The Legacy Mom Left Me

Maybe it's because she died on March 20th, now/already eight years ago, or perhaps because her birthday is March 22nd, but when March comes around I think of spring, and celebrate Mom. This year I wrote about what I inherited from her. It focuses on one aspect of my inheritance, which--as my family and friends know well--relates to the kitchen, and hosting. 

 

“I’m passing the baton to you!” my mother announces. It’s November, 1993. My second child, asleep in my arms, is six months old. My two-and-a-half-year-old daughter is running circles around us in my parents’ home.  Mom, in her cavalier, always-the-director way, is waving at the dining room table. She’s talking about my taking over Thanksgiving, Christmas Eve and Christmas Day dinners, as well as all other large family gatherings for which cooking is required. Though we’re five kids in our blended family,  I am my mother’s oldest, and the closest geographically. We’re staying with my parents until we find a rental not too far away. 

A knot in my stomach prevents me from objecting, and so I just nod, not wanting to go against my mother’s pronouncement.  Mom adds, “And make sure you prep enough in case we have extra guests!” Not having enough food is a fear that I’ve also inherited. 

I did take over those meals, starting with Thanksgiving of that year. I still have the pages from Working Mother magazine's November 1993 issue (see the image below!), and I continue to prepare some of those recipes. Now, thirty-three years and just about that many Thanksgivings later, the pages are wrinkled, taped, and stained. 

Holiday hosting has been a part of our family lore forever. Growing up, especially during the holidays and despite our lack of enthusiasm, all the kids were recruited as helpers and directed into service to set up, prep, and serve dinner for our usual 30-plus guests.  There was always a list, written in my mother’s famous script, masking-taped to our white-tiled kitchen wall.  She would update and cross out as she finished one of the tasks listed. 

Our duties ranged from setting the table and vegetable peeling and chopping,  to creating individual place cards with lettering and illustrations. Mom was big on guest seating arrangements. Tasks also  included passing hors d'oeuvres —caponata and crackers, or warm cheesy bites—assisting with the buffet set up, and clearing the table once guests finished their dinners. We also helped set up dessert, which usually included Mom’s Italian-style ricotta cheesecake, and pignoli cookies served with espresso. 

One sister, five years older than I, was given the privilege of reviewing Mom’s list along with her, and sitting next to Dad at the table.  My older brother, the oldest of all of us, was also given a seat with the grown-ups. My two younger siblings and I were at the children’s table for years. Mom primarily directed her commands to us younger ones, and spoke in requests to the older ones. At the kids’ table, we rolled our eyes and nudged each other in united jealousy.  

Perhaps because I bristled so at the bossiness of my mom, that part of entertaining I didn’t inherit. At least I don’t think so, though you might want to ask my husband and kids!  But for decades now, I’ve enjoyed my inheritance of hosting. I love planning a guest list, bringing friends together, designing a menu that includes drinks, appetizers, dinner, and dessert,  writing my shopping and prep list, setting the table, creating the environment, and making a playlist.    

My husband and I live in an apartment now. Our sit-down dinner parties no longer have the 30-plus guests of days gone by. However, my system remains. Menus are typed, printed, and saved for reference. Lists are also typed into my computer, and, like my mom, I enjoy crossing out items as I complete them. 

As I type just now, my son texts me, 

“I’m making salmon tonight. I want to make that sauce you make with dill, Grandma Sonia’s recipe.” 

I look through her old recipe notes, on index cards in a file box that I keep in a drawer near my cookbooks. I rifle through all the recipes and find this one, handwritten by my mom. I photograph it and send it to my son, and then follow up with a text.  

“You might want to double this," I tell him, "you know, in case some others come by.” 

 

Mom and Dad with an Angel :)

1993 Working Mother Recipes--and Some of My Menus!

The Table--From Our House

Buffet --All Set 

In the Kitchen with my Ancestors

Sicilia, non vi ho visti tutti, ma mi sono innamorata. E ritorneremo...

As of late last night, I’m back in New York, and I don’t even know what time zone I’m in.  My body is in one, my mind is—perhaps—in another. I run by the library and see two elderly gentlemen sitting on a bench near my path. Wait—maybe they’re my age? One is Black, one is White. They are drinking cans of something. Beer? They both turn to wave their unoccupied hands at me. They have similar waves.

