass rusher’s 
team
37 Meaty spaghetti 
sauce
38 React to dust
40 Script for TV
41 Down or blue
43 Rx writers
45 Rx quantity
49 New Zealand 
native
51 Prepare for a 
boxing day?

53 A++
54 Airbus 
product
55 French buddy
56 Failed 
firecracker
58 Clickable link
60 Boo-boo 
kisser
61 Gaza Strip gp.
62 “An egg’s way 
of making 
another egg”: 
Samuel Butler

The trees are shaking off 
their browned leaves, there 
is a distinct chill in the air, 
everything is peppermint and 
gingerbread and all about Santa 
Claus. It feels as though our 
hands are always cold. The 
pinkness in my cheeks, chapped 
lips and transition to warm cups 
of coffee has me nostalgic. I’m 
not sure if it feels the same for 
you, but for me, when the air finds 
a chill, something in me starts to 
crack open and head toward the 
sentimental. Maybe it’s the end 
of the year — looking back on 
12 calendar pages tossed in the 
trash with wistful remembrance. 
Or maybe the month of Dec. 
ignites an evocative, half shell of 
emotion in all of us.
Much of this sentimentality 
finds its roots in tradition. The 
stories of our life, the trifles of 
our upbringing and the pieces 
of history we pack in our bags 
even when we move far away are 
grounded in tradition. For my 
family, tradition starts with food. 
I’m sure it’s simply in our Italian 
blood, and the knack for cooking 
and inherent love for flavor 
were all curated somewhere in 
Southern Italy ages ago. But ever 
since I can remember, traditions 
were always centered around 
food. Every holiday and event, 
every means for celebrating 
— even if it was just a Sunday 
afternoon where we all had the 
privilege of being together — beat 
along with the idea that food and 
wine and good company could be 
the antidote to the world. If you 
paged through the scripture of 
my family history, you would be 
advised to always invite anyone 
inside who had nowhere to go 
and always celebrate with good 
food and good wine. You would 
be reminded that salt, reggiano 
parmigiano, heat and red wine 
are your friends when you are 
bent over a stove. You would 
learn about the selfless act of 
cooking for others. Somewhere 
in there, you would learn about 
me.
At this time of year, these 
thoughts take me to the holidays, 
namely, Christmas Eve, which in 
and of itself is a larger tradition 
for my family than Christmas 
day is. I wonder often where 
traditions begin. We seem to 
accept them as fact, much like 
mathematical equations. All of 
us have some piece of tradition, 
be it shattered or whole, be it 
long gone or still with us. Certain 
things we just know. At our home 
on Christmas Eve, anyone who 
doesn’t have somewhere to go is 
invited. Once you’ve been invited 
you never get removed from the 
invite list, even if we haven’t 
spoken in a year, even if you’ve 
moved away and moved on. You 
can simply never be uninvited. 
That’s just tradition.
So even if it’s the only time all 
year I see them, I can expect the 
same motley, loveable crew every 
year — same time, same place. 
There’s dancing and drinking 
and gift giving and perhaps most 
importantly, food. So much food 
that I often wonder if we’ll ever 
learn our lesson and prepare less 
than the outrageous amount we 
do. But the more the merrier 
seems to be the motto of the 
whole night every year — in 
regards to food, chilled glasses 
of wine and good company. If I 
could bottle up a feeling, it would 
be the one inside the white house 
on River Road every Christmas 
Eve. It is the epitome of what 
warmth feels like.
I wonder where this all began, 
where a tradition so specific and 
idiosyncratic in its nature found 
its beginning. My father, the 
spearhead of the bubbly, lively 
Dec. 24 affair is half-Jewish, 
half-Catholic and perhaps the 
most fond of Christmas anyone 
has ever been. This Christmas 
spirit 
began 
when 
he 
was 
raised by a Jewish mother and 
a Catholic father who didn’t 
believe in going to church. My 
dad tells me my grandfather 
found God in his kitchen every 
day. On Christmas Eve, our home 
is a non-denominational affair — 

