Grandma Rae, being of Ukrainian and Jewish heritage, was raised in New York with Russian as her first language. Her mother (my great-grandmother Baboo) was a liberal and a socialist during a time when being so wasn't exactly the most ‘American’ thing to do. It is even mentioned that Leon Trotsky spent the night in my great-grandmother's house during his underground pilgrimage from Moscow to Mexico City in the 1930s.

In the early 1920s, Grandma Rae moved to California and soon met her husband, Julius Copeland, an active supporter of workers' rights and a founder of the sheet metal workers' union. The two gave birth to my mother in Saint John's Hospital in Santa Monica (incidentally, the same hospital where I was born.) In 1954, Grandma Rae began a research and marketing company in downtown Santa Monica. She treated her employees and clients with devotion and subsequently grew to become quite respected in her field. Much of my childhood was spent in her office mingling with the employees, trying new products, meeting exciting people and being treated like all little boys should be.

Growing up meant food. My Grandma Rae could rival any grandmother with her culinary ingenious and our dinner highlighted wonderful homemade foods from around the world. Borscht, salads, brisket and mashed potatoes were always followed by discussions on current events and other political chatter. These discussions often had a progressive slant, and inevitable disagreements meant that silverware would become airborne from frustrated fists banging on the table. Conversations would roll for hours and end only when dessert ran out and it was time for bed. The funny thing is, I thought all family dinners were like mine, but I now know that most were not. Of all things, I miss those dinners the most. I try to recreate them from time to time with my current associates but often get stares of shock instead of intellectual debate; it seems people would rather talk about sports or the weather.

My most cherished memory was the summer of '82 when my mother, father, brother, Grandma Rae and Grandpa Julius embarked on a five-week camping trip throughout Western USA and Canada. It was a time of togetherness and sharing and a time when I bonded most with my Grandma Rae. Although my brother and I fought a lot (in the way most boys do) Grandma Rae always loved us and calmed us with stories from a different time. One evening when we were preparing chicken by the campfire, Grandma Rae sat us down and showed us how to use every part of the chicken. Having lived through the depression meant Grandma Rae knew gizzards could be eaten and necks produced outstanding broth; feathers could be kept for pillows, hearts could be roasted and livers were the key for excellent paté. I hate to say it, but the dogs and other scavengers were quite disappointed with what little refuse Grandma Rae disposed from our kitchen on the road.

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