Kitchen Tales

My kitchen sink

Last night Jordan found an old cookbook on my shelves. “Did you write in this?” she asked, the moment she opened it. The pages were covered with notes, recipes on index cards were stapled in at various places, and hand-written recipes covered the endsheets. Jordan, who’s been trained not to write in books, was astounded. I told it was a first edition of Helen Corbitt’s first cookbook that had belonged to Linda’s mother, Billie, and Linda (one of my closest friends) loaned it to me, knowing that I was fond of Billie and at the time studying Helen Corbitt. “Linda can’t have this back,” she said as she leafed through it. (Be forewarned next time you visit, Linda!)

So I thought Jordan might enjoy the cookbook my mom had helped put together in the fifties for the auxiliary of the osteopathic hospital where Dad worked. Mom was sort of the force behind that book, but reluctant to  have her name appear too often, she signed some recipes with the pseudonym Penelope Jones. Helpful cooking hints were contributed by the anonymous “Gourmet Grace”—guess who. And then some recipes carried the names of my far-away aunts. It was one of those projects where the recipes are reproduced in the donor’s handwriting—and there it was, in roundish, childish handwriting: my first published recipe, for hot cheese dip.

Jordan was surprised by the amounts or lack of. “It says one roll of garlic cheese—how do you know how big?” I explained that back then garlic cheese came, from Kraft I believe, in a standard size. It’s no longer on the market that way. Another surprise for her brought forth, “You can’t buy lobster in a can!” I assured her you could, probably still can today. She looked it up and it is available, at quite a price. Several more oddities struck her, and we had lots of fun talking about the difference in recipes. It was especially fun since she, my youngest, had been her grandmother’s special baby because soon after she came along my mom moved down the street from us.

Ruth Reichl’s Substack column today struck home with me. It reprinted a column she’d written several years ago from an ultra-modern, ultra-efficient, swank leased kitchen in LA. The kind where you can do everything with a push of a button. The dream kitchen of thr 1950s. Reichl hated it. It was cold and sterile, and she longed for her home kitchen with the stove that didn’t work right. She then reviewed various kitchens in homes where she’d lived, with the thought in mind that the kitchen should be a happy place (Helen Corbitt would have loved this woman!)

Of course it got me to thinking about kitchens I’ve known, from the remodel in the fifties that Mom was so proud of to the remodel in what I call my doctor’s-wife kitchen. That remodel, I swear, began the dissolution of the marriage. And then of course I came to my tiny kitchen today. One of the points Reichl made was that she had cooked for years in kitchens without dishwashers, which gave her a new appreciation for that appliance. I cook without one now—no room for it. And as most of you know I cook on an induction hot plate and a toaster oven—no stove, no microwave.

I’ve been saying that if I thought I would cook and live for another twenty years or so, I’d hire one of those expensive kitchen designers to gut my kitchen and redesign it. Our contractor, who is a minor god in my book, did a good job, building on knowledge from his wife’s kitchen. Mine is functional, but I am sure there is a better way to design it for more storage, more efficient use of space, and better accommodation for a person in a wheelchair. I don’t do it because one never knows in the mid-eighties how long this good run is going to last, and it would not be an investment in the future—I can’t imagine anyone caring that much about a 4x6 kitchen in what will probably be rental property one day. Meantime, taking Reichl’s advice, I’m going to focus on my kitchen as a joyful place—it mostly is, for me.

I resurrected a bit of the past today when Teddy and Sue came for wine. I Jezebel sauce. There are hundreds of recipes out there, but I’ve never found the first one I ever made, so I was delighted to find this four-ingredient one: 1 18 oz. jar apricot preserves, 2 tsp. Dijon mustard, 2-3 Tbsp. horseradish, cracked pepper to taste. Pour it over a block of cream cheese and serve with Ritz crackers. It was a hit, though I halved the recipe and still had about half of what I made left over.

I had one more kitchen tale to tell—a disastrous delivery from Central Market—but it’s late, and I’ll save it for another day.

Patio and book day

Jordan and Christian worked on the yard this afternoon. It’s that time of year when the pecan tress drops those “worms” all over. You can blow them off in the morning and by mid-afternoon, the patio is covered again. Sophie, with her woolly coat, brings dozens of them into the house—this morning I could follow a trail where she went from French doors, down the hall, and into the bedroom to get into my still-unmade bed, where she dropped more “worms.”

Jordan was so proud that she cleaned the patio while I napped, but by the time I got up, it was littered again. She spray-painted our two metal flamingoes. The paint had been the subject of great controversy. Jacob painted the small one a year or so ago, with a Pepto-Bismol spray paint that was way too pink. I insisted we go to the hardware for a better shade, but that was all they had. So our big flamingo is now an unnatural pink.

I am reminded of my friend, Carol, a purist about many things who once complained, “Why are all my friends’ gardens sprouting this tacky Mexican tin art?” Guilty!

