Harmony

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Under no circumstances, Kodaly told our conductor, will you rehearse anything but my Te Deum between now and the performance.
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We Serve Love In It

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Indeed, we are what we eat but I believe it’s not always about what we eat but how our meals come to be. More specifically, how they were served.

Like so many other children growing up in Oregon I was use to the cold winter storms. Playing out in the rain wasn’t the least bit unusual, in fact it was pretty much the norm. I wish I had a nickel for every time my mother yelled, “Don’t even think about coming in the house without taking off those muddy boots and for crying out loud, get out of those wet clothes and I’ll get a bath run for you.”

As if only moments ago, I can still close my eyes and feel the wonderful warmth as I walked into the house from the back porch laundry room. “Mmmm, what’s that smell? Is that blackberry cobbler?” which was replied to with the usual, “Now get out of my kitchen and don’t make me drag you into that tub. I’ll have some soup and crackers waiting for you after you get out of the bath.”

Life on the ranch was wonderful but what made life so wonderful for me was all those things I had yet learned to truly appreciate, like a loving mother who always kept a warm, clean and meticulously clean home, one that left you wanting for nothing.

“I’m glad you finally came inside. That’s a really bad storm out there. I have been listening to the rain and limbs pelting the windows and roof for several hours now. Now eat your soup and go enjoy some cartoons. Your father will be home soon and after he finishes up the rest of the soup we’ll all have some blackberry cobbler.”

“à la mode?”

“But of course, silly.”

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Some of the best memories I recall are the smells of the various meals mom used to prepare. And more specifically, not just the meals but literally right down to each dish. On a ranch we ate “county cookin”; nothing flamboyant, no special sauces or marinades, just good ole meat and potatoes meals with side dishes. I absolutely loved my mother’s cooking. In fact, I’ve never met anyone that didn’t. If I could pick up the phone and call Heaven it would be to place an order with my mom…. “Hello Mom, its Gary. I’d like some fried potatoes, sliced tomatoes, fresh from our garden, some of your canned corn, a few pieces of venison steak, a couple slices of white bread with butter and for dessert, some of your huckleberry pie.”

Growing up, I remember mom’s china cabinet filled with her finest china and heirlooms dishes and silver, all of which she only brought out for special occasions like holidays, anniversaries, weddings, birthdays and so on. Then there were the plates, dishes and utensils used for daily use. Funny but I can even remember mom’s “favorite” knives, be it for paring, carving a roast, a loaf of bread or whatever. It seems as if everything was an old friend in some way. Then there where the matching plates and glasses that changed over the years. I remember all too well, when Melmac plates were all the rage. Then again when Teflon skillets came out many thought we had just moved into the future. But no woman living on a ranch, and worth her salt would be caught dead using anything but a cast-iron skillet. (Let’s bow our heads for a moment of silence.)

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It wasn’t until years after my mother and father were gone that I began to remember a specific bowl. At first I couldn’t help but wonder why some inexpensive and plain bowl would even remain a memory. But from time to time I would remember what later became known as “Moms old pink bowl”.  It was nothing more than a pink Pyrex bowl, one that was as ordinary as they came. It took me 50 years to realize the only thing special about this bowl were the memories that were served in it. Years after my parents passing, while browsing through hundreds of family photos, many of which included family gatherings, functions and dinners, occasionally something in the back ground would catch my eye. “Hey, there’s mom’s pink bowl again!” I honestly don’t remember a regular meal that mom didn’t use that same bowl and more and more often photos of it would appear proving this fact even more so. On any one evening it might have fried potatoes in it, possibly next time it might have gravy. The next it may have delicious Ambrosia or it might even be used to prepare a cake mix. And Lord knows how many times I used it for a large bowl of soup let alone the countless times mom used it to take Jell-O with bananas on top to potlucks.

After mom passed away my brother and sisters and I gathered at mom and dad’s home to pick and choose who wanted what. It was a time of reflection and a somber gathering. As we sorted through items in the kitchen, I saw mom’s pink bowl mixed in amongst other dishes. I quietly reached over and picked it up and with a lump in my throat said, “If nobody minds, I would really love to have this bowl.” Nothing more needed saying.

