When I was a child, and the snow fell, my mother always rushed to the kitchen and made snow ice cream and divinity fudge—egg whites, sugar and pecans mostly. It was a lark then and I always associate divinity fudge with snowstorms.
—Eudora Welty
My home feels coziest when a pot of soup simmers on the stove, filling the rooms with its welcoming, comfortable aroma. The slightest nip in the air, the merest stiff breeze, can send me rushing to pull all the odd bits and bobs from the refrigerator to toss into a pot and allow the magic to begin.
There is a container in the freezer that holds leftovers. Like layers of sedimentary deposits, I can see past meals at a glance. Broccoli, rice, carrots, beans, a dab of macaroni and cheese, corn—all frozen solid. I take pleasure when preparing these dishes—the washing, the scraping, the paring—because I know that any remaining spoonfuls will be added to the freezer container, waiting in frosty silence for soup weather.
My favorite soup begins with chicken bubbling in its own broth. I know it's time to transfer the bird to a separate bowl when the meat is falling from the bones. I enjoy the simple task of pulling off the tender meaty chunks because, thanks to the chicken fat, it's the one time during the winter that my dry hands feel supple and smooth.
As I bustle around using modern conveniences, I'm transported back to my grandmother's homey kitchen, where every dish was prepared with her special ingredient—love. In addition to heavy earthenware mixing bowls and wooden rolling pins with red enameled handles, her Hoosier cabinet held an empty mayonnaise jar with air holes punched in the lid, kept in readiness for her grandchildren's lightning bug raids. Her storehouse of country wisdom included the fact that oatmeal was good for whatever ailed you, including a teenager's broken heart. Memories of my gentle grandma warm me on a chilly day.
I return the juicy chicken pieces to the soup pot, recalling times I watched over my tiny grandmother's shoulder as she rolled out dough, sliced it on the diagonal, and using floury fingers, dropped raw dumplings into her simmering pot of chicken broth, where they fell into its depths and then rose again to gently bob on the surface.
I search my refrigerator shelves for that leftover half an onion to chop for the soup pot. My grandmother's whisper reminds me to not overlook last night's sliced tomato. I'm drawn back through the decades to her little country town, where the ruby fruit graced every meal because the tomato canning plant was the town's major industry. I dice my tomato slices along with the onion and add them to the pot.
I'm surrounded by memories of love. Cooking does that sometimes. A steaming bowl of homemade soup is a culinary extended hand, a tissue, a hug. And it just might cure what ails you.
—Lana Robertson
[Soup] breathes reassurance, it offers consolation; after a weary day it promotes sociability…. There is nothing like a bowl of hot soup, it's wisp of aromatic steam teasing the nostrils into quivering anticipation.
—Louis P. DeGouy
This hearty Italian soup is great for cold winter nights. To make it even easier, start with canned beans.
¾ pound dried white kidney beans
water
2-pound ham bone
2 cloves garlic, minced
4 medium firm tomatoes, peeled and chopped
¼ teaspoon dried oregano
¼ teaspoon dried thyme
1 cup dry red wine
1 cup macaroni
salt and pepper to taste
Soak beans in water overnight; drain. In a large soup pot, combine beans, ham bone, garlic, tomatoes, oregano, thyme, 6 cups of water, and wine. Bring to a boil; cover and simmer gently until beans are tender, about 2 hours. Remove bone; dice meat and return to pot. Add macaroni and cook 9–12 minutes or until macaroni is tender. Add salt and pepper to taste. Makes 8–10 servings.
There's nothing like homemade biscuits with soup. These are as basic—and as delicious—as they get.
1¾ cups flour
1 tablespoon baking powder
½ teaspoon salt
½ cup shortening or margarine
¾ cup milk
Heat oven to 450° F. Mix flour, baking powder, and salt in large bowl. Cut in shortening or margarine until mixture resembles coarse crumbs. Add milk to flour mixture; stir until soft dough forms. Knead dough on lightly floured surface until smooth. Pat or roll lightly until dough is ½ inch thick. Cut with floured 2-inch cookie cutter. Place on ungreased cookie sheet. Bake 10 minutes or until golden brown. Makes 16.
Neighbors avoid me during the Christmas season; even the children don't visit as often as I'd like. It's my fruitcake that's keeping them away. Fruitcakes rarely mold, so it's the end of June before I concede defeat and toss the remains in the garbage. Each time I vow never to bake another fruitcake, so why is it the following December finds me mixing up another batch of batter?
Mother would make fruitcake each Christmas. Neither my sister nor I liked that cake either, but children were politer back then, so Mother never guessed. We swallowed great chunks of the stuff and consoled ourselves with the thought that, come February, it would be gone. Father desired a long and happy life, so he didn't let on how he felt about it either.
As a child I would stand next to Mother and shell the nuts and pit the dried fruit to go into the batter. Then I'd take my turn with the mixing spoon and stir until my hand ached and Dad would take over. Although Mother gave the directions, fruitcake was a family project.
These days, a machine mixes the ingredients and the nuts are bought minus their shells. But although the process is different, as I throw one ingredient after another into the bowl, I reminisce about the Christmases of childhood.
The war was not long over and goods were scarce in England. I remember Mother skimping on using her ration books so she'd have coupons left for the sugar and butter for the fruitcake. I remember the living room festooned with chains of colored paper and the clusters of balloons that hung in the corners. The chains always fell down several times before the big day, and Dad would patiently climb on a chair and reattach them to the wall. The balloons would either pop or fly free, and my sister and I would bat them around the room with the help of Sooty, our cat. We were sometimes scolded for boisterous behavior, but what fun we had!
For dinner there was always a roast chicken, stuffed with sausage meat, and a mincemeat pie to follow. Chicken was a luxury in those days, so it was only served once a year. The chickens of today don't taste nearly as delicious.
