O, blackberry tart, with berries as big as your thumb, purple and black, and thick with juice, and a crust to endear them that will go to cream in your mouth, and both passing down with such a taste that will make you close your eyes and wish you might live forever in the wideness of that rich moment.
—Richard Llewellyn
I was six years old the summer I went to stay at my grandmother's by myself for the first time. My eight-year-old brother was going to space camp, my ten-year-old sister to Girl Scout Camp, and my parents were taking their first vacation alone, in what my mother affectionately described to me as “way too long.”
I was quiet during the hour-long car ride. I stared out the car window at the small Iowa farms as we drove from West Des Moines to Webster City. I was familiar enough with the drive that when I saw McCoy's Gas Station on the outskirts of town, I knew we were almost there. It was only then that I started to softly cry.
I cried for the rest of the drive, cried as my parents unloaded my suitcase, cried as I stood at my grandmother's screen door watching my parents drive away, the only car out that early on a Sunday morning in August.
My grandmother stood at the door with me until my parents were out of sight. Then, without saying a word, she walked into her kitchen. I could hear the sounds of cabinets opening, the clanging of pots and pans. After a few minutes, when I was sure my parents weren't coming back, I wandered into the kitchen.
My grandmother was standing with her back to me, at the counter. There was a tiny footstool next to her. Without turning around she said, “I'm making cinnamon rolls, my special recipe. I need your help. It's a very important job, if you're interested.”
I climbed up on the footstool and watched Grandmother pour ingredients into a giant lime green mixing bowl. I rubbed my eyes, surprised to find I had stopped crying. She handed me a wooden spoon and guided my hand as I began to stir the bowl's contents.
Until well into the afternoon, we worked in the kitchen, making cinnamon rolls. As they baked we sat at the kitchen table and played Go Fish and Old Maid. When they were finally ready, we each ate one, still gooey and hot, and giggled about how sticky our fingers were.
I was thirteen when I stayed for the last time at my grandmother's house. By then, my weeklong stays were the part of my summer I looked forward to the most. I had the cinnamon roll recipe memorized, and we had graduated to mor e complicated card games like Spite and Malice.
When my grandmother got sick that fall, she moved to a nursing home in West Des Moines so my mother could take care of her. She never complained about getting sick, or having to move out of the house she had lived in for more than fifty years. Only once did she get wistful and confess to me, “I do miss my kitchen. I miss cooking.”
It's almost twenty years later, and I still miss her kitchen too.
—Amy Rhodes
We owe much to the fruitful meditation of our sages, but a sane view of life is, after all, elaborated mainly in the kitchen.
—Joseph Conrad
This is similar in flavor to cinnamon rolls, but requires much less work. Be sure to use a tube pan that comes in one piece or it will leak. If you like nuts, add ¼ cup chopped walnuts, almonds, or pecans.
½ cup honey
cup sugar
¼ cup chopped pecans
1 tablespoon orange juice
1 teaspoon ground cinnamon
½ teaspoon grated orange peel
3 tubes (12 ounces each) refrigerated buttermilk biscuits
Preheat oven to 375° F. Grease a 10-inch tube pan. Combine all the ingredients except biscuits. Stir well to dissolve sugar. Cut each biscuit into four pieces; dip each piece halfway into the sugar mixture, then place in the greased tube pan. Pour any leftover sugar mixture on top. Bake for 30–35 minutes or until golden brown. Cool for 10 minutes; invert onto a serving platter. Makes 12 servings.
Once a year, when the weather gets too hot and the kids are cranky, I give up all attempts to cook and declare it Ice Cream Sundae Party Day. I haul out the sundae glasses, our favorite flavors of lowfat ice cream and sorbet, prepared toppings like hot fudge, butterscotch, and whipped cream, all manner of sprinkles, and fresh berries and bananas, and allow each person to create their own special concoction. My husband is the purist among us—only the traditional hot fudge sundae with vanilla ice cream for him. The kids and I are more experimental, with results ranging from delicious to disgusting. We eat until we can eat no more and call it dinner. The kitchen always looks like a small bomb has gone off after we're done, but the smiles on my family's faces make it all worth it.
—Alicia Alvrez
We dare not trust our wit for making our house pleasant to our friend, so we buy ice cream.
—Ralph Waldo Emerson
Here's another cool thing to do with kids in the kitchen. Make your own play dough.
1 cup salt
2 cups flour
2 tablespoons alum
2 tablespoons canola or corn oil
2 cups boiling water
food coloring
Mix together the salt, alum, and oil. Pour in boiling water and knead. Add several drops of food coloring.
While I love cooking for friends and family, I enjoy cooking with them even more. And living in Tuscany makes it all much more fun. Picture the traditional dinner, prepared by the womenfolk in the vineyards, to which are invited all those who have taken part in the harvest. Out in the open because, otherwise, how would all the tables fit? While the women prepare the feast, they share news, exchange ideas, mark the passage of time between last year's harvest feast and the next. Things don't have to be on such a grand scale, though. It can be done one dish at a time.
Risotto, for example. Okay, the initial stages can seem like an emotionally wrenching experience. But, if you get weepy chopping onions, you can move the task to the draining board and run the cold water, which helps drive the tear-inducing fumes away. Alternatively, just delegate the task to someone of a lesslachrymose disposition.