I say good morning, though buongiorno is still in my throat; I pass them, and head towards Davenport Park. 

The beauty of travel—one of the beauties of travel—is that it helps you see things with new eyes. I look at the water, this time it’s the Long Island Sound, and not the Tyrrhenian Sea—whose warm temperatures, glass transparency, and sparkling turquoise embraced me just a couple of  days ago. Still, this morning, I’m standing before another sparkling body of water that I admire. The sky is clear. The sun is bright. I love this place, too. 

As I continue my run, my mind flashes scenes, people, dishes—the sounds—of Sicily. I imagine telling my parents, especially my dad, all about it: the opera singer on the street of Palermo, the gestures, the food, the vendors, the buildings, the sea, the sounds, the Sicilian expressions we learned.  I want to tell him, “ Now I really get it! I get you! I understand you more now.” 

I whisper the words aloud. My tears sting. 

Images of the markets also flash through my mind. Bold, strong colors. Vendors calling me to try the cherries, figs, watermelon, grapes. The vegetables—deep purple eggplants, bright bell peppers, the shapely cucuzza: Italian squash. And then there’s the prepared dishes. The pasta, pizza, and of course,  caponata: the roasted eggplant and tomato-based dish that was a staple in my home growing up, and everywhere here in Sicily—in slight variations. I think about the focus of the Mediterranean Studies Symposium, "Feeding the Mediterranean: Culinary (Re-) Inventions, Legacy, and Hospitality," and about the presentation I made, in which I shared my family's legacy: their interpretation of their culinary traditions. I now recognize that until I visited and saw—felt—all first hand, I didn't realize the extent to which the heritage of Sicily was sewn into my family's blanket. Beyond Sicilian hospitality—all-welcoming, loving, warm—it’s the feeling of belonging that was gifted to us—to my son and me. 

Now my father's voice whispers; "I told you this, Sweetheart. I knew you would love it all." 

I've finished my loop, and I'm heading back home now. While I’m running, I plan my menus—and how I’ll replicate, or attempt to replicate, the colors and flavors we sampled. I want to, as my parents did upon their return to New York from their visit to Sicily many years before, boast both the flavors and the presentation of the foods there. 

I’ve vowed to study Italian more, to keep more in touch with relatives and friends in Sicily, practice presenting my food and making the dishes I so admired, and grasping the memories so that I can pull them up as needed.  And, of course, to return—with my daughter and husband. In the meantime, I recognize: I'm in the kitchen with my ancestors. 

Sicilia, non vi ho visti tutti, ma mi sono innamorata. E ritorneremo...

Bringing the Colors--and Flavors--Back to New York

Home Fresh Tomato Recreation 

Caponata--and Some Cheeses

A Few Days in March: Spring is on the Way

 

                         Early March Comfort Food: White Beans, Spinach, Tomatoes, Potatoes...and Some Sausage 
March 5^th

“Last week I was thinking about what games to buy; this week I’m thinking about arming myself.”

These were the words of a Ukrainian guy I heard interviewed on NPR. Talk about playing the last week at this time game…

Still, I’m playing with time and going back weeks, months, years. It seems like photos make time seem that much more tangible.

I don’t mind not being able to see what’s coming; divining the future was never one of my three wishes. (Though—I have to admit—my number one wish was always the greedy, ‘I want more wishes!’ wish!) Of course, I did always want to be like Bewitched, and touch my nose and make magic happen—or maybe more like I Dream of Jeannie (always liked the outfit),  so I could just cross my arms and nod my head to make some magic happen.

However, and maybe, I’ve matured a bit. Though I still have many wishes, these days, I speak my wishes aloud, with palms pressed together in front of my chest, while I’m standing on my favorite rock at Davenport Park, feeling the sun on my face, and facing the ever-inspirational water. These days, I wish for the health and wellbeing of my children and my loved ones. I wish for food and shelter and equity of treatment for all. And I wish for peace. These days, my wishes are more embracing of a larger picture.

Since it's cooler, I go back to making comfort foods.