My family has been fortunate here in America, and life has brought us many good things. Still, I miss those long-ago Christmases, and I try, as far as possible, to re-create them. Each December as I mix the fruitcake batter, my thoughts drift to the way things were in England all those years ago. Most of all I think of my mother. Baking fruitcake brings me close to her once more.
—Margaret B. Davidson
Our lives are not in the laps of the gods, but in the laps of our cooks.
—Lin Yutang
For a gift for the baker in your life, how about making homemade vanilla extract?
1 vanilla bean
¾ cup vodka
Split the vanilla bean lengthwise and put it in small, dark bottle. Fill the bottle with ¾ cup vodka. Cap tightly and store in cool, dark place for a few months before use.
Is there anything better than a warm cookie with the chips soft and melting and a tall glass of pure white milk? I don't think so. My mother didn't bake every day, but I still remember the aroma of warm chocolate chip cookies that would sometimes greet my brother and me as we opened the door after school. If I'd had a hard day, the cookies made it a little better, and if things had gone great, then the cookies topped off a wonderful day, like a scrumptious dessert does a fine dinner.
I took over the cookie baking when I was thirteen. Chocolate chip were my favorite. I'd mix them in the wobbly stand mixer, scoop them out carefully with teaspoons, check them while they baked, and then place them in the yellow plastic container after they'd cooled. My family loved them, especially my younger brother. As a ravenous teenager, he'd devour them, and I always felt especially cheated if I didn't get to eat the last one. After all, I'd made them, right?
Now I make cookies with my kids. They perch on bar stools at the snack bar to supervise my pouring and measuring. I give them spoons and small bowls of their own. I sprinkle a few ingredients into their bowls so they can stir and “cook,” too. Somehow their ingredients disappear, especially when I drop in a few chocolate chips.
I want to be a mom who bakes. I want to pass the chocolate chip cookie tradition down to my kids, because cookies are important. Baking cookies lets me teach them important life skills, like how to measure out flour and how to drop rounded teaspoonfuls of cookie dough in rows three deep and four across to fill a cookie sheet.
And chocolate chip cookies are appropriate for any life occasion. We celebrate Lauren's 100 on her spelling test and Dad's return from his business trip with chocolate chip cookies. They're great boosts for the down times, too. A friend once asked me what I did to cheer myself up when I was depressed. I paused. I hadn't realized it would be at the top of my list, but the first answer that popped into my head was, “Bake chocolate chip cookies.”
But more than anything, baking chocolate chip cookies with my kids means connecting with them. I hope they remember our baking sessions and bake chocolate chip cookies with their kids one day.
Recently we've been exploring new chocolate chip territory together. We've tried a dark chocolate cookie with white chocolate chips. Peanut butter chips may be next. The kids gobbled up the dark chocolate cookies with the white chips, but when I asked, “Do you like these better than the chocolate chip cookies we usually make?” My daughter said, “No. I like our kind the best.”
Me too.
—Sara Rosett
Cookies are made of butter and love.
—Norwegian proverb
Here's something homemade to store those cookies in.
2-pound coffee can or other tin can with lid
acrylic paints
small paintbrush
sponge brush
ribbon
glue gun
Paint tin and lid as needed to cover (most likely two coats). Use sponge brush to decorate with contrasting color. Glue ribbon around top of tin, letting ends dangle. Tie in a bow.
When I'm stressed out or feeling overwhelmed, I rear range my kitchen drawers. There is something about restoring order to pots and pans, dish towels, and utensils that relaxes my mind and soothes my heart. I guess it's because I figure that if I can make order in my silverware, I can make order in my brain. The more frantic my life gets, the more my kitchen benefits. Friends laugh at me for my impeccably neat kitchen, calling me a perfectionist, but I know it's simply a matter of stress reduction!
—Elizabeth Gonzales
If you can organize your kitchen, you can organize your life.
—Louis Parrish
Because we busy folks all spend so much time in the kitchen, it's a great place to keep a family calendar with everyone's appointments on it for quick reference. Buy a lar ge wall calendar for the new year. Record all important dates such as birthdays and anniversaries. Make the dates stand out by using colored stickers, markers, rubber stamps. Then as family members book events—dog training, soccer practice, swim meets, business travel—you'll have it in one handy place for all to see. If you have a digital camera and a color printer, you can even make your own calendar with family photos on top and the months below.
Every October, Grandma Kav's Christmas cake would begin with Grandpa Kav walking down to the pub for a small bottle of Guinness. But he wasn't allowed to drink this good Irish stout. He had to bring it back, stuffed in the capacious pocket of his greatcoat, so the annual cake making could begin.
Grandma Kav would already have filled a yellow pottery bowl with about 2 pounds of dried sultanas, raisins, nuts, glacé cherries, and any other odds and ends of mixed fruit that caught her fancy.
As soon as Grandpa reluctantly handed over the Guinness, she would lever off the cap and pour the entire contents over the fruit and nut mix. Then she covered with a cloth and left it to soak overnight. “No sticking your fingers in it,' she would admonish Grandpa Kav, who was still gazing sadly at the empty bottle.
Next day, Grandma would sift into a bowl about 2 cups of flour (self-rising, Grandma Kav never could stand messing about with bicarb), and a teaspoon each of cinnamon, nutmeg, and mixed spice. Then she would break half a dozen eggs into another bowl and mix them well with about a quarter of a cup of milk. Then she melted about half a pound of fresh butter with a cup of thick brown sugar over a low heat in a milk pan. This wasn't allowed to boil, or it would turn to toffee. She let this cool a bit, and then stirred it in with the eggs. Then she mixed the eggs, milk, and butter in with the fruit. Finally she folded the flour through the mixture with a light hand. We were all allowed to stir the cake and drop in a silver sixpence for each of us, but no one was allowed to beat the mixture, or the cake would be tough.
