My mother, Janice, and I in her kitchen (not her usual hangout!)
I am a Thanksgiving stickler. I take Thanksgiving very seriously. This means for one glorious day of the year my family does not experiment with the menu, we don’t devour take-out, and we definitely do not skimp on full-fat ingredients.
Since change is a given in any family, I am comforted by our Thanksgiving consistency and sometimes brattily demand it. I insist that we have green beans with pearl onions and balsamic vinaigrette. I require the best homemade pumpkin pie made by my aunt and cousin, “award-winning” according to my grandpa. (Once he even made a trophy in appreciation.) I will squint with judgment while my dad carves the turkey with an electric knife and eats the fatty end while telling everyone else to go away while he “works.”
Despite my strange affinity for all things old-school and traditional at our holiday table, two of my absolute favorite Thanksgiving recipes are relatively new to the arsenal, which speaks to how tasty they are. Even more bizarre is that the recipes were tested and refined by my mother. Continue reading
Ever notice that wonderfully fragrant rosemary grows right outside the Skirball entrance? It's an inspiration for a lot of my cooking.
The sense of smell is said to be the strongest memory trigger, and having spent a considerable amount of time breathing in aromas in my Grand’Mere Adeline’s kitchen back in Ohio, I can attest to that. Just the scent of a Thanksgiving turkey prepared just like she used to make it so many years ago takes me back to moments I will never forget.
Grand’Mere Adeline was the queen of the kitchen. Preparation for the holidays started in September. With a blended family culinary history that included Scottish shortbreads, Hungarian pastries, and chicken-and-matzo-ball soup, recipes were handed down through the generations. A select few were adapted from the Cleveland Plain Dealer, but if (and only if) they met Grand’Mere’s highest of standards. The one thing we were assured of was that every morsel of food on her bountiful table was lovingly prepared by her and her alone.
The warmth emanating from the oven as the turkey roasted within. The mouth-watering smell of freshly baked bread cooling on the counter. The windows of Grand’Mere’s tiny kitchen wet with steam from the boiling of potatoes and rutabagas. These are details I can still close my eyes and recall vividly. Continue reading