Food Stories — the early years: short-shorts on a theme

My friend was spending the night. We both woke up in the dark and crept around. Quiet. Very, very early. My parents were still asleep, we could hear their light snoring. Peering around the corner from the dark hall to the kitchen. Dawn light. We wanted the sugar, some more. Bread box. I buttered four slices of spongy white bread. My friend watched. Then I sprinkled with a spoon from the blue pottery bowl pure streamed sugar, then stopped. It stuck pretty well, well enough. Whatever fell, fell to the plates. We put our slices on the drainboard, and then we each took a plate to lick up the extra. Sugar food. We knew we should hide our tracks, sugar tracks, but we weren’t careful. I bet my Mom figured out what we’d been up to, but she never spoke a word about it. Sugar. 
    - Alan Bern


Cloth puddings; oven-bottom bread; sponges; ham and mustard pickle sandwiches . . . my grandmother was a Victorian cook. Nothing fancy, just good old-fashioned home cooking. Dad took us walking, rain or shine, each weekend. I’d return home with pockets full of finds to offer to Grandma: sometimes an ammonite, sometimes a clam shell, or shale with a band of shining quartz. But my grandma’s gift was a constant one. She baked a table full of love each weekend and every Sunday we had cheese scones, currant buns, and cakes with neatly piped pink icing. At the end of these meals she took two small bowls of cake mix from the fridge for my brother and I. Half a century on I can still conjure the taste of it. And oh, what I’d give to say thank you to her one last time.
    - Alan Peat


During the months in spring when the sap was collected in buckets from the maple trees in our Catskill Mountains, my cousin, Teresa, and I would toast Freihofer’s brand white bread in our grandmother’s kitchen and then spread the most exquisite maple cream on the hot slices just popped from the toaster. The cream would soften as soon as it met with the toast and my mouth would water knowing the deliciousness about to be tasted. Grandma never stood over us and said “That’ll do,” or “Let’s put that away now.” She just let us eat the toast and the crunch and the sweet and the joy. She must have known what we didn’t — that the day would come soon enough when sugar and bread would bring enough restrictions and admonishments on their own to last the rest of our lifetimes. And for those few precious years, she must have thought, “Just let them eat toast!”
    - Anne Killian-Russo


During World War II food was on everyone's mind.  Because there wasn't enough of it.  Meat, eggs, milk, bread, cheese, almost any food you could think of, all rationed — 4 ounces of meat a person. No wonder people moved in together, pooled their ration cards, and got a small joint of meat for Sunday lunch, eaten after the slice of Yorkshire pudding which filled one up. At boarding school there was enough food but no one wanted to eat it. We ate in a long room with round tables. We were not allowed to talk or ask anything to be passed because we were expected to notice if anyone needed anything and pass it. Set out on the wide window sills were saucers with the week's ration of margarine and small tins with the week's ration of sugar. We were all sure that someone came in and stole some of these rations because before the end of the week they were all gone. Fried bread and powdered milk for breakfast. Rice puddings at lunch, crusty on the top — there was a rusty nail in the pudding, once. Stewed apple sometimes. Tinned meat, lots of watery cabbage, mashed potatoes covering a thin layer of mincemeat. I don't remember eggs or cheese. Salads, fresh fruit — what were they? No wonder we had colds all the time. A surprise that we didn't have scurvy. 
    - Antonia Matthew


When I was seven, my mother was hospitalized with a mysterious illness, probably referred to as “nerves” at the time. My father hired a housekeeper, a woman older than my mother, to cook and keep the house in order. My brother and I were to address her as “Mrs. K.” She was stern and humorless — but her greatest offense was that she stood in the place of our missing mother. Mrs. K’s cooking was basic and always included a canned vegetable. On the day she made spinach, I refused to eat it. After my father and brother left the table, I stared down at my plate in misery. The spinach mixed with margarine resembled green muck that washed up on the shore. The standoff lasted for what seemed forever, as did my mother’s absence. Dad returned to the kitchen, saw my plight, and said exactly what I had been praying for: “Barrie, you’re excused.” My hero! I could tell by the look on her face that Mrs. K was furious, but she couldn’t say anything because dad was the boss. Soon after, my mother returned home, Mrs. K departed, and everything in the world was right again.
    - Barrie Levine