Grandma Kav lined a big cake tin with two layers of greaseproof paper so it came well past the sides, and poured in the mixture. Then she baked it for two hours in a moderate oven.
The finished cake was wrapped in greaseproof and brown paper and put away in a cool dry place until a week before Christmas. Then she covered it with almond paste and royal icing. It was always a big moment on Christmas Day when we sliced into the cake and saw who got the most sixpences.
Grandma Kav never used a measuring cup or a recipe, so re-creating her Guinness cake takes a bit of creative cook's knowhow. And no doubt it could be created with less heart-threatening ingredients … but what the heck! It's only once a year. I will be making Grandma Kav's Guinness cake again this year, much to the delight of my family.
—Gail Kavanagh
The torch of love is lit in the kitchen.
—French proverb
I'm not a meat chef. There is a clear division of labor in my marriage when it comes to cooking: my husband cooks the meat, I bake the warm, homey treats that to an earlier generation would have been synonymous with motherhood. In an effort to rise above my baking domain (pun acknowledged), I decided I would slip a basting brush into my apron pocket, so to speak.
In keeping with this resolution, I offered to cook the traditional Hanukkah meal for our family. I figured this would be an easy way to learn to cook meats because, as my mother has said for years, it's almost impossible to ruin a brisket. My mother cooks a sublime brisket—rich, juicy, falling apart. I consulted with her for a recipe. The text of our conversation follows:
MOM: “Go buy a brisket from the butcher, then cook it in a covered casserole dish for at least five hours.”
ME: “That can't be all. What do I put in the brisket while it's cooking?”
MOM: “What do you have?”
ME: “What do I have?! Isn't there a recipe I'm to follow?”
MOM: “Look in your refrigerator. What's there?”
ME: “I have orange juice, wine, beer …”
MOM: “Those are all good. What else do you see?”
ME: “Apples, carrots, onions, that sort of thing. Leftover macaroni and cheese.”
MOM: “Good, good.”
ME: “You mean I just put it all in? It doesn't matter?”
MOM: “No, not really. It all tastes good, honey. It's like a stew you make in the oven. Leave out the macaroni and cheese.”
ME: “Well, at what temperature do I cook it?”
MOM: “Whatever you want.”
ME: “Are you kidding? Isn't there an ideal temperature?”
MOM: “No, not really. Just check it once an hour, make sure it has enough liquid, and remember: the longer you cook it, the better it will be.”
This is the indifferent and utterly informal guidance I had while preparing my first brisket. In a way, the lack of precise directions inspired my confidence by reducing the possibility of my making a mistake. This was no prissy soufflé I had to fret and fuss over. Giddy with success, I marveled at the easy preparation of the brisket. How could I have thought that preparing meat was so complicated, so onerous?
As I checked the brisket throughout the day, distress replaced my smug composure: the brisket was shrinking rapidly. At one point, the meat had weighed enough that I couldn't hold it with one hand. When it was done, it was about the size of a trifling paperback novel—definitely not enough to feed seven people. My husband, too polite to comment, nevertheless placed it grandly on a platter. Complimented all around for being tender, juicy, and sweet, my brisket received high praise, especially from my mother. Everyone savored their one slice, eyeing the empty meat platter. I compensated by serving enormous pieces of cake, which, I'm happy to report, did not shrink in the oven.
—Sheri Scarborough
Laughter is the best seasoning.
—Barbara Kafka
Here's a salad that you can make ahead to accompany a meat dish at a party.
6 medium tomatoes, cut into eighths
1 medium green pepper, thinly sliced
1 medium red onion, thinly sliced
1 medium cucumber, thinly sliced
¾ cup cider vinegar
¼ cup water
2 tablespoons sugar
1½ teaspoons celery salt
½ teaspoon mustard
salt and pepper to taste
Combine the tomatoes, green pepper, onion, and cucumber in a pretty salad bowl. In a saucepan, combine the remaining ingredients. Bring to a boil; boil for 1 minute. Pour over vegetables and toss. Cover and refrigerate for 8 hours or overnight. Serve with a slotted spoon. Makes 10–12 servings.
The eve of the new year found my wife and me busy in our kitchen for the first time in what seemed like forever, doing something we enjoy—preparing food for our friends. It was a less than graceful dance. We had the music, the attitude, and a little gin and tonic, but despite the fact that we had lived in this house for six months, we had yet to unpack and organize our kitchen. Nothing was handy, many things were missing, and we constantly ran into each other.
Our new home is perfect for living and entertaining. A spacious living room features hardwood floors and a cozy fireplace. The dining room opens onto a large deck. The architecture allows for a fluid movement of people and energy in, out, around, and through the living spaces. It has excellent feng shui. The only component that seems out of place is the tiny, square kitchen with its strange configuration of cupboards, limited counter space, and haphazard arrangement of appliances. The house was built in 1957; the countertop, range, oven, and flooring are all original. The only addition to the ensemble is a creatively plumbed dishwasher installed under the oven and a fridge with a door that opens in the wrong direction.
When we moved in we had grand plans to remodel and upgrade, but as is often the case an older structure has a way of dictating to its owners what it needs rather than the owners calling the shots. What started as a simple renovation of the basement revealed plumbing issues, water damage, drainage problems, and crumbling asbestos tile. Projects like painting the interior of the home grew in scale as we began to tackle them.
After six months of cleaning, painting, fixing, upgrading, and decorating, we were exhausted. We decided to let the kitchen go until we could find the time and energy to deal with it. It was functional if not ergonomic, so the only attention it got was a good cleaning, some shelf paper, and a coat of white paint.
December 31 was our grand unveiling, and the house looked beautiful. Our home was warm and inviting and greeted our guests with the scent of freshly baked bread and a comfortable living room lit with dozens of candles. The dining room was set up as a buffet, and the kitchen designated as the bar.
