Scotch Balls & Red Wine Overkill
Episode 12:11:2023 - Prompt: Cooking
Where Cooking took me…
The first time I made matzoh ball soup.
I had asked Mom-Mom Dora - the more traditional of my two Jewish grandmothers - for her recipe. She made her broth from scratch using a chicken from the butcher, whole carrots & celery.
After boiling, she strained the broth three times through a cheesecloth.
“But what about the matzoh balls?” I asked.
Assuming they would be the arduous part of the project.
“Manischewitz,” she said. “Just follow the instructions on the box.”
There are only two things needed to make the mix: eggs & vegetable oil.
I was at my mom’s house in Philadelphia and reached for what I thought was vegetable oil. It was in a tall, pull-out drawer with other cooking oils.
I made the soup and served it to my mom, but something tasted off.
“These take like Scotch, Mich,” she said.
I went to inspect the bottle in the kitchen. Indeed, she was correct.
Johnnie Walker Red Label instead of vegetable oil.
I was 25-years-old and a bit scattered at the time.
It could have been worse than scotch flavored balls!
Which brings me to my last (worst) gig as a faux chef.
I wasn’t trained as a chef… nor as a cook.
After many years of prep cooking, high-end catering, and eating good food in foreign countries, I presented an illusion of someone who could whip up impressive dishes.
I probably wouldn’t have made it past the first round of Master Chef, but my skills could at least get me into the competition.
And oh, how wrong you would be with this assumption!
As it was when I was working for the Kitchen for Exploring Foods in Pasadena.
We used to joke that it was the Kitchen for Exploiting Foods, but in fact, the founder of the company - Peggy Dark - was a good cook and a great party planner.
Peggy, over the years, had assembled a carnivalesque band of caterers that wealthy people & celebrities paid lots of money for their services.
You see, in Los Angeles & its surroundings, wealthy people pay other people to come into their homes to make occasions special.
The impersonal personal touch.
I was working there to get more face-time with my new boyfriend who worked The Kitchen 40+ hours a week. He is now my lifetime partner & husband, so the job paid off in that respect.
At the time, Peggy took a liking to me.
I had come in as a prep cook. A very easy position for me.
Essential but not important.
I could cut, clip, & chop with the best of them.
But Peggy had a greater vision for me, and soon I was staffed behind the omelette station on the New Year’s Day Rose Bowl Parade.
Then I was on schedules as the only kitchen staff in charge of everything going in & out of the ovens in the homes of some of the wealthiest charitable donors.
I wasn’t comfortable with the presumption of my talents, but I was flattered. And the bump in pay helped me to go along with the charade for a time.
Until…
I was scheduled as a chef for a private dinner with only one other person as the server. A two-person operation in a very fancy home.
The main course was rudimentary for anyone who had culinary experience: Bœuf Bourgignon.
Julia Child will show you it is not a simple dish.
My sauce wouldn’t reduce or gain flavor, and I kept pouring more red wine into the pan. Adding more butter.
To where everything that touched my sauce on the plate was stained or tinted red.
It was a disaster. And still we served it. And the people thanked me.
And tipped us.
I was mortified.
In that exact moment, I swore never to play chef again. Moreover, to never play anything again that…
I didn’t know how to do.
YOUR TURN: In last week’s prompt RUSH, I wrote about how long I take to make pumpkin pie from scratch, how I can’t rush the process of pumpkin flesh breaking down in brown sugar, and how SmartStoves and other devices speed up the cooking process for no good reason.
Even though this week’s story reveals I’m neither a chef nor a cook, I am good with the dishes I know how to do. Not very flashy, but hey… we’re not lacking for flavor.
Where does COOKING take you?
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My maternal grandmother and grandfather were born and raised in Yorkshire, England. They immigrated to the States in their mid-twenties, after they got married. With her, my grandmother brought a recipe book full of family meals and special-occasion bakes. In meticulous Victorian-era handwriting, these recipes speak of the realities of cooking and baking back then. Measured ingredients are in pounds, or in "a bit of," or "a spoonful." Directions say "bake in a hot oven," or "put in a medium oven."
I have been translating these recipes into modern recipe-talk. Then I bring them to life: steamed Christmas pudding, parkin, Yorkshire pudding, and someday, steak and kidney pie. I love the feeling of connection to ancestors who lived in a different country and at a vastly different time. I love calling my 93-year-old, ill mother and telling her the pudding is steaming away on my stove top. It's a small gesture, but it's a gesture that speaks of what's in my blood and bone and sinew. It's a gesture that honors the past. I feel it deep in my gut.
Whenever Mother’s sister walked into our kitchen with cooking on her mind, we all headed for the hills: Daddy to work, Mother to the back-bedroom for a LONG bath, and we three girls to the great outdoors. But, like curious puppies, we stayed close enough to listen and sniff. Who would have guessed that this short, plumb, blue-tinted-white-haired woman could transform into Goldilocks and create fairy-tale havoc? Cupboards and drawers emptied their contents on her command, and abracadabra the refrigerator complied well beyond the requirements for a simple spaghetti sauce. From the kitchen counter and sink, across the old white and black stove, to the Formica-top breakfast table and into the dining room, food and utensils piled and sprawled. “Oh, this bowl is too large,” she’d exclaim, “this bowl is too small, ah… this one is just… right.” By then, she’d happily dirtied every pot, pan, cup, and dish. Toward the end of her cooking sprees, our beloved aunt tired and, instead of falling asleep like Goldilocks, laughed helplessly—our cue to bring this tale to an end. We three little bears finished the cooking, cleaned the dishes, and put everything away while Mother’s soothing voice coaxed Goldilocks back into our delightful maiden aunt. You see, Aunt Arlene actually was a really good cook, and cleaning up after her cooking sprees pretty much took care of “spring cleaning.” So, what was the down side?