            Red Lentil Sweet Potato Soup--with Spinach, Cilantro, and Toasted Coconut

March 12^th

It’s a rainy/snowy day. I’ve finished Educated, by Tara Westover, and have re-started Calypso, by David Sedaris. I’ve got Caste, by Isabel Wilkerson, The Beekeeper of Aleppo, by Christy Lefteri,   and am continuing We are Each Other’s Harvest, by Natalie Baszile.

My book pile is my treasure. The books are filled with ideas that will plant themselves in my head, and will be woven in between my own thoughts—will support the ideas and beliefs I have. They will make me laugh. They will make me cry. Most of all, they will make me think. I start, and then put them aside so that I can write. The words the spring forth—though inspired by the words I’ve read, expressions I yearn to adopt—sometimes I feel like they might not be mine, but my brain envelops them, embraces them all, and moves them into the realm of my own usage. They become mine.

Though I’m writing, I am distracted by my book pile. I stop writing, and look—due to force of habit—at my phone. I scroll through my messages. There are many I could/should erase.  I’ve kept a few from my aunt; she passed away last year. I can’t erase her messages. Yet.

I listen to her voice and a collage of tangled memories comes fourth—and though they delight me on one hand, they deeply sadden me. I haven’t been able to listen to my mother’s voice—recordings—since she passed away, now almost exactly 4 years ago. Wow. Four years.  I imagine speaking with her—I have so many questions that are known lying, suspended in air. Unanswered. I also think about what I’d like to update her with. 

March 13^th

The sun is out—the wind is biting, but the sun manages to wiggle its way onto my face and I hold it there. I’m walking/running—and watching others do the same.

I see a young man, walking near Viva Grande in New Rochelle, and talking on the phone. I can hear him speaking in Spanish—commenting on the weather, “A veces, sí—demasiado frío,” and I imagine he’s arrived, perhaps from Mexico—judging by his accent--not too long ago, and recounting bits of his job…and the weather.  The wind is whipping is straight black hair around, but he lets it go. I want to see whom he’s speaking with, and imagine his mother—and maybe others gathered around. He smiles at me—perhaps because he sees me watching his hair dance. I smile an hola back to him.

My thoughts drift. I think about other young—and older men— and women, in his same position: those who have left their country and family behind in search of opportunities.  

March 16

It’s back to spring. The children’s squeals at Trinity Elementary School are paralleled by the parrots’ squawks. I wonder if they notice each other.

The children are not wearing masks—only wait, some have them as a kind of chin strap. I imagine their moms saying, “Make sure you keep your mask on!”

That brings me to thoughts of my mom, who passed away almost exactly four years ago, in four days.

Now running, I'm at the bottom edge of Davenport Park. The water glistens in the sun. I climb atop my prayer rock, the large one that rests right over the Long Island Sound. I think of peace, stability, sanity, health—and all the people I want to send warm thoughts to. I close my eyes and let the sun rest on my face. I tell my parents I love and miss them.

I turn around,  and run up the hill back to the street. Running up the hill today seems easier, but still, it’s not easy.

Then I run back to Viva Grande, my market, where I’ll pick up some vegetables and more for dinner.

Playing with Pumpkin (Or, really, Kabocha!)

Mis queridos amigos,

It seems a bit crazy to be writing about pumpkin bread today. After all, right now it's in the low 80s here in New York. But, well, we know that this probably won't be the case for too long! 

And speaking of before too long, I'll be back in ol' Mambo 64 stomping ground--at Broken Bow Brewery--on November 10th from 6 to 8, with my old friends, talking about using their fabulous beer to make some treats! (Please contact me for info on signing up for that class...it's filling up fast!) 

So last Saturday, as some of you know, I had the great pleasure of being at the New Rochelle Grand Market Farmer's Market, where I shared some of my fresh-baked pumpkin (kabocha) bread. Kabocha, pumpkin's cousin, is sweet and moist, with has dark green skin, and orange flesh that is slightly sweeter than pumpkin (and with more of a chestnut-like consistency). I have to say, that this is so moist, it's more like a bread pudding. Luscious, spiced, and sweet--though not overwhelmingly so--this is as delightful as a breakfast treat, as it is for a snack, or dessert. The key, I discovered, is baking (roasting) the kabocha separately, and then puréeing it. The result is totally worth the time! (And yes, my friends, I will share that slightly sparky (thanks to cayenne pepper) pumpkin soup, too. Maybe next time?!)  Would love to hear how you like this one! 