There came a time when I realized this wasn’t just an ordinary bowl. It was sentimental, one that created a connection with days gone by and more importantly, my mother. As is the case with many things, any connection with one’s mother is heartfelt. My sister and I laughed each time we sit looking through old photographs when all of a sudden one of us excitedly says, “HEY LOOK!” There’s mom’s pink bowl again! There it is and its filled with mom’s Jell-O and bananas.”

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With time came my attachment to what many would consider just a stupid old bowl and indeed that’s exactly what my “previous” wife used to call it. With age comes the sad reality that not everyone cares about what others might consider an heirloom. In fact if you were to look up heirloom in the dictionary you would read: “a valuable object that is owned by a family for many years and passed from one generation to another.” While I will agree the word “valuable” might also need defining in this case only because by no means would “moms pink bowl” not look out of place sitting next to some Waterford crystal or the likes thereof. That said, simply put, I cherished it as quite valuable and would absolutely have loved to someday share memories as I handed it down to my children.

One day as I parked my car and started walking up the walk-way my grandson came running out to greet me. Expecting the usual “Hello Papa! How was your day?” I was surprised instead with, “Whatever you do, DO NOT look in the garbage!” Without even asking why, having seen the puzzled look on my face, my grandson attempted to explain, “Nana said not to tell you because if you saw what was in there you would be very cross.” Naturally the first thing I did was head straight to the trash can. Upon opening the green trash bag liner a lump the size of Manhattan Island sank deep into my chest. A storm of emotion came flooding in. How many times had I begged,

“Please don’t use that bowl to send food home with our kids when they visit.”
“Please be careful not to bang that bowl when placing it on a shelf.”

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After learning the fate of the bowl that had been broken due to carelessness due to the manner in which it was placed in the dishwasher, I began rerunning the comments I had listened to all too many times.,

“What’s the big deal? It’s not a fancy bowl by any means. Nobody but you would really care about that old thing. I don’t know what’s so special about that old bowl. It’s not even very attractive.”

What I did know was at this moment I stood in front of a trashcan weeping profusely with broken pieces of my mother’s pink bowl in my hands. My grandson was correct…. I was indeed cross.

There are many such moments in my past which included memories of that old bowl. Do you remember those gatherings when the adults sat at the dining room table but due to the large number of people card tables were set up for the children? I remember the day mom said, “I laid out a white shirt and tie and slacks for you to wear at dinner so be sure your shoes are polished. You will be seated at the dinner table with the adults this evening.” I felt as if I had arrived. Wow! I’m going to sit at the dining room table with the adults. I couldn’t wait. Part of me was looking forward to the other children seeing me seated at the “grown-ups table” and another part of me began wondering what I could say or do to appear more grown up. After all, now I was seated with adults. Later that evening when we were all finally seated at the dinner table as everyone was admiring mom’s fine china and table setting when someone commented teasingly about the old pink bowl. It was that exact moment that I had waited for to ask what I felt as a grown up question, one that would surely make it clear that I too belonged at the table of mature adults. “So mom. I was wondering…. Why is it that my brother and sisters have dark hair and I am the only child with blonde hair?” Moms reply wasn’t quite what I had in mind as without hesitation she smiled and looked at my two sisters and said, “Remember that milkman from years ago? Wasn’t he the cutest guy you ever saw?” With a loving squeeze and smile, without skipping a beat and over the laughter she said, “Pass the pink bowl please.”

Some years later, while walking amongst the many antique shops in Old Town Sonora California located in the Californian gold country with a friend, I was sharing the stories of mom’s old pink bowl and how heartbreaking it was the day I found it in the trash. As we walked into a shop while I was literally saying, “And to this day I have never seen another one like It.” all of a sudden I stopped dead in my tracks. I couldn’t believe my eyes as right there in front of me on a display shelf with other various types of bowls was the exact type of Pyrex bowl I was telling the story about and if that wasn’t amazing enough… It was pink! Without even walking across the room I excitedly asked the clerk, “How much for that old Pyrex bowl?” Her reply was, “Sir, That’s not just an old bowl. That’s a “unique” Vintage Pyrex bowl” and I’m afraid I can’t sell it for less than $14.00.” I was so excited I pulled a $20 bill from my pocket, handed it to her and said, “I’ll give you $20.00 and not a cent more.” I knew it would never replace mom’s bowl but it eventually filled the void and became the next best thing. I knew that mom was smiling down upon me knowing exactly how much of a treasure I had found.

