My father and my grandmother had conflicting opinions when giving me advice about choosing a husband. My father wanted me to marry an Italian, my grandmother hoped I would marry an Americano.
“Don’t marry an Italian,” grandma advised me on several occasions. “Italian men think they are big shots! Marry a tall man,” my four foot tall grandmother added, as she stretched her arm up as far as she could, and patted the air above her head. “A tall Americano!”
As I got older, Dad’s advice to marry an Italian became a command. “You have to marry an Italian,” he told me. But after my older brother married a blond blue-eyed girl of German descent, and I became engaged to a tall Americano of Dutch descent, his command became a whimpering plea as he turned his last hope to my younger brother, who was already dating an Irish girl, and asked, “Isn’t anyone going to bring home an Italian?”
Dad’s pleas went unheeded, for none of us married Italians. He was in for another surprise that first Thanksgiving at my brother’s house when his wife did not serve lasagna as the first course.
“Where’s the lasagna,” he whispered to my mother. Her answer was a gentle elbow poke into his ribcage. But my father, who never responded well to subtleties, bellowed across the table to my sister-in-law, “Where’s the lasagna?”
“Lasagna?!” she laughed. “The pilgrims didn’t serve lasagna on Thanksgiving.”
“The pilgrims! Humph! What did they know?” he grumbled. “Italians have lasagna on Thanksgiving.”
Not anymore, I thought, as I looked around the table at the three new non-Italian members of the family.
“You know,” my mother added diplomatically, “I think I like this better. When you fill up on lasagna, you have no room for the turkey.”
“Who cares about the turkey? Italians have lasagna on Thanksgiving,” dad insisted, as he glanced around the table for affirmation and got none. Instead, my brothers, my mother and I, all lifted our heads at the same moment to answer him with silent daggers from our eyes that warned, Don’t start! Only the new in-laws kept eating, oblivious to dad’s traumatic realization that things were never going to be the same now that the family had been infiltrated by “outsiders.” I felt a smile curling at my lips as I remembered my first Thanksgiving at my new in-laws, just a year earlier, when I had my own silent realization of the differences between “them” and “us.” It began at my entrance into my new in-laws home…
My father-in-law opened the door and backed away from me as I leaned forward to kiss him hello. My husband forgot to tell me that they don’t do the “hello kissing” in his family. We sat down to a beautifully set dining room table covered with a white linen (unstained) tablecloth and several different sized (all matching!) plates at each setting. I remained frozen in place as I waited through a rather long prayer of thanks, peaking up from time to time when I thought it was nearing the end. Finally, I heard the Amen! and sat with my arms at my sides to wait and watch the others to see which was the correct fork to use first. Lesson learned: Work from the outside in, or, the smaller fork is the salad fork and sits next to larger/dinner fork which rests next to the dinner plate.. Then I accidentally started eating out of my husband’s salad bowl, causing him to search around the table for an extra one, which, of course, drew attention to the fact that I was ignorant to the rules of a properly set table. Lesson learned: Your salad bowl sits to the left of the forks..
Holidays at my mother’s house were different, more relaxed – or chaotic, depending on your frame of reference. In fact, you were lucky to get a fork at all sometimes, since some relative would think nothing of dropping by at dinnertime with a few extra uninvited guests of their own. My mother’s attempts to create order around the table by counting heads, napkins and forks never prevailed, and soon people were standing in doorways, or sitting on couches, plates delicately balanced on a tripod of fingertips, while others rested their plates on the piano to sing a few bars of whatever my dad was banging out at the moment. Holiday dinners turned into events that lasted well into the night.
At my in-laws that first Thanksgiving, I had observed a new phenomenon around the holiday table: it was quiet conversation – the kind where only two people speak at a time and the others listen silently. The adults even spoke to the children present at the dining room table and listened with interest to their responses. I had only seen this before on television shows like Father Knows Best.
When I was young, the children were never allowed to sit in the dining room with the adults and were exiled to the kitchen table for holiday dinners. Even when we were old enough to make that rite of passage to the adult table, we were not considered a part of their world and were excluded from their conversation as they broke into Italian – their secret language.