Into the hot oil go the onion pieces, and then you stir to brown them. At this stage, if there is an audience, they can take over supervising the process. More likely, though, the guests will be attracted into the kitchen when you pour the glass of white wine onto the now-browned onion. That satisfying sizzle and sumptuous aroma is guaranteed to bring them running. And at this point, the hard work is over. The next stages are just methodical and leisurely. The hot broth is added, one ladle at a time, and then you stir, stir, stir until it has been absorbed by the rice. And then you add another. And stir. And repeat. And relax, chat, have a glass of wine, and enjoy. If the main cook wants to wander off and do something else, there is usually someone who can take over. A therapeutic experience if ever there was one. After 20 minutes or so, or depending on personal preferences and the type of rice you have used, the risotto is ready, and everyone can take their seats. And drink a toast to the cooks!
—Roberta Kedzierski
One can say everything best over a meal.
—George Eliot
The trick with risotto is to never stop stirring. This is why having help is useful.
6 cups chicken or vegetable broth
¼ cup extra-virgin olive oil
1 medium onion, chopped
4 garlic cloves, crushed
2 summer squash, diced
2 cups Arborio rice
¼ cup white wine
10 basil leaves, chopped
salt and fresh-ground pepper to taste
4 ounces fresh mozzarella cheese, diced
Bring the broth to a boil in a medium saucepan, then place on low heat. Meanwhile, heat the oil in a large saucepan over medium-high heat. Add the onion, garlic, and summer squash, and sauté until limp. Add the rice and stir until rice is opaque. Add the wine and stir until absorbed.
Add the broth one soup ladle at a time, stirring constantly until liquid is absorbed each time. This should take about 20 minutes. You may need to heat more broth or water.
When the risotto is aldente, remove from heat, add basil, salt, pepper, and mozzarella, and stir until cheese is melted. Serves 6.
When we first contemplated a move from New Jersey to Arizona, our relatives staged an all-out campaign to keep us around. It was mostly verbal warfare, all staged deliberately in front of Jeff, our impressionable four-year-old son. Jeff heard tales of a faroff land where mail was still delivered by Pony Express. According to our relatives, Arizona was where water came from wells and outhouses were still considered modern conveniences. My cousin, who didn't want me living across the country from her, told Jeff that in order to have friends in Arizona, you had to become blood brothers; she was very descriptive. She also told Jeff that it was so hot in Arizona you could fry an egg on the top of your covered wagon.
Having heard this and more, Jeff dug his heels deeply into our New Jersey tulip garden and started screaming whenever moving was mentioned. Since my husband's transfer was already decided upon, we decided that we had to take matters into our own hands. Without saying a word about our destination, we convinced Jeff that we were just going on a family vacation. We were actually headed to Arizona to search for a house. Once he had a chance to jump into the swimming pool at our hotel, we were home free. Arizona was a cool place, and if we were going to move, it was more than okay with our son.
That's because, for Jeff, Arizona was love at first sight. He loved the cacti and the mountains and the critters. He was born for the warm climate and wearing lightweight clothes year-round. However, his favorite Southwestern discovery was “soapy pea oats”—more commonly known as sopaipillas (soh-pa-PEE-yas).
Sopaipillas are Mexican pastries shaped like tiny pillows and covered with powdered sugar. The restaurant in our hotel served them at breakfast every morning as a side dish, just as other restaurants serve toast or muffins. The waitresses recognized us after a few days, and hearing Jeff say he loved “soapy pea oats,” made sure we had soapy pea oats for lunch and dinner as well.
When we returned to New Jersey, Jeff asked me to make “soapy pea oats” for him. With moving day approaching, I didn't want to take any chances of having Jeff lose his enthusiasm for Arizona. I found a Mexican cookbook. I took out the flour, baking powder, rolling pin, oil, frying pan, and sugar, and began.
Flour to the right of me. Flour to the left of me. Flour in my hair. Flour in my wedding album. What I created was not even similar to the lovely, light, and airy treats we had enjoyed in Arizona. So I tried again.
I tried rolling the dough thinner. I tried cutting the squares smaller. I tried high cholesterol oil. To say I was obsessed is a mild understatement. When Jeff saw how hard I had been working, he came into the kitchen, and said, “Maybe you'd make the soapy pea oats better if you'd stop trying to make them out of my Play-Doh!”
When we arrived in Arizona, at first we went to the hotel for special occasions to have soapy pea oats until the menu changed and they were no longer available. It was a dark day when we made that discovery.
I tried again. I thought maybe a change in altitude or humidity would turn my total failure into culinary genius. Maybe with the pressure off, I'd see success. The results were better, but not as good as, the hotel's.
Then we met our neighbors. The wife loves to cook, and when she heard the story of the soapy pea oats, her answer was, “Oh, I make those!” She says the trick is getting the oil the right temperature. All Jeff has to do is ring her bell and ask if she needs any chores done, and she's fussing for him. Every single time, the soapy pea oats are light and fluffy, and there are never any leftovers for me.
Our move to Arizona was fifteen years ago. The cute little toddler is now a college student who says greasy food isn't good for his skin. Last weekend Jeff came home as a surprise and forgot his keys. There was a note on the front door: “Surprise! I'm at next door.” When I went to our neighbor's house to let Jeff know I was home, there he was sitting at the table, eating soapy pea oats. When I reminded him about his concern for his skin, his answer was simple. “No problemo, mamacita! These soapy pea oats aren't made with oil. They're made with love.”
—Felice Prager
The fact is that it takes more than ingredients and technique to cook a good meal. A good cook puts something of himself into the preparation—he cooks with enjoyment, anticipation, spontaneity, and he is willing to experiment.
—Pearl Bailey
1 cup flour
1½ teaspoons baking powder
1 tablespoon shortening
cup warm water
cooking oil
sifted powdered sugar
cinnamon
In large bowl, combine flour and baking powder. Cut in shortening until mixture crumbles. Add warm water gradually. Mixture will still crumble. On a floured surface, knead the mixture for 5 minutes or until smooth. Cover and let rest for 10 minutes. Roll dough into a 12 × 12-inch square. Cut it into 2½-inch squares.
