My brother and I asked my mother to write up the recipes we grew up on.
These are the recipes she wrote.
Fifty two recipes.
These recipes span decades. I began cooking for myself my second year in college, going on to cook at least two meals a day for decades. Most of these recipes have endured through years of cooking for a family of several serious carnivores and one strict vegetarian and beyond.
I can barely remember those meals from childless days in Madison, Somerville, Massachusetts, Rochester, New York City, and Venice California, but stained cookbooks and piles of old newspaper clippings are compelling evidence.
Once there were kids, there was rarely a night—despite ballet and clarinet lessons and rehearsals, soccer and gymnastic practices, and endless other diversions that we didn’t eat a home-cooked meal together.
Now, after thousands of collective meals, I’m living alone, but can’t break the cooking habit.
My refrigerator is always too full of vegetables that need to be cooked before they age beyond salvage—and how many times a week can I eat lentil soup or roast chicken or whatever too large meal I’ve recently cooked?
I’d thought I’d welcome the break from cooking, but I now see it was as much pleasure as obligation.
In recent years, now that my grown children, Sarah and Sam cook for themselves and their friends, they call home regularly for cooking hints.
Given the accessibility of all recipes on the Internet to say nothing of Sarah’s extensive cookbook collection, I wouldn’t have thought my counsel was necessary, but it turns out that memory of childhood meals trumps perfection or sophistication.
We decided we could all use a compilation of some of our favorites, perhaps accompanied by the original documentation—be it a handwritten note from my mother, or a faded and stained clipping from the New York Times stuffed into my overflowing red and green loose leaf notebooks.
Sarah and Sam put in requests and I supplemented the list with my own decade spanning memories.
I have tried to group the recipes by category, so there is much chronological jiggering, but I’m hoping that won’t be a problem. Most are dishes I cooked regularly while Sarah and Sam were growing up, though several that originated in the pre-kid years may have ultimately fallen out of the rotation.
As is always the case, the categories are not hard and fast—vegetarian dishes appear in the pasta section (well, in every section except meats and poultry, I’d imagine), many vegetables and meats could be used as pasta sauces, and any meal can always be enjoyed for breakfast.
Although there are now fifty-two recipes—a number that evokes the rotation of the earth around the sun and implies some order in the universe as well as a guide for weekly meals-that is a mere numerical accident. I’m afraid I’ve also omitted certain old favorites and standards—which I’ll add if there’s a clamor from any quarter. I tried to make the recipes as comprehensible as possible—but I’m sure they could be much improved. I will of course amend and edit as necessary.
(for more recipes, in a much less organized format, I'm now (as of February 2012 begun posting my daily meals with bonus goofy pictures here.)
I can barely remember those meals from childless days in Madison, Somerville, Massachusetts, Rochester, New York City, and Venice California, but stained cookbooks and piles of old newspaper clippings are compelling evidence.
Once there were kids, there was rarely a night—despite ballet and clarinet lessons and rehearsals, soccer and gymnastic practices, and endless other diversions that we didn’t eat a home-cooked meal together.
Now, after thousands of collective meals, I’m living alone, but can’t break the cooking habit.
My refrigerator is always too full of vegetables that need to be cooked before they age beyond salvage—and how many times a week can I eat lentil soup or roast chicken or whatever too large meal I’ve recently cooked?
I’d thought I’d welcome the break from cooking, but I now see it was as much pleasure as obligation.
In recent years, now that my grown children, Sarah and Sam cook for themselves and their friends, they call home regularly for cooking hints.
Given the accessibility of all recipes on the Internet to say nothing of Sarah’s extensive cookbook collection, I wouldn’t have thought my counsel was necessary, but it turns out that memory of childhood meals trumps perfection or sophistication.
We decided we could all use a compilation of some of our favorites, perhaps accompanied by the original documentation—be it a handwritten note from my mother, or a faded and stained clipping from the New York Times stuffed into my overflowing red and green loose leaf notebooks.