I loved to watch my mom make fried chicken. She let me pull over a stool so I could stand on it and see everything on the counter as she worked her magic. First she took a giant knife and deftly whacked the chicken into legs, thighs, breasts, and wings. Then she dipped those pieces into a bowl of liquidy gunk before throwing them into her favorite breading mixture, patting each piece on both sides. The next step involved the hot, greasy bed of her electric frying pan. She felt very modern, having graduated from the big frying pan on the gas stove to this new-fangled piece of kitchen equipment that didn’t need a fire under it. As soon as Mom settled the breaded chicken parts into the bubbling hot oil they began their crackling journey toward crispiness. Then she was done for a while and began washing some dishes. I’d go off to play with my dog. Soon it was time to flip the chicken pieces over so I jumped back up on the stool to watch the show. Mom grabbed each piece with a pair of tongs and tossed them over with a special flare just for my amusement. We laughed as the back sides got their chance to sizzle. I got bored after a while and went off to play some basketball. Eventually Mom called me back inside to set the table for dinner. My dad, my two big brothers, and my big sister all sat down to enjoy an amazing dinner of fried chicken, mashed potatoes and gravy, and peas from a can. I felt that I had helped to make it all happen.
    - Blue Waters


Crimson, scarlet, kaleidoscope in a glass — bitter, sour on the tongue — my first taste of cranberry juice was a psychedelic experience. I was 16, vacationing with my parents on Cape Cod. Ocean Spray had not begun to market this magical elixir, so it seemed we had discovered a hidden treasure. I can still see the white linen table cloth, sparking goblets, sunshine glowing through the juice like rubies. Now, I am obsessed, stashing bags of cranberries in my freezer all year, making endless crocks of cranberry apple sauce. I eat tangy berries every morning with yogurt. Delicious, even without sugar, they explode with flavor, and I’m right back there, in that long-ago summer.
    - Carole Johnston


Continuity seemed the name of the game in our suburban home for nearly every meal when we four were young. Maybe because Mom grew up with a cook in the household, she'd never learned the fine art of cooking or the joy of cooking with spices. Mornings brought cold cereal with milk, lunch found us eating pb & j or possibly a bologna sandwich (yuck), an afternoon snack consisted of a buttered slice of Wonder bread sprinkled with sugar, and dinner fare centered around the day of the week. Starting with Monday, typical features included tuna casserole, frozen chicken croquettes, her version of American Chop Suey, hash, frozen fish sticks, hot dogs and beans, and a pot roast or possibly a roast on Sunday, if we could afford it. To her credit, over time Mom developed a few specialties. Topping the list were cheese dreams, fudge, deviled eggs, and a tasty breakfast of cornmeal mush which sounds distasteful but is really quite yummy — the cornmeal mixture is chilled then sliced, fried, and served smothered with butter and warm maple syrup. She also had a fondness for replicating the smooth oatmeal Nanny once made. The secret? A double boiler and soaking the oats for hours before cooking overnight. The gleaming two-tiered pot hovered over a pilot light for a long, slow cook time, with only an occasional stirring. Oatmeal could only be served the next morning with the cream that topped the bottled milk. Treasured memories for sure, and the reason why I took over cooking the meals at a young age!
    - Deborah Burke Henderson


To cook spaghetti, you boil the water, then add the spaghetti. For eggs, the opposite. Reverse it, I learned, and the eggs crack, the spaghetti clumps. My mother was a patient teacher. Standing beside her, burners glowing, the rules of cooking weren’t lessons or tests, but knowledge dispensed, wisdom offered. Here’s the difference between chopping and slicing. Here’s how to stir. Here’s when to cover. Meatballs shrink as you cook them; matzoh balls get bigger. Close my eyes, and I’m there again, among the sharp knives and friendly spoons, whispering incantations: Slow simmer. Rolling boil. Sauté.
    - Ellen Orleans


