Coney Dogs inspired by The Lost Tribe of Coney Island

In the modern world reality tv, overt voyeurism, and little left to the imagination...where everything is on display...it's easy to long for the past. A time when things were simpler, people were friendlier, and humanity was more evident. But was it really?

I tend to lean towards the answer yes—but only slightly. Human slavery, evil dictators, shady businessmen, human traffickers, and plain-old bad people have always existed. With the population explosion and the invention of the internet, it's just more prominently displayed now. I could argue back and forth (with myself, mind you) on both sides of this coin—and often do.

What's my point? Reading a well-researched, well-documented account of American history, such as The Lost Tribe of Coney Island tends to sway me towards the side that says the darkside was always present. A lying, cheating, heartless swindler coerces an unsuspecting tribe of Igorrote from their home in the Phillipines with empty promises. He them displays them alongside "other freaks and curiosities" in a display that somewhat bends the confines of reality. And people pay to see it happen. I admit to being equally fascinated and revolted by this tale.

There's so much more to it, a recollection that spans several years, starting in February of 1905. This is a great book for a history buff or non-fiction reader, that is even written in a manner that will hold the attention of someone who prefers to read fiction (like myself). As Prentice says... "Ultimately, this is a story of a hero turned villain that makes us question who is civilized and who is savage."

Kare Kare (a traditional Filipino dish)

How is it that something brand-new can seem so familiar?  I'm standing in my kitchen, thirty four years old, one minute...and the next, I'm thirteen years old again and running up my friend Christine's staircase.  The one in her gigantic or so it seemed house. My bangs are plastered up...the sides of my hair plastered out.  Waterfalls and wings.  My stocking covered toes are digging into the plush carpet as I practice my dance moves and sing along to Paula Abdul ...he's a cold-hearted snake.... Christine hands me her camera so I can take a picture of her with her larger-than-life-sized poster of Martin Gore and the rest of the Depeche Mode guys (though he's the one she has a crush on).   These are the things that I remember on the surface...but underneath lies the exotic, seductive smell memories.  The ones that crept out of the kitchen where her tiny Filipino grandma was every single time I went to her house.  And I was at her house a LOT!  We would walk through the front doors- double doors... that was unheard of...to me. ...and the scent would begin to seduce me.

I'm sure that underneath that mysterious medley, there were individual scents that I would recognize if given the opportunity, but by the time we walked through the doors, they were already in the midst of their heady marriage and my chance to take a peek had vanished.   I was always mesmerized by those unfamiliar smells that came from Christine's kitchen.  And yet, looking back, I cannot remember ever eating a meal in her Filipino kitchen.  Not once.  I mean, how does two years of being close friends with a 100% Filipino somebody pass by without ever sitting down to an authentic Filipino meal?  We ordered a lot of pizza.  That I remember.  Could it be that thing that first generation children go through?  Trying to "forget" their ethnic identities and just blend in with their friends?  I'm thinking it probably was...although I wish that my thirteen year old self had just once thought to ask her friend if she could eat a home cooked, authentic-Filipino meal that her grandma had made.  Typical kid.