I was seated next to my father-in-law at that first Thanksgiving. He had the turkey carcass in front of him with the rear of the turkey facing me. Right in front of me was the prized piece, the much fought over turkey culo. Everyone was focused on one of the little children at the moment and I saw my golden opportunity. I swiftly sliced into the turkey’s ass and the culo fell right off into my waiting fingertips. As I was blissfully chomping away on the crispy culo, daydreaming about past holidays at my mother’s house and making humorous comparisons between my family and this new family I had entered through marriage, I suddenly heard the silence and sensed all eyes on me. I looked up to find seven faces watching me curiously.
“What?” I asked, my face ablaze, a chunk of culo stuck in my throat. My hand stretched out in search of the correct water glass, deftly maneuvering between the wine glasses, praying I wouldn’t knock one over. At that moment, I wished I was eight years old again in the safety of my mother’s kitchen with my other rowdy cousins.
Dessert was served immediately after the dinner plates were cleared. There was no time between courses for the men to walk around the block with their cigars while the women did the dishes. We each received one neatly cut slice of pumpkin pie – something I had never tasted before - and a cup of tea. When dessert was over, the meal was over. The table was being cleared while I was still chewing my last few bits of pie. “Are you done with this?” my sister-in-law asked as she lifted my mug of unfinished tea off the table. I couldn’t swallow fast enough to answer, “no,” and then she declared, “Well, I guess Thanksgiving is over.”
The night was still young so we dropped by my mother’s house to wish everyone a happy Thanksgiving. There were nuts, cracked nutshells and tangerine skins scattered across the tablecloth stained with tomato sauce from the lasagna course. Various pastries, haphazardly cut cakes, broken cookies, Anisette, brandy and a pot of black coffee were also spread around the table. These would not be cleared away until the last person was in their car with the engine running. It would be a sign of disrespect to do otherwise. Clearing the table implied that you wanted people to leave.
There were several animated conversations and bawdy laughter going on around the house while my dad banged on the piano to accompany my uncles who were belting out their favorite Italian arias. It was noisy and chaotic, but this was home to me.
As I walked through the living room kissing and hugging everyone, I felt myself relax for the first time all day. Going from my husband’s reserved quiet family to my outgoing emotional one was like crossing over the border into a different country. Now I was back on familiar terrain, and for the first time I understood my father’s wishes for me to marry an Italian.
He had wanted all of this to continue. The common threads of a culture bring familiarity and comfort to people of a common heritage. His wishes that I marry an Italian spoke volumes to me now that I had married into a family so unlike my own.
But in any marriage, there are adjustments on both sides, and over the years I knew we would join and blend our cultures – accepting some traditions and rejecting others. I think this is what my grandmother had hoped when she advised me to marry an Americano. She wanted me to do what she, as an Italian immigrant, was unable to do in her own lifetime – to finally assimilate into this modern new world called America.
Now, at my brother’s house, Dad was working on his own assimilation, even if it meant doing without his beloved lasagna at Thanksgiving. His old ways were suddenly being challenged where it affected him most – at the table. But I knew it wouldn’t be long before he was asking his new daughters-in-law to make him sauerbraten or corned beef and cabbage. My father would assimilate very easily if you kept him well fed. He loves his food and his family and the warmth around the table. He is, after all, Italian.
Below is my mother’s lasagna recipe which she gave me on a 3x5 index card. It’s the one I use to make lasagna on the Sunday after Thanksgiving.
Lasagna
2 lb. lasagna
4 large cans tomatoes
2 smaller cans tomatoes (Del Monte)
2 lbs. chop meat
1 packet sausage
2 lbs ricotta + 1 small container ricotta
1 large mozzarella + 1 small
Layer in pan as follows
1 Tomato Sauce
2 Chop Meat
3 Lasagna
4 Ricotta
5 Chop meat
6 Mozzarella
7 Tomato sauce
8 Grated cheese
Sunday, November 29, 2009
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
Presto! Pesto!
My son called last Saturday night to tell me my pesto sauce had saved his life. I heard the tension in his voice as he explained that he had just missed a multiple car accident that had happened moments before he arrived on the scene. Cars were damaged from bricks and concrete falling off the Wantagh State Parkway overpass onto the Southern State Parkway and he would have been one of the cars involved in that accident, for sure, if he hadn’t lingered those extra ten minutes at my house to have a small plate of pasta with pesto sauce.
Sometimes you wonder about fate and the chain of events that lead from one moment to another. He was in such a rush to leave for a party that night. I'm certain nothing else would have kept him there except that sweet basil and garlic scent, the Sirens' call that no man in my family can resist.
