"Isn't she lovely? Isn't she wonderful? Isn't she precious? Less than one minute old..." Stevie Wonder

Earlier this week, I had the honor of attending my friend Julie as she gave birth to her daughter. Those hands in the photo belong to a very gentle and very sweet big brother.

Julie and I have been friends for nearly 20 years. We met when she left her small hometown and came to New York City as a teenager on her own. She worked for us for awhile, until Dennis realized we were talking more than working and replaced her with an older woman who didn't like me enough to chat and was much more efficient.

I have now gotten a taste of what it must feel like for a mother to watch her daughter give birth. I have always considered Julie kind of a little sister to me. When I was pregnant with Eden, Julie was there. She spent holidays with us, complaining to my priest that we brought her to church on Easter and made her eat ham, explaining with a laugh that she was not a very observant Jew, just a little Jew-ish. She filmed my baby's baptisms and has been here for all their milestones. Her new daughter shares the name I gave the daughter I lost nine years ago. I am very touched by this. As the years have past, I didn't think anyone remembered.

I always feel compassion for clients during labor, and I have attended the births of girlfriends before, but this experience was very different for me. I have now gotten a taste of what it must feel like for a mother to watch her daughter give birth. Oy, watching her suffer and not being able to take away her pain was hard. I am very proud of my very strong friend. She is a wonderful mother.

Tomorrow I am baking a special cake for the new mother.
It is a Gesundheits Kuchen, or Good Health Cake, a cake that German Jews traditionally prepared for new mother and to be served on a baby's name day.

This recipe is from the book In Memory's Kitchen: A legacy From The Women of Terezin. These recipes are from the women who were in the concentration camp, and they recited these recipes to each other as part of their survival under the most horrid conditions. I think it would please Mrs. Pachter to know that these many years after the war, this cake is being made to celebrate the birth of Julie's baby.
I also think that Julie's mother will be happy to know that I have found some Jewish recipes to take to the new mother.

Mina Pachter's Gesundheits Kuchen

Adapted from ''In Memory's Kitchen'' (Jason Aronson, 1996)

TOTAL TIME

1 hour

Ingredients

• 6 large eggs, separated
• 1 cup sugar
• 1 cup unsalted butter, melted and cooled
• 1/4 cup ground almonds
• 1/2 teaspoon almond extract
• 2 1/2 cups sifted all-purpose flour
• 2 teaspoons baking powder
• 1/2 teaspoon salt
• 1 cup milk
• Grated rind of 1 lemon
• Confectioners' sugar

Preparation

1.

Preheat the oven to 350 degrees. Grease and lightly flour a tube pan.

2.

Beat the yolks well. Add the sugar, beating well again. Add the cooled butter, almonds and almond extract, and mix well.

3.

Fold in the flour, baking powder, salt, lemon rind and milk.

4.

Beat the egg whites until stiff but not dry, and fold in.

5.

Pour into the greased pan, and bake for 45 minutes or until a toothpick inserted into the middle of the cake comes out clean. Cool in the pan for 10 minutes, then turn out and cool completely. Sprinkle the top with confectioners' sugar.

YIELD

8 servings

• 
  

  NOTE

  Approximate nutritional analysis per serving: 545 calories, 30 grams fat, 225 milligrams cholesterol, 290 milligrams sodium, 11 grams protein, 60 grams carbohydrate.

"Lady Madonna, baby at your breast, wonder how you manage to feed the rest." Paul McCartney

I almost choked on my Allen wrench last week when I read that at the Ikea in Brooklyn, a mother was told by a security guard that she could not do "that" and would have to feed her baby in the bathroom.

I wish I could say I was surprised. I'm not. I was surprised a few years ago when a mother at the Mattituck library was told she could not breastfeed at the library. This mother was at a group for mothers and babies. Since then, I have gotten used to such ignorance.

The Ikea occurrence is a real bummer for me, because I love their inexpensive yet hip furnishings, and have had my eye on a couch, a dresser, and two loft beds.

Ikea is known to be breastfeeding friendly in Europe. I am told they have lactation lounges for their breastfeeding employees. Ikea won accolades from the National Childbirth Trust for its family friendly facilities. In 2006 Ikea was voted the best place in Britain to breastfeed, and breastfeeding mothers were welcomed there for a "Feed-in". They were even consulted on how to make the place even better for breastfeeding.

Why then, was a mother in Brooklyn made to feed her baby in the bathroom? Because this is America, and our country is largely populated by idiots and prudes who can't handle the site of a woman nursing a baby.

Just last week I was in a bar in New York City's West Village with a childless woman of childbearing age. She was telling me about a celebrity that walked into her friend's pub in the middle of the day with two kids in tow. She sat down in a booth, and began to breastfeed her baby. Her friend told this nursing celebrity to leave. She could not "do that" there. The young woman relaying the story was disgusted that someone would breastfeed in public.

The irony here is that we were sitting in the West Village. Have you seen some of the store windows in the West Village? A topless transgendered queen could be walking down the street swinging her girls in the middle of the day, and no one would blink an eye. I've walked by stoops where prostitutes were giving blow jobs right out in the open in New York City,right there on the sidewalk, and I am sure this young woman has walked by similar sites. Yet, it is the site of a breastfeeding mother that appalls her.