Fry the squares in hot oil for 30 seconds on each side or until golden brown. Drain on paper towels. Keep warm in 200° F oven. Sprinkle with sugar. Makes 20, if you're lucky (and the oil is just the right temperature!).
After four years surviving on love and ramen noodles, my wife, Sarah, and I packed our bags and moved to a new life in a highrise apartment. There we fell into the lap of two-bedroom, fullkitchen luxury, complete with a dishwasher, something that neither of us had ever used before.
Our first purchase for our flat was a papasan chair to replace the fourth-hand couch we pitched into the Dumpster on moving day. Made of rattan and resembling a large bowl sitting on a ramekin, it was easy to flop into, comfortable to sit in, and hard as heck to get out of. It was the only bit of furniture we owned that wasn't falling apart.
By the end of the first week we were exhausted. However, that Friday I came home to a spotless flat. Sarah had spent the entire day unpacking and arranging. She greeted me at the door, asked me about my day, and then proudly showed me her accomplishments. Not only had she whipped the place into shape, but she also made my favorite dessert, chocolate pudding.
I offered a hug. “Sweetie, the apartment looks great, thank you. You wanna order Chinese?”
She kissed me. “Oh yes, please!”
I smiled and reached for the pudding. She pulled it away.
“That's for dessert.”
“Honey, if you only knew what sort of day I've had …”
“It's for dessert.”
I was too tired to argue. I glanced over her shoulder and noted the state of the kitchen. She must have read my mind. “Don't worry, I'll clean up. I can't wait to show you the dishwasher!”
She put the pudding in the refrigerator while I called in our dinner order.
I returned a moment later. “So tell me about this dishwasher thingy,” I said.
While she launched into a lengthy description of the proper way to load dishes I quietly opened every drawer in search of a spoon.
“What are you doing?”
“I thought I would set the table.”
“Good, get us something to drink too.”
She resumed her dissertation, completely enamored with her new appliance, as I snuck across the room with the pudding.
“Hey!”
I was busted. But sometimes a man has to make a stand. Sometimes it's okay to break the rules and eat dessert first. This was no ordinary situation and no ordinary dessert. Surely this opportunity was symbolic of the good karma permeating this move. I wiggled my eyebrows. “Come share with me and maybe after dinner we can burn some calories for dessert.”
Sarah was incredulous. I simply ignored her, and with a maneuver that can only be described as suave, I turned, sat triumphantly on the papasan—and immediately flipped over backward. The bowl shot into the air, tumbled end over end, and slung pudding up the wall and along the ceiling before coming to rest upsidedown on the white carpet.
We were still laughing when the food arrived.
—Michael S. McKlusky
Laughter is the closest distance between two people.
—Victor Borge
I love to cook. I love to cook and I love to entertain—not huge parties, but one or two guests at a time. With huge parties you don't get to enjoy your guests; you're too busy “playing hostess.” And the cooking can become a chore instead of the pleasure it is when you cook for one or two or three or four guests.
I'm not much for going out, and as a freelance writer I have to spend money cautiously anyhow. Though I've nearly fifty books to my credit, I've yet to write a blockbuster best-seller that brings in oodles of cash. Lavish nights on the town are compatible neither with my interests nor with my wallet. But entertaining friends is within my budget … and within my idea of a good time.
Feeding friends is a way of offering more than entertainment. You offer caring, you offer emotional sustenance as well as physical, you spoil them with their fave foods or with things they would never cook at home. A couple of my friends are good cooks themselves, but most of them aren't, nor can they be bothered to try. They know that at my house they'll get not only good company but a yummy dinner. And I love spoiling them by feeding them. In return, they're my guinea pigs—I try out new recipes on them.
Most of these are recipes I've acquired one place or another. Some of these are recipes of my own devising, though those I'll usually try out on just myself first. I can usually tell, simply by reading a recipe, how it's going to turn out … though I do admit I occasionally misjudge and turn out a disappointment in the kitchen.
My mother was always shocked at my foolhardiness in serving guests a recipe I'd never prepared before. But the number of failures has been few, and I think my track record over the years validates my risk taking.
My dinners are my gifts to my guests, my way of welcoming them … and they're a pleasure for me as well. And my guests are not only friends but, more often than you'd think, people I meet casually and impulsively invite, “Come to dinner!” But isn't that how you make new friends?
—Cynthia MacGregor
Dining is and always was a great artistic opportunity.
—Frank Lloyd Wright
Here's a classic recipe that is great for summer entertaining. It was created in 1905 by Mrs. John E. Cooke of New Castle, Pennsylvania, for a contest that Knox gelatin was sponsoring. She came in third and won a sewing machine. But ever since then, her recipe holds first place in the hearts of cooks everywhere.
1 envelope unflavored gelatin
¼ cup sugar
½ teaspoon salt
1¼cups water, divided
¼ cup vinegar
1 tablespoon lemon juice
½ cup shredded cabbage, red or green
1 cup chopped celery
1 pimento, cut in small pieces
salad greens
Mix gelatin, sugar, and salt thoroughly in a small saucepan. Add ½ cup of water. Place over low heat, stirring constantly until gelatin is dissolved. Remove from heat and stir in remaining ¾ cup of water, vinegar, and lemon juice. Chill mixture to unbeaten egg white consistency. Fold in shredded cabbage, celery, and pimento. Turn in to a 2-cup mold or individual molds, and chill until firm. Unmold on serving plate and garnish with salad greens. Serve with favorite salad dressing. Makes 4 servings.
