How I Learned To Hate First-Class Airline Food, TV Dinners and Can Openers
When it was 6 p.m. on the dot, not long after man first walked on the moon, our neighbors would sit down to plates of home-cooked meals. Our first-floor hallway in the Linden Houses, a public housing complex in Brooklyn, smelled of suppers of baked and fried chicken, pork chops, meatloaf, cornbread and stuffed cabbage. But my family wasn't like the others. The Schulmans dined on airline food, although the closest we came to flying was waving goodbye to my grandmother as she jetted off to another adventure and watched airplanes take off and land at Kennedy Airport. (Click through to continue reading on Next Avenue). My cookbooks.
