I have never heard my mom say she loves to cook. She loves to paint.
She has told me many times that when she paints, time seems to stand
still, which of course, is a mark of being completely and pleasantly
absorbed in an activity. When it comes to cooking, my mother would probably
be puzzled by the attitude so many of us have-that of cooking as kind
of a hobby. We buy exotic ingredients and search the Internet for more
and more challenging recipes with which to dazzle our friends. No, cooking
is not an optional albeit pleasant activity like painting, to her it's
part of everyday life, which is not to say that my mother regards it
simply as a tedious chore.
My mother has always cooked, every
day of her life. When I was growing up we seldom went out to eat unless
we were traveling while on vacation. My mother made my paper bag lunch
everyday until I started making it myself in high school. My parents,
my brother Peter, and I ate dinner together every night. And, of course,
on weekends it was breakfast, lunch, and dinner; everyone together,
each day. Life was quite different back then! A lot of mothers may still
do this, but many more would be beside themselves if faced with this
daunting task.
My mother was born in Florence,
Italy. Her parents and her grandparents and as far as we can tell all
her ancestors, back to the Etruscans as she likes to say, were Italian.
So naturally, her cooking is very informed by her Italian cultural background.
But my father, who was born in Trieste, has a German, Austrian, and
Czech (hence the last name Kocaurek) background. My mother frequently
replicated his favorite dishes passed onto her by her German mother-in-law.
Stuffed cabbage rolls, potato pancakes, goulash, chicken paprika, crispy
dark Austrian-style fried chicken, bratwurst with sauerkraut and horseradish,
stollen, plum dumplings, an amazing plum tart (pflaumenkuchen) among
other dishes. The occasional Eastern European slant reflects the influence
of dishes my grandmother probably learned to please my Viennese/Czech
grandfather.
And of course, my mother was always
open to trying new things, and certain certifiably American dishes garnered
from newspapers and magazines crept into her repertoire as well. These
were usually along the lines of appetizers and desserts, however. I
don't think my mom has ever in her life prepared a casserole with cream
of mushroom soup.
My favorite dishes when I was a
child were not quite gourmet fare: If my mother asked me what I would
like for dinner I would invariably answer "spaghetti and meatballs."
I have very pleasant memories of sitting at the kitchen table while
my mother cooked, eating what she called a "hot doddy" -simply
a boiled potato with salt. Soft boiled eggs with toast fingers, artichoke
leaves dipped in Wishbone dressing, grilled cheese accompanied by Campbell's
tomato soup were some other favorites. Of course, those were my favorites
as a child. Looking back with my adult mind, I remember the parties
my parents had and the beautiful platters of prepared vegetables: chard,
red peppers, eggplant, tomatoes. Roasted pork tenderloin, golden cubes
of potatoes roasted with olive oil and rosemary, rice salads, cookies,
breads, fruit tarts. Even now, perhaps my favorite thing to eat in the
world is my mother's stuffed tomatoes. I have never even attempted to
make them myself, it just wouldn't seem right. I'll have to ask her
to make them for my kids the next time we visit.
Most of her everyday cooking was
quite simple, but never boring. Never that obsessed with cooking healthy
meals, she somehow managed to do just that. A lot of variety, everything
fresh and it will even out in the end, that was her attitude. Lots of
fruits and vegetables and of course, we rarely if ever had anything
processed. Sautéed chicken breasts in olive oil, shrimp with
garlic and parsley, salads with grated carrot and red onion. Pan-fried
steak with garlic bread and cooked green beans tossed in a vinaigrette
(or was it Wishbone?). Steamed zucchini, tomatoes with fresh mozzarella
and basil. A few things have
become staples in my kitchen, among them: panzanella, pasta with tuna,
capers, and red peppers, ratatouille, pasta with salsa fresca.
We ate from the garden: apricots,
raspberries, nectarines, tomatoes, squash, artichokes, chard. When shopping
everything had to be fresh, in season. My mom made jam-pear jam with
ginger, peach, strawberry. Her biscotti should be world famous, they
are not dipped in chocolate, they don't have any exotic ingredients,
they are not gargantuan in size, they just taste delicious!