Not long ago the new love of my life asked, “What would you like for your birthday dinner? I will prepare you anything your heart desires.” Now that was an offer that required some serious consideration not just because she had asked but because of the fact she is an extremely talented chef. In fact, in my honest opinion, she could cook for heads of state. That said, you can only imagine her surprise when I told her that for my birthday dinner I would love chicken and dumplings. Eager to please, as a result, my birthday dinner was the perfect blend of companionship, food and memories.

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After dinner as I reflected while looking deep into that old pink bowl, which just moments ago had been filled with those perfect chicken dumplings, exactly like the ones mom used to make, somehow I realized that even when this particular bowl was empty, that it would always remain filled with the ultimate ingredient… A mother’s love

 

Eating History (Or No one Makes it Like Mom).

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My father grew up in a

Irish-catholic family of 9,

In the city of San Francisco,

so his comfort food was

usually canned- he would

say “creamy”

and I would say “mushy.”

Later, I would barely recognize

the diarrhea green spinach,

the small skinless egg potatoes,

the orangish spaghetti-Os and

pungent Dinty-Moore stew that Dad

swore was the best food.

 

My mother grew up poor,

but in rural areas,

where you could collect

collard and mustard greens

on the side of the road,

you had your own chickens,

and a backyard garden

that you put up in canning jars

to stretch thinner winter meals.

Then you saved the bacon grease

to make tasty gravy for the

country biscuits she punched

out of the simple dough

with a water glass.

She clipped coupons

and made mystery meatloaf,

complex left-over casseroles,

and special twice baked potatoes

for our best meals.

 

We got our raw milk delivered, and

mom used to get mad at us,

when we would drink the cream

off the top of the bottle,

or the milkman forgot to leave

the cottage cheese she ordered.

Frosted flakes and Lucky charms

began to supplant the special K

Cheerios, and corn flakes that were probably

a good deal more healthy, but

not nearly so brightly colored,

nor brilliantly advertised.

 

 

Mom began to work longer hours

outside the house,

but her deep values,

of at least tasting everything once, and

of sitting together every evening stayed.

We’d discuss how our days went,

as we talked with our mouths open,

elbows and more on the table,

laughed until milk squirted out

of my little brother’s nose,

or being told that reading didn’t belong

in the family circle,

previewing my forbidding

of phones with my grown children.

And there was always at

least one extra dinner guest

because growing up with scarcity

made my mama want to share

with any hungry body

what we had gathered in our kitchen.

 

Later we would beg to go

to the new cool restaurant

McDonald’s!

with its chocolate shakes, orange soda

and Fish fillet sandwiches with tartar sauce.

Sometimes my parents would

allow us to have the cool, space age TV dinners-

all packaged, shiny and ready to go!

Or, if we were going camping in the Sierras

we would stop at the “5 for $1” hamburger stand,

then scarf up mom’s camping stew, Tang,

Kraft Macaroni and cheese,

and blueberry pancakes on the camp stove.

Somehow eating outside always made us more hungry-

And the smells, more tantalizing.

 

We had a local pizzeria, that knew

our family’s Friday night order-

2 large specials-

to this day my brother goes out of his

way when visiting to stop and pick up

a couple of slices of warm nostalgia.

 

We traditionally had huge

Thanksgivings, in which 40-60

people (any strays) would bring their own

favorite childhood traditions to share,

and over the years we knew

that aunt Melissa would make sweet potato pie,

aunt Patty would whip up real whipped cream,

uncle Mike would carve the turkeys,

and Diane and family would bring creamed corn

and special mashed potatoes.

 

But mom always had to make the stuffing,

because no one makes it like mom.

The I Hate to Cook Book

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My mother was not much of a cook. She made dinner every night for 30 years (except for the occasional restaurant meal), and then, when my father retired and the kids were all grown up and gone, she never cooked again. She certainly never imbued any of her three daughters with a love of cooking, although we have each come to enjoy it to varying degrees.