with people identifying as every 
religion 
coming 
together 
to 
celebrate. If you don’t celebrate 
Christmas, if you believe Jesus 
roamed the earth and pray to him 
every morning, or you’re waiting 
for him still, or you don’t believe 
in him at all — you are welcome. 
It’s a peculiar and spectacular 
sight to see — an amalgamation 
of languages and cultures and 
ideas and love and music all 
pouring from the cracks in our 
walls. Merry Christmas, indeed.
When I traced my father’s 
history, which required light 
prodding and sweet memories, 
I found it all started with the 
Feast of the Seven Fishes, or 
Festa dei Sett Pesci, which is the 
Italian-American 
celebration 
of Christmas Eve which is a 
meal supplemented with dishes 
of seafood. The meal typically 
consists 
of 
seven 
different 
seafood 
dishes, 
originating 
in Southern Italy, where it is 
known simply as The Vigil or 
(La Vigilia). The tradition of 
eating seafood on Christmas Eve 
began from the Roman Catholic 
tradition of abstaining from 
eating meat on the eve of a feast 
day. Observant Catholics would 
instead turn to fish, and today, 
the meal has become a feast of 
seven, eight or even nine specific 
fishes that are considered to be 
traditional. Most Italian Fish 
Feasts commence with white 
fish in lemon and garlic, followed 
by clams and mussels mingling 
with ropes of spaghetti spattered 
in spicy tomato sauce, and a 
number of other fish dishes that 
may feel without end. I should 
tell you that I’ve never celebrated 
Christmas Eve with a traditional 
Festa dei Sette Pesci, but it is 
important in bringing you down 
the line of my life, nonetheless.
Before I was born, when my 
father and his brother were 
boys, they celebrated with a 
traditional Feast of the Seven 
Fishes, cooked by their father at 
the home in which they grew up. 
Much like my family’s festivities 
today, their Christmas Eve had a 
doors open policy — the strategic 
over-preparation 
of 
food 
to 
ensure they wouldn’t run out. 
Everyone leaving full of love 
and food, balancing tupperware 
containers 
of 
leftovers 
on 
their way out. My dad tells me 
my grandfather believed that 
people, no matter who they are 
or what they are, should have 
somewhere to go on Christmas 
Eve, to be around people who 
love them. Around good food and 
good wine, which in our family 
scripture are said to be the 
ultimate offerings of peace and 
harmony. I’m trying to imagine 
what this would look like — a late 
’70s picture in my mind, perhaps 
cigar smoke and laughter fills 
the air; seven, eight, nine, 10 fish 
dishes lining the dining room 
table; white fish buttered and 
sauteed and fried and glazed to 
perfection; pasta with basil and 
crab sauce; a loaf of haphazardly 
torn 
crispy 
baguette 
sitting 
among a pool of grassy olive oil, 
all crackling as they cool, with 
my grandfather’s grace echoing 
into the warm air. I wondered 
what my grandmother did as my 
grandfather spent his afternoons 
and evenings with God in the 
kitchen, mixing and praying. 
Mixing and praying. I never met 
her, my dad and uncle lost her 
when they were my age, but a 
lot of people think she and I are 
quite similar. Isn’t it strange that 
our eyes came from someone 
long gone? I asked my dad what 
her role in this Christmas Eve 
production 
was, 
especially 
considering being Jewish, she 
didn’t 
grow 
up 
celebrating 
Christmas herself.
“She 
was 
the 
master 
of 
ceremonies,” he said without 
much of a thought, and I wished 
to plug a cable into his mind and 
watch his memories project on 
a drop down screen. “She made 
people dance. She made people 
stay. She was the reason the 
evening would run past 10:00 
or 11:00 at night.” I could feel 
his nostalgia effusing from the 
other end of the phone, from 
nearly one thousand miles away. 
“She was the best happy person 
in the world.” I feel as though 