Variations
Cauliflower Perfection: Substitute ½ cup finely cut raw cauliflower and 2 tablespoons chopped green pepper for ½ cup of the chopped celery.
Cucumber and Onion Perfection: Substitute ½ cup chopped cucumbers and 1 small onion, chopped, for the celery.
Olive Perfection: Substitute ½ cup chopped ripe olives for the pimento.
Peanut Perfection: Substitute ½ cup chopped peanuts for the celery.
Pepper Perfection: Substitute 2 tablespoons chopped sweetred or green pepper for the pimento.
Pineapple Perfection: Substitute ¾ cup canned pineapple juice for ¾ cup of the water. Reduce sugar to 2 tablespoons.
When the weather gets scorching, consider these ways of cooling down:
I don't know how I grew up in the United States and never tasted Red Velvet Cake until I was almost forty. It is a classic that somehow passed me by. I'm not much of a dessert eater, but I remember vividly the first time I had this cake—it was at a Fourth of July picnic. From the first forkful of this moist cake with the unusual color, I was hooked. Now, in honor of that first taste, I always bake one for the Fourth of July, frosted, of course, with that other classic American concoction—Seven-Minute Frosting, made blue with food coloring in honor of the occasion.
—Susannah Seton
It is good food and not fine words that keeps me alive.
—Molière
½ cup shortening
1½ cups sugar
2 eggs
1 teaspoon vanilla
3 tablespoons cocoa
2 ounces red food coloring
2½ cups sifted cake flour
1 cup buttermilk
1 teaspoon salt
1 teaspoon baking soda
1 tablespoon vinegar
Preheat oven to 350° F. Grease two 9-inch cake pans. Cream shortening and sugar. Add eggs and vanilla and mix well. Stir in cocoa and food coloring. Add flour, buttermilk, and salt alternately. Mix baking soda and vinegar in a small bowl and add to batter. Pour into two greased cake pans and bake for 30–35 minutes. Let cool before frosting with Seven-Minute Frosting. Serves 8.
1½ cups sugar
dash of salt
cup water, plus water for boiling
2 teaspoons light corn syrup
1 teaspoon vanilla
food coloring (optional)
Combine egg whites, sugar, salt, water, and corn syrup in top of double boiler. Beat until thoroughly mixed. Then place over boiling water and beat constantly at high speed of electric mixer or with rotary beater for 7 minutes, until frosting stands in stiff peaks. Remove from boiling water. Add vanilla and food coloring, if using, and beat 1 minute, until thick enough to spread. Makes about 4½ cups, enough to cover tops and sides of two 8-or 9-inch cake layers.
It was a warm, sunny day in late June. My mother and I had been planting flowers all morning. “How about a salad for lunch?” she asked me as I pushed damp peat moss around a hot orange marigold.
Looking at her with a question in my six-year-old eyes, I asked, “What's a salad?” She smiled at me as we went to wash our hands. I was a child of the '70s, and it would be a few years before the lowly salad rose to its current level of acceptance as a part of fine cuisine.
She pulled a head of lettuce covered in plastic from the fridge. In those days it was iceberg lettuce or nothing. Next to it on the counter she put supermarket tomatoes that sat pale and firm in their white plastic cage.
“Get two bowls from the cupboard for us.” She watched as I reached for our earthenware bowls. “No, not those. Get the glass ones.”
Carefully pulling down our company dishes, I carried them slowly to the kitchen. I had never eaten from a glass bowl before, and as I placed them on the counter I realized this must be something special, this salad lunch.
A moist tearing sound came from the lettuce as she split the head into pieces. She washed the leaves before putting them in the bowls where their cool, juicy paleness looked like a misty green carpet.
I held my breath as she took the sharp knife I wasn't allowed to touch and used it to cut the pink tomato into slices. She arranged them in a pinwheel shape on the lettuce in each bowl.
Then she took a glass bottle from the pantry, and I saw her slip a butter knife into the neck of it as a peach-colored sauce slowly spread onto the tomatoes and lettuce. She explained, “Thousand Island dressing is always the best.” It sounded so foreign. I couldn't believe I was going to have it for lunch.
She took two forks from our silverware drawer and told me these were special forks made just for salad. Salads really must be something good if they had their own forks.
I carried my first salad out to the porch. It was so pretty with all the pale colors that I was afraid to even touch it. I watched as my mother took her fork and speared a tomato and some lettuce. Following her example, I felt the crunchy leaves on my tongue and the squishy tomato squirted when I bit into it. The mysterious dressing was both sweet and sour at the same time, but it was good. It all tasted cool and fresh.
Now on summer days I long for the simplicity of an iceberg lettuce salad with under-ripe tomatoes and Thousand Island dressing. Sure I could have organic mesclun and olive oil vinaigrette, but it just wouldn't be the same.
—Shawn Knapp
It takes four men to dress a salad: a wise man for the salt, a madman for the pepper, a miser for the vinegar, and a spendthrift for the oil.
—Anonymous
If you treat them gently, these napkin rings will last a long time. The moss will go from green to gray or brown as it dries out.
4 2-inch clumps of garden moss
4 1-inch-diameter vine wreath bases
hot-glue gun and glue sticks
8 inches white satin ribbon, ½-inch wide, cut into 4 even pieces
Separate the moss into strands. Hot-glue the moss around one wreath base to cover. Tie one piece of ribbon around the ring in a small bow, and allow the ribbon ends to drape down. Repeat until you have made 4 rings.
I was living in Zimbabwe when my friend Mary Beth wrote to me about Jim, a new member of her church. “He's a vegetarian and quite cheerful,” she said. “Just like you.”
