Food, Family, and Memory

atrialobsterI 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.

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joy_of_cooking1.jpg I have a 1932 copy of The Joy of Cooking that’s being held together at the spine with duct tape. The book, like so many things my mother gave me or tried to impart to me, has become a cherished item only years after her death.

I wasn’t that close to my mother. I know she loved me very much, but she was a talented woman who was bored to death with mothering (I have two older siblings) by the time my twin brother and I came along. I can dig it. I would have had more kids myself, but if I had to sing “Wheels on The Bus” one more time, someone was gonna get hurt.

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poachedeggsingle.jpg Several times a week my amazing other half will call me at my office, check on me to see how my day is progressing, and then follow it up with "What would you like for dinner?" Before you think I’m the luckiest man on earth to get that phone call every day (because I am!), please keep in mind that the question should really be "Hi there; What Would You Like To Eat Tonight So That I Can Compare It To My List Of What We Have In The Kitchen Against What I Actually Feel Like Making For Dinner Depending On Several Factors Like Time, Mood, Willingness and Temperature." 

We then begin a little phone dance of niceties like "Oh, you know, whatever you want is fine" and "But that really doesn’t help me out, Matt, which is why I called" which gives way to "Whatever we bought Sunday at the Farmers Market isn’t going to last until tomorrow so make something with that" which gets a "Fine. And where will I get a recipe for what you’re talking about" and I’ll respond with "Um, improvise?" which meets a "With TAHINI, A BUNCH OF SAGE AND SHRIVELED PLUMS?!?" to which I’ll say "Oh god, nevermind, really, I’ll eat whatever you want to make. Seriously. I don’t care."

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madmen2.jpgDefining the dress code of the Gents, that was easy….BUT OH, THE DRESS CODE for women…that was serious. Pant suits were just coming in big and the Maitre’D would have none of it. It was here, at the Plaza Hotel, with all the Management taking notes, that I rewrote their dress code with sketches and fabric swatches, as I tried to educate those huffy puffed-up doormen.

I explained carefully to them that they must never allow entrance, if the fabric on the pant suit was the least bit shiny… like Polyester… that was a no no. They liked that, since it left them with some power… Imagine having to make sketches of what a woman could wear to a doorman... Who were we trying please here in this Boys Club of the Oak Room? Why the Mad Men of course! Only linen darling... or flat dry wool or men's tweeds... Oh dear... 

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eggs.jpgBoth 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.

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