Sarah and Sam put in requests and I supplemented the list with my own decade spanning memories.
I have tried to group the recipes by category, so there is much chronological jiggering, but I’m hoping that won’t be a problem. Most are dishes I cooked regularly while Sarah and Sam were growing up, though several that originated in the pre-kid years may have ultimately fallen out of the rotation.
As is always the case, the categories are not hard and fast—vegetarian dishes appear in the pasta section (well, in every section except meats and poultry, I’d imagine), many vegetables and meats could be used as pasta sauces, and any meal can always be enjoyed for breakfast.
Although there are now fifty-two recipes—a number that evokes the rotation of the earth around the sun and implies some order in the universe as well as a guide for weekly meals-that is a mere numerical accident. I’m afraid I’ve also omitted certain old favorites and standards—which I’ll add if there’s a clamor from any quarter. I tried to make the recipes as comprehensible as possible—but I’m sure they could be much improved. I will of course amend and edit as necessary.
(for more recipes, in a much less organized format, I'm now (as of February 2012 begun posting my daily meals with bonus goofy pictures here.)
1 - Onion and Zucchini Frittata
I've always been grateful to Marcella Hazan for helping me transcend my egg-cooking anxieties.
Years before, I'd learned to toss a spring of parsley into a pan of sunny-side eggs, providing a crisp and buttery green garnish, but that never seemed quite enough. I still worried about breaking the yolks when making fried eggs, overcooking scrambled eggs, wrecking omelets, under or over- cooking soft-boiled eggs—the list was endless.
The frittata recipes in Classic Italian Cookery, that first Marcella Hazan cookbook, solved all these problems by providing a peril-free egg dish. Frittatas involve no tricks or flippings, are forgiving about over and under cooking and are often even more delicious at room temperature, assuaging all potential timing concerns. They are easily cooked in advance.
I make all kinds of frittatas--with onions, tomatoes, cheese, spaghetti--but this onion and zucchini version is my long-time favorite. You can alter the amount of ingredients, and the size of the frying pan (to vary the thickness). If I’m serving a crowd, I'll make two different kinds, but rarely omit this zucchini variation.
Cook one cup very thinly sliced yellow onions as long as you have time for in a covered pan.
When the onion is wilted, uncover and cook until it turns golden brown--this takes much longer than you might imagine, but you don't have to stir endlessly and can busy yourself with other breakfast chores. And, of course, you can get away with un-caramelized onions as well.
Add three medium zucchini, sliced in rounds with about 1/2 teaspoon salt. (You can remove the onions from the pan and let them drain while the zucchini is cooking--but this is certainly not necessary). I like the zucchini nicely browned on both sides. Drain the onion and zucchini to get rid of excess oil.
While the vegetables are draining, beat four eggs in a bowl. Add 2/3 cup freshly grated Parmesan cheese to the eggs, and then with a slotted spoon add the zucchini and onions. When well mixed, add about six fresh basil leaves roughly chopped (if you don't have basil, you can use a tablespoon or two of freshly chopped parsley), salt and a few twists of pepper.
Melt three tablespoons butter in a 10-inch skillet. When the butter begins to foam, add the mixture to the skillet. Turn the heat as low as possible and cook for ten to fifteen minutes--keep checking to make sure the flame is not to high -when the bottom is very slightly browned--and it is almost all cooked except for the top which should be a bit runny--stick it under the broiler for about 20-40 seconds. Let cool at least ten minutes before eating. It’s delicious completely cooled—so can be made in advance.
2 - Huevos Rancheros
Like most people growing up in the northeast in the fifties and sixties, or even seventies, I never encountered Mexican food. I did always order chili con carne at the Walgreen's drugstore in the Port Authority before getting on the bus back to Jersey City, but I don’t think that counts.