When I returned home, I began attending Mary Beth's church occasionally and volunteered in the kitchen. The laughter and comradeship reminded me of my Zimbabwean friends, and the cozy kitchen chats helped dispel the shock of returning to an Illinois winter. One Sunday in the spring, as I helped dry dishes, Mary Beth introduced me to Jim. I instantly felt a connection to this friendly, energetic man. Through the summer, Jim and I chatted as we served cookies and put away dishes. I found him warmhearted and our conversations lively; I was attracted to him, yet I knew I needed to think of Jim as a casual friend since I was job hunting outside the area.
When I moved to a Chicago suburb that winter, I only kept in touch with Mary Beth. Still, I often thought of the cheerful, fun times I had with Jim and others in the church kitchen. I had difficulty meeting people in the suburbs, and the congregation I joined didn't have a large kitchen where conversation ebbed and flowed in welcoming waves. At my loneliest point that following summer, I received a link back home from Jim, who had asked for my e-mail address from Mary Beth. Jim remembered our “kitchen conversations” and invited me to go biking in the Chicago area. “I accept your invitation,” I wrote back. Then I went shopping; I had to buy a bike! The area was full of trails I had wanted to explore, but the anticipation of our conversations was the real reason for the purchase.
Two years later that autumn I married Jim in the church where we met—followed by an all-vegetarian reception. Today, Jim and I often volunteer in the church kitchen and are reminded of our initial sparks. As we pour juice and wipe counters, the “kitchen conversations” swirl around—welcoming and including everyone.
—Karen Hindhede
The joys of the table belong equally to all ages, conditions, countries and times.
—Jean-Anthelme Brillat-Savarin
Impress your friends with a homemade key lime pie. It's delicious, and not as hard as it looks, especially if you buy a premade pie shell.
4 eggs, separated (reserve 3 whites for meringue)
1 can sweetened condensed milk
½ cup lime juice
2 teaspoons grated lime rind
few drops green food coloring
1 8- or 9-inch baked pastry shell, cooled, or 1 8- or 9-inch graham
cracker crust shell
½ teaspoon cream of tartar
cup sugar
Preheat oven to 350° F. In medium bowl, beat egg yolks; stir in condensed milk, lime juice, rind, and food coloring. In small bowl, beat 1 egg white until stiff; fold into sweetened condensed milk mixture. Turn into pie shell.
Beat reserved egg whites with cream of tartar until foamy; gradually add sugar, beating until stiff but not dry. Spread meringue on top of pie, sealing carefully to edge of shell. Bake 15 minutes or until meringue is golden brown. Cool. Chill before serving. Makes one 8- or 9-inch pie.
As a professional cook on the coast of Maine, my summers are spent feeding visitors from all over the world the very best in fresh seafood, meats, and produce our area has to offer. On my weekly foraging trips to the mainland, I pick up supplies at several of the small family farms and gardens that softly hem our otherwise rocky coastline.
How lucky I feel to have the opportunity to receive the very freshest of the season's produce straight from the grower's hands! Taut-skinned, ruby red tomatoes, just-cut greens with the morning dew still clinging to their leaves, new potatoes pulled like hidden treasure from the ground, pale orange baby carrots with a plume of feathery tops, tender butter chard that—even raw— melts in the mouth, and dark, shiny eggplants almost bursting their skins with creamy flesh.
Nothing tastes as good or is as healthful as pr oduce that is just minutes or hours old. Housewives and chefs alike have known this throughout the centuries, as they worked from home and restaurant gardens, offering their families and guests a piece of the hallowed land from which they themselves survived. I am proud and grateful to work in a place that values these old traditions of hospitality.
By far, my favorite stop along my meandering route is a modest household garden tucked quietly away along a well-traveled road. The half-acre plot is an artfully knotted maze of raised beds, fruit trees, small greenhouses, and handcrafted bird feeders. There is a soft lawn of feathery grass beside the garden, shaded by a centuries-old maple tree, a riot of fiery wildflowers bursting from its base.
Here, Olga—a smiling white-haired woman whose hands are knotted with arthritis—embraces me. She knows only a few words of English, and though her ninety-year-old husband, Yakov, knows a bit more, he is mostly deaf and merely nods and smiles his greetings. They live in this house and tend this garden with their daughter, who brought them from Russia in the early 1990s.
Olga leads me by the hand through the narrow, carefully tended pathways of the garden, speaking in a steady stream of Russian, pointing to a row of pale green seedlings, or to the fallen blooms of a sour cherry tree. She gestures for me to try the first frosted, purple jewel of black currant, laughing as I screw up my face from the burst of bittersweet juice in my mouth.
We communicate like this for just a few minutes, but I think of the enthusiastic lilt of her voice the whole rest of my drive back to the boat. I think of her again as I unpack my supplies once in the bustle of the inn kitchen. I imagine the work and the know-how and the experience it took to grow the succulent tomato I hold now in my hand. I think of the thousands of miles that knowledge traveled, the near-century it had to ripen and mature, and the joy and grief that shaped it.
Though I have never shared more than the most basic of spoken greetings with these people, there is part of me that feels they know me better than people I converse with at length every day. I am connected to them through the food they raise, on land they walk every day of their lives. They are—quite literally—a part of who I am.
What better definition of love?
—Kate Gerteis
Talking of Pleasure, this moment I was writing with one hand, and with the other holding to my Mouth a Nectarine—how good how fine. It went down all pulpy, slushy, oozy, all its delicious embonpoint melted down my throat like a large, beatified Strawberry.
—John Keats
My husband and I had been transferred to the upper Midwest. The house had a large backyard with space for a vegetable garden. My mouth was hungry for fresh tomatoes, cucumbers, lettuce—all the things our own hands and Mother Nature could provide. We ended up putting in twelve hills of zucchini seeds.