Our friends arrived with covered dishes. Accustomed as they were to our eclectic taste in food and wine, everyone was amused by our exotic presentation of tiny sausages in barbecue sauce, deviled eggs, a cheese log, and pumpernickel bread with spinach dip. That night we gave many tours, poured many drinks, shared a lot of laughter, and ushered in a new year with ten of our best friends … crammed into the kitchen, of course!
—Michael S. McKlusky
Good food ends with good talk.
—Geoffrey Neighor
This is a wonderful side dish that can be used instead of cranberry sauce as a turkey or ham accompaniment.
1 20-ounce can pineapple chunks
1 16-ounce can apricot halves
2 16-ounce cans pear halves
1 14-ounce jar spiced apple rings
½ cup firmly packed brown sugar
1 stick margarine or butter
¼ teaspoon ground cloves
½ teaspoon cinnamon
1 cup sherry or water
2 tablespoons flour
Heat oven to 350° F. Drain all fruit well. Slice the apricot and pear halves. Place all fruit in 2-quart baking dish. In a medium saucepan, bring sugar, margarine or butter, cloves, cinnamon, sherry or water, and flour to boil in medium saucepan. Pour over fruit. Cover and refrigerate overnight. Bake 30 minutes. Serve warm or at room temperature. Makes 12 servings.
This is a great gift for cold winter nights. You just have to think ahead—it needs to sit for a month before it is ready.
1 6-ounce package dried apricots, chopped
1½ cups white wine
1 cup sugar
1 cup brandy
nonmetallic container with tightly fitting lid
cheesecloth
decorative glass bottles with tight-fitting tops
Combine all ingredients except brandy in a medium saucepan. Bring to boil over high heat, stirring until sugar dissolves. Cool. Add brandy. Pour into nonmetallic container and close lid tightly. Store in cool, dark place for 1 month, shaking occasionally. Strain mixture through cheesecloth; discard apricots. Pour liqueur into decorative bottles, and cap. Makes 2 cups.
Winter or summer I always buy fresh flowers for my kitchen table or pick a small bunch from my garden, even if it's a couple daisies. I also stick two lemons at the bottom of the water. It's not just pretty, but it creates a pleasant lemony smell when the sun hits the vase.
—Mary Beth Sammons
When you have only two pennies left in the world, buy a loaf of bread with one, and a lily with the other.
—Chinese proverb
In addition to using flowers on the table, beautify your place settings with made-in-a-minute napkin rings. Take a piece of nice computer paper and cut in quarters lengthwise. Write people's names on the slips of paper. Roll the napkins, place the paper around the napkins, and hold together with wooden clothespins. If you want to get really fancy, spray paint the clothespins before using.
My pleasure of the kitchen is reading fabulous recipes and fantasizing about making them. That's why I subscribe to Saveur. It has the most sophisticated, complex recipes in the cooking magazine world. I browse through, marking pages of the dishes that sound intriguing. I fully intend to make them. That's why I have a complete archive of Saveur going back six years. I'm going to need all those issues someday. As soon as I get myself into the kitchen.
—Noah Seton
If your interests run to crafts as well as cooking, you might enjoy making these baskets. They are perfectly useable as bread baskets. Just wipe to clean; don't soak in water.
large mixing bowl and wooden spoon
2 cups flour, plus a little extra
1 cup salt
1 cup water
rolling pin
knife
shallow ovenproof dish to use as a mold
aluminum foil
acrylic paint and brushes
water-based varnish
Preheat oven to 275° F. Mix the flour, salt, and water in a large bowl with a wooden spoon. When it forms a ball, take it out of the bowl and knead it for 5 minutes. Sprinkle some flour onto the work surface to prevent the dough from sticking as you work. Roll dough out onto a floured surface, and cut it into strips about an inch wide.
Cover the ovenproof dish used as a mold with aluminum foil. Using the foil-covered bowl as a base, weave the strips of dough horizontally and vertically into a basket shape. Bake the basket for 4 hours or until completely dry. When the basket is cool, remove it from the bowl, paint, and varnish.
I have always been able to cook, but baking was another thing. Oh, yes, I read the recipes, but somehow my cakes fell and the pies crumbled. It took me awhile to realize that I was not following the recipes carefully enough.
The first tart I attempted was a total disaster. I prepared the dough and gingerly put it into a pie pan. I was feeling very proud of myself. I remembered that the recipe said to weigh down the dough with weights or beans so the dough wouldn't shrink while baking. I obviously had skipped over “to cover the dough with parchment paper before putting on the beans.” I filled the shell with beans and slid it into the oven to bake. To my horror I found that the beans had baked and burned into the dough.
Another baking fiasco is about the tart I call “Beggar's Purse.” This one had a happy ending, though.
The dinner I had planned for the evening had everything except dessert. I needed a fast answer. I had apples, I had shortening, and I thought I had enough flour. But, I didn't. I had enough flour for the bottom crust but not enough for the top. Undaunted, I made the dough, rolled it to fit the pie pan, and left the remainder hanging over the edge of the pan. I poured the apple mixture onto the dough and gathered the overhanging dough over the apples, forming a pouch. I perforated the dough with a fork in strategic places to let the steam escape, brushed the dough with an egg wash as I normally would do, and, closing my eyes, said the kitchen god's prayer and popped it into the oven. Voilà! “Beggar's Purse.” My mistake was an instant hit that I serve often.
—Carol Greenberg
There is no love sincerer than the love of food.
—George Bernard Shaw
Cooking is like love. It should be entered into with abandon or not at all.
