Jennie's Grandson

When I started this blog a few years ago, it was originally intended to be– for the most part– a food and wine blog, with an occasional meandering thought on other things that interested me. As time went on il fm evolved into something so much more. In it's current form– it is as the blog description suggests– a place for all my obsessions.

So the other day, what was supposed to be a straight forward email to friends containing a recipe for pizza dough– ended up being a several paragraph forum on flour type, kneading technique, and the necessary tools to build a first rate pizza– laced with a slight dose of snark and NY pizza chauvinism. I did eventually get to the recipe....

The subject line of the email was pizza as I see it. It was received with good humor as it was intended, and it was suggested I perhaps start a food blog discussing food related ideas as I see it. It was sort of an ah-ha moment. It's pretty well known that I regularly go on (and on and on...) about some meal I had, or plan to have, or wish I had, as well as wax on about pantry items and the latest charcuterie fetish.

I know what you're thinking: Great... another food blog on the web...fantastic!
Typically I'd agree with the sentiment, but the fact is I do go on (and on and on...) about these things and hey, why not get it down on paper– so to speak.

If you've been following along with this blog, you might recall an earlier post about me spending a lot of my younger years in one of the smallest kitchens in Brooklyn at my grandmother's side. Her influence on what was to become my culinary psyche is everlasting. For that reason, in an effort to share the conversation she started with me a long time ago– and with your continued indulgence– I offer Jennie's Grandson!

Memories on the Halfshell

The NY Times last Wednesday printed an article about clam bars in the greater NY area. As I read it I began to drift off on the fresh briny memory of my first raw clam. I couldn't have been more than four or five years old when- with my father- I'd first bellied up to the bar at Lundy's on Emmons Avenue in the Sheepshead Bay section of Brooklyn, where you were met not by bartenders but by a couple of seasoned shuckers handing you plates of ice cold, smelling of the sea, deliciously briny clams- a dozen at a time- accompanied by a wedge of lemon, cocktail sauce (for non-purists), and a long wooden fork. It would be not too long after that, my father would introduce me to both Joe's and Randazzo's clam bars just down the street. Remarkably it seemed they all did very well. In 1977 Lundy's closed and Randazzo's seemed to become the main attraction. Anytime we had the urge we'd run on down to "the bay" to stand at the sidewalk counter with a whole lot of other people with the same urge, dancing in place in anticipation to hold that plate under our chins and slurp back those perfectly cold, magnificently saline creatures, while the rest of Brooklyn drove by in their Monte Carlos and Coupe deVilles as the day boat fishermen yelled out "FAAHRESH FISH HEERE!" Little did I know then I was embarking on the long road to obsessive food sensualism syndrome or OFS (ask your doctor if you have OFS).

That was a long time ago. I haven't been to Sheepshead Bay in years. I get the feeling it hasn't changed much though. Sure the 'Montys and Caddys may have been replaced by Priuses and mini vans, but as long as people long for fresh and seasonal foods, the like's of Randazzo's should prevail. But more so-If you go to this video link at the Times you'll hear Paul Randazzo explain the fine art of opening a clam. I never met him, but he more than likely shucked dozens of dozens of clams for me as he worked for his father as a very young man. If I close my eyes I can almost smell those beautiful clams and here the clicking of their ice cold shells on my bottom teeth.

A Little Kitchen in Brooklyn Vol.1

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)