Neither of us had ever grown zucchini—we were more tomato–green pepper people—so this didn't seem too much. Before we knew it, the zucchini were growing well, so well that corner of the yard began to resemble a jungle. Strangely enough, we had no problems with snakes, rabbits, or field mice. In fact, even our Pekingese refused to go near the garden, especially at night. In the evening, I would listen to strange rustlings in the backyard when the moon was full.
Soon, the plants began to produce. One zucchini per vine the first few days, then two, then four, and then a basket a day and more. We had zucchini bread with variations of raisins, nuts, and even pineapple, frosted zucchini bars for dessert, deep-fried zucchini (this was before cholesterol-counting days), fresh zucchini in salads, and vegetable-zucchini soup. The dog began refusing to eat table scraps.
The first few weeks, we gave zucchini to neighbors until they began politely refusing the bounty. We knew we couldn't leave the zucchini on their doorstep at night because no one else in the neighborhood had such a crop.
Next we offered them to our work mates, who already had their fill of our zucchini breads and frosted bars. Only one person was brave enough to take a large bag, and that was because his mother's one plant had died. Our garden heard this news and started producing double.
Finally, we contacted food kitchens in the area and supplied them with fresh zucchini until the frost ended the harvest. Even so, it took snow to finally kill off one remaining plant that was still green until an icicle from an overhanging branch skewered it. Finally the dog could use the backyard again, and we vowed to skip the garden next year and try tomatoes the year after.
—Marie Asner
To have little is to possess. To have plenty is to be perplexed.
—Lao-tzu
This recipe was created by my father when his zucchini crop got out of hand.
2 tablespoons olive oil
8 small zucchini, cut in half lengthwise
salt and pepper to taste
a couple splashes balsamic vinegar
handful of fresh mint, chopped
Heat the oil in a large frying pan. Add the zucchini and brown on both sides until wilted. Add remaining ingredients and stir to blend. Serves 4.
One Saturday morning, when I was almost four years old, I climbed out of bed, crossed the hall, and peeked into my parents' room. Both of my parents were still sound asleep.
A great idea came to me: “I'll make them breakfast in bed!”
I scurried to the kitchen and pulled a chair up to the kitchen counter. I looked around with my hands on my hips, wondering what I could make. I saw bananas. I unpeeled them and put them in a bowl.
I looked around to see what spices I could add. My mother never followed recipes; she simply knew what to throw into her dishes and they always turned out great, so I figured that I could do the same thing. Within a few minutes I had a wonderful-looking concoction. I was so proud of my dish. I carefully carried the banana bowl into my parents' room. When I walked in they were just waking up.
Proudly, I stated, “I made you breakfast.”
My mom responded, “Oh, how nice.”
My father agreed, and then asked me what I put in the “dish.” I revealed my secret recipe: salt, pepper, sugar, and water. My dad then asked me if the dish was any good.
“I don't know. I didn't taste it; it's for you,” I said.
My dad, being the clever man that he is, said, “Well, a good chef always tastes her food before serving it to others to make sure it tastes good.”
Well, that made sense to me. I held the bowl in my left hand and took the spoon in my right hand. Scooping some of my breakfast banana on to the spoon, I put it in my mouth, expecting a delicious taste. It was disgusting. Immediately, I spit the banana out with the words, “Yuck! I am never making this again!” My parents burst into laughter. To this day, the taste of the pepper, salt, and sugared banana still sits on my taste buds, and I refuse to serve anything to anyone that I have not tasted first.
—Elizabeth Blair
You don't have to cook fancy or complicated masterpieces—just good food from fresh ingredients.
—Julia Child
Here's a breakfast treat even a noncook can make. The trick is to eat them right out of the oven or else they will deflate.
6 eggs
¼ cup peanut oil
2 cups milk
1¾ cups flour
1½ teaspoons salt
Combine eggs and peanut oil in a large bowl. Gradually beat in milk, flour, and salt. Pour batter into 10 well-oiled custard cups. Place custard cups on baking sheet. Bake in moderate oven (375°F) for 1 hour, or until firm and brown. Makes 10 large popovers.
Twelve years ago I was on a secret mission in my local library. I had just finished my exams and had a week to pack for the summer in England with my sister. My parents assumed I was planning my reading. They were wrong—I was embarked on a secret project.
A week later I arrived on my sister's doorstep with a small rucksack and a big smile. She had emigrated a year before, and I was delighted to finally have a chance to visit her. However, I had an announcement to make first. “Hi Bronwyn, I think you should know that I've decided to become a vegetarian.” She gaped at me.
We had grown up in a conventional Irish family where “meat and two veg” dinners were practically a form of religion, and she knew that my decision would cause waves back home. I simply smiled at her arguments, pointed out that I was as stubborn as they came, and that I had done my research. I loved food and had no intention of starving. In the end she agreed to my suggestion that I try out the idea during my three-month visit and that if it worked she would help me to win over my parents upon my return. It was a risk; she knew she would be held responsible, as she was the “grown-up” in charge for the summer.
The next day I explored the local supermarket and discovered vegetables that were unavailable at home, things like courgettes (zucchini to Americans), avocados, spring onions, and aubergines (eggplants). Happily I had recipes from the library for them all. I started cooking risottos, fajitas, frittatas, and ratatouilles for Bronwyn and her boyfriend, and they had to admit that they weren't half-bad for something created by a girl who had never cooked before in her life. I scoured magazines for more ideas, made each sauce from scratch as my cash was low, and referred to my old biology book constantly to ensure I was well nourished.
