“The Chinese do not draw any distinction between food and medicine.” Lin Yutang.
Today’s column begins with a request: go back in time and find your memories of favorite homemade recipes. What smells, tastes or mouth-watering foods come to mind?
Perhaps the bread baking in your mother’s oven, or the hot, gooey delight of her chocolate chip cookies. Perhaps your culinary treasury contains dishes accented by pungent spices: curry, nutmeg or cinnamon.
Regardless of your food memories, there is one, undeniable fact: without a cook, none of those dishes would exist. Today’s story is about a cook — my mother — whose quest to prepare nutritious meals for her family would soar into the stratosphere of great cooking.
Today’s menu:
How my mother became a great cook.
Why home-cooked meals are vital to family life.
Cooking in heaven.
Becoming a great cook:
My mother adhered to the Sherlock Holmes school of cooking. What’s that? She became a culinary detective whose methods were as follows.
Observe and taste. When I was nine, my mother traveled to Chicago where she selected a renown restaurant. While eating dessert, out came a pen as she’d jot down notes on a paper napkin.
Interrogation. After eating, she asked the waiter, “May I speak to your head chef?”
“Of course,” he replied.
Tagging timidly behind her, we entered a vast kitchen where an army of white-jacketed cooks scurried about. Never had I heard this symphony — pans sizzled, vats of oil bubbled, chop-chop went the blade which diced onions. And then, he came: “Madam, I’m Louis, the head chef.”
Holding her napkin up, she began, “I’ve just eaten a heavenly dessert called Tiramisu — did you create this dish?”
“Yes, Madam, let me show you.”
He escorted us to a table where I saw a flotilla of finger-sized sponge cakes. Louis seized one, dipped a small brush into a jar of dark liquid, painted the cake and beamed, “Voila! Try this ladyfinger.”
My mother took a bite and asked, “Coffee liquor or brandy?”
Impressed, Louis responded, “either one.”
Experimental. At home, my mother began trials of perfecting the tiramisu. I became the official ladyfinger taster. After four trials, she finally achieved her goal of perfection.
Showtime. Before her guests — the one’s whose palates had yet to sample her cuisine — arrived, I was instructed on how to set the table. She opened the “Joy of Cooking” cookbook, turned to page nine entitled, “Entertaining and Table Décor,” and showed me how to use the drawings to guide my setting the table. When the guests arrived, I’d watch and wait for the alchemy of my mother’s cooking to transform them. Her meals could turn a sourpuss into a saint. How? She targeted three senses: sight, smell and taste.
Sight: As the guests entered her dining room, the beauty of her table stole their breath away. Using silk or fresh flowers from her garden, she created a floral centerpiece which highlighted the colors of her plates, placemats, and linen napkins.
Smell: Upon taking their seats, a medley of aromas — freshly baked yeast rolls, honey-glazed ham studded with cloves, a steaming mountain range of mashed potatoes, pea pods with almond slivers — turned off the thinking part of her guest’s brains, and switched on the limbic brain — the emotional seat of pleasure and peace of mind.
Taste: The first bite of food incited a gastronomic riot which elevated the taste buds onto the gilded throne of power. Then came the mystery. A growing silence began to spread as each guest became aware of this unbelievable, incredible, eatable feast. That is when the transformation occurred. Like purring kittens, the guest’s concerns about the problems of the world disappeared. When conversation resumed, the table talk topics had changed. “I have to show you this photo of my grandson,” one guest said. “How’s your daughter enjoying college,” another asked. Smiles grew broader, sighs of joy and spontaneous laughter rippled across her table.
Final Step. Coup de Grace (kill them with dessert). Then, my mother brought out her Tiramisu, and the meal became a celebration of life.
Why home-cooked meals are vital to family life.
I grew up with family meals every night. It was a fun time when we would connect with each other. When I married and had children of our own, dinnertime was as follows: no cell phones, television or music during the meal. No problem topics — school, money, conflicts — allowed. I wish every family could keep at least one night a week free for a family meal.
Cooking in Heaven: 2003 was my mother’s last Christmas. Her health had declined, but she rallied, so on Christmas Day, we celebrated in her bedroom. After that, she rapidly declined. One evening, I sensed a growing fear inside her.
“Mom, are you afraid of dying?”
No answer.
“Mom, are you worried you won’t go to Heaven?”
“No,” she sighed. “I’m just not sure what I will do in Heaven.”
I asked her, “What would you like to do?”
She replied, “I want to help people there.”
I took her hand and asked, “What if there was a position open in Heaven’s kitchen?”
As a big smile spread over her face, she said, “Cooking in Heaven’s kitchen, now that’s a job I would love.”
Last week, I awoke to the fragrance of pies baking in the oven. My nose led me into the kitchen where I spied a recipe card for pecan pie that was written in my mother’s elegant handwriting. Memories pulled me backward, to a time before her illness. I see her wearing a yellow apron, cooking in her kitchen. She is strong and healthy: like an anchor whose iron arms are wrapped around her family, holding them to hearth and home. Like a wall in the desert, bubbling up life-giving waters, like a silver mirror, reflecting my dreams, growing them, expanding them until they dwarfed the sun, having become larger than life.
The content of this article is for educational purposes only and should not be used as a substitute for treatment by a professional.
References: 1. Lin Yutang, The Macmillan Dictionary of Quotations, 2000, Chartwell Books, p. 218.
2. “Joy of Cooking,” Rombauer, Plume Printing, 1973.
Dr. Richard Elghammer contributes his column each week to the Journal Review.