her spirit must still be alive in 
the hardwood floor of our family 
room, where all of our hooligans 
and family members, friends 
old and new, twirl and dance to 
brassy Bruce Springsteen tracks 
and 
holiday 
classics 
before 
dinner on Christmas Eve every 
year.
My uncle tells me the story 
of a year he was sent out with a 
wad of cash from the restaurant 
to pick up a mink coat that my 
grandfather 
was 
giving 
my 
grandmother 
for 
Christmas 
Eve. They always exchanged 
gifts on Christmas Eve because 
much like a small child, the 
anticipation 
killed 
her. 
My 
grandfather wrapped the coat 
in a garbage bag. My uncle said 
he remembers her face when 
she opened it, she cried and then 
slept in it.
When 
my 
grandmother 
passed away, my father, uncle 
and grandfather moved into a 
different home — one that I can 
remember visiting as a small 
girl. It was in this house that the 
tradition first began to mold and 
shift. It is here that my mother 
and her family were invited 
in, bringing with them their 
own customs and scripture. 
Interesting how the people we 
meet and fall in love with have 
traditions too, the marriage of 
two holiday traditions gives 
birth to a completely new one, 
all fresh-faced and sparkling. 
My maternal grandmother says 
some of her first memories of 
my paternal grandfather are at 
his home sharing the Feast of 
the Seven Fishes. She told me 
about the table — a stark image 
— being as long as it had to be in 
order to fit every guest around 
it. My grandfather vehemently 
opposed splitting up the family 
for meals, so instead everyone 
was elbow to elbow. Italians 
believe in closeness. I think most 
prominently in her memory, 
and perhaps the most special 
moments of her first Feasts of the 
Seven Fishes was how fully her 
family was invited to be a part 
of my father’s. My grandmother 
says her favorite memories of 
Christmas 
Eves 
passed 
are 
the table settings, a strategic 
element to my Grandfather’s 
success as a celebrator and a 
gatherer. He always sat my 
mother’s grandfather right next 
to him, bridging the two families 
together at a deeper level than 
just the union of my parents.
As time evolved, the table in 
my grandfather’s house grew too 
small. Suddenly with children 
and spouses and new friends 
to invite inside, the Feast of the 
Seven Fishes didn’t fit at his 
table. Once more, the tradition 
took a new shape, a new face, 
always keeping the same beating 
heart as it forged on through the 
years. My grandfather relocated 
the Christmas Eve celebration to 
his Italian restaurant, shutting 
the doors to the public, which 
is a rarity as the restaurant 
business thrives on Christmas 
Eve. Here he could fit more 
friends, a growing family and 
more spirit than he could before. 
But with new palettes and small 
children the tradition of seven 
fishes didn’t feel right either. He 
altered the menu — still holding 
a candle to the past and those 
lost, but reconfiguring to fit a 
newer group — serving a variety 
of fish dishes, adding chicken 
and pastas, fresh veggies and red 
meat, and of course, thick, soft 
layers of lasagna and crispy, salty 
eggplant parmesan. My uncle 
remembers enormous shrimp 
cocktail, which makes me smile, 
because we still have that at my 
house every year. He tells me 
about snow crab claws the size 
of your hands, a mountain of it, 
piled high on ice. He tells me 
about clam sauce. His intention 
always that there would be 
something for everyone when 
they stepped into his front doors, 
wherever those front doors were, 
whomever the folks were coming 
in from the cold.
It makes more sense to me 
now where this Christmas Eve 
came from — how it was born, 
who gave it breath, who gave it 
life. Why I’ve never had a Feast 
of Seven Fishes, despite the fact 

Our traditions in 
food and festivity

DAILY FOOD COLUMN
that I feel entitled to one. How 
we mix grief and sentimentality, 
love and trifles of history and 
come up with new ways to 
celebrate ancient whisperings. 
What is a meal but nourishment? 
What 
is 
nourishment 
but 
necessity? What is a dish but 
ingredients on a plate? What is 
seven fishes that is not crispy 
eggplant 
parmigiana 
and 
gigantic shrimp cocktail? Do 
we find God in the kitchen? Do 
we find Him in our floorboards? 
Is this recipe always evolving, 
as things ebb and flow, always 
standing firm in its roots? Is 

that my grandmother’s laugh, 
is it her eyes? What is tradition 
without loss? Without love? 
Without reshaping and growing 
and pushing past and pushing 
towards?
What did the 24th look like 
back in 1977, and what is the 
same now as then?
The details have changed. 
They always do. The faces have 
changed too, because that is just 
the way the wind should blow. 
There is no Jewish grandmother 
in a mink coat wrapped in a 
garbage bag, dancing till she 
falls. There is no grandfather 

with worn hands, serving seven, 
eight, nine fishes. But the truth 
in it is the same; the flavors are 
the same. It all comes back to 
the scripture, the recipes, the 
food, the knowledge that in 
ingredients and wine and flavor 
we grieve, we love, we celebrate, 
we come together. It is still an 
open doors policy: You are still 
always welcome, all of you, any 
of you. There will be something 
to eat, something to drink, 
someone to talk to who you’ll 
only see once a year, every year. 
I hope you can come. Everyone is 
invited.