A few months after I graduated from college, I went to work for the US Department of Transportation, and moved into a wonderful big old house in Inman Square, Cambridge. To celebrate my first venture at living on my own, my mother gave me two cookbooks. The first, a large hardcover book, was The Joy of Cooking by Irma Rombauer. This has been a classic for generations. My mother had received an earlier edition of it as a bride in 1943, which had a whole section about dealing with wartime rationing. It had gone through numerous revisions since that time. In a parody of Happy Hanukkah and Merry Christmas, she had inscribed it “Happy Homemaking and Merry Cooking! from December 1972 on, whenever you’re in the mood.” This book has been surprisingly useful over the years, and I still consult it from time to time.

The second cookbook was The I Hate to Cook Book by Peg Bracken. This book was written in 1960, when of course women had to cook all the time whether they liked it or not. It is full of easy recipes, with humorous commentary sprinkled generously throughout. (It also has wonderful illustrations by Hilary Knight, the same artist who illustrated the Eloise books.) I actually made many of the dishes in the book during my early years on my own. Once I got into more sophisticated recipes that didn’t involve using things out of cans, I stopped looking at it. But I never got rid of it. Recently, for some reason, I was talking to my kids about this book, and pulled it off the cookbook shelf in the kitchen to show it to them. It automatically opened to the page that had been one of my favorites, a beef stroganoff recipe. We all cracked up as I read it aloud. After the first two sentences, involving cooking the noodles and browning the beef, the third sentence was as follows:

“Add the flour, salt, paprika, and mushrooms, stir, and let it cook five minutes while you light a cigarette and stare sullenly at the sink.”

While this seems hilariously funny now, I shudder to think how many ’60s housewives, probably including my mother, did exactly that when they were cooking. We really have come a long way, in so many respects!

 

A culinary endurance story

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Being from an Italian Family was well…… a culinary journey and a eating endurance contest.

I grew up in a what was called as tenament in Fall River, Massachusetts.  If you do not know what that is, it is simply a duplex stacked one on the other.  We lived above my grandparents until I was around 7 years old.   I recall holidays as a  eat non-stop eating.   We would start at the table with a 5 course meal that lasted for hours on end.   And you were not excused from the table until the 5th course was finished. Naturally we had antipasti, pasta, soup before the entree arrived.  This was a typical Italian Thanksgiving, where the bird was not always front and center.

I lived upstairs.  In those days we had a ice box, with real block ice, a milkman and a bakery delivery.  One might think that was a luxury in todays terms.  Other than the icebox – I suppose it was.  Preparing for the holidays was quite an event,  I would come home from school, bolt up the back staircase, as the front staircase was off limits for me and was only used for company.  I would always  stop in to see what Grandma was cooking on my way up.   Normally she would be making pasta, rolling it out gently on her ironing board.  Did I say ironing board?  We all know what that is – right?  She would then gingerly transfer the freshly made pasta to a drying rack in preparation for a holiday meal.  Tomato  sauce with homemade Italian sausage was simmering with meatballs on the old stove.   This is a recipe I still maintain today, despite the preponderance  of jarred sauces that are available.

Dinner started at around 11:00 in the morning.   As a family,  we would stay  at the table for at least 3 to 4 hours as if glued to our chairs.  My Grandpa would kick things off perched  at the head of  the table with his traditional “salute”  and a brandy in one hand.  We talked about days gone by and summers at the Rhode Island cottage.   One course followed another, each better than the first.  Can you imagine on Thanksgiving Day starting with salami, cheese, olives, bread and more.  Then came the pasta with sausage and meatballs.  Finally,  the turkey and fixings and then salad. But who had room?   We have not even got to dessert!   Gronk!   Finally dessert – or I should say desserts.  Grandma would make italian fried cookies coated with powdered sugar, cakes and other goodies.

After barely having the energy to move to the living room, we would then be entertained my Grandpa, who was amusing.  He loved Opera.  His vocal range was amazing.  He would don hats, both male and female and sing the parts from the famous Opera ”Pagliacci” (meaning “Clowns”) is an Italian opera in a prologue and two acts, with music and libretto by Ruggero Leoncavallo. It is the only Leoncavallo opera that is still widely performed. It is often staged by opera companies as a double bill with ”Cavalleria rusticana” by Mascagni, known as ”Cav and Pag”.  His talent along with his brandy made for a memorable completion to the feast in which the brandy and the wine went down the drain per Grandma.

I now understand why I was a “pudgy” kid.