When I was young I wanted to run
around outside, or at least climb a tree and read a book; I wasn't interested
in learning how to cook or bake (or sew or paint). My mom's attempts
at teaching me how to cook were accompanied by lots of eye-rolling and
standing there with arms crossed. She did manage to get me to write
recipes for her on index cards which were stored in a wooden box decorated
with mushrooms. I also typed up some of her recipes for Italian cooking
classes ("La Cucina Italiana") that she and her friend Mila
Weed (another great Italian cook) taught out of our home for a while
in the seventies. Sharing recipes and teaching people how to cook is
yet another way that my mom used food to bring people together. The
idea of keeping a recipe "secret" is alien to her. Why wouldn't
you want to share something good with everybody?
Interestingly, now all I think about
is cooking. It probably has something to do with having a family. My
family does love my cooking-my nickname around the house is "Mommy-moto,"
a play on Morimoto, the Japanese Iron Chef. I even do things my mother
never did, like cook Indian and Japanese meals, and I pureed my own
steamed vegetables when my kids were babies.
When we visit my parents, a day
often consists of talking about food, shopping for food, cooking, and
then eating. The dinner conversation? Food, of course. "You know
what two flavors go together really well? Tarragon and mushrooms"
This is a typical kind of statement that might start a whole thread
of conversation related to tarragon, other herbs, mushrooms, and recounting
memories of hunting for "steinpilz" (porcini) in the Austrian
Alps. I guess it's no accident that my brother (who is also a great
cook) is in the food business-he currently works at Scharffen Berger
Chocolate in Berkeley, California. My husband, who was raised in Oklahoma,
is always amazed at the length of the meals we share with my parents
and my brother. Always starting with wine and the passing of multiple
dishes and ending with the table punctuated with bottles of grappa,
öbstler and other liqueurs.
Today, food is the string that
keeps us attached when we're 3,000 miles away from each other. My mom
is 78 now and she still loves to cook and share new recipes. She is
a big fan of Lidia Bastianich and is always telling me new things she's
tried from her cookbooks. We share recipes on the phone. She sends me
recipes. I send her recipes. Every year during chestnut season I have
to call her to ask what oven temperature and for how long the chestnuts
are roasted. I always forget the simple four-ingredient recipe for the
"dutch babies" she makes every Sunday (1/2 of milk, 1/2 a
cup of flour, two eggs, a tablespoon of sugar?). Maybe I didn't learn
how to bake a stollen or any other special recipes from my mom, I'm
not even sure she believes I can cook (she is such a force in the kitchen
that whether it's her house or mine, she is still in charge). It may
have appeared that I wasn't listening those times in the kitchen, but
I have been listening and watching all these years. Whether it was bringing
some oranges to a sick neighbor, sending her biscotti to a sister-in-law
in Canada, or helping a patient in the hospital bed next to mine eat
from her tray. She did teach me something quite special about food after
all: that cooking and sharing food is a deep expression of care for
family, for friends, even for strangers. Cooking well is a way of showing
respect for the bounty we have. Even if you're just poaching an egg
for yourself you can make it special just by paying attention. It connects
us to the everyday, to each other, it is a comfort that sustains us.
We do not eat simply to fill our stomachs. When I was crying on the
phone on Sept 11 and asking her what kind of future we were going to
have after such a terrible thing, this is what my mother told me to
do: "Cook good, healthy food for your family. Take care of them.
Think only about taking care of them." If you think of food this
way, you will never take it for granted. Instead of cooking being a
bother, you look at each meal you share as an opportunity to put more
love out there. I think that if you truly believe this, you can't help
but be a good cook.
This is why I like to bring food
in occasionally to the office to share with my coworkers. It's why I
sign up for "coffee hour" at my church. In this busy world
we live in, we sometimes have to give things up. Maybe my children go
to bed a little later than they should so that we can have dinner (cooked
by my husband) together when I get home from work, but I hope to pass
this "food knowledge" on to my children. I think they already
have an appreciation of food that is beyond their years.
Maybe I'm even a little obsessed
with food. Thanks, Mom.
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