DISCARDING THE UNUSED

Once you decide that you are not going to make all of the recipes you have been collecting for 71 years, it is time to sort through the mess. As I have confessed in the past, I surprised my husband on our honeymoon with the knowledge that I did not cook. My soul accomplishment was holding a hot dog over the flame of a gas stove till it became crispy and blackened. Flash forward through trial and error and cooking classes, and I became what has been euphemistically called a good home cook.

I have an abnormal collection of cookbooks, most of which have one or two pages turned down to remind me of something I once made which might be repeated at a later date. I have my mother’s cookbooks, my grandmother’s recipe books, much of which is written in her own hand which I can no longer see. There are files containing recipes from friends and relatives and clippings from now faded newspapers. Tucked in amongst these are scribbled notes in undecipherable shorthand for recipes of my own making.

I have threatened for some time to address this unruly mess. My Depression era upbringing has instilled in me a faint hope that I may need something once again and it will be gone.

The supermarket has been my enemy in many ways. While roaming through the aisles I create amazing future meals, and toss in one or two or three items which then reside my my pantry until I wonder what on earth I bought that for? The produce department is better because vegetables do not have a shelf life.

The freezer is a wonderful thing too. Lately I have wondered why I have bags of frozen fruit, some of which has been languishing for more than 2-3 years. The nectarine tree has been gone for two years at least, and an apple tree left soon after. Nestled alongside in one freezer (we have two) were bits and pieces of left-over somethings which I thought might make a nice lunch someday. Since it was waste collection day, I hauled it outside to the pick-up bins and forgave myself for being so wasteful. The tins in the pantry I can give to those who can use them, more than thawed out soggy old fruit.

I became accustomed to entertaining large groups of people through the years, and needed quite a few containers to freeze things ahead of time. Though we still entertain a lot, I have found that eight is all I can comfortably handle by myself. One of these days I will begin sorting through pans and trays etc. for the local thrift shop. I have not yet mastered the art of cooking for two and not have it last for over two days. Soup is an exception of course, one always adds to it whether you need it or not.

Having accomplished my freezer clean-out , I tackled the “meat dish” recipe folders. It was a fine way to spend a little time because obviously all recipes had to be read and evaluated. Many pages had become separated from their partners, making them literally useless, so they went in the “out” pile along with most of the newspaper clippings. The “maybe” pile contained things like spinach-cheese tamales, because of some I had eaten at a Seattle restaurant. The “Save” pile grew as I went through them, wondering why I had not made this or that at least once.

You can get a recipe for anything from the internet, including copy-cat ones from a favorite restaurant, and many young people do just that. On the other hand, young women from the Boomer era still call for recipes they remember from their past, which makes it important to keep the “Save” pile. During the course of a lifetime we all create delicious stand-by recipes which are kept in our mental vaults. After all, we know what tastes good.

RUN RABBIT

A recipe, clipped from a magazine and yellowed with age, fell out of an overstuffed folder and into my memory, taking me back to the time when I was eighteen, married, and did not cook.

When I found the recipe for ‘Ragout of Rabbit’ I thought I had found the perfect recipe which would transport me into the realm of gourmet cook. I would also impress our very sophisticated cousin by inviting him to have dinner with us in our tiny third floor apartment. My first mistake came with pronouncing Ragout as it is spelled, but coming from a family of cooks who never used garlic, and wouldn’t think of using wine, what could you expect? The recipe called for both, and much more, including herbs I had never heard of.

After a long and complicated preparation, the recipe ended with the question “And did you notice that this recipe bears a startling resemblance to that one of Apicius?” I had never heard of the old Roman Apicius and his cookbook, and had no idea where to find it. I have since wondered if it took Apicius as long to prepare it as it did me.

We invited our cousin, and I struggled through the recipe, but he did not arrive on our doorstep. We ate the entire rabbit, which was rich with unfamiliar flavors, threw away the bones and I never made the rabbit recipe again.

Many years later, my mother raised some rabbits, along with geese and chickens, on their small property in Oregon. The geese became a problem as they considered that side of the ditch their own and attacked all intruders. This large ditch ran for miles from Medford, through their property and on into Grants Pass. It kept a moderate flow which made floating on inner tubes great fun. You could float along all the way into the town of Grants Pass if you had someone to pick you up and bring you home. My dad’s big collie dog went out of his mind barking if my mother tried to cool off by swimming and threatened to jump in when the children got in. It was strange how he knew all this water could be dangerous.

I have always liked the idea of rabbits, ever since Peter Rabbit captured my imagination. I had an unpleasant picture of Mrs. McGregor, and thought rabbits were much nicer than cabbages. When I was eight or nine, I received a sweet bunny rabbit at Easter, which promptly bit my finger. The crooked nail has been a constant reminder of how unpredictable the small creatures can be.

I have often wondered how rabbits came to be associated with the celebration of Easter, and who was the first to imagine that they could lay colored eggs. Who had the idea that a rabbit’s foot was lucky? It certainly wasn’t lucky for the rabbit.