Once we moved to Los Angeles it was a different story. My restaurant breakfast of choice soon became huevos rancheros. The eggs were usually lightly fried--sunny side up, served on top of two tortillas, topped with a bit of tomato sauce, and accompanied by beans and rice and some shredded lettuce.
I rarely made it at home, but I had, of course, clipped a recipe from the Los Angeles Times, which was the inspiration for an excellent breakfast for Sarah’s middle-school friend Hana, who dropped in one morning once they were all away in college.
Here it is—in its current form:
Sauté one finely chopped onion. When it is soft--add a couple of cloves chopped garlic. You can then add some sort of chopped peppers (I think I used two green chiles--mushy from a can--but you could also chop a bit of jalapeno, or one chipotle pepper--or just some chili powder--depending on how hot and/or smoky you want it). Add a cup or so of chopped tomatoes. Cook for a bit until it looks like a proper sauce.
When you’re almost ready to eat--break two eggs and gently slide them into the simmering sauce--spooning some sauce over the eggs as they cook. Serve on tortillas.
If you’re really on top of it, you can also have rice and beans. It would be singularly impressive if you had rice ready for breakfast—if you’re clever you might have some leftovers to fill the bill.
3 - Migas- Tortillas and Eggs
I first had migas at Jackie Pine's house on Aldie Street in Allston cooked by Gail Caldwell--recently arrived from Austin, Texas in 1978.
It was spring, but still felt like winter in Boston. Visiting from California, where we had moved a little over a year before, we were amazed to have already forgotten leafless trees and grim gray skies. During the many years we had lived in Somerville I’d never thought of it as an unattractive place. I’d known it wasn’t as charming and historic as Brattle Street and other posh Cambridge neighborhoods, but I thought it held its own, and barely registered those long winters. Now, arriving from the shores of the Pacific, I couldn't believe that people actually lived in these dreary climes.
This breakfast, imported from Texas, must have cheered us considerably. I’m still making it after thirty years.
Break eight eggs, beat slightly, add salt and pepper--set aside.
Cut eight corn tortillas--preferably stale--into more or less one inch pieces--you can cut them neatly with a knife, or tear them--no matter.
Chop two large or three small onions--sauté over low heat--once they start cooking--add the tortilla pieces. Stir a bit--everything should be slightly cooked.
Drain tortillas and onions and add to egg mixture.
Add chopped cilantro if you feel like it.
Melt two tablespoons (more or less) butter in pan--when it foams--add egg mixture--cook, stirring, until it reaches the egg-doneness that makes you happiest.
Serve with salsa. You can of course buy one of the ten million available varieties, or you could make your own--chopping tomatoes, onions, a bit of jalapeno pepper, cilantro, and garlic--and adding salt and pepper. Very easy and it seems to work whatever combo you use.
It was spring, but still felt like winter in Boston. Visiting from California, where we had moved a little over a year before, we were amazed to have already forgotten leafless trees and grim gray skies. During the many years we had lived in Somerville I’d never thought of it as an unattractive place. I’d known it wasn’t as charming and historic as Brattle Street and other posh Cambridge neighborhoods, but I thought it held its own, and barely registered those long winters. Now, arriving from the shores of the Pacific, I couldn't believe that people actually lived in these dreary climes.
This breakfast, imported from Texas, must have cheered us considerably. I’m still making it after thirty years.
Break eight eggs, beat slightly, add salt and pepper--set aside.
Cut eight corn tortillas--preferably stale--into more or less one inch pieces--you can cut them neatly with a knife, or tear them--no matter.
Chop two large or three small onions--sauté over low heat--once they start cooking--add the tortilla pieces. Stir a bit--everything should be slightly cooked.
Drain tortillas and onions and add to egg mixture.
Add chopped cilantro if you feel like it.
Melt two tablespoons (more or less) butter in pan--when it foams--add egg mixture--cook, stirring, until it reaches the egg-doneness that makes you happiest.