I wonder how she will feel when she is dealing with a crying baby, wet stains on the front of her shirt and rock hard breasts. Or, will this be one of those women who "tried to breastfeed, but just could not do it."

I have breastfed in bars.
Yes, I have taken my children into bars.
Why would I do such a thing? When I became a mother, I did not give up my life. I continued to go to restaurants and bars, concerts and plays, church services and movies. Everywhere I went, my babies went. Everywhere they needed to eat, they ate. If someone had a problem with me whipping it out, it was their problem. I am not responsible for their comfort. I am only responsible for the care of my children.

I did consider where I sat when nursing my babies. In church I often took the front row. That way, only the priest, deacon and servers could see me. I did the same thing during my brother's wedding, while sitting right next to my sister who most certainly would not have approved. She did not even notice. I was wearing a nursing dress. It was not very stylish, but it served the purpose.

I have only been asked not to breastfeed on two occasions, shocking considering the frequency with which I nursed in public. Once, at the Amityville Auction House, I was told that the auctioneer found the sight of me nursing distracting, and I was asked to leave. We chose not to spend any more of our money at that place, which was a loss for them as we were loaded in those days and in the process of buying art and furniture for the palace of excess.

The other time I was seating in the bulkhead row on an airline flight to Hawaii. I had fallen asleep with Eden at the breast. When Eden fell asleep, she slid off the breast. There were no other passengers in my row. The flight attendent woke me up and asked me to cover up. I told her we were fine, thanks, and asked her to bring me a drink.

I never breastfed in public to make a political statement or draw attention to myself. In my thirteen years of volunteer work with a national breastfeeding organization, I did not ever meet a mother who breastfed in public for those reasons. I have met mothers who desperately wanted to breastfeed but could not handle the criticism of their own mothers, mothers-in-laws and peers. If we want to have a healthy society, we will support mother and babies, and we will get over our fear of seeing lactating breast do its thing.

Next week is World Breastfeeding Week.
Remember, dear readers, a baby's head is sufficient covering for a breast. Please think about how you would feel if all bottle feeding mothers were told they could not give their babies a bottle in public? Do you like to eat on a public toilet?

I hope Ikea makes an appropriate public apology to this mother. I have a couch to replace.

"With a tear in your eye for the 4th of July, for the patriots and the minute men and the things you believe they believed in then such as freedom..."

On July 4, under the misty cover of morning, I began to roll the towels and stock provisions. We loaded the truck and set forth, bravely declaring our independence from the oppressive rain of the Catskills. In pursuit of life, liberty and sunshine we crossed bridges and traversed the Bronx searching for sand. By 10:00 a.m., we had staked our claim, six inches above the high tide mark at Jones Beach.

There were 12 of us on this adventure. Three generations of weary sun-deprived souls, water logged from the unending rains of June that continue their assault. We were longing for a brief look at summer, and willing to creep out of the secluded Catskill woods and face holiday traffic through New York City and onto Long Island just to get it. It was an act of desperation, an unprecedented event.

It was a good road trip. As we crossed the Tappan Zee Bridge, Dennis recalled a 4th of July some 30 years ago on which he and his rowdy teenage companions rolled a car on the bridge. They were lucky to be alive, and lucky the cops did not search the trunk. Having anticipated the moment for miles, we became giddy when we tuned in WFUV and the signal was clear.

We were on the beach for over ten hours, my children, their cousins from out of state, and my in-laws. Dennis' brother and sister had been visiting us for a few days, most of which seemed to be spent in a frantic run to take cover from storms. A sunny day at the beach was a blessing.

The three eleven year old boys were in their glory, digging a moat around our blankets. My daughter the mermaid, and her teenage cousin spent much of the day laying on their backs side by side, with a towel draped over both their faces, goggling.

The girls found an abandoned beach umbrella in the garbage and fastened it into a flag which marked our territory. We had everything we needed. Two cases of fresh water, cherries, watermelon, homemade bread, yogurt, cheese and grilled chicken and homemade chocolate chip cookies. It takes a lot of food to spend a day in the sun. Our frequent forages into the cooler were interspersed with jaunts to the boardwalk in search of additional sustenance, the gyros, zeppolas, french fries, afternoon coffee and over-priced iced cold beer.

I was amazed by the efficiency with which the Parks Department runs things at Jones Beach. The Ladies' room was amazing. A fast moving line wrapped out of the building and and down the boardwalk. Inside, a team of women ran things like air-traffic controllers. I could hear one on the left side yell, "Two Left!" and the woman working the head of the line would dispatch the next two patrons to the left side of the bath house, where two women were stationed, each pointing to open stalls, and saying, "Have a good day at the beach!"
And so it went: "One right!"
"One left!"
"Two right!"
"Have a good day!"

The arrival of a tug boat towing a barge of fireworks was a highlight of the day, reminding us why we were there. We enjoyed most of the sights, although we considered forming a new support group CCF-CBC Concerned Citizens For The Coverage Of Butt Cracks. Initially there was disappointment when the high tide failed to breach our berm. Disappointment was followed by high fives when we realized the high berms and deep trenches made perfect recliners from which to witness the pyrotechnic display.

As the light softened at sunset, Dennis took family portraits. As the moon rose we huddled under blankets. When the first few notes of John Mellencamp rang across the night we looked to the sky. Colors soared from the barge and exploded into the sky.