My OCD behavior began in1948 when I was twelve years old. My parents took me with them on a 2-month trip around the world, during which my physician father visited mission hospitals in the Philippines and throughout India. I was terrified of flying, and with over a dozen flights on our schedule, I was convinced that one of the planes was bound to crash. Having no other way to control my destiny, I used  counting, touching, and made-up gestures to protect us. I touched doorknobs and trees, twirled in circles, counted steps. My parents must have noticed my odd behavior, but said nothing. On our flight home, the plane had a middle-of-the-night layover in Greenland, and the airport was totally deserted. Half asleep, we sat at an empty table with nothing on it but a small pot of something yellow next to the saltshakers. Whatever it was, I told myself I had to eat a spoonful of it or our plane would end up in the ocean. It was horseradish! My mouth was on fire, but we made it home . . . safely.
    - Emily Johnson


As a child I was very fond of cozonac, a kind of sweet bread that is stuffed with cocoa, Turkish delight, and ground walnut kernels. My mother would make a small loaf for each of her children, as a special treat for Easter; we would eat it in portions, divided into days, to make it last as long as possible. But in our country, at that time, it was difficult to obtain delicacies like Turkish delight. My mother, prudent by nature, stocked up beforehand, in anticipation of the holiday. One day, when I was bored with our usual dessert — a little butter spread on bread, with sugar on top — I rummaged through the house until I found the hiding place where the small pieces of precious, fragrant, colorful Turkish delight were stored. I ate, like some insatiable ogre, leaving almost nothing behind. Because of that, Easter was much poorer for us children that year. As punishment, I was to be forbidden any cozonac. In order for me to have even a small amount I had to beg bits from each of my brothers, in an attempt to satisfy my appetite.
    - Florin C. Ciobica


Whenever Aunt Pearl gave me advice, her back was turned to me.  And since she moved and turned constantly in the kitchen, that could be often. “Always look beyond what you see, Mickele. And always look even beyond that,” she said, turning. “You want milk in your tea?”  Over time she sounded more and more like Bobbe. I know her back was turned right when she gave advice because I looked to see her expression but couldn't. “Like if you look and see a tired face, what's beyond that? And beyond that?” She turned to me. “One sugar or two?"  I said, “Milk, two sugars please Aunt Pearl.” I looked up but she had already turned again. “And if you see a promise, what's beyond that? And beyond that?” All I saw were her apron strings. And she turned to me and stopped, wiping her hands on her apron. “Mickele, we forgot the toast.” And I was sure for a moment, I was looking right at Bobbe, and beyond.
    - Ian M. Shapiro


When I was six, my grandfather decided I was old enough to sit at the Passover table. By the time the adults had demonstrated their courage by swallowing bits of matzos topped with my grandmother’s fiery homemade horseradish, I began to nod off. But I was revived by the aroma of chicken soup when the feasting finally began. One of my aunts placed a portion of gefilte fish on my plate. I took a nibble and began to choke on a bone that had eluded my grandmother’s radar. That was when my Uncle Eddie, who was on leave from the Army Medical Corps, saved my life. Fighting his way through the crowd of relatives who were poking their fingers down my throat, Eddie performed the Heimlich maneuver and the bone popped out onto the table to cries of “Gott sei dank!” Then, like a Torah procession, a group of men triumphantly carried me off to bed. I never got a chance to thank Uncle Eddie who was killed in action a few months later.
    - Jack Goldman