—Harriet Van Horne
Crust
1½ cups all-purpose flour
2 tablespoons sugar
½ cup shortening (butter, margarine, or Crisco)
5 Granny Smith apples, peeled, cored, and sliced
½ cup sugar
1 teaspoon ground cinnamon
¼ cup raisins (optional)
2 tablespoons all-purpose flour
Wash
1 egg beaten, mixed with 2 teaspoons cold water
In a large bowl, combine flour and sugar; cut in shortening with pastry blender or fork until mixture is crumbly. Knead the dough until it is smooth. Cover with plastic wrap and refrigerate for 30 minutes. Let soften at room temperature. Grease an 8-inch pie pan.
Place dough on a floured board. Roll out dough to a 12-inch circle and place in greased pie pan, pressing the bottom into place and allowing overhang of 3–4 inches. Preheat oven to 375° F.
Combine apple slices, sugar, raisins, cinnamon, and flour, and spoon mixture onto prepared pastry. Pull the overhang up to meet in center and twist gently to close. Make 5 slits with fork or knife in dough to let steam escape. With pastry brush, brush on egg wash. Bake 45 minutes to 1 hour or until nicely brown. Serves 6.
Ponder well on this point: The pleasant hours of our life are all connected by a more or less tangible link, with some memory of the table.
—Charles Pierre Monselet
My mother did not bake often, but when she did, my favorite part of the pies she would occasionally make was the leftover crust. We would roll it thinly, add a layer of raspberry jam, fold into a tart, and bake in the oven. I can't remember any of her pies, but the memory of those raspberry tarts is still with me, fifty years later.
—Susannah Seton
It seems to me that our three basic needs, for food and security and love, are so mixed and mingled and entwined that we cannot straightly think of one without the others. So it happens that when I write of hunger, I am really writing about love and the hunger for it, and warmth and the love of it and the hunger for it; and then the warmth and richness and fine reality of hunger satisfied; and it is all one.
—M. F. K. Fisher
I have never been a breakfast eater, but when I had kids, I felt guilty just sending them off with a breakfast bar in the morning. So on weekends, I went all out—pancakes with real maple syrup, waffles, sausage and eggs, quiche, bagels, omelets, frittatas—you name it, I've cooked it. And it's not that my family didn't appreciate it. They managed to eat whatever I put in front of them. But one Christmas, I had an awakening to what they consider truly a treat, and it's made my life in the kitchen on weekend mornings much easier. Santa brought them each a package of single serving cereals—you know the kind, with about six tiny boxes of various cereals. This was far and away their favorite present; you would have thought they had been given the Hope diamond. It was something about the variety and the little boxes that you cut open and pour the milk in. Their delight has not diminished over the years. If I want to really impress them at breakfast, forget crêpes with homemade Marion berry jam—offer Fruit Loops or Raisin Bran in the little boxes.
—Susannah Seton
Life, within doors, has few pleasanter prospects than a neatly arranged and well-provisioned breakfast table.
—NATHANIEL HAW THORNE
I think breakfast so pleasant because no-one is conceited before one o'clock.
—SYDNEY SMITH
“When you wake up in the morning, Pooh,” said Piglet at last,“ what's the first thing you say to yourself?”
“What's for breakfast?” said Pooh. “What do you say, Piglet?”
“I say, I wonder what's going to happen exciting today?” said Piglet. Pooh nodded thoughtfully. “It's the same thing,” he said.
—A. A. MILNE
Life expectancy would grow by leaps and bounds if green vegetables smelled as good as bacon.
—DOUG LARSON
I've long said that if I were about to be executed and were given a choice of my last meal, it would be bacon and eggs. There are few sights that appeal to me more than the streaks of lean and fat in a good side of bacon, or the lovely round of pinkish meat framed in delicate white fat that is Canadian bacon. Nothing is quite as intoxicating as the smell of bacon frying in the morning, save perhaps the smell of coffee brewing.
—JAMES BEARD
We plan, we toil, and we suffer—in the hope of what? A camelload of idol's eyes? The title deeds of Radio City? The empire of Asia? A trip to the moon? No, no, no, no. Simply to wake up just in time to smell coffee and bacon and eggs. And, again I cry, how rarely it happens! But when it does happen—then what a moment, what a morning, what a delight!
—J. B. PRIESTLEY
All happiness depends on a leisurely breakfast.
—JOHN GUNTHER
A simple enough pleasure, surely, to have breakfast alone with one's husband, but how seldom married people in the midst of life achieve it.
—ANNE SPENCER MORROW LINDBERGH
The bagel is a lonely roll to eat all by yourself because in order for the true taste to come out you need your family. One to cut the bagels, one to toast them, one to put on the cream cheese and the lox, one to put them on the table and one to supervise.
—GERTRUDE BERG
It takes some skill to spoil a breakfast—even the English can't do it.
—JOHN KENNETH GALBRAITH
I am convinced that the Muses and the Graces never thought of having breakfast anywhere but bed.
—MARY ARN
This is traditional comfort food. Eat it plain, or add milk for breakfast or dessert.
3 egg yolks
2 cups cold cooked rice
1 cup milk
¾ cup sugar
1 tablespoon butter or margarine
1 cup raisins
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
Preheat oven to 300° F. Beat egg yolks with fork. Add remaining ingredients and turn into a well-buttered casserole dish. Bake until custard is set in center. Serves 6.
The little grate in our kitchen is one reason I left my job. When I joined the office, the weather was chilling, and it drizzled daily. After a couple days, I realized I simply couldn't afford to be away from the kitchen fire.
Our family has a great time in winter around the fire. At dusk, we all assemble together in the warm and wide kitchen, sitting on mats around the fire. My father, who is aged and weak, lies on one mat beside the fire. I take a book but quickly close it, chatting instead with my sister, sister-in-law, and my mother, who cooks the supper on the fire. My brother Ishtiaq comes later from the playground, and his first word on entering is “Tea.” So one of the girls makes it on the little stove in one corner of the kitchen.