FATHER OF FITNESS

Jack LaLanne was certainly a fitness superhero. Exercise guru, promoter, inventor, Jack could do it all, and kept doing it until he died at 96. Maybe that’s what it takes, find out what you’re good at and keep doing it.

Julia Child taught us to cook by way of the TV, and Jack LaLanne taught us to exercise to keep the excess weight in bounds also by watching TV. Each of them appeared on morning TV for a half hour, and we learned how to make an omelet, and how do do deep squats afterward.

Our kids didn’t bother too much with Julia, but Jack was a different story. He commanded you to stop whatever you were doing and flex those muscles. He frequently had his dog on the show, a nice white shepherd dog, which caught the attention of the little ones.

Where Julia spoke slowly, as if feeling her way along, Jack talked in machine gun mode, and you were forced to tear yourself away from the sight of Jack in his blue jumpsuits, to follow him in each exercise.

He did amazing stunts such as swimming across the Bay while towing 13 boats, long after he could have been quietly enjoying life. He lived in Morro Bay down the coast, and ate at the same restaurant each evening. The waiters knew he had the same table and a small glass of red wine.

When parking meters were first installed in Oakland, he and some cohorts showed off by bending them to the ground. No idea if the cops caught the boys.

Julia occasionally dropped something on the floor and picked it up with a laugh, advising you not to tell your guests. She guided you through an entire dinner party with decorations on the table. You were always sure of a chuckle, because she was obviously having such a good time. Her many cookbook grace the shelves of kitchens worldwide.

Both Julia and Jack LaLanne were the innovators of good things, and both lived long lives, Julia passing at 91 and Jack at 96. Maybe we should take another look.

AMAZING GRAZING~~~~Chicken With Artichokes

The same three options keep cropping up as dinner choices at wedding receptions and Bar Mitzvahs: Steak, salmon and the inevitable chicken. Only of late do we get to decide upon a vegetarian meal, and who in the world wants a plateful of veggies at a party? We can have that at home.

I gave up attending an annual luncheon for my high school compatriots because the luncheon choice was either a salad or some sort of concoction containing chicken. You’re safer with the salad.

Mind you, I like chicken, during one period of my early life my father built a chicken coop and populated it with a few chickens. We lived in Connecticut at the time, and he concerned himself with running the nearby navy base, at least I thought he ran things over there. He certainly ran things at home; with the exception of the chicken family, which it turned out, was my job. You’d never imagine my father in his spit and polish uniform was a country boy, but he was, right down to the large vegetable garden and those blasted chickens.

As soon as we named a chicken and took note of its daily routine, my father dispatched it and my mother cooked it. I am not a country girl at heart, and I was never quite comfortable eating Esmerelda, but we did many deeds in the Depression which were not politically correct.

Now as a Sunday tribute to all the Esmereldas and Henriettas we have eaten:

CHICKEN WITH ARTICHOKES

Dip skinless and boneless chicken thighs in beaten egg, then shake in flour.
Heat a little butter and oil and brown chicken lightly. Remove from pan.
Add 1# sliced mushrooms and a couple cloves of garlic and cook till mushrooms release moisture and are done.
Put chicken back in pan and pour 1 cup wine over. I used Marsala in this one but any white wine would do. Cover and cook on stovetop or in oven in moderate heat till done.
Add 1 can artichoke quarters and a small can of sliced water chestnuts. Add 1/2 cup whipping cream or more and a squeeze of lemon.

CODPIECES AND CODFISH

“Fishheye Orange” watercolor by kayti sweetland rasmussen

The codpiece luckily went out of style along with hoop skirts and a dozen petticoats, but it’s importance to gentlemen’s fashion is undeniable. As men’s pants became more form-fitting, the figure nature had given them emerged to full-view, and lest it become an embarrassment, a separate small article of clothing called a “codpiece” was invented to protect/enhance their endowments. Though it was fashionable for several hundred years, eventually it was the Spanish who went too far and the codpiece reached it’s pinnacle of elaboration. Leave it to the Spanish.

The fashion world is a world of its own and ever will be. What goes around comes around, and yesterday’s fashion may again capture the designers of the future. However, the current style of the young men I see too often, bares the backside rather than the front, with baggy pants dragging on the floor in front of them, so I imagine it will be some time before the codpiece is needed.

What do codpieces and codfish have in common? Not a darn thing except the first three letters and the fact that they are both in short supply.

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Now, unfortunately, the codfish may be disappearing. The cod’s importance to American history is proven. It was the cod which first attracted Europeans to North America. When they discovered all sorts of delicious ways to cook cod such as fish and chips, brandade, cod cheeks, etc. it was the beginning of the end of the codfish. You might say it was gluttony which is doing it in.