We sat on the patio tonight for a pre-dinner glass of wine. Lovely, peaceful, and green—but those worms dropped all around us. Luckily, none landed in the wine.

Sometimes I feel Sunday is a good day to dedicate to a book, and that’s what I did today, reading most of Ruth Reichl’s Save Me the Plums, the title taken from that marvelously intimate poem by William Carlos Williams. This is Reichl’s memoir of her tenure as editor-in-chief of Gourmet magazine. I wouldn’t call it charming, but I would call it mesmerizing. She is honest and frank about her own insecurities as she ventured into the corporate world, one where she was never completely at home. She admits to anxiety attacks, feelings of inadequacy, guilt about her mothering skills—all this makes her so human.

The memoir is in a way an exposé about corporate America, the kind of revelation that makes me grateful for my small-time, no-pressure, no-big-success writing and publishing career. But it is also a book about food, and Reichl is a skilled food writer, one who can talk unselfconsciously about carousels or explosions of flavor in her mouth, bread that makes you think of a forest on a sunny day, flavors that reverberate. I think I’m a fairly adventuresome eater, but she relishes things I would never try, like squid guts and cod sperm.

A few recipes are scattered throughout the text. In spite of the exotic food she eats and her extensive knowledge, the recipes for such things as jeweled chocolate cake or spicy noodles are easily accessible for the average home cook, a thing she kept in mind during her years at Gourmet.

As in most of her books, the shadow of Reichl’s mother hangs over this one. A troubled woman who suffered from grandiose desires and frequent depression. As Reichl enters the Four Seasons restaurant, she remembers how her mother loved going there for a martini and wished they could afford to go for dinner. It made me realize I under-appreciated the one time in my life that I dined in that hallowed spot.

But there was also Reichl’s father—a quiet, gentle man, a book designer with a marvelous understanding of typography and the importance of the interior of a book (or magazine) but also a clear recognition that cover art was not his forté.

Reichl’s style is casual, chatty, friendly. Reading her memoir is like reading a novel, only you know the end—and it’s not good. I haven’t quite gotten there yet, but the handwriting is on the wall.

Me? I wish in another life, I could have a career like Reichl’s, only without the corporate pressure. If wishes were horses, beggars would ride.

Live and Learn—a Cooking Failure

A dismal morning made it hard for me to get going. I was sluggish. No rain, and as the day slowly brightened, so did I.

I’m still in lost in Ruth Reichl’s My Kitchen Year. Her description of a grilled cheese sandwich and how to do it is sublime, so I tried today at lunch. You butter the bread, grate the cheese and pile it on as thick as you can. Spread a thin layer of mayo on the outside of the sandwich to prevent scorching and press more grated cheese into the bread. In theory, that will give a crisp crust. I worried about keeping that grated cheese on the bread while I flipped.

Turned out that was the least of my worries. I settled the first side in the pan easily, but the cheese stuck to the pan, not the sandwich, and when I tried to take it up, I came away with a soggy sandwich and the crisp cheese crust remained in the pan. Flipping it did no good—now I had two soggy sides. The cheese did form that crisp crust in the pan, but I had to scrape it up and eat separately. I’m quite sure this is not what Reichl intended, and I have tweeted to ask for directions. Should you cook at high heat or low (I did low, envisioning a long, slow browning). Should you put oil or butter in the pan? I put olive oil, but maybe that was wrong.

Grilled cheese is always problematical to me. It’s like the little girl with the curl: when it is good, it’s so very good, and when it’s bad, it’s horrid. I too often burn the bread before the cheese melts. At least now I’ll always grate the cheese—makes it melt faster and better.

I tried to recover my cooking skills by making a layered salad for the Jacob adult birthday Jordan is having tomorrow night. Layered salads require a lot of chopping—eggs, tomatoes, lettuce, green onions, cutting up bacon, etc. While I chopped and cut, I kept thinking how much Ruth Reichl enjoys that part of cooking and wishing I enjoyed it half as much. The salad was a big problem in terms of a container too—I discovered the glass dish I’ve always used has gone to some child’s house, and I had no appropriate dish. Friend Subie finally came up with one that although not glass will work. And tonight Betty said of course she has a trifle dish! Aarghh!

Betty and I took Jacob out to dinner tonight while his parents went to some event connected to Christian’s work. Jacob declared he wasn’t hungry, picked at his mac and cheese, but ordered two root beers and left the second sitting on the table. Conspicuous consumption! Betty and I split miso salmon on a bed of spicy vinaigrette noodles—absolutely delicious.

So now I’m home, settled, and anticipating the first big party to be held in the house since we made the big move. I used to host parties a lot, particularly at Christmas when I had a no-tree tree-trimming party. When December came around last year, none of us had the energy or the will—it was a low point for me. So now I’m delighted to anticipate a party in the house and yard. Jordan has worked hard getting it all perfect.

To my hot-blooded friends who couldn’t sit outside: I sat on the patio tonight for a long time and loved it. Just perfect.