Food, Family and Memory

We eat Mimi’s Sauce with just about everything. Now, I am fully aware that I said “we eat Mimi’s Sauce…”

Fish, chicken, pork, burgers, fries, veggies –  Mimi’s Sauce is the condiment of choice for my kinsmen and me. It is simultaneously basic and brilliant and can be the foundation for many a saucier sauce or simply delightful in and of itself. Spread on a turkey sandwich or as a dip for Cajun steamed shrimp, I am sure you’ll find a favorite use for Mimi’s Sauce. 

Many fried chicken establishments across The South have their own “Special Sauce.” This dipping sauce ranges and varies among the different spots, carefully guarded and some establishments even charge a quarter for an extra sauce.

A quarter – that’s big money! And you know what? We pay it, because one little pack is not enough for our chicken and fries!

I am half Norwegian and half Irish American. Both of my parents' families were, as you can imagine from completly different worlds.

The Norwegians were (in this order), big gardeners, big drinkers and big eaters. the Irish Americans were (in this order),  big eaters and big drinkers.

My father's Norwegian siblings were very close and all lived within ten miles of each other and often had enviable drunken, delicious dinners together, always at our rambling Georgian farmhouse in Buckinghamshire, England.

As a young child (about eight or ten) and after my bedtime story,  my sister, Ophelia and I would secretly, sit at the top of the stairs and clandestinely listen to my father and my aunts' laughter and their stories....

I was barely six years old and on an early summer vacation with my sister, Tanya and my Mother, a woman way a head of her time. The three of us were off on another adventure this time to the small town of Sorrento, Italy. Our father loved to travel but never outside the United States after he immigrated from Albania during the first World War to escape the atrocities in his village.

He indulged our mother's wanderlust and desire to show us the world with enthusiasm. That summer, our adventuresome mother picked the spectacular hotel Bellevue Syrene perched on a sheer cliff hundreds of feet above the ocean. The converted palace was surrounded by formal gardens in full bloom and the ocean side terrace dripped with blue Wisteria. It was dinner that evening that awoke my love of food and changed the course of my life.

The dining room was a formal affair like things used to be fifty years ago. As we three approached the entrance guarded by the Maitre D', he pulled back the heavy velvet drapes exposing the jewel box like dining room. As he led us to our table the azure blue color of the Gulf of Naples view from the floor to ceiling windows was so clear we could see Capri.

My dad clumsily peeled the skins off a few garlic cloves and then looked up at me with an expression I didn’t recognize.  He looked like a little boy.

“I’m nervous cooking for you,” he said.

I smiled at the slight power shift from the man whose passion in the kitchen inspired my career– and intimidated the hell out of me.

“Naw, Pop, you’re just using cloves closest to the center of the bulb.  The skins are thinner, especially if they’ve been around a week or two.  I had the same problem the other day in my kitchen.”

He steadied his hands, deftly chopped the garlic and tossed it into the pan of onions and chili flakes sauteing on the stove.  He pulled the can opener from a drawer and opened some DOP San Marzano tomatoes.  He was preparing a simple arrabiatta sauce.

I fished the garlic that I was blanching out of a small pot of boiling water and washed some basil for the pesto.

A sizeable t-bone steak rested in butcher paper on the marble counter, seasoned and coming to temperature before getting tossed on the grill outside.