Mark J. Kaplan, 77, of Red Bank, died April 18, 2024, of a massive cardiopulmonary collapse, two months shy of his 50th wedding anniversary.
He graduated from the New York City Food Trades High School, earning the Proficiency in Baking and Food Sanitation certificates from the City of New York. He enlisted in the United States Army in 1966, serving as First Cook, Headquarters Company, EASCOM, Seoul, Korea and then stateside as the Post Bakery foreman on Fort Lee, Virginia.
The Marriott Corporation needed an executive chef to run its cafeteria serving the thousand employees in the Holmdel Prudential Insurance Building. That properly run outfit snapped him up, being the one employer to recognize how many skills he brought to the table. If he knew anything, he understood flavor. His spaghetti sauce brought every woman into that kitchen the next day, with an empty Hellmann’s jar, asking for leftovers. His chocolate pudding, made not with milk but with water, caused people to say, “What have you done to me? I can never be happy with My-T-Fine again!” His yeast-raised chocolate cake and rugelach drew bug-eyed looks of envy from the aunts in Brooklyn. Silently, they’d take seconds and thirds, casting searing looks in his direction, knowing they’d never be his equal. He smiled all the way back to Jersey.
His favorite sport was stopping in ShopRite the Wednesday before Thanksgiving to, as he put it, “watch the panic.” He could spot, every time, the bewildered young wives who had never done more than nuke Lean Cuisine. He walked them through his never-fail technique for a moist turkey.
For 35 years, Mark totally indulged and spoiled rotten a succession of cats, never wanting to hear a word against them: “No, she didn’t bite me. Her teeth got caught on my hand.”
An hourly wage earner, he worked three jobs to put his wife through the University of Pennsylvania. He worked 14 hours a day, six days a week, until retiring 10 years ago.
Mark is survived by marinated Korean steak; shrimp bisque (a bowl of which was snarfed down by a woman who said, “I am lactose intolerant and I am going to be so sorry later, but, oh baby, I cannot stop.”); his spaghetti sauce; meatballs so light they could float away; and lasagna with a bechamel sauce that, when served, never oozed across the pan.
Mark is also survived by the countless friends who sell every weekend at his beloved flea market, most especially the one he nicknamed “Gumdrop.” Gumdrop, Mark loved you. Never forget that.
To one and all, please do not send flowers. Instead, go out to eat. Have it all. Even dessert. He’d want you to.
The article originally appeared in the May 9 – 15, 2024 print edition of The Two River Times.