By the time the days were getting shorter, I had lost weight, increased my energy levels, and learned how to cook up a storm. My sister rang my parents while I was en route home for the start of my university course in September. She told me later that her announcement was met with a deafening silence. Then my father spoke: “Do you mean to tell me that she ate nothing all summer but rabbit food?” She hung up shortly afterward.
When I arrived home later that day, the news had sunk in. My mother was curious, my father despairing, but I was optimistic. They tried to talk me out of it, but over a course of several weeks I convinced them. My mother was easiest as I was happy to do all my own cooking. However, Dad still thinks it's just a rabbit food phase. But even he has to admit that I haven't starved yet and that I do toss a mean salad.
—Grace Tierney
After a good dinner, one can forgive anybody, even one's relatives.
—Oscar Wilde
Here is a traditional Southern recipe that any vegetarian can enjoy.
3 navel oranges
2 bananas, sliced
½ pineapple, peeled, cored, and diced
1 7-ounce package shredded coconut
maraschino cherries
Peel oranges over large bowl, reserving juice. Dice oranges. Add oranges, bananas, and pineapple to diced oranges. Stir in coconut. Cover and refrigerate several hours or until serving. Garnish with cherries. Makes 12 servings.
I live in a place where blackberries grow wild. One hot summer Saturday, my husband suggested that we go berry picking and make jam from what we harvested. Having never made jam before, I was skeptical. But we gathered berries, bought the little jars with the seals, consulted an old copy of The Joy of Cooking, and before the day was through, had a dozen jars of homemade jam. Some we gave as gifts to friends; others we savored throughout the year. I enjoyed doing it so much that it isn't summertime if we don't make blackberry jam. And yes, I always take a hearty taste before packing it up.
—Susannah Seton
Marry, sir, 'tis an ill cook that can'nt lick his own fingers. Therefore he that cannot lick his fingers goes not with me.
—William Shakespeare, Romeo and Juliet
This is a super-simple jam that doesn't require sterilizing jars.
4 cups blueberries
2 cups raspberries
5 cups sugar
2 tablespoons lemon juice
¾ cup water
1 1¾-ounce package powdered fruit pectin
jars with lids
Crush the blueberries and raspberries in a large bowl. Stir in sugar and lemon juice and allow to sit for 15 minutes. Bring water and pectin to a boil in a small pan. Boil 1 minute, stir ring continuously. Add to fruit, and stir for 3 minutes. Pour into jars and cool to room temperature. Cover and let stand overnight. Refrigerate. Makes 7 cups.
Here are two ways to decorate the lids of the homemade jams you make. Of course you can also decorate store-bought ones if you so desire.
jam or jelly of choice
cotton fabric
jute rope
Cut a circle of fabric large enough to fit over the jar lid, plus 2 inches of overhang. Wrap jute around edge of lid and tie. Fray ends of jute to create tassels.
jam or jelly of choice
wrapping paper
spray mount
narrow ribbon in coordinating color to paper
Cut a circle of paper large enough to completely cover top and edge of lid. Lay paper face down and spray with spray mount. Center paper on jar lid; press gently to smooth out bubbles, tucking edge of paper just under edge of lid. Trim any excess paper. Tie ribbon around jar from bottom to top, tying a bow at the top.
My Aunt Dorothy didn't spend a lot of time in the kitchen. Which was fortunate for the rest of us because she was a terrible cook, of the packaged-onion-soup-over-the-round-roast-baked-to-death-in-the-oven-and-served-for-Christmas-dinner variety. But she did teach me one trick I use to this day—making toasted cheese sandwiches with an iron. I don't know whether she read about it or just invented it herself in response to a burned sandwich, but she was so excited to share her technique with me that I put aside my skepticism and gave it a try. Instantly I was a convert.
The technique is simplicity itself. Put sliced cheese between two slices of bread, wrap in aluminum foil, and iron on high for a few minutes. The cheese will be melted and the bread warm (and without the added fat calories of the butter you need to put on when you make it in a pan). And there's no messy pan to clean up after—just throw the foil away. Since I gave up ironing clothes about twenty years ago, I figure I might as well put the iron and board to some use.
—Susannah Seton
In cooking, as in all the arts, simplicity is the sign of perfection.
—Chef Curnonsky
Here's an old-fashioned tea that goes great with toasted cheese sandwiches. Try it iced if the weather is hot. You can use roses from your garden, but taste them first to find ones that are sweet.
rose petals
net bag (available at craft stores)
gunpowder tea
dark container with tight-fitting lid
Half-fill the net bag with rose petals and hang in a warm, dark place until dry. Combine equal parts by weight of dried rose petals and gunpowder tea. Store in container. Use tea ball when ready to make tea.
Since I was a young child, Sunday mornings mean BLTs. It all started as an offshoot of the bacon-and-egg breakfast my mother used to make after church. I hated eggs, so I would roam the kitchen, trying to figure out what else to eat. One day, I hit upon a BLT and haven't wavered since. Over the years, I've refined the recipe quite a bit. The bacon really should be Nueske's (available through mail order), the lettuce Romaine, and the tomato home grown. And it really doesn't taste right if it's not on thick sourdough toast, with a splash of salsa or Tabasco for a bit of zest. If avocadoes are in season, a half can be added to great effect.
Because of my BLT persnicketiness, my husband always grows beefsteak tomatoes for me, for which I am very grateful since I'm tortured for almost half the year, when no garden tomatoes are available. But in the heat of summer and early fall, when the kitchen is full of the garden's bounty, then I am in BLT heaven. Sometimes I even skip the bacon.