I learned about pesto sauce from my friend's mother back in 1980. She couldn’t believe that I, a true blue 100% Sicilian, had never heard of pesto sauce, so she sent me home that day with the recipe scrawled on a piece of scrap paper and a large bouquet of fresh basil that she had just picked from her garden.
The paper, today, resembles one of the Dead Sea Scrolls. See below:
2 cups (packed) fresh sweet basil,( leaves only; no stems) washed and gently patted dry (or put through a salad spinner to dry)
2 Tablespoons pine nuts (pignoli) or walnuts
1 to 2 cloves garlic smashed (or more, to your taste, if the cloves are small)
½ cup extra virgin olive oil
Place the first 4 ingredients in a blender or food processor (food processor is best). Start the processor and pour the olive oil in through the top while the processor is running. Stop the processor after a few seconds and wipe down the sides of the bowl with a spatula; pulse once or twice more until smooth, but not too runny. You want to see tiny pieces of basil in the bowl.
Add the Parmesan cheese and just pulse once or twice to blend.
Inhale deeply and smell the essence of summer! Place in a covered bowl or covered jar until ready to serve. At this point, you may freeze the pesto to use another day. To defrost, leave out on the counter for several hours to reach room temperature and then follow directions below:
Cook pasta according to package directions. Strain pasta in a colander and return to bowl. Add 3 Tablespoons butter to cooked pasta and toss to blend. (Do not use olive oil in place of butter and do not omit the butter. I’ve tried doing both of these things with poor results. Just use the butter and walk an extra mile tomorrow!) Pour pesto sauce over warm buttered pasta. Top individual bowls with additional cheese, if desired, and a grinding of pepper.
The first time I made it for my parents, I watched my father fall into a hypnotic trance as he ate his entire portion without lifting his head once. When he finally came up for air, his lips were outlined with olive oil and his eye lids were half closed. He had to have more, so I found friends and relatives with an overabundance of fresh basil in their gardens. I experimented and learned that you could freeze the pesto, immediately after making it, so I supplied him with several frozen batches in mini Mason jars to get him through the long cold winter.
When you defrost a jar of frozen pesto on the counter in the middle of February and open the lid, your kitchen fills up with the intense smell of sweet basil carried on a warm light summer breeze. You lose the winter doldrums as the aroma fills your sinus cavities and carries with it the memories of sunny summer days in a lush green garden. You stand at the window and laugh at the snow piling up because you have captured summer in a jar of homemade pesto sauce.
Unfortunately, dad loved his pesto sauce so much that his entire winter supply ran out by November, leaving him inquiring about when I was going to start my garden again. “Not until May?!” he cried in disbelief. His desperate plea sent me in search of a supplier of fresh basil. I found one in Michigan and ordered a pound of fresh basil for $40. I lied to my husband and told him it only cost $12 with shipping included. He thought $12 was too expensive for a bag full of leaves.
Watching my father’s childlike glee on Christmas day as he opened his bag of four small jars of fresh pesto was worth all the money in the world. In fact, I did it again for Father’s Day because my own garden basil wouldn’t be ready until July, and, by now, he was hooked, or as my mother would say, he was addicted. He had to have a small plate of pasta every night with a heaping tablespoon of pesto sauce. Why have a boring potato or dry white rice when he could have pasta with luscious garlicky pesto, he would argue.
I was tickled, at first, that I was the only one in the family who could please my father so. The child had become father to the man, as he was now dependent on me for his greatest pleasure, his pesto. “I’m running low,” he would warn me when his supply was down to one or two jars. I couldn’t keep up with the demand, so I started going to fresh markets. I would try to make a single batch at a time from the scrawny wilted bunch of basil that would occasionally be hiding behind the parsley in my local food store. “This batch wasn’t as good as the one from the last time,” he would inform me, as if I didn't already know. There was no fooling him.
Dad’s dependence on me ended rather abruptly when my brother showed up one day with a large jar of pesto sauce that he had purchased in the Price Club. “You don’t need to make me anymore pesto,” dad informed me shortly after. "I know it's alot of trouble for you, and this one in the jar is just as good as yours."
“This can’t be as good as my homemade pesto!”
“Yeah, it’s pretty close,” he admitted. “Your mother even said so.”