As my mother prepares the traditional soft food Sagodana for my father, I try to keep the kitchen door closed. She doesn't like it, saying it makes the place stuffy. There runs an expostulation between us almost daily. I argue that an open door makes the kitchen cold. As others join me, I win. But sometimes, when the fire is giving out smoke, she keeps the door wide open. Protest simply doesn't work then.
As our parents retire to their room after the meal, the rest of us linger by the fire, gossiping. A cup of green tea is usually the last thing that keeps our company united. Then one by one we say good-night to the snug sitting. I am usually the last one to leave.
As the Pakistani winter slips by, I lightly touch on a thought: How to maintain the fun in summer evenings in our gathering spot?
—Karim Khan
O Winter! ruler of the inverted year … I crown thee king of intimate delights, Fireside enjoyments, home-born happiness, And all the comforts that the lowly roof Of undisturb'd Retirement, and the hours Of long uninterrupted evening, know.
—William Cowper
Even if you don't have a fire, you can have the glow of an open flame. No one who sees this beautiful candle will believe you made it. Pick a napkin that has a pattern you like, and use the same napkins for the place settings.
flat paintbrush
decoupage glue
1 pillar candle
decorative paper napkins
water-base polyurethane
Paint the glue on one side of the candle in a 1-inch vertical stripe. Cut the napkin so that it is half an inch longer and wider than the candle. Lay the napkin wrong side up on the table, and place the glue side of the candle onto the napkin. As you slowly roll the candle, add more glue, so that you end up with the napkin glued to the candle on all sides. Smooth out as many wrinkles as you can with your fingers. Let dry.
Cut the top and bottom of the napkin to match candle height. Paint seven coats of polyurethane onto the candle, allowing it to dry after each application.
At the mere mention of the word Christmas my mind brings forth myriad images of my grandmother's big country kitchen. Grandmother Hazel's kitchen was, to my childhood eye, the very essence of heaven itself. Grandma was a tall sturdy woman who loved to crochet, garden, and cook. She believed that something freshly baked was the only civilized way to greet guests. Luckily for my sister, many cousins, and me, her fresh-baked approach to life included us as her welcomed guests too.
Grandma baked one weekend every month. She made bread and rolls, pies and cakes. I sat at the big oak table with my nostrils filled with the scent of fresh bread and my mouth salivating as I waited for her to cut me a huge slab and slather butter on it before placing it in my freshly scrubbed hand.
In December, Grandma's kitchen became a cavern of delicious treasures, and baking filled every weekend as she prepared for Christmas. I cannot begin to imagine how many bags of flour and sugar she carried into her kitchen on cold winter mornings and how many hundreds of eggs she cracked as she began her annual marathon. Breads were braided and adorned with candied fruits. Everyday rolls became cinnamon filled and iced. Fruitcakes and pies took over the counters. Pungent pumpkin, cinnamon, and nutmeg scented the air. Sliced apples and mincemeats were poured into pastry shells. She fashioned holly leaves and berries to adorn the tops of the pies' crusts. Cookies appeared. Not just one or two varieties, but more than a dozen poured forth from her oven. She cut sugar cookies into shapes and decorated them as beautifully as any artisan's prize. Thumbprint cookies with fruit centers filled tin containers. Crescent-shaped shortbread cookies dusted with confectioners' sugar sat next to peanut butter cookies cooling on racks. Cookies with pecans, cookies with walnuts sought a place in the growing array of my grandma's bounty. Chocolate fudge and nut log rolls graced the crowded counters and table, yet nothing outshone her signature confection that stood proudly in the middle of the old oak table. All who ever tasted it revered my grandma's white divinity fudge. It was as light as Christmas Eve snowflakes and tasted likes clouds of sweetness. Pure. White. Divine.
When Christmas Day finally arrived, our family gathered at Grandma's for a large traditional meal and to exchange gifts. I cannot remember any present I opened at her house. The gifts I remember, instead, are being with my cousins and eating the endless goodies that Grandma spent hours, days, and weeks preparing. Those memories outshine any gift I was ever given.
—Donna L. Bingham
Christmas—that magic blanket that wraps itself about us, that something so intangible that it is like a fragrance. It may weave a spell of nostalgia. Christmas may be a day of feasting, or of prayer, but always it will be a day of remembrance—a day in which we think of everything we have ever loved.
—Augusta E. Rundell
This is a wonderful centerpiece for any kitchen in wintertime.
100 sprigs of boxwood, 3 inches long
12 sprigs juniper, 6 inches long
35 floral picks
1 block of wet floral foam
1 red candle, 6 inches high and 3 inches in diameter
shallow bowl
floral tape
Place boxwood and juniper in a jar of water overnight. Make 35 bunches of boxwood by attaching two or three sprigs to each floral pick. Set aside juniper sprigs.
Cut off one end of the foam block to make a 5-inch square block. Cut a hole ½ inch deep and 3 inches wide. Insert the candle in the hole to see if it fits tightly, then remove. Soak the foam in water, then drain and place in shallow bowl. Tape the foam to the bowl with the floral tape. Insert the juniper sprigs into the foam to cover, putting them all in at the same angle. Insert boxwood picks at the same angle to completely cover foam except where the candle goes. Place the candle in the hole. Water the arrangement daily.
I have a friend who has never used her wedding china. It sits tucked away in a cabinet, waiting for a “special occasion.” Other weddings, the birth of a baby, a holiday meal—none of them qualifies. What is she waiting for?
After a hard day's writing, the kitchen is my solace. I use fresh ingredients. I experiment with new recipes. I get inspiration from cookbooks (which I read the way most people read novels), or magazines, or make something up with what's on hand. It is my relaxation and my reward. It is a way of honoring myself for a good day's work. I cook as well and as elaborately for myself as I do when I have guests. I'm worth it.