—Alicia Alvrez
It's difficult to think anything but pleasant thoughts while eating a homegrown tomato.
—Lewis Grizzard
This is a great summer brunch treat mixed with sparkling mineral water. Or try it straight as an after-dinner drink.
2 10-ounce packages frozen raspberries with juice
1½ cups sugar
1½ cups vodka
glass container with lid
cheesecloth
decorative bottle with tight-fitting lid
Defrost berries. Using a colander, strain berries into medium saucepan, pressing to remove all juice. Put berries to the side. Add sugar to juice. Bring to boil over high heat, stirring until sugar melts. Cool to room temperature, then add berries and vodka. Skim any foam from top. Pour into glass container and put on lid. Store in cool, dark place for 1 month, shaking occasionally. Strain through cheesecloth; discard berries. Pour liqueur into decorative bottle and put lid on. Makes about 3 cups.
I love my kitchen—the way it looks, I mean. I've spent years scrounging at yard sales and antiques stores to get just the right “lived in” look. My pine kitchen table, full of scratches, nicks, and stains from years of use, speaks of a history of cooking and eating from before I was even born. My mismatched wooden chairs, each one with unique legs, backs, and seats, somehow come together into a harmonious arrangement. My green plants sit above the sunny yellow cupboards, which coordinate with the yellow walls and combine with the dark wood of the table and chairs to give a warm feeling to the small space. My children's artwork graces the fridge and the walls. Well-used cookbooks, full of stains and splatters, occupy one counter. It feels good to cook dinner there while my children do their homework at the table, or sit down with a cup of tea for a moment's peace at the end of the day. My kitchen doesn't look anything like those in designer magazines, but it speaks to me of cozy comfort, of love created and shared.
—Susannah Seton
Creativity is mastery of simplicity.
—Christopher Zeeman
Make a two-toned one-of-a-kind chair for your kitchen.
wooden kitchen chair
large paintbrush
white matte emulsion paint
2 coordinating colors of vinyl matte emulsion paint
2 soft cloths
beeswax
medium sandpaper
Paint the chair with two coats of white paint, letting dry between coats. Apply two coats of the lighter color paint of your choice, and allow to dry completely. Using the cloth, apply beeswax on places where the chair would normally get worn, such as the seat and back. Let dry. Then apply one coat of the darker paint. Let dry. Rub down the chair with sandpaper, especially the areas where the beeswax was applied. You'll be able to see parts of the lighter undercoat. Remove sawdust with clean cloth. Apply two layers of beeswax, letting dry between coats.
My wife is from Boston, so one year for her birthday I decided to surprise her by making a Boston Cream Pie in honor of her heritage. (It's the official dessert of the state of Massachusetts.) Well, the surprise was on me when I found the recipe and discovered it was not a pie at all, but a cake. Why it's called pie I still don't understand, for there isn't a crust within a mile of it. What with all the pans, I made quite a mess in the kitchen, but the cake turned out pretty tasty. And I had a great time thinking of how surprised she'd be (and she was—I never set foot in the kitchen ordinarily). I had such a good time I'm thinking of volunteering to be the dessert maker in our house—my wife hates to bake.
—John Seton
When baking, follow directions. When cooking, go by your own taste.
—Laiko Bahrs
2 cups all-purpose flour
1½ cups sugar
1 teaspoon baking soda
1/ teaspoon baking powder
½ teaspoon salt
¼ cup butter or margarine, softened
¼ cup shortening
1½ teaspoons vanilla
1¼ cups buttermilk
4 egg whites (reserve 2 egg yolks for cream filling)
Cream Filling
cup sugar
2 tablespoons cornstarch
teaspoon salt
1½ cups milk
reserved 2 egg yolks
1 tablespoon butter
1 teaspoon vanilla
Chocolate Glaze
3 tablespoons water
2 tablespoons butter
¼ cup cocoa
1 cup confectioners' sugar
½ teaspoon vanilla
Preheat oven to 350° F. Grease two 9-inch layer pans. Combine flour, sugar, baking soda, baking powder, and salt in large bowl. Using an electric mixer on low, add butter or margarine, shortening, vanilla, and buttermilk until blended. Then beat on medium speed 2 minutes. Add egg whites; beat 2 minutes. Pour into pans and bake for 30–35 minutes or until toothpick inserted in center comes out clean. Cool 10 minutes; remove from pans. Cool completely.
To prepare cream filling, combine sugar, cornstarch, and salt in saucepan. Gradually add milk and egg yolks; blend well. Stir over medium heat until mixture boils, then cook 1 more minute. Remove from heat; blend in butter and vanilla. Cool 10 minutes. Spoon onto one cake layer. Carefully top with remaining cake layer.
To prepare chocolate glaze, combine water and butter in small saucepan. Bring to a boil; remove from heat and add cocoa. Stir until mixture leaves side of pan and forms ball. Beat in confectioners' sugar and vanilla until smooth. Immediately pour onto top of cake, allowing some to drizzle down side. Chill befor e serving. Makes 8–10 servings.
When the weather turns scorching, the biggest pleasure of my kitchen is leaving it. I like to make a cold salad platter—although I often end up making Salad Niçoise, a regular tossed salad with homegrown tomatoes does just fine too. Then I go outside to our beat-up picnic table, light some candles, and watch the evening come on. The stream behind our house gurgles, the cicadas chirp, the peepers peep, the candles flicker. I bask in the body-temperature warmth and enjoy the food I have prepared for myself.
—Susannah Seton
Gastronomical perfection can be reached in these combinations: one person dining alone, usually upon a couch or a hill side; two people, of no matter what sex or age, dining in a good restaurant; six people … dining in a good home.
—M. F. K. Fisher