I threw my first dinner party in 1979. I was sixteen. I invited eleven friends — five boys and six girls. Of these, only one had a driver’s license and most had not heard of Julia Child or her famous Beef Bourguignon. I had never made this recipe, which with preparation time and cooking can take up to six hours — but I was undaunted. The entire affair would have been impossible if not for my father, who agreed to buy the needed bottle of Burgundy. For dessert, I prepared (also for the first time) twelve baked apples, served with French vanilla ice cream. I set a formal table with a white tablecloth and red candles. Guests arrived at 5:30 p.m. for cocktails, which consisted of ginger ale, orange juice, or milk. The music was from an album titled, “Life of the Party.” Clearly, I was vying to be the next Graham Kerr, The Galloping Gourmet. Years later, one of the friends who attended told me that it was not only the first formal dinner party of her life but also the most memorable. “Oh, you enjoyed it?” I asked, expectantly. “Well, all I can say is: what the heck were you thinking?”
    - Jim Mazza


In a city of hyphenated Americans, I attended grade school with Irish, Poles, and a plethora of friends from places not found on a 1958 world map — Croatia, Ukraine, and more. Delores was Polish and Croatian, blonde, blue-eyed, talented and kind. Sister Anne often said, “Delores is like an angel.” I was thrilled to be her best friend and frequent after-school invitee at the house where Delores lived with her Polish grandmother. One December afternoon, Delores asked if she could share Oplatek with me. Permission given, Delores pried open a decorated tin from Poland, and solemnly lifted out a thin white rectangular embossed likeness of Mary and baby Jesus. Delores broke off two corners saying, “They taste like communion wafers.” As I tried to swallow my piece without chewing, Delores explained these were for Christmas Eve — a sort of family communion. “Sharing makes you my sister.” I was in heaven. Cancer stole my sister/bestie long ago. “An angel taken back to heaven,” Sister Anne told me when I asked how to reach Delores. Yesterday I learned Oplatek is also called “angel bread.” I wish I could tell Delores, but likely she already knows.
    - Joan Leotta


my mother was always soft she had a certain sense of deliciousness imparted as if a secret could be kept between slices of the white bread she discovered in America after her Egyptian childhood of creamy barhi dates and ripe mango she served sprinkles of white sugar or a whole thin hershey chocolate with  buttered wonder then taught me to savor creamy ricotta sandwiches and her soft stuffing and chicken fricassee until I could taste the warmth of Mediterranean thyme sun stewed fresh 
    - Kath Abela Wilson


“…smooth bean and wrinkled pea.” When I first heard this phrase from Robert Frost’s “Putting in the Seed,” I knew he was talking to me. And to my dad, beside me in the sun, showing me how many seeds to put in the furrow and how far apart. How to cut seed potatoes so each piece had an eye from which the new plant would sprout, and how to hill up the dirt, as new potatoes like to be covered deeply to protect them from too much sun. This was in the days when organic hadn’t yet acquired a capital O. Everybody’s fertilizer came from grandpap’s cow or from their own chicken coop, though you had to be careful with chicken poop; it could burn the new plants. And pest control was a kid — sometimes me — picking potato bugs and tomato worms off the plants, one by one, grimacing all the while. After the gardening part, the teacher became my mother. All that provender had to be preserved. Canning season was heat and steam and color and sound. Scalding tomatoes to remove their skins. Pouring peas like pearls and corn like gems into gleaming Mason jars. Placing peach halves cut side down so their golden shoulders pressed against the inside of the jars. And finally, sitting with a glass of sweating iced tea and listening for the unique “pop” each lid made as the jar cooled and sealed. Then down cellar to place them on the ready shelves where, it seemed, they glowed, still bearing the summer’s sun and shining gently on their potato neighbors, plump and dusty in the nearby bin.
    - Kathleen Kramer


Growing up, “tea” was the beverage year-round —  lunch, dinner, sometimes breakfast, and anytime in-between. “Tea” came in one form — poured over a glass of ice cubes and sweet. The only choice was, sometimes, with or without a slice of lemon or a mint leaf. Tea that was served in a cup was called “hot tea” and was what you were given with a piece of dry toast for an upset tummy. Sometimes Mama served it for a chilly afternoon women’s group, using the silver tea service. There were girls’ tea parties where we wore white gloves and learned proper etiquette. When I first left the south and ordered tea the waitress asked if I wanted it “hot” or “cold.” When the “iced tea” arrived unsweetened I asked for “sweet tea.” She gave me little white packets of sugar to add to the tea. It doesn’t work. The sweetness is in the brewing process. Years later, on return trips to the south, I knew I had crossed some invisible geographical line and I was almost “home” when I ordered tea and, without being asked, it was served “just right.” “Tea” — iced, sweet, pronounced with not quite two syllables.
    - Margaret Walker


