I’ve been doing more and more cooking with my daughters lately and it’s got me thinking of being in my grandmother’s little kitchen in Brooklyn when I was their age. I spent nearly every weekend at her house, and I remember waking every Sunday morning, no matter how early, to the smell of meat browning in olive oil and onions for the “gravy” we would have with our two o’clock dinner. After an indulgent breakfast of waffles and ice cream (a practice for which I’d consider admonishing my in-laws today), we’d go into the kitchen where she’d put me to work. Under her direction I’d grind meat for sausage and meatballs, roll little balls of pasta off fork tines to make gnocchi, or help poach the meatballs in a separate pot of “gravy” and taste them to see if we’d added enough cheese. I remember helping to lay pasta out to dry on a freshly laundered sheet on her bed, under the unfailing supervision of Jesus, Mary, Joseph, and Saint Anthony (her patron saint), along with a photo of my grandfather, as they stood forever perched on her dresser. (to read more click on post title)
This culinary partnership between my grandmother and me went on for years. The older I got, the more challenging my tasks became. I loved being part of something that brought people so much joy. But this happy arrangement existed only on the weekends; during the week it was a much different story. My mother, though a fine cook, was not particularly interested in making an event of planning the evening meal, or providing a nurturing lesson on the act of making good food. Being a parent now myself, I appreciate the scarcity of time and energy after nightly family obligations have been fulfilled. After returning home exhausted from a long day at work, helping with homework and shower time, and fitting in a minute or two of spousal communication, it is difficult to summon the fervor to create a homemade meal. Dinner in my mother’s house was seen primarily as sustenance. We grew up on the poor side and our meals reflected it. Pasta e fagiole prepared at home smacked of “we can’t afford meat, so we have to do something with this can of beans.” But at my grandmother’s house, while pasta e fagiole was still cucina povera, she used basic quality ingredients—olive oil, creamy cannelini beans, crisp celery—that elevated the dish to something close to miraculous.
My grandmother cooked simply, very simply. She had few but fast rules, such as You only eat in restaurants if they serve food you can’t prepare at home. For us, that mostly included Chinese food and a really good kosher deli. (She loved knishes!) On special family occasions—usually a baptism, communion, or funeral—we sometimes found ourselves in an Italian restaurant, where she would inevitably critique the food and proclaim how much better she could make it at home. As I look back on these moments with adult eyes, I realize that my grandmother was a food snob—a foodie before her time. Her hard-earned culinary snobbery helped lay the foundation for my own love affair (some may say obsession) with food. (When I got my first paycheck from my first job in a small Italian grocery store, I bought a gallon of olive oil. My grandmother was quite proud.) But in spite of her snobbery, she did not take herself too seriously. What she did take seriously was her approach to cooking—she respected her ingredients and cooked them as simply as possible. She loved cooking food that was grown locally, usually in her own garden or the gardens of friends and relatives. I remember every summer an old family friend would present her with brown paper grocery bags overflowing with zucchini blossoms, which she would use to prepare a lunch of frittatas and potato pancakes made crusty with melted pecorino cheese. (Frankly, I think this friend was looking for more than lunch, but that’s a subject for another post.)
As with all her ingredients, when it came to meat she turned to the freshest she could find. My grandmother couldn’t bear the thought of buying a plastic-wrapped chicken that was the same hue and consistency as her plastic-wrapped, velveteen, yellow sofa. She also couldn’t stand the sight of Frank Perdue and his TV commercials, which may have a little something to do with it. When she did want poultry she’d simply call up La Pera live poultry market a few blocks away and maybe order a capon, a couple of older hens, and a roaster or two. A few hours later a delivery boy would ring the bell and hand her a still-warm bag of freshly slaughtered birds, which would easily provide a week’s worth of meals. There’d be soups, roasts, cacciatores, and salads—all from food grown, raised, or killed in the middle of Boro Park, Brooklyn. My grandmother lived “Buy Fresh, Buy Local” long before the person who coined the phrase was born. This was Brooklyn in the 1970s—no one was really thinking in terms of global advocacy. It simply made sense.
My grandmother had a profound effect on me. I learned the importance of respectfully preparing a meal not only for sustenance, but for the joy of family and friends. Each time I find myself in the kitchen with my daughters I’m transported to that little kitchen on 58th Street in Brooklyn. For breakfast tomorrow, I think I’ll make them waffles with ice cream.