So why would I use less than a lovely plate? Less than a scintillating serving dish?
I have lovely Limoges china from my grandmother. It has a brown, gold, and soft green pattern winding and twining along the edge of the plates. Ratatouille over rice sparkles against the plate. I am a huge fan of Johnson Brothers china, which was popular several decades ago. Whenever I see it, I grab it. My favorite pattern is the Olde English Countryside with its scalloped edges and soft earth tones. Bright tomato sauces contrasting with ecru-colored pasta glow on it, or pork roast with a creamy taupe sauce, crisp green beans, and pungent red cabbage. The oval serving dishes are used, instead of scooping food out of the pots directly onto plates. My favorite William Rogers and Sons flatware travels the food to my mouth.
Why shouldn't I dine as well in my own home as I do in a Michelin-rated restaurant? I feel valued when I do so.
“Too much work!” Friends grumble.
“Why are you making so many dishes?” Others complain.
Yes, whenever I finish cooking and serving a meal, the dishes fill the sink, the stove, the counters, and threaten to invade the dining nook, or perhaps sneak onto the extra table in the living room. And my china is old—too old to risk in the dishwasher.
But you've missed a great deal of fun if you've never turned up the volume on the Creole Zydeco Farmers and danced around the kitchen splashing soap suds.
—Christiane Van de Velde
Noncooks think it's silly to invest two hours' work in two minutes' enjoyment; but if cooking is evanescent, so is the ballet.
—Julia Child
Perk up the kitchen table for the holidays with this unusual, easy-to-make chair decoration.
10 stems freshly cut hemlock, seven 3 feet long and three 1 foot long
4 stems caspia, three 12 inches long and one 8 inches long
heavy floral wire
wire cutters
1½ yards of wired ribbon, 3 inches wide
Arrange the long hemlock and caspia stems in a fan shape with the caspia on top. Wire the stems together about 4 inches from the ends of their stems. Arrange the shorter hemlock and caspia in another fan, place it on top of the first, and wire them together, making a loop for hanging. Make an attractive bow with the ribbon. Wire the bow around its center and twist the ends around the swag. Hang over the back of a chair.
The best winter afternoons I spent as a child were the days I would come home from school and open the door to the smell of gingerbread cooking in the oven. I loved the inside pieces—moist and soft; my brother would go after the corners—he liked his crispy. Moist or crispy, Mom's gingerbread warmed our stomachs and our hearts, made our childish hardships vanish—and made homework time a lot easier.
—Elizabeth Gonzales
Food, like a loving touch or a glimpse of divine power, has that ability to comfort.
—Norman Kolpas
2½ cups flour
1 teaspoon ground cinnamon
1 teaspoon ground ginger
½ teaspoon ground allspice
½ teaspoon ground nutmeg
cup margarine or butter, softened
½ cup sugar
1 cup molasses
2 eggs
1 teaspoon baking soda
1 cup boiling water
Heat oven to 350° F. Grease a 9-inch baking pan. Mix flour and spices in medium bowl. Beat margarine or butter and sugar in large bowl with electric mixer at medium speed until fluffy. Add molasses and eggs; beat until smooth. Gradually add flour mixture. Dissolve baking soda in boiling water. Stir into flour mixture. Pour into prepared pan. Bake 45 minutes or until toothpick inserted in center comes out clean. Cool in pan and then cut into squares. Makes 12 servings.
I recently used my kitchen as a sales tool. Why not? It's always been much more than a mere food prep center. It's been a source of pleasure on many levels: social area, pleasure provider, and source of relaxation for workaholic me, whose hobby is cooking. But recently it also became a real-estate aid.
I had put my house on the market. Now, an old real-estate trick is to make your house smell more appealing to prospects by baking something—or making it smell like you are. Cinnamon and vanilla are the suggested flavors, with the desired effects being attainable through such tricks as sprinkling cinnamon on aluminum foil in a warm oven, or sprinkling vanilla extract on lightbulbs and turning them on (so the warmth disseminates the smell). But to me, nothing smells as inviting as good hearty food—or an approximation of it. To that end, I did one of two things whenever I had advance notice of a prospect coming to see the house: When possible, I put up a stockpot of chicken stock. The simmering scent of fresh, rich chicken soup wafted through the house, subtly suggesting to prospects that if they bought this place, they too could turn out luscious, savory meals. We all know that chicken soup is “Jewish penicillin,” good for curing ailments, but in my book it's equally useful for house sales.
When I didn't have enough advance notice—or a chicken carcass on hand—I had another, admittedly devious trick. I would put a pot of water to boil, cut a few cloves of garlic and drop them in the pot, add some herbs, and turn up the heat to a merry boil. Fingers of olfactory temptation curled from the kitchen to the rest of the house—the house had an open floor plan, so the scent spread easily to the living room and beyond—again hinting that this would be a good place to live, to cook, to eat. I almost got tripped up by the latter trick more than once, when prospects commented on the marvelous odor and even, in a couple of cases, begged for the recipe.
The kitchen in which I took so much pleasure cooking no longer belongs to me. It—and the rest of the house—were sold to a retired couple. The wife loves to cook. The husband couldn't get over the smell of my chicken stock. She's now preparing her Italian specialties in the kitchen that used to be my personal area of delight. May she find as much pleasure in it as I did.
Thank you, kitchen, for helping sell my house.
—Cynthia MacGregor
Smell is a potent wizard that transports you across thousand of miles and all the years you have lived.
—Helen Keller
Want your kitchen to smell like the holidays? Try this brew.
