Food, Family, and Memory

Not a Happy Camper

nocamping During the seven years in which I lived in Boston, I was completely safe from the specter of camping. My friends and acquaintances went to the Cape or Nantucket in the summer, but no one talked about camping. I was also blissfully unaware of all camping-related issues during my childhood years. We spent many summers in a cabin in Maine which was in the woods, had no television or telephone, and required the hauling of drinking water in jugs, because the taps were supplied by the lake. It was rustic, to be sure, but I slept on a mattress, had a dresser and a lamp, and saw a bright-line distinction between being "indoors" and being "outdoors." If I wanted to use the small, but clean and regularly accoutred bathroom, for example, I could go "indoors," and close the door behind me. If I chose to be among the trees or swim in the lake, I could go "outdoors." There was no confusion between the two locations, particularly relative to bathroom usage.

When I became a parent, and met all kinds of other interesting parents, it became clear that people around here camp with great relish, and that they feel that others should enjoy the experience. They speak with great love about being surrounded by nature, getting closer to family, and the fun of cooking over an open fire. Early on, I deflected all attempts to bring me into the Cult of Camping with a polite smile, a shake of my head, and a speech along the general lines of "I would not, could not, in a tent/I would not if you paid my rent/I do not like dirt, Sir or Ma'am/a stolid urbanite, I am!"

Red Velvet Memories

red velvet cake As my birthday approaches I can't help but think of my sisters - I'm the middle one - and my maternal grandmother. My sisters and I are born two years apart, with our birthdays all in the last week of September. If you do the math, I guess one can blame the joyful spirit of the holidays on the closeness of the timing.

My brother, as the oldest and only boy, always seemed to get special treatment over us girls. I'm sure he felt tortured by his loud, energetic sisters, but at least he never had to share his birthday party. I can't really blame my parents for lumping our "big days" all together on the middle weekend between them all. My father worked two jobs to support his young family, so lack of money paired with convenience produced - throughout our childhood - one giant party for "the girls." It was a "more-the-merrier" type of event and we were all showered with enough gifts to make us contented despite the lack of individual attention.

When we were very young my mother took care of the cake, but as we got older and began developing our own opinions, all we ever wanted was my grandmother's Red Velvet Cake. I can't remember the first time I ate it, but I can still taste it today. It was the same every time with a dense, almost chewy texture; the sweet tang of the cream cheese frosting; that distinct something-more-than-just-chocolate flavor that distinguishes this classic cake from all others.

What's in the Freezer?

Food and death are a marvelous combination, except for when one suddenly causes the other. In my family, news of someone’s passing usually initiates a steady stream of food delivered to the ground zero of loss. Sandwich platters, rice puddings, and pink cardboard pastry boxes tied up with string. These are a few of my favorite things. The food, not the death part.

The different foods that are bestowed upon the bereaved are a reminder of the living. Who else but the living would care enough to drop by with a Bundt cake? Keep the pan. I have extras for times like these. You can look at this delivered feast as a measure of the love for the deceased. Home made fried chicken is a great compliment; day old grocery store pie, not so much.

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.

The Feast of Many Nations

On December 24th, 1963, Philadelphia was hit with a rip-roaring blizzard. I’ll never forget it. By evening, the drifts were well past knee-high. Snowflakes swirled in the halos of streetlights. Driving anywhere was out of the question. Wrapped up in coats, boots, gloves, hats and scarves, and loaded down with bags of presents, my girlfriend Bonnie, my mother and I set out on foot for Aunt Tilda’s house. What would have been a 7-minute drive turned into an hour trek. I remember laughing so hard we could hardly walk. We knew we were crazy to be slogging through such a storm, but we were determined to reach our destination. It was Christmas Eve, and Aunt Tilda had prepared the traditional Italian Feast of Seven Fishes.

Tilda’s house was decorated to the rafters. Twinkling lights outlined every window. Tiny red and green Christmas balls hung from each curtain ruffle. Swags of tinsel garland draped the mirrors. The huge tree was covered with hundreds of ornaments she had been collecting for decades. At its top perched a gossamer angel. And beneath its bedecked branches, nestled the white and gold 30-piece Nativity set that Tilda had stayed up into the wee hours painting on many a sweltering summer night.

Food, Family and Memory