And that was that. All my loving intentions that went into the process of preparing my dad’s favorite food, were replaced by an unfeeling commercial conglomerate. My visits were no longer ones of anticipation and excitement. I could no longer enter my parents home like a rock star calling out, “I’ve got fresh pesto!” because dad’s freezer was already packed with several jars of pesto sauce from the Price Club. My exalted role of chief pesto maker to the patriarch of our family was over. I was demoted back to humble daughter.
1 pound penne or other tubular pasta
1 pound fresh asparagus, trimmed, stalks cut crosswise into 2-inch pieces, tips reserved
¼ cup pine nuts, toasted*
2 cloves garlic, chopped
½ cup packed chopped fresh basil (I don’t chop it, just press it down into the food processor)
½ cup extra-virgin olive oil
2 ½ teaspoons salt, plus more to taste
1/3 cup grated Parmesan cheese
Freshly ground black pepper
*toasted pine nuts: In a small skillet over medium heat, toast the pine nuts, stirring often, until fragrant and golden, 2-3 minutes
Bring a large pot of salted water to a boil. Add the pasta, stirring to prevent sticking. Cook until al dente, 8-10 minutes. Reserve 1/3 cup of the pasta cooking water and drain the pasta in a colander. Return pasta to the pot.
Meanwhile, in a saucepan fitted with a steamer basket, bring 1 inch of water to a boil. Place the asparagus stalks in the basket and steam, covered, for 4 minutes. Add the reserved asparagus tips, cover, and steam until just tender, about 1 minute. Transfer the asparagus to ice water to stop the cooking. Drain the asparagus well in a colander and pat dry.
In a food processor, combine the pine nuts, garlic, and basil and process until finely chopped. Add the asparagus stalks, olive oil, and 2 ½ teaspoons salt and pulse until the asparagus is coarsely chopped. Transfer to a large bowl and stir in the Parmesan and reserved cooking water. Add the pasta, tossing to coat and season to taste with salt and pepper. Top with the asparagus tips. Serve hot.
************************************************
Note #1: I found this recipe a bit salty, so I no longer salt the cooking water in the first step. You may want to cut out some additional salt to your liking.
Note #2: If you don't have a steamer, just drop them into boiling water for about 45 seconds to 1 minute to parboil and tenderize them.
Sometimes you wonder about fate and the chain of events that lead from one moment to another. He was in such a rush to leave for a party that night. I'm certain nothing else would have kept him there except that sweet basil and garlic scent, the Sirens' call that no man in my family can resist.
I learned about pesto sauce from my friend's mother back in 1980. She couldn’t believe that I, a true blue 100% Sicilian, had never heard of pesto sauce, so she sent me home that day with the recipe scrawled on a piece of scrap paper and a large bouquet of fresh basil that she had just picked from her garden.
The paper, today, resembles one of the Dead Sea Scrolls. See below:
Pasta with Pesto Sauce
2 cups (packed) fresh sweet basil,( leaves only; no stems) washed and gently patted dry (or put through a salad spinner to dry)
2 Tablespoons pine nuts (pignoli) or walnuts
1 to 2 cloves garlic smashed (or more, to your taste, if the cloves are small)
½ teaspoon salt
½ cup extra virgin olive oil
½ cup Parmesan cheese
________________________________________
3 Tablespoons butter, cut into small pieces
1 lb. linguini or other pasta
________________________________________
3 Tablespoons butter, cut into small pieces
1 lb. linguini or other pasta
I went home that afternoon in 1980 and made many batches of pesto sauce from that big bouquet. There were basil leaves soaking in the sink, basil leaves in my salad spinner, the colander, loose leaves had fallen to the floor, stalks were lying on the counter and the kitchen table, every space was covered with bright green basil leaves. I was intoxicated into a heady stupor by the intense scent of garlic, basil and Parmesan cheese spreading throughout the house. I licked a drop of pesto off my fingertip and let out a hoot of joy! What I had discovered there that day was a taste so divine, so unique to my palate. I felt like I had discovered a new world.
Place the first 4 ingredients in a blender or food processor (food processor is best). Start the processor and pour the olive oil in through the top while the processor is running. Stop the processor after a few seconds and wipe down the sides of the bowl with a spatula; pulse once or twice more until smooth, but not too runny. You want to see tiny pieces of basil in the bowl.
Add the Parmesan cheese and just pulse once or twice to blend.
