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?
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.
I met Jeff in the late nineties cooking pizza and pasta together at the Bauhaus, a famous bar and youth hostel in Bruges. The kitchen was a local favorite right in the heart of the medieval city. We quickly became friends. Our calm temperaments were the prerequisite to work alongside the head chef, an Algerian firebrand named E.T., as renowned for his temper as for his culinary skills. We’d be rolling dough amid a Saturday night rush only to hear the familiar “whoosh” of plate after plate flying past like frisbees, smashing against the wall, breaking into pieces. Plates flew with regular occurrence. It was E.T.’s way of letting off steam. As two laidback Americans, we would carry on working as if nothing happened. We never took it personal. This is how you beat a volatile boss at their own game. The non-reaction reaction to fearmongering, where the power lies. We’d laugh it off at the right time, diffusing a tense kitchen. As months went by, we were rewarded by observing a talented chef doing what he loved. E.T. joked that everything he knew about cooking he learned in prison, serving time for youthful crimes of passion.
Jeff and I are still close. He’s a certified chef in Melbourne, Australia. A veritable encyclopedia of culinary knowledge. I continued in hospitality but switched to the front-of-house, never to return to the commercial kitchen. Now, I use my cooking talents exclusively for friends and family. You’ll eat well, here in our casa.
Playing in bands since I was 23, I soon found out that donut shops, delis and then restaurants offered me the luxury of having a job, while being able to leave to go on tour when ever I needed and return to my job awaiting me. The pay wasnt great, the hours long, but the flexibility was unheard of in other jobs. From there, I found out about being a personal chef where you cooked for people in their homes (WHAAAA?! People PAY YOU to cook for them?!) and started my own Personal Chef business that lasted 23 years (which,btw, I sold to another chef this year. An instant business for her!) From there, and now being a retired chef living in Lisbon, Portugal, I decided to write a memoir about all the amamzing, endearing, tragic and just plain strange things I experienced in peoples homes, A tell-all ala Anthony Bourdains "Kitchen Confidential". From my first job in a kitchen as sous chef at my home town's dinner theater at 17 years of age to cooking on TV in North Carolina in the early 2000's to becoming a food stylist for HBO, Netflix and other TV series and movies somehow out of the blue, its all lead to me sitting here and writing this. As a chef friend once told me, "You never know where cooking might take you"...and I think she was right.
It was always a special occasion when my mom made spring rolls, or chả giò. Hours of work went into grinding the pork, slicing and dicing carrots, cellophane noodles, wood ear mushrooms, and dried baby shrimp, then mixing it all together and wrapping the filling into rice paper, softened with water.
Once a few plates of chả giò had accumulated, the frying began. Oil was heated in the sturdy red Club Aluminum frying pan, and má stood patiently at the stove, gently turning each chả giò with her bamboo chopsticks until they were bubbly and brown, then taking them out to drain on the wire rack. Finally, it was time to eat: warm spring rolls atop a bed of rice vermicelli, sprinkled with a bit of nước mắm—essential Vietnamese dipping sauce made with fish sauce, water, lime, sugar, some garlic and only the tiniest amount of chili for me.
Sometimes after such a meal, dad would come get me for our weekend visit, which I always looked forward to. Hearing him say my hair reeked of fish sauce and garlic upon entering the car, I promptly pushed aside any positive thoughts about my mother’s delicious cooking. Two very different worlds, which I tried, without success, to keep neatly separated.
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?
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.
I met Jeff in the late nineties cooking pizza and pasta together at the Bauhaus, a famous bar and youth hostel in Bruges. The kitchen was a local favorite right in the heart of the medieval city. We quickly became friends. Our calm temperaments were the prerequisite to work alongside the head chef, an Algerian firebrand named E.T., as renowned for his temper as for his culinary skills. We’d be rolling dough amid a Saturday night rush only to hear the familiar “whoosh” of plate after plate flying past like frisbees, smashing against the wall, breaking into pieces. Plates flew with regular occurrence. It was E.T.’s way of letting off steam. As two laidback Americans, we would carry on working as if nothing happened. We never took it personal. This is how you beat a volatile boss at their own game. The non-reaction reaction to fearmongering, where the power lies. We’d laugh it off at the right time, diffusing a tense kitchen. As months went by, we were rewarded by observing a talented chef doing what he loved. E.T. joked that everything he knew about cooking he learned in prison, serving time for youthful crimes of passion.
Jeff and I are still close. He’s a certified chef in Melbourne, Australia. A veritable encyclopedia of culinary knowledge. I continued in hospitality but switched to the front-of-house, never to return to the commercial kitchen. Now, I use my cooking talents exclusively for friends and family. You’ll eat well, here in our casa.
Playing in bands since I was 23, I soon found out that donut shops, delis and then restaurants offered me the luxury of having a job, while being able to leave to go on tour when ever I needed and return to my job awaiting me. The pay wasnt great, the hours long, but the flexibility was unheard of in other jobs. From there, I found out about being a personal chef where you cooked for people in their homes (WHAAAA?! People PAY YOU to cook for them?!) and started my own Personal Chef business that lasted 23 years (which,btw, I sold to another chef this year. An instant business for her!) From there, and now being a retired chef living in Lisbon, Portugal, I decided to write a memoir about all the amamzing, endearing, tragic and just plain strange things I experienced in peoples homes, A tell-all ala Anthony Bourdains "Kitchen Confidential". From my first job in a kitchen as sous chef at my home town's dinner theater at 17 years of age to cooking on TV in North Carolina in the early 2000's to becoming a food stylist for HBO, Netflix and other TV series and movies somehow out of the blue, its all lead to me sitting here and writing this. As a chef friend once told me, "You never know where cooking might take you"...and I think she was right.
It was always a special occasion when my mom made spring rolls, or chả giò. Hours of work went into grinding the pork, slicing and dicing carrots, cellophane noodles, wood ear mushrooms, and dried baby shrimp, then mixing it all together and wrapping the filling into rice paper, softened with water.
Once a few plates of chả giò had accumulated, the frying began. Oil was heated in the sturdy red Club Aluminum frying pan, and má stood patiently at the stove, gently turning each chả giò with her bamboo chopsticks until they were bubbly and brown, then taking them out to drain on the wire rack. Finally, it was time to eat: warm spring rolls atop a bed of rice vermicelli, sprinkled with a bit of nước mắm—essential Vietnamese dipping sauce made with fish sauce, water, lime, sugar, some garlic and only the tiniest amount of chili for me.
Sometimes after such a meal, dad would come get me for our weekend visit, which I always looked forward to. Hearing him say my hair reeked of fish sauce and garlic upon entering the car, I promptly pushed aside any positive thoughts about my mother’s delicious cooking. Two very different worlds, which I tried, without success, to keep neatly separated.