One of the Loaves! 

Sample Kabocha Bread--See those Raisins? 

With Peppe--showing off--at the Farmer's Market! 

Kabocha Bread 

Makes two standard-size loaf pans 

  

1 tablespoon unsalted butter, for greasing the pans

2 cups unbleached all-purpose flour

1 teaspoon baking powder

3/4 teaspoon baking soda

3/4 teaspoon fine sea salt

2 teaspoons ground cinnamon

1/2 teaspoon freshly grated nutmeg

1/4 teaspoon ground allspice

2 cups packed light brown sugar

4 large eggs, at room temperature

1 cup canola oil

About 3 cups of roasted kabocha purée (I wash the outside, cut about a 4-pound   squash into smaller pieces--quarters to eighths--seed it, drizzle olive oil and honey or brown sugar, and roast on a foil-lined pan at 400°  for about 35 minutes or until softened. Peel, coarsely chop, and purée in a food processor.)

Optional: 2/3 cup golden raisins and/or toasted pecans

1.  Position a rack in the middle of the oven and preheat to 375°F. Butter the bottom and sides of 2 loaf pans. 

2.   In a large bowl, whisk together the flour, baking powder, baking soda, salt, cinnamon, nutmeg, and allspice.

3.   In the bowl of a stand mixer with a whisk attachment, mix the brown sugar on the lowest speed to break up any lumps. Add 1 egg and continue to mix on low until smooth and incorporated. Add the remaining eggs, one at a time, and mix on low until smooth and well blended. Shut off the mixer and scrape the mixture down the bowl.  Return the mixer to low then add the oil in a thin steady stream and continue to beat until fully blended.

4.    Add the flour mixture in 3 batches. Use a large rubber spatula to fold the mixture together until just incorporated. Fold in the roasted kabocha, along with the raisins and /or nuts,  if using.

5.   Divide the batter between the prepared pans. Bake until the the breads are firm and risen and the tip of a paring knife inserted in the center of the cake emerges clean, between 50 and 60 minutes (and you may want to rotate the pans once during the baking time). Transfer to a wire rack to let cool for about ten minutes minutes before inverting. Serve fresh and warm, or let them cool, wrap them and refrigerate for up to 2 days, or freeze for up to 1 month. (I love it toasted...with a glass of port, and with some vanilla ice cream!)

  

Three Years and a Lifetime Later!

Maybe, as you start reading this, you can hear me sigh.
After all, it's been a very long time since I've blogged here. In fact, it's been exactly three years and three days!

So, let's see. Since then, I've opened and closed a restaurant (ah...Mambo 64 in Tuckahoe, New York...which we closed exactly 1 year ago today), written Latin Twist, a blog for LoHud, gone back to teaching ESL (English as a Second Language), been an event planner and caterer, taught many cooking classes,   made dozens of drinks,  served many meals, had the pleasure of meeting lots of lovely people, watched my son move to Ecuador,  my daughter to Brooklyn, and most recently, started spending way more time with my husband, parents, and friends.

Those of you who know me know that all of these things are so important in my life. I can't imagine life without my big three Fs: family, friends, and food. The connection between people and food/culture is full of beauty and delight; it's one that that never ceases to impress and amaze. My mission continues to be that of bringing together diverse people and their stories over our common ground: food.

I'm kicking off this first blog—after being inspired by a Saturday visit to the New Rochelle Farmer's Market—with a recipe for one of my favorite soups, gazpacho, which was published two years ago in my LoHud Small Bites column,  Latin Twist .

And also, speaking of the New Rochelle Farmer's Market, I will be doing a demo there on
Saturday, October 8th, at 11 am. I'm still figuring out what I'm making; the market has so much to choose from.

So I close today, with the promise of bringing you more tales and treats in the not-too-distant future.
Thank you for your support always, and I look forward to seeing all of you in the kitchen!
All the best,
Arlen

PS My new portrait, featured here on my blog, was taken at Alvin & Friends, by the fabulous New Rochelle-based photographer, Rodney Bedsole.