Inhale deeply and smell the essence of summer! Place in a covered bowl or covered jar until ready to serve. At this point, you may freeze the pesto to use another day. To defrost, leave out on the counter for several hours to reach room temperature and then follow directions below:
Cook pasta according to package directions. Strain pasta in a colander and return to bowl. Add 3 Tablespoons butter to cooked pasta and toss to blend. (Do not use olive oil in place of butter and do not omit the butter. I’ve tried doing both of these things with poor results. Just use the butter and walk an extra mile tomorrow!) Pour pesto sauce over warm buttered pasta. Top individual bowls with additional cheese, if desired, and a grinding of pepper.
The first time I made it for my parents, I watched my father fall into a hypnotic trance as he ate his entire portion without lifting his head once. When he finally came up for air, his lips were outlined with olive oil and his eye lids were half closed. He had to have more, so I found friends and relatives with an overabundance of fresh basil in their gardens. I experimented and learned that you could freeze the pesto, immediately after making it, so I supplied him with several frozen batches in mini Mason jars to get him through the long cold winter.
When you defrost a jar of frozen pesto on the counter in the middle of February and open the lid, your kitchen fills up with the intense smell of sweet basil carried on a warm light summer breeze. You lose the winter doldrums as the aroma fills your sinus cavities and carries with it the memories of sunny summer days in a lush green garden. You stand at the window and laugh at the snow piling up because you have captured summer in a jar of homemade pesto sauce.
Unfortunately, dad loved his pesto sauce so much that his entire winter supply ran out by November, leaving him inquiring about when I was going to start my garden again. “Not until May?!” he cried in disbelief. His desperate plea sent me in search of a supplier of fresh basil. I found one in Michigan and ordered a pound of fresh basil for $40. I lied to my husband and told him it only cost $12 with shipping included. He thought $12 was too expensive for a bag full of leaves.
Watching my father’s childlike glee on Christmas day as he opened his bag of four small jars of fresh pesto was worth all the money in the world. In fact, I did it again for Father’s Day because my own garden basil wouldn’t be ready until July, and, by now, he was hooked, or as my mother would say, he was addicted. He had to have a small plate of pasta every night with a heaping tablespoon of pesto sauce. Why have a boring potato or dry white rice when he could have pasta with luscious garlicky pesto, he would argue.
I was tickled, at first, that I was the only one in the family who could please my father so. The child had become father to the man, as he was now dependent on me for his greatest pleasure, his pesto. “I’m running low,” he would warn me when his supply was down to one or two jars. I couldn’t keep up with the demand, so I started going to fresh markets. I would try to make a single batch at a time from the scrawny wilted bunch of basil that would occasionally be hiding behind the parsley in my local food store. “This batch wasn’t as good as the one from the last time,” he would inform me, as if I didn't already know. There was no fooling him.
The basil must be fresh and perky, not brown and mottled. And don't try to store basil in the refrigerator for any length of time. It will turn brown and lose it's flavor in a day or two. You must buy or pick the fresh basil on the day that you plan to make the pesto sauce, so plan accordingly...
Dad’s dependence on me ended rather abruptly when my brother showed up one day with a large jar of pesto sauce that he had purchased in the Price Club. “You don’t need to make me anymore pesto,” dad informed me shortly after. "I know it's alot of trouble for you, and this one in the jar is just as good as yours."
“This can’t be as good as my homemade pesto!”
“Yeah, it’s pretty close,” he admitted. “Your mother even said so.”
And that was that. All my loving intentions that went into the process of preparing my dad’s favorite food, were replaced by an unfeeling commercial conglomerate. My visits were no longer ones of anticipation and excitement. I could no longer enter my parents home like a rock star calling out, “I’ve got fresh pesto!” because dad’s freezer was already packed with several jars of pesto sauce from the Price Club. My exalted role of chief pesto maker to the patriarch of our family was over. I was demoted back to humble daughter.
I refuse to buy processed pesto sauce - on principle alone. If I can’t make it from my own home grown garden basil, I'll do without it. I rather enjoy waiting for seasonal foods. It makes them even more special when you can only have them at certain times of the year. I tried explaining this to dad, but he wasn't buying it, and by this time, my mother was just as relieved to have a supply of pesto in her freezer just so she wouldn't have to listen to him complaining over a baked potato.