In centuries past it was hard to find a family who did not have someone connected to fishing and the sea. In San Francisco it was small fishing boats catching salmon and crab. In Alaska it was halibut and salmon. But in Boston it was always cod. Young boys looked forward to the time they could join their fathers on the boats. In 1893 at the age of 14, my great uncle Philip Chamberlin signed on as a cabin boy on a four masted sailing ship to sail from Boston around the Horn. The SS Kennilwworth was the fasted ship of her day, and made the trip from Boston to San Francisco in 105 days.

For several hundred centuries, careful mothers protecting their children from any and all germs of the day, fed them a spoonful of codliver oil each morning with their oatmeal. Sadly I must confess that I gave each of my children a spoonful with their orange juice each day before school. It is an amazing fact of the good nature of children that they have either forgotten or forgiven me.

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Now, as a result of these centuries of over-eating, the cod is in short supply. In Boston, where the codfish is even used as a symbol, some restaurants hanging a replica of a cod over the front door, chefs are resorting to the use of “trash fish” to satisfy their fish-happy customers. The importance of the codfish to Massachusetts is undeniable.

Of course, to make these “trash fish” palatable, chefs are being driven to develop new recipes. They will probably have to choose new names for these throw-away fish with the funky monikers. The Blood Cockle for instance is a sort of chewy clam filled with some blood-red goop, which upon seeing in on a plate, a squeamish diner may lose his appetizer and his martini. Or the tautog, known as the poor man’s lobster. It has rubbery lips and buck teeth which look almost human. “Really sort of scary”, says Richard Garcia, executive chef at the Renaissance Boston Waterfront Hotel.

Mr. Garcia was part of the Chefs Collaborative which held the “trash fish” dinner, even using miniature trash cans to hold the heavily spiced Atlantic Pollock. It was a great success. A tribute to the chef’s ingenuity.

DEATH PANEL FOR AN OLD STOVE

To Whom It May Concern:
They’re trying to get rid of me! I can’t believe it. After only 45 yers of loyal service, they think I’m all through. All because I ruined her stupid pie because I couldn’t get my ovens hot. Well, she’s not so hot either. I see her limping around here. No one’s talking about getting rid of her. I remember when they unpacked my crate and took a look at me. She almost kissed me. Not so now.

They soon forget all the thousands of cookies, cakes, pies and bread I’ve turned out for them. Oh sure, they gush over her thinking it was due to her great cooking. Well, it wasn’t. It was me! People come in here and say “thank you, how delicious”, but not one word of congratulations to me. I’m sick of it.

Oh sure, there have been mistakes, but not on my part. I can’t help it if she wasn’t paying attention and I burned a pan or two. And I won’t even go into the way I have felt when he decides to cook! He hasn’t a clue. But I have been loyal and done a good job of heating a few cans of beans, or scrambled eggs now and then. And I have to give him credit, he does a good job of cleaning me now and then because she’s too lazy to do it.

The tons of pasta and sauce, and all the rest of the stuff I’ve cooked for her and they’re talking about replacing me with one of those big shiny eyesores which won’t look right in this kitchen anyway. What’s the matter with them, can’t they see?

I’m so ashamed. Some stranger came today and totally undressed my large oven. I’m so embarrassed; imagine how you would feel. He was quite nice about it though and began poking around up in my control panel, so maybe that’s what is wrong. They stopped making my kind nearly 20 years ago, which was sad enough. Someone else is coming to see me, so maybe they can save me. Keep good thoughts for me.

Well, I just wanted someone to know about this miscarriage of stove justice before it’s too late. Signed: Gaffers and Sattler, a dying breed.

COOKING CLASSES

Mothers of boys take note:  Please teach your sons basic survival in the kitchen of their future.  Sitting in the family room reading the paper and watching TV while cooking odors emerge from the kitchen, does not hack it.  It is hard to believe that some men are not familiar with much else in their kitchens except the cold cereal box.  At some point in their lives they will be required to present something edible to provide sustenance.  I have long suspicioned that Dr. Advice deliberately prepares oatmeal, canned baked beans, and scrambled eggs when I am incapacitated.  Oh sure, they always come on a tray with a flower and nicely a folded napkin, but really!

I am becoming bionic on next Wednesday, so in self-preservation, we have been holding cooking classes this week.  I am impressed with how fast he has learned–he has already graduated in dessert class, which makes me suspect that he has known all along and has just been dogging it.  His first attempt at apple and at lemon pies were great successes.  I keep pie crust in the freezer, so he also learned how to make that.  He developed a wonderful dessert with some puff pastry I keep. on hand.   I’m suspicious that he has chosen desserts as his major.  He loves corned beef hash (with an egg on top of course), so that became part of the class schedule, and it too was delicious.

He has run into one big problem however, and that is how to keep all the food ready and hot at the same time, and how to get it to the table while it has some residual warmth left.  There is a torrent of panic and loud conversation emanating from the kitchen while dinner is being prepared.  I guess it just takes more than a week’s experience to master all the culinary tricks.

He has learned one major lesson already:  it is very annoying when the diner is not sitting at the table or at least making a move toward it when the chef is ready to serve!