Serve with salsa. You can of course buy one of the ten million available varieties, or you could make your own--chopping tomatoes, onions, a bit of jalapeno pepper, cilantro, and garlic--and adding salt and pepper. Very easy and it seems to work whatever combo you use.
4 - Matzo Brei
I re-invent this dish every-time I make it. I use one piece of matzo per egg.
For four people:
Immerse eight pieces of matzo in water--or hold them under running water. When you crumble or tear them, you should have a pile of limp little crackers, not a mountain of mush.
Sauté one or two finely chopped onions in butter--then add the matzo pieces--stirring until they are lightly browned. While they are cooking--separate eight eggs (you don't have to do this--I often don't--but Laura and I both remember our mother doing it. It would certainly make for a lighter more exciting dish.) Beat the yolks until light and frothy. Add salt and pepper. Beat the whites until they are thick. They don't have to be stiff. Add the yolks gently to the whites. Mix them together while keeping as much bulk as possible. You can then either add the matzo and onion mixture to the eggs--stir together--and after adding more butter to the pan (if you think it's necessary)--gently return everything and cook, stirring as you would scrambled eggs, until eggs are done. Or you could just add the egg mixture to the matzo and onion in the pan, and take it from there.
You can see it's much quicker if you don't separate the eggs--and you might actually prefer that straightforward variation. Or you could soak the matzo quickly in milk--then add to the eggs without cooking (in this variant--only the onions would be browned first).
5 - Corn Fritters
It’s possible that these corn fritters originated in a cooking class Sarah took in middle school.
Whatever the source, they were a real breakfast treat. I loved making them. To me, corn fritters were a purely literary food.
Like biscuits and honey or chicken and dumplings, they existed in some America--be it southern, or farm, or western or long ago, that I experienced only through books.
During my New Jersey childhood, sweet corn in summer was a major treat—but we only ate it fresh off the cob--never in its derivative forms--and I don't know if we ever deep-fried anything. Certainly not corn fritters.
Although I cooked at least one meal a day for many years, the only total failure I can recall is one batch of Sunday corn fritters. No roasts forgotten in the oven, no substituting salt for sugar, or curdled milk and eggs. Maybe I had a high tolerance for less than perfect dishes, or perhaps I was just lucky, or more likely, I may just have forgotten scores of traumatic failed meals.
But sneaking out of the repressed memory bank is a Sunday morning corn fritter disaster. I somehow added many too many spoonfuls of baking soda to my fritter batter. No explanation. No excuses. Hard to imagine what caused such a serious lack of focus. I’d surely avoided inevitable distraction ten thousand times before.
But—there they were: inedible corn fritters. I believe we tossed them and made another batch—but perhaps we just scrambled some eggs. So--read this carefully. Pay close attention and it should all work out:
Sift together: 2 cups flour (now that I think of it--you might want to substitute cornmeal for some of the flour--I think you can play around quite a bit with the proportions here--despite my previous admonition), 1 teaspoon salt, and 2 tablespoons baking powder.
Add 1 tablespoon corn oil, 1 1/2 teaspoon white vinegar, 1 cup milk, 3 egg yolks, and 1 cup corn (ideally fresh--scraped off the cob--but you can cheat on this—I usually used cans of kernels from Trader Joe’s--frying will conceal many imperfections)
Mix all of this well.
Beat those three egg whites until stiff and fold gently into corn mixture.
Preheat oven to 325
Now--comes the frying. Truth be told, I always chicken out when measuring out the oil (I use a mild vegetable oil, like canola) --and don't go for full immersion—an inch or so, seems enough. When the oil is hot, drop batter in by tablespoons--they should puff up instantly. Flip when the bottom is dark golden brown--flip (if you've put in plenty of oil--flipping won't be necessary.)
After two or three minutes, remove the golden brown fritters and put them in a muffin tin. One fritter per muffin holder.
Bake (or keep warm) in oven for about 10 minutes.
Sprinkle with confectioners sugar and serve with maple syrup.
Just like Little House on the Prairie, No?
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