I recently attended the funeral of a dear friend\u2019s mother. The eulogy delivered by her daughter was warm, heartfelt, and brought a smile to people\u2019s faces when she spoke about her mother \u2013 the worst cook she\u2019d ever known. She explained in great detail how her mother prepared her specialty. She\u2019d line a casserole pan with canned ravioli, then pour two cans of spaghetti and meatballs over it, top it off with American cheese, and bake it until the cheese turned brown. I had to laugh, but it did surprise me. I thought everyone felt, as I did, that their mother was the greatest cook in the world.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
My mom was the queen of good, down-home cooking. What always amazed me was that my mother was the youngest in a family of twelve and was raised during the Great Depression years. I remember her telling me that her family was lucky if they could afford meat on their plates once a week \u2013 usually Sunday dinner. But somehow, she\u2019d managed to master the kitchen. Every meal was a wonder. Pork chops, steak, meatloaf, fried chicken. Potatoes of every style\u2026mashed, fried, scalloped, boiled, baked, braised. And each dinner she served up included two vegetables topped with butter, a fresh green salad, a slice of bread, and a home-baked dessert. I sometimes wondered if she had actually been trained in an army barracks, by the quantities she put out.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
When it came to baking an apple pie, crockery bowls filled high with peeled apples would be sliced, dusted with sugar and cinnamon, and by day\u2019s end, eight pies would be cooling on every windowsill. My mother felt that, if you were going to go through all that trouble to bake a pie, why stop at just one? That same principle applied to donuts. I can still see her dropping dozens of circles of dough she\u2019d punched out into pots of gurgling hot oil as they floated to the surface, a golden brown. And when it came to Christmas cookies, she made so many that there were still leftovers the following Christmas!<\/p>\n\n\n\n
My father was also a great cook. After leaving home at seventeen, he hopped in a boxcar and rode the rails for a couple of years. Hobo jungles and fellow travelers had taught him the fine art of what he called, \u2018making something from nothing\u2019. He was like a magician. He would open the refrigerator, grab a handful of this, a bit of that. He\u2019d slice and chop, tossing ingredients into a sizzling pan. A splash of catsup, a pinch of salt, and\u2026 presto! A delicious meal would appear before your eyes. He simply called it \u2018slumgullion\u2019.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Dad wasn\u2019t big on fancy names. He called his chicken chow mien \u201cChop Suey\u201d. He called his beef and vegetables \u201cChop Suey\u201d. In fact, anything he used soy sauce on he called \u201cChop Suey\u201d. He would labor for hours over a pot of steaming soup. The perfect amount of fish, the right amount of potato, a splash of white wine, a hint of saffron, thyme, and cloves. Then he\u2019d carry his masterpiece to the dinner table and ask if anyone wanted a bowl of \u2018fish head soup\u2019. Who knew we were actually slurping up Bouillabaisse?<\/p>\n\n\n\n
And each dish that he presented had to be adorned with some sort of garnish. Dad loved garnishes, and wouldn\u2019t serve a pancake unless it had a sprig of parsley or a radish carved into a rosebud next to it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
With Betty Crocker as a mother and Chef Boyardee as a father, learning to cook was inevitable.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Mom would say, \u201cIf you don\u2019t learn to cook, you\u2019ll wind up marrying some girl for her pot roast.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
So, I began simply. Peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cJust the right amount of peanut butter,\u201d my mother would warn.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cNot too much jelly,\u201d Pop would coach. \u201cAnd a nice orange slice on the side.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Next came tuna salad.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cJust a touch of mayonnaise,\u201d Mom would say.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cA pinch of dill,\u201d Pop would add, \u201cand a sprig of mint on the side.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
It wasn\u2019t long before I started to come up with recipes of my own. Hot dogs and lima beans with pineapple preserves. An egg and lettuce omelet smothered in French dressing. Fish sticks and carrots simmered in a fine peanut butter and jelly sauce. There were some very creative concoctions.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Over the years, I plowed through dozens of cookbooks, exercised my share of trial-and-error, and with the encouragement and helpful hints of my folks, I actually turned out to be a pretty good cook. Mom was pleased to know that I did, in fact, marry for love. What I can\u2019t help but wonder is\u2026did my wife marry me for my pot roast?<\/p>","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
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