Fixative
cup orrisroot
6 drops cinnamon oil
5 drops cedar oil
3 drops orange oil
small glass jar with lid
Simmer
¼ cup cinnamon sticks
½ cup dried orange peel strips
¼ cup dried mint, chopped
¼ cup bay leaves, chopped
¼ cup whole coriander
2 tablespoons rosemary needles
2 tablespoons chopped pine needles
2 tablespoons whole cloves
large glass container with tight lid
Put the fixative ingredients in the small jar. Cover tightly and shake vigorously. Set aside for a week, shaking daily. At the end of the week, put the simmer ingredients in the large glass container, stirring well. Add the fixative, stir, and cover. To use, add ¼ cup of the simmer to 3 cups of water in a saucepan. Bring it to a boil, reduce heat, and simmer.
It's the night before Christmas, and my kitchen is crowded. Pots and pans line every available surface. Tim and Tom, Jane and June, Hugh and I vie for elbow room. Kids run in and out periodically, informing us they are starving and asking plaintively, “When will dinner be ready?” We're putting together our annual family feast in my tiny kitchen; the six of us are each responsible for one dish: Tim appetizers, Tom soup, Jane the main course, June the vegetables, Hugh the potatoes, and I the dessert. This year I've settled on a plum torte as appropriately seasonal.
It's hot and stuffy and hectic in the kitchen. I wouldn't have it any other way. It's how I know it's Christmas, this annual kitchen crush. We're an intentional family brought together by friendship and love of good food. The rest of the year we're spread all over the country. So as I place my sifter in the tiny spot between Tim who's stuffing celery and June who's cleaning baby vegetables to roast, I'm grateful that we are all here, now, in this unrepeatable moment of time.
—Susannah Seton
A man hath no better thing under the sun, than to eat, and to drink, and to be merry.
—Ecclesiastes 8:15
1 stick unsalted butter
1 cup all-purpose flour, sifted
1 teaspoon baking powder
2 eggs
pinch salt
24 halves pitted plums
2 teaspoons ground cinnamon
2 teaspoons brown sugar
vanilla ice cream (optional)
Position rack in the lower third of the oven and preheat to 350° F. Cream the granulated sugar and butter. Add the flour, baking powder, eggs, and salt. Mix well. Place in a 9- or 10-inch ungreased springform pan. Place plums on top, skin side down. Combine cinnamon and brown sugar and sprinkle over the top. Bake for 40 minutes or until the center tests done with a toothpick. Serve warm, with ice cream, if desired. Serves 8.
These tiny floral candleholders are meant to sit at each place setting for a special holiday look and feel. Make sure the greenery does not come in contact with the candle flame, and never leave it unattended when lit.
floral wire
wire cutters
small red candle that can stand on its own
10 stems artemisia, four 6 inches long and six 3 inches long
hot-glue gun and glue sticks
6 small sprigs juniper or holly foliage and berries
Cut a 12-inch piece of wire, wrap it around the candle you plan to use, and tie ends together. Remove the candle. Twist the longer artemisia stems around the wire base so that the wire is hidden. Hot-glue the smaller artemisia sprigs to the wreath to fill it out. Hot-glue the juniper or holly in a pleasing arrangement. Insert candle.
In spite of spending as much time as possible in my kitchen, experimenting with new recipes, I sometimes revert to canned goods. Not necessarily out of convenience, but out of association. For instance, on a cold, rainy day, I like to open a can of alphabet soup and eat it along with a grilled cheese sandwich.
I'm not much of a soup person. I cook down the bones of the chicken or the turkey or the ham. I make stock. I chop up vegetables, I toss in the wide, flat egg noodles, and I add seasoning. And I usually pour it into lovely glass jars, fasten a ribbon around it and give it away. I'll eat a thick New England clam chowder, or a chicken corn chowder in the winter. At one of my favorite restaurants, I order a creamy yellow squash soup and eat it with a Caesar salad. If I'm sick, I want chicken soup. But soup is often the last choice for a meal.
The exception is a cold, rainy day. Usually I've had errands to run. I'm wet and less than delighted with the world. I have too much to do, too many demands on my time, and I don't feel like doing any of it. I'm hungry, I'm cranky, and I'm restless. It's not the pacing kind of restless. It's the type of restless where I'd love to crawl under the green-and-cream attic windows quilt and sleep the afternoon away, but the minute I lie down, so much whirls through my head that I can't rest.
So I get up, walk into the kitchen, and pull a can of soup out of the cupboard. Open the can, pour it in a copper-bottomed pot, add some water, and turn on the heat. Prepare the grilled cheese. Maybe pour a crisp glass of sauvignon blanc or pinot grigio. Light a candle. Put on some jazz.
The soup is hot, with the pasta letters sailing among the vegetables in a red lake. The steam rises up, creating its own alphabet. The cheese is soft and flexible, soaking into the bread just enough to be sticky without being messy. I take my time with the meal, savoring every bite. I think of snowy days when school was canceled, and we'd rush out with our sleds to create adventures on the hill … behind the school. I think of trips to Scotland, sitting at the dining table in the castle apartment, looking over the water toward Arran. I think of numerous road trips and highway diners. I realize how happy I am to have lived those experiences, and how important food was to them.
This meal is simple. It takes less than ten minutes to prepare. Yet the memories it evokes cover years, and the comfort it provides is timeless.
—Christiane Van de Velde
If a man be sensible and one fine morning, while he is lying in bed, count at the tips of his fingers how many things in this life truly will give him enjoyment, invariably he will find food is the first one.
—Lin Yutang
This is a simple, from-a-box treat. It doesn't have to be Valentine's Day before you make it, just whenever you want to spread some love. This is so easy you will not believe it. Just make regular cupcake batter. Line muffin tins with paper muffin cups. Fill half-full with batter. Place a marble between the liner and the cup to form a heart shape. Bake as directed, and voilà!
I like a cook who smiles out loud when he tastes his own work. Let God worry about your modesty; I want to see your enthusiasm.
—Robert Farrar Capon
May you find enthusiasm and delight in the simple pleasures of the kitchen!