Food, Family, and Memory

The Egg Came First

Both of my parents worked, and both of my parents cooked. My mother cooked our nightly dinner, cooked elaborately for dinner parties, and cooked traditionally for holidays; my father had a small selection of specialties which he prepared brilliantly, but from which it was unwise for him to stray. Just as he could play “Waltzing Matilda”on the piano with great panache (but nothing else, because he didn’t read music and had never had a piano lesson in his life) he prepared omelets, souffles and quiches that were enviable in their perfection and deliciousness. He also had a way with bread pudding and rice pudding. Outside this egg-y arena he cooked with rather less flair, tending to make meatloaf stuffed with random and vaguely repellant leftovers, lunches featuring Devilled Ham sandwiches with mayonnaise, and his 1970s specialty of pork chops with Risotto a la Milanese. This last item he made quite nicely, but so often that my brother and I dreaded our mother’s departure for a conference, knowing that we would, at least twice, be served the ubiquitous pork and risotto duo when we really craved macaroni and cheese or fried chicken.

The Fourth in Florence

florence italy From the time I was in nursery school until I graduated from high school, I never spent a summer in my home state of Michigan. Most summers we went to Maine, but for three summers, we headed not to the rocky, Atlantic coast, but across that ocean to Europe. The middle summer when I was fifteen, we explored England, Italy and France deeply and passionately. My mother, possibly the best trip planner ever to draw breath, spent nearly a year before the trip selecting the perfect bed & breakfasts, auberges and pensiones for us.

The things we wanted to see were an odd mixture of The Things One Sees in Europe (The Coliseum, The Louvre) and things my father wanted to see (the famous “Black Madonna” of Urbino). A consummate networker long before the days of the internet, my mother communicated her charm and enthusiasm via weightless, pale blue aerogrammes that appeared in the mailbox all year, one memorably addressed to “La Famiglia Graham;” by the time we boarded the plane for Frankfort in June, deposits were made, and an assortment of feather beds, duvets and hand-embroidered pillow cases awaited our travel weary bodies.

We fell hard for Florence, so hard that my mother cancelled our reservations in Venice and booked an extra week. Our “insider” guide was a colleague of my father’s, an Italian professor named Bob (and a “real” Italian), the leader of a group of Michigan State University students studying in Florence for the summer session. Bob had rented a villa at the top of an impossibly steep hill lined with Cypress trees to which we ascended one afternoon for bread, cheese, olives, and a plate of salami, soppressata, and prosciutto.

Reminiscent of Another Shortcake

My Auntie Vera and Uncle Johnny lived in a small house on a large piece of property in a rural area near North Judson, Indiana. They were my dad’s aunt and uncle. Through my child eyes, they seemed old enough to be grandparents. They had no children of their own, though, so they loved spoiling me and my brother. My favorite time to visit them was during strawberry season. I knew I could look forward to Auntie Vera’s delicious strawberry shortcake.

Before we arrived, she would pick the fresh, sweet berries from her large garden. After cleaning and slicing them, she would sprinkle them lightly with sugar and let them sit out on the kitchen counter until dessert time. Her homemade shortcakes would be cooling on a rack on the counter right beside the strawberries.

End of Summer Blues and Other Fish Stories

atrialobster I am not certain, but I fear we foodies of Martha’s Vineyard don’t measure up to the truly high standards of obnoxious and perfectionist self-importance that other summer colony foodies get to display. (The Hamptons and the state of Maine come to mind.) I am embarrassed that there are only so many uppity remarks available to us if the lobster roll wasn’t toasted in butter, and what can you say other than “more please” when devouring freshly shucked Katama oysters or Atria’s wok fried whole lobster? Lazy and content, (and now that summer is officially over) we find ourselves with the end of summer blues, and boy, are they running.

Bluefish abound in our fish markets especially smoked bluefish. Now this is an area where we Vineyard foodies can almost strut our stuff: Looking at a piece of smoked bluefish produces the obvious foodie smirk. “Where did you get your fish?” If your answer isn’t John’s or Larsen’s then it bloody well better be something akin to, “Oh I have a friend who lives in the attic over Karen’s garage. He catches and smokes a few fish every week for friends…but they are not for sale.” (I can relate to bluefish as their travel habits mimic ours: Found in Florida waters during winter, they make their way to Massachusetts by June, avoiding the Memorial Day crush of late May). Smoked blue fish served with honey mustard is the ubiquitous cocktail party spread at any Vineyard party, and, I really don’t care where it comes from.

Chicken Southwest

I had my first dinner party when I was twelve years old. I invited six girls. I can name them all now: Annie Kleinsasser. Katie Kleinsasser (her thirteen year old knowing and powerful big sister who wore a bra). Sara Bingham. Kathy Golden. Sue Cross. Dee Dee Ruff. We were just finishing the sixth grade. We’d be going on to Junior High School.

This was going to be something BIG.

I felt it was worthy of celebration. I would have liked to invite six boys but I also would have liked to travel to the moon and I had about as much chance of that as getting the nerve to cook and then eat actual food in front of Kevin Hoffman, Bill Holland, Dan Chapman, Steve Acker, Jamie Oyama and Robbie Ellis.

Food, Family and Memory