The Family, 1974 from leftBarbara, Eric, Sam and Brian
When you're young, you understand the entire world to be just like your family. Good or bad, strange or benign, it seems impossible to think that your small universe isn't reflected in the international ideal. I was no different.
Born into a typical, suburban family, we lived on a street with two large maple trees grounding the front yard of every house. I walked with my friends and neighbors to a small school named for, and celebrating, Christopher Columbus. (Go Explorers!) We all knew one another and spent hours playing in each others homes and yards.
My mother is an amazing cook who learned from her mother, an amazing cook, who learned from her mother, who I assume was an amazing cook (my great-grandmother's jam cake is here), and so on and so on. Both she and my father were (and are) passionate about fresh fruit (especially blackberries) and vegetables. Dad had a small plot in the backyard where he raised all kinds of wonderful things. He also helped tend my grandparent's larger plot behind their house. At my Mam-ma's, I remember the peach tree, green beans, mustard seed (for pickling), at the far end of the garden and crowns of asparagus like an army marching to battle. And okra for days. Lots of okra, that I was born to eat. But that is another story.
Food was important to us. Mom and dad would "put up" vegetables in the summer that we would eat all winter long. My favorite were the pickled beets to which no store bought brand can ever compare. Mom made the best dumplings, as mentioned before. But her spaghetti sauce was like nothing else. It's actually my Great-Aunt Viola's recipe, one of my grandfather's six sisters. My grandmother made this sauce and it was apparently the traditional Christmas Eve meal for her non-Italian family--a tradition we have revived. Needless to say, I never had Prego or Ragu until I was in college and fending for myself, but this sauce, while delicious, is completely unorthodox. It is simple in nature, yet complex in flavor. Some have called it "a sweet and sour" spaghetti sauce. It is superb.
At some point in elementary school I befriended a new boy named Alex who was from England. We became best friends and did everything together, bonding over a mutual love of and obsession for all things Egyptian. One afternoon, playing at his house, his mother (a skinny, peculiar woman with those stereotypically bad English teeth) said "We're having spaghetti, would you like to stay for dinner?" Spaghetti? Of course! It's one of my favorite foods: simmered for hours, filling the house with it strong perfume! Served with a crisp salad and lots of garlic bread? Count me in.
Imagine my surprise, as I sat at their welcoming table and was served: a giant bowl of cooked spaghetti, ultra-crisp bacon to crumble over it and a bottle of ketchup. Yes, ketchup. At that point, I had an instant revelation that my family and the rest of the world, whether from England or elsewhere, were not exactly alike. It was a revelation. And as Brillat-Savarin said, "Tell me what you eat, and I will tell you what you are." Ketchup on spaghetti? Definitely British.
But a rude awakening via strange spaghetti isn't necessarily a bad thing. It's good to realize the world is a big place and even better to realize said world is filled with different ideas about food, taste, how things are served, flavors, foods that are important to health and a myriad of other ideas about cuisine. It's good to see how other people eat; it's better to eat with them. Open mouth and open mind. Because of that, I am always onto something else: an obsession with curries lasts for only few fiery week; a gratin prepared in a myriad of ways is returned to occasionally; and how many hot sauces are in your refrigerator door? There are very few staple meals in my kitchen, but always a new pile of recipes to try.
And to Alex and his family, wherever you are, I hope you met someone who served you a better spaghetti sauce and inspired you to make a switch! (Sorry, I couldn't help it. Spaghetti and ketchup just isn't a good idea. I tried it, therefore I can say that.)
Born into a typical, suburban family, we lived on a street with two large maple trees grounding the front yard of every house. I walked with my friends and neighbors to a small school named for, and celebrating, Christopher Columbus. (Go Explorers!) We all knew one another and spent hours playing in each others homes and yards.
My mother is an amazing cook who learned from her mother, an amazing cook, who learned from her mother, who I assume was an amazing cook (my great-grandmother's jam cake is here), and so on and so on. Both she and my father were (and are) passionate about fresh fruit (especially blackberries) and vegetables. Dad had a small plot in the backyard where he raised all kinds of wonderful things. He also helped tend my grandparent's larger plot behind their house. At my Mam-ma's, I remember the peach tree, green beans, mustard seed (for pickling), at the far end of the garden and crowns of asparagus like an army marching to battle. And okra for days. Lots of okra, that I was born to eat. But that is another story.
Food was important to us. Mom and dad would "put up" vegetables in the summer that we would eat all winter long. My favorite were the pickled beets to which no store bought brand can ever compare. Mom made the best dumplings, as mentioned before. But her spaghetti sauce was like nothing else. It's actually my Great-Aunt Viola's recipe, one of my grandfather's six sisters. My grandmother made this sauce and it was apparently the traditional Christmas Eve meal for her non-Italian family--a tradition we have revived. Needless to say, I never had Prego or Ragu until I was in college and fending for myself, but this sauce, while delicious, is completely unorthodox. It is simple in nature, yet complex in flavor. Some have called it "a sweet and sour" spaghetti sauce. It is superb.
At some point in elementary school I befriended a new boy named Alex who was from England. We became best friends and did everything together, bonding over a mutual love of and obsession for all things Egyptian. One afternoon, playing at his house, his mother (a skinny, peculiar woman with those stereotypically bad English teeth) said "We're having spaghetti, would you like to stay for dinner?" Spaghetti? Of course! It's one of my favorite foods: simmered for hours, filling the house with it strong perfume! Served with a crisp salad and lots of garlic bread? Count me in.
Imagine my surprise, as I sat at their welcoming table and was served: a giant bowl of cooked spaghetti, ultra-crisp bacon to crumble over it and a bottle of ketchup. Yes, ketchup. At that point, I had an instant revelation that my family and the rest of the world, whether from England or elsewhere, were not exactly alike. It was a revelation. And as Brillat-Savarin said, "Tell me what you eat, and I will tell you what you are." Ketchup on spaghetti? Definitely British.
But a rude awakening via strange spaghetti isn't necessarily a bad thing. It's good to realize the world is a big place and even better to realize said world is filled with different ideas about food, taste, how things are served, flavors, foods that are important to health and a myriad of other ideas about cuisine. It's good to see how other people eat; it's better to eat with them. Open mouth and open mind. Because of that, I am always onto something else: an obsession with curries lasts for only few fiery week; a gratin prepared in a myriad of ways is returned to occasionally; and how many hot sauces are in your refrigerator door? There are very few staple meals in my kitchen, but always a new pile of recipes to try.
And to Alex and his family, wherever you are, I hope you met someone who served you a better spaghetti sauce and inspired you to make a switch! (Sorry, I couldn't help it. Spaghetti and ketchup just isn't a good idea. I tried it, therefore I can say that.)