Season one of “The Marvelous 
Mrs. Maisel” ended in a flurry 
of lights and applause. Midge 
Maisel 
(Rachel 
Brosnahan, 
“Crisis in Six Scenes”) was 
high off the end of a successful 
stand-up 
performance. 
Amid 

her crumbling marriage and 
her feuding parents, she was 
rising above it all as a star. It 
was an inspiring ending, one 
that seemed to be the catalyst to 
a continuation of Mrs. Maisel’s 
ferocious fight to become a ruling 
presence in the male-dominated 
industry of stand-up comedy.
Yet, it seems that season two of 
the period comedy had different 
plans. Midge’s heroic stampede 
towards a career in comedy has 
become more a stifled shuffle as 
she has become a backdrop of her 
own starring role. The spotlight 
no longer has a clear target; it 
swings from Maisel’s estranged 
husband Joel (Michael Zegen, 
“Boardwalk Empire”) searching 
for an apartment and purpose, 

to her disillusioned parents Rose 
(Marin Hinkle, “Speechless”) 
and Abe (Tony Shalhoub, “Tales 
from Radiator Springs”) ruining 
and rebuilding their marriage. 
“The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel” is 
more “The Sad Boy Joel Maisel” 
or “The Delusional Abe and 
Rose Weissman,” with little 
opportunity to see what’s so 
marvelous about Mrs. Maisel.
Frustrations with the show 
can be summarized by a single 
scene in episode five. The Maisels 
and Weissmans are away in the 
Catskills, with our star being 
more concerned with trips to the 
salon and swimsuit competitions 
than the variety of gigs her 
driven, sharp manager Susie 
(Alex Borstein, “Family Guy”) 
booked for her. Midge is willing 
to skip the comedy opportunities 
for her break in the Catskills, but 
when she gets the call that the 
department store she works at 
needs her at the Revlon counter, 
she practically jets the 120 
miles back to Manhattan. This 
makes for a short yet wonderful 
little scene, as Midge imitates 
monotone, 
depressing 
news 
radio on the ride back with a 
spunky potential love interest, 
Benjamin 
(Zachary 
Levi, 
“Tangled: The Series”), but it 
sadly highlights what the show 
has become, and where it could 
have gone.
That’s still not to say that 
“Mrs. Maisel” has lost its edge; 
it’s just juggling with it. The 
scenes 
are 
still 
beautifully 

shot, the dialogue still witty 
and quick-paced. Each scene’s 
gaud, movement and backing 
music make for an experience 
that feels as close to a classic 
Broadway musical as television 
can 
get 
(Louis 
Armstrong’s 
“What a Wonderful World” 
soundtracking a walk through 
1950s Paris with your betrothed? 
Um, yes please?). The sophomore 
season isn’t muddled, it isn’t bad, 
it’s just exasperating. Every time 
Midge so much as glances at her 
former husband, you just want 
to scream and remind her that 
he cheated on her even when 
she did everything right, with 
his secretary nonetheless. He 
couldn’t even cheat in a unique 
way, and still his pity party gets 
screen time.
“The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel” 
continues to be better than 
90 percent of everything else 
on television, which is why it 
can afford its stumbles. There 
are glimpses of the old “Mrs. 
Maisel” throughout the first 
half of the sophomore season, 
enough for the audience to 
root desperately for it to break 
through 
completely. 
Faith 
should not be lost in Midge and 
her quest for comedic glory, the 
camera just needs to find its way 
back to her. For now, find some 
joy in Joel’s misery and fondness 
in the Weissman’s revitalized 
marriage. They are just simple 
opening acts to an up-and-
coming, 
astonishing, 
smart-
mouthed comedian. 

‘Mrs. Maisel’ must return 
the spotlight to its true star

SAMANTHA DELLA FERA
Daily Arts Writer

TV REVIEW

ELI RALLO
Daily Food Columnist

“The Marvelous 

Mrs. Maisel”

Season 2, Episodes 
1-5

Amazon Prime 
Video

6 — Tuesday, December 11, 2018
Arts
The Michigan Daily — michigandaily.com