If you are lucky to find a small bunch of fresh basil in your local food store you can try the recipe below from The Big Book of Vegetarian by Kathy Farrell-Kingsley. It only uses ½ cup fresh basil, as opposed to the original pesto recipe that uses 2 cups. It is light and creamy, and I love the combined flavors of asparagus and basil. Try it; you'll like it!
PENNE with ASPARAGUS PESTO
1 pound penne or other tubular pasta
1 pound fresh asparagus, trimmed, stalks cut crosswise into 2-inch pieces, tips reserved
¼ cup pine nuts, toasted*
2 cloves garlic, chopped
½ cup packed chopped fresh basil (I don’t chop it, just press it down into the food processor)
½ cup extra-virgin olive oil
2 ½ teaspoons salt, plus more to taste
1/3 cup grated Parmesan cheese
Freshly ground black pepper
*toasted pine nuts: In a small skillet over medium heat, toast the pine nuts, stirring often, until fragrant and golden, 2-3 minutes
Bring a large pot of salted water to a boil. Add the pasta, stirring to prevent sticking. Cook until al dente, 8-10 minutes. Reserve 1/3 cup of the pasta cooking water and drain the pasta in a colander. Return pasta to the pot.
Meanwhile, in a saucepan fitted with a steamer basket, bring 1 inch of water to a boil. Place the asparagus stalks in the basket and steam, covered, for 4 minutes. Add the reserved asparagus tips, cover, and steam until just tender, about 1 minute. Transfer the asparagus to ice water to stop the cooking. Drain the asparagus well in a colander and pat dry.
In a food processor, combine the pine nuts, garlic, and basil and process until finely chopped. Add the asparagus stalks, olive oil, and 2 ½ teaspoons salt and pulse until the asparagus is coarsely chopped. Transfer to a large bowl and stir in the Parmesan and reserved cooking water. Add the pasta, tossing to coat and season to taste with salt and pepper. Top with the asparagus tips. Serve hot.
************************************************
Note #1: I found this recipe a bit salty, so I no longer salt the cooking water in the first step. You may want to cut out some additional salt to your liking.
Note #2: If you don't have a steamer, just drop them into boiling water for about 45 seconds to 1 minute to parboil and tenderize them.
Friday, November 13, 2009
Cookbooks Be Gone
Several years ago, my mother began giving her cookbooks away. With a wave of her hand, like a magician doing a disappearing act, she passed them off to anyone who would have them and freed herself of the burden of using recipes. “What do I need them for,” she said, “after a while all these recipes taste the same.”
I was the happy recipient of a few of them, though I must admit that I never did more than flip through the pages. They, along with a few of my own, are now in a box labeled, “Free Cookbooks”. I can’t bring myself to drag them out to the curb just yet. Each time I open the box I imagine that I see little pouty faces looking up at me. “But you haven’t even tried us,” they cry, as I slam the lid back down on their muffled sobs.
The truth is that there isn’t much in the kitchen that excites me anymore. I’ve tried it all: the mousses, breads, dressings, pies, cakes, soups. I think I cooked myself through five years of Bon Appetite magazines before I realized that the recipes in their new issues were tasting a lot like something I cooked several years earlier. I bought the binder they were selling to keep all the old issues in, put the magazines in there, and now the collection is so heavy I can’t even lift it up.
There isn’t much incentive to baking a cake “from scratch” when I have to answer questions like: “how much butter (or eggs, or cream) is in this cake?” or “is this fattening?” before I slice the first piece. When I work all day on a beautiful cake and then I’m instructed to cut “just a sliver” because everyone around the table is watching their calories, I resolve myself to serving Entenmann’s next time. At least I won’t have to eat all the leftovers because I feel guilty throwing the cake away.
One of the cookbooks in the box going out to the curb is, A Piece of Cake, the cookbook my husband bought me for Christmas one year. I still don’t know why he bought it since this is a man who prefers box cakes to homemade. You know the kind: Duncan Hines, Betty Crocker. I learned this one year after I worked all day to make him the “Perfect Chocolate Cake” from my McCall’s cookbook. After leaving a good portion on his plate, he leaned back and patted his stomach saying, “I can’t finish this; it’s too rich. I don’t really like homemade cakes; they’re too dense.” He was lucky that it was his birthday, because you can only imagine what I wanted to do to him at that moment.
