My mother is a superb cook, an absolute natural in the kitchen with a talent for turning whatever is available into an elegant repast. She once visited me while I was young and penniless…all we had in the refrigerator were lemons, and I’ll be damned if she didn’t whip up the finest lemon sauce for a piece of chicken that I have ever had.
Growing up, dinner was a three-course affair for five. First the salad course, served in small wooden bowls from a much larger wooden bowl; we each used a proper salad fork. Next the main course and side dishes would be served. One night might be Chicken Cacciatore with egg noodles and broccoli; another might be lamb chops served with wild rice and Brussels sprouts; red snapper, ratatooie and spinach would also make an occasional appearance. Plates cleared, dessert followed; ice cream and cookies, or baked apple Brown Betty … chocolate cake, perhaps. So it went night after night. Accordingly, I not only grew up, I grew out. I’m still trying to lose the weight I gained before turning 18 years old.
I loved hanging around the kitchen with my mother. When I was 10 years old, she replaced our stove with a six burner, two-oven WOLF restaurant range, sporting an enormous grill-top. It was on this behemoth that she worked her daily miracles, and it was at this stove I learned to cook. In those days pans were basic; either cast iron, copper, or enameled. Heavy is an understatement. Taking care of the pans properly was my first lesson: NEVER wash cast iron pans with soapy water, which removes the essential surface “seasoning.” When it came to her pans, my mother was as fierce as a tigress protecting her cubs.
I began by cooking eggs with cheddar cheese stirred over medium heat in a buttered enameled pan until just set, still moist and tender. I’d cook them for my brother and sister on Saturday morning. From there I graduated to omelets, which on a 15,000 BTU restaurant stove taught me to pay attention. Thus I learned the first law of the kitchen: do not divert your attention from something cooking on the stove. The smoky price for breaking this rule was an early morning, pre-coffee vociferous and high amplitude red-faced visit from my mother yelling, “What’s going on in here? Stand back!”
I learned by watching: how to sear short ribs before braising, when to stir food and when to leave it alone; how to properly use a knife and chop an onion; the right dusting of flour before frying a veal cutlet. I also learned about presentation: an appropriate portion and how to plate it. My mother was not precious about food, but attention to its aesthetics, like all that surrounded her, was an essential transmission.
Neither of my two daughters had interest in learning to cook when they were young. My wife has let me run the kitchen for 34 years. I was afraid there would be nobody to teach, but then my friend Stanley said he’d like to learn to cook. On Tuesday morning we play baseball catch and discuss the menu for lunch. He buys the food and I teach him to prepare it.
Meanwhile inside a photo, sitting on the kitchen counter, my mother smiles.
