Cooking with Mom

My mom has been gone thirty years, and yet she’s still in the kitchen with me. I’ve been proofreading my new cookbook—Gourmet on a Hot Plate, due out in November--and there are reminders of Mom on so many pages—recipes, household hints, etc.

I can’t tell you how many times she cautioned me that food is half eaten with the eye. She taught me to put a pinch of sugar in any tomato-based sauce to “round it off,” to put a splash of vinegar in the water when I boil eggs so they don’t leak out of the shell, to stick cloves of garlic in tiny slits in a roast before cooking it.

I still use her recipes (never written down) for things like wilted lettuce salad or devilled eggs or stuffed mushrooms or salmon patties—okay, I’ve varied that one a bit. Today I had diced tomatoes with butter and crushed saltines for lunch. Jordan’s immediate reaction was, “Yuck,” but she quickly added, “I’m happy for you if you like it.” I do. It’s comfort food my mom used to make.

Then in a bit Jordan asked me to add a certain brand of sweetener to the weekly grocery order, and as I did I thought how strange Mom would find that. She was an Adele Davis fan. Davis was a nutritionist, popular in the mid-20-century. Her basic approach was to stay fit through eating right—and that did not include additives, supplements, etc. It meant eat healthy, natural foods Mom would not understand a sweetener powder, because she would have used sugar. She would understand, as one family does not, my insistence on grating my own cheese—they don’t believe me that the pre-grated in the store has wood fiber to keep it from clumping. Don’t relay on me for that one—I got it straight from the cheese monger.

One of my favorite stories, handed down by Mom, involves the time my parents took a friend and me on a convention trip. In the hotel cafeteria, we girls ordered spinach, but Mom noticed Eleanor Lee wasn’t eating hers. She asked what the matter was, and Eleanor Lee wrinkled her nose and said, “I think it’s fresh.” We were used to canned spinach. Mom went off into one of her well-known laughter fits.

When I think about my kids, I realize how different their eating patterns are. One son’s wife is a representative of a line of prepared seasonings--she has mixes for everything from meatloaf and ranch dressing to apple pie. Much of it is delicious, though I can’t help worrying about preservatives.  Another son drinks far too many diet drinks, no matter how I lecture about the evils of aspartame and the looming specter of dementia. Jordan—and to some extent her sister—eschews carbs. There are several good, old-fashioned casseroles that she won’t eat because, you know, fattening.

I’m an old-fashioned cook, like my mom, and in these my golden years I sometimes long for the days when I cooked for a crowd (four kids is a crowd; add some relatives, and you’ve got a production). As I explain in the cookbook, I don’t want the newest gadgets—Insta Pot, air fryer, etc. To me, they just put a machine between me and the food. If I want to make a pot of soup, I’ll simmer it all day--I’m lucky I have the time to do that.

Here’s a recipe I long to make It would feed Coxey’s Army, but my local army won’t eat it.

Cheesy, creamy beef noodle casserole

6 oz. egg noodles

2 lb. ground beef

1 medium onion, chopped,

3 Tbsp. garlic

Salt and pepper to taste

Sliced mushrooms – optional

1 can each – cream of mushroom and cream of chicken soup

1 can corn, drained

1 c. grated cheddar (more of you wish)

1 sleeve buttery crackers (I use Ritz), crushed

½ stick butter

Cook egg noodles and set aside

Brown beef with garlic, salt and pepper, and mushrooms. Drain

Add noodles to beef mixture along with soups and corn. Sprinkle with grated cheese.

Mix crackers with one half stick butter, melted; distribute evenly on casserole.

Cook 30 minutes, uncovered, at 350. Enjoy! I never said it’s good for your waistline.

No, it’s not one of my mom’s recipes, but she’d have approved. Cooking with canned soups never bothered her at all.

Watch for the cookbook in November. Meantime, bon appetit! Okay, Julia I’m not.