Thirty or so years ago, when I was young and foolish, I devised a ranking system. “On a scale of one to ten…” it began, and my husband would rate the dish in front of him. I strove to outdo myself in those days, trying to prove myself in the kitchen, trying to earn that 10 rating. I was eager to please and happy to serve up my best recipes for the ranking.
We had fun with this until one evening when I served a fish dish at a dinner party and my brother asked my husband to rank the dish. My sister-in-law giggled nervously as she glanced over to me. I smiled smugly, thinking, this would surely be my shining hour when, among witnesses, I would finally rate a 10. The chant began around the table, “ten, ten, ten,” growing in volume as my husband took a piece of fish and slowly chewed, looked up at the ceiling pensively and finally swallowed. He placed his fork gently down on the table and looked around at the group with all the importance of a master chef as we eagerly awaited his ranking.
“9 ½,” he said. Among the shouts of disbelief around the table he simply said, “I had a better one in Bora-Bora back in 1974.” There was no more ranking that evening or ever again, for that matter. In fact, my husband has gone from ranking my meals to thanking me for any meal that I put in front of him now.
I was the happy recipient of a few of them, though I must admit that I never did more than flip through the pages. They, along with a few of my own, are now in a box labeled, “Free Cookbooks”. I can’t bring myself to drag them out to the curb just yet. Each time I open the box I imagine that I see little pouty faces looking up at me. “But you haven’t even tried us,” they cry, as I slam the lid back down on their muffled sobs.
The truth is that there isn’t much in the kitchen that excites me anymore. I’ve tried it all: the mousses, breads, dressings, pies, cakes, soups. I think I cooked myself through five years of Bon Appetite magazines before I realized that the recipes in their new issues were tasting a lot like something I cooked several years earlier. I bought the binder they were selling to keep all the old issues in, put the magazines in there, and now the collection is so heavy I can’t even lift it up.
There isn’t much incentive to baking a cake “from scratch” when I have to answer questions like: “how much butter (or eggs, or cream) is in this cake?” or “is this fattening?” before I slice the first piece. When I work all day on a beautiful cake and then I’m instructed to cut “just a sliver” because everyone around the table is watching their calories, I resolve myself to serving Entenmann’s next time. At least I won’t have to eat all the leftovers because I feel guilty throwing the cake away.
One of the cookbooks in the box going out to the curb is, A Piece of Cake, the cookbook my husband bought me for Christmas one year. I still don’t know why he bought it since this is a man who prefers box cakes to homemade. You know the kind: Duncan Hines, Betty Crocker. I learned this one year after I worked all day to make him the “Perfect Chocolate Cake” from my McCall’s cookbook. After leaving a good portion on his plate, he leaned back and patted his stomach saying, “I can’t finish this; it’s too rich. I don’t really like homemade cakes; they’re too dense.” He was lucky that it was his birthday, because you can only imagine what I wanted to do to him at that moment.
Thirty or so years ago, when I was young and foolish, I devised a ranking system. “On a scale of one to ten…” it began, and my husband would rate the dish in front of him. I strove to outdo myself in those days, trying to prove myself in the kitchen, trying to earn that 10 rating. I was eager to please and happy to serve up my best recipes for the ranking.
We had fun with this until one evening when I served a fish dish at a dinner party and my brother asked my husband to rank the dish. My sister-in-law giggled nervously as she glanced over to me. I smiled smugly, thinking, this would surely be my shining hour when, among witnesses, I would finally rate a 10. The chant began around the table, “ten, ten, ten,” growing in volume as my husband took a piece of fish and slowly chewed, looked up at the ceiling pensively and finally swallowed. He placed his fork gently down on the table and looked around at the group with all the importance of a master chef as we eagerly awaited his ranking.
“9 ½,” he said. Among the shouts of disbelief around the table he simply said, “I had a better one in Bora-Bora back in 1974.” There was no more ranking that evening or ever again, for that matter. In fact, my husband has gone from ranking my meals to thanking me for any meal that I put in front of him now.
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
Go, Yankees!
I’m rooting for the Yankees these days. In fact, I’m screaming at the TV like those crazy fans in the seats. Go, Jeter! Yeah! He’s the man! As I swill my cold beer and munch on something crispy – anything will do, as long as it’s salty – my husband crooks his neck to look over at me and ask, “What’s gotten into you?”