On those Sundays the preacher came to our house for lunch after church, Mother came home after Sunday School to prepare her usual meal of fried chicken, homemade biscuits and gravy, and a Southern vegetable casserole. The school custodian lived behind us, since my father was superintendent and we rented the house in front, owned by the school. Chickens were kept in a pen between our houses and it was Alma’s job, the custodian’s wife, to wring one’s neck, then chop off the head and pluck it. Mother then cut it into enough pieces to serve five people. One Sunday my cousin, a year younger, was staying with us for part of the summer. When she first saw a beheaded chicken circling the pen until its muscles collapsed, she shrieked. NOT GONNA EAT THAT, Dee announced, before running off in horror. Sure enough she made her meal out of biscuits and casserole and gave us nasty looks as we ate the poor chicken. For the rest of her visit, chickens were off the menu so we didn’t create a major rift in our previously contented family.
    - Pris Campbell


When I was a kid in the 1960s, I’d have ice cream on Saturdays, usually from the Dairy Queen on the corner. But the ice cream outings I remember best are the trips with Daddy to the University of Maryland's dairy farm and creamery. The first stop would be a large barn where cows were milked by machine. We'd walk among stalls where cows were hooked up to milkers that hummed and clicked. I was fascinated and a little frightened by the rows and rows of cows, tubes, and lights. Later, we'd make our way over to the creamery and order our favorites: mine was a black raspberry double-scoop cone. Daddy and I would sit on the terrace outside the creamery and savor our Saturday treat.
    - Theresa A. Cancro


After evening chores, we ate fried egg sandwiches on Sunday nights sometimes. It was the closest my mom came to a break from the endless three-a-day feedings of a farm family that eventually had 8 children. We could watch TV Sunday nights, too, while we ate, the only time we were allowed such a privilege. Douglas Edwards and the news and then maybe Lassie, I am trying to recall . . . Ed Sullivan for sure. The eggs from Izzy Clark’s farm (Izzy would yell “Car-ol!” as she came in the mudroom and my sister and I still imitate her yodel 60 years later) were hardshelled and the yolks solid with orange protein. On an episode of my favorite ’90s Brit TV series “Pie in the Sky,” chef Henry Krabbe rhapsodizes about the pleasures of the underestimated fried egg sandwich and I sure agree, even if we ate them on white bread with ketchup.
    - Tina Wright


On the mornings when Mom was in charge of breakfast she’d put boxes of cold cereal out on the kitchen table — Raisin Bran, Corn Flakes, Rice Krispies — and a container of skim milk. My sister and I hated Raisin Bran, except for the raisins, but we weren’t allowed to just pick those out and leave the rest. It was all or nothing. We chose nothing. Rice Krispies were fun because we could call out, very loudly, snap! crackle! pop! On really awful days Mom brought out the dreaded box of shredded wheat, but that didn’t happen too often. Mostly Dad was in charge of breakfast and that meant hard-boiled eggs (mashed up with too much salt and mayonnaise) or oatmeal. The oatmeal was lumpy but at least we were allowed to put brown sugar on it. The very best breakfasts were the ones Grandma made. My grandparents lived in the apartment next door and on those mornings when Grandma was in our kitchen by the time we woke up it meant one thing — guggle muggles for breakfast. Raw eggs, milk, and a great big squirt of Bosco chocolate syrup. Everything went into the Osterizer. Whir whir whir. And quick, before Mom could see what we were up to, Grandma let us dip Stella D’oro “S” cookies into the concoction to get them soft and soggy . . . and we snarfed them right up.
    Zee Zahava