I wonder myself, what’s gotten into me? I, who never drinks anything more potent than a cup of de-caffeinated mint tea after dinner, am looking for a cold one as the opening music announces the beginning of game five. I blame the commercials. How can you resist a cold beer after that Budweiser commercial? Everyone on the TV is drinking a frothy beer and laughing. I want to be happy, too!
I want to slap someone’s hand when Damon slides in for a home run, so I lift my hand up into the air and look over to the only other life form in the room. But my husband is fully horizontal on his recliner with his hands locked behind his head. No excitement there.
I never was a sports fan. I find football boring, but at least they have a half time show. What does baseball have? A seven inning stretch? Woo-hoo! Talk about excitement!
These days are different. Now, I go through my day thinking, Oh! There’s a game tonight! I think about my men. Jorge, keep your comments to yourself tonight; don’t anger the ump! I’m secretly glad they lost last night so I’ll have another game to watch on Wednesday. I’m waiting for Andy Pettitte to pitch again. I like to watch his solemn face concentrating before he winds up for the pitch. And he has a strong resemblance to my oldest son. I talk to him through the TV: Come on, Andy, concentrate, relax. And what about that Johnny Damon! Checking his stats this morning, I was amazed to find that he is young enough to be my son.
Maybe that’s why I like watching these guys. They are so young and full of health and life and stamina, vigor and energy, something I lack these days. But for a few hours, I can feel that spark of youth, swill my beer and feel like I’m out there running the bases too. I get the same rush when I watch the Olympics. I want to start an exercise program, go on a diet, improve my health. (So why am I drinking beer and eating salty veggie sticks?)
Now I can understand why people have those Super Bowl parties. Enthusiasm is contagious and it’s such a great physical release to shout and jump like children do every day when they play. We go through our serious work days trying to contain enthusiasm and remain calm at all times. It’s just plain fun to jump up and down and shout with abandon, to do a little jig when the shouting isn’t enough to express your excitement, and to be among people who are acting as ridiculous as you are. It’s a time when we can wear team shirts and silly hats, wave neon noodles, white rags or anything else to show our team spirit. It’s a time when we can be children again.
I’m looking forward to game six, a cold brewski, some salty popcorn and a close loss – so we can have one more game to watch.
I wonder myself, what’s gotten into me? I, who never drinks anything more potent than a cup of de-caffeinated mint tea after dinner, am looking for a cold one as the opening music announces the beginning of game five. I blame the commercials. How can you resist a cold beer after that Budweiser commercial? Everyone on the TV is drinking a frothy beer and laughing. I want to be happy, too!
I want to slap someone’s hand when Damon slides in for a home run, so I lift my hand up into the air and look over to the only other life form in the room. But my husband is fully horizontal on his recliner with his hands locked behind his head. No excitement there.
I never was a sports fan. I find football boring, but at least they have a half time show. What does baseball have? A seven inning stretch? Woo-hoo! Talk about excitement!
These days are different. Now, I go through my day thinking, Oh! There’s a game tonight! I think about my men. Jorge, keep your comments to yourself tonight; don’t anger the ump! I’m secretly glad they lost last night so I’ll have another game to watch on Wednesday. I’m waiting for Andy Pettitte to pitch again. I like to watch his solemn face concentrating before he winds up for the pitch. And he has a strong resemblance to my oldest son. I talk to him through the TV: Come on, Andy, concentrate, relax. And what about that Johnny Damon! Checking his stats this morning, I was amazed to find that he is young enough to be my son.
Maybe that’s why I like watching these guys. They are so young and full of health and life and stamina, vigor and energy, something I lack these days. But for a few hours, I can feel that spark of youth, swill my beer and feel like I’m out there running the bases too. I get the same rush when I watch the Olympics. I want to start an exercise program, go on a diet, improve my health. (So why am I drinking beer and eating salty veggie sticks?)
Now I can understand why people have those Super Bowl parties. Enthusiasm is contagious and it’s such a great physical release to shout and jump like children do every day when they play. We go through our serious work days trying to contain enthusiasm and remain calm at all times. It’s just plain fun to jump up and down and shout with abandon, to do a little jig when the shouting isn’t enough to express your excitement, and to be among people who are acting as ridiculous as you are. It’s a time when we can wear team shirts and silly hats, wave neon noodles, white rags or anything else to show our team spirit. It’s a time when we can be children again.
I’m looking forward to game six, a cold brewski, some salty popcorn and a close loss – so we can have one more game to watch.
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