Remembering Mom

Easter Sunday was the anniversary of my dear mother's death. Hard to believe it's been five years already. I still miss Mom for so many reasons, but holiday cooking brings her especially vividly to mind…

As in many families, our holiday celebrations centered around elaborate meals with fixed menus and often included items we ate at no other time of the year. Dinners on Thanksgiving, Christmas Eve, Christmas Day, and Easter Sunday all had their prescribed dishes—though, admittedly, some of these evolved over the years. But I think we were—what am I saying?—are more attached than some families to our traditional feasts. As we got older, my sisters and I began to help out with the preparation of these meals, each of us eventually taking ownership of certain dishes (Kristi: Yorkshire pudding; Shannon: stewed tomatoes; Jenny: sweet rolls…). Cooking together is still a shared pleasure. I love spending this time with my sisters, and it always feels like an appropriate way to honor our mother's memory.

Mom did a lot of experimenting in the kitchen. And she documented her efforts—especially early in her marriage—with lists of the new recipes she'd tried and a star system for the reception they'd received. My impression is that she found cooking to be a crucial creative outlet during those domestic years, and so we as a family were exposed to lots of new dishes. Though we weren't always eager to sample these novelties, over time the experience did breed a certain adventurousness of palate in all of us.

A couple of Mom's early experiments, carried out before I was born (or old enough to notice) became family legends: the cauliflower casserole with pimientos, pineapple and walnuts (yikes!)—assembled in advance—that turned purple in the refrigerator overnight, and the dish of sweetbreads and "mountain oysters" she once served to Dad. She carefully cut up the meats so she could tell which were which and could avoid the latter—but she didn't tell him what he'd eaten until afterwards… Mercifully, neither of these dishes became part of her regular repertoire.

In the 1960s, Mom joined with several other women to form a "Gourmet Group," which met regularly to plan, research, and prepare meals inspired by the cuisines of different parts of the world. These "Gourmet Dinners" took place several times a year, with each couple, in turn, assuming the hosting duties. Early on, the advance preparation was quite elaborate: Mom and the other women perused cookbooks, tested possible menu selections on their families (Persian fruit soup, anyone?), and compiled a recipe book for each meal. Over time, they simplified their process. But even today, more than forty years later, the Gourmet Group is still having dinner together.

Thrift was an important value in Mom's kitchen, a legacy of growing up during the Depression. A few wartime recipes lingered on after the war—most notably, a casserole of sauerkraut mixed with cream-of-mushroom soup and topped with hotdogs. The abundant fruits (and vegetables) of Dad's gardening labors provided delicious opportunities, but also the challenge (and responsibility) of making good use of all that bounty. A few jars containing dribs and drabs of mysterious sauces (that would surely be good in something sometime) frequently overstayed their welcome in the fridge. And Mom's infamous leftover soups were probably my least favorite expression of this throw-nothing-away mentality. Still, I admire her resourcefulness, and the bowls of soup and stew that now crowd my own freezer attest to the fact that her lessons were not entirely lost on me.

Through her example, my mother taught me to appreciate good food and showed me the pleasures of culinary exploration and experimentation. My sisters and I grew up surrounded by the evidence of her creativity and passion. I remember…

kitchen cabinets stocked with spices, fancy mustards, and other "exotic" specialty foods…

a freezer laden with homemade casseroles, her wonderful tart applesauce, loaves of zucchini bread, jars of pungent pesto, and fruit from our trees (persimmons, apples, peaches, apricots, plums), all sliced, measured, and ready to bake into pies or cakes…

a jar of sourdough starter fermenting wetly on the kitchen counter—and occasionally transmogrified into loaves of heavenly bread, tangy and chewy…

a pantry filled with her glorious homemade jams (rosy apricot-cherry, vivid plum), spicy chili sauce and ketchup, crocks of sour, mustardy pickles…

shelves of annotated cookbooks, teetering piles of aging Gourmet magazines, boxes of recipes she'd tried, enormous file drawers filled with recipes she'd clipped from magazines and newspapers and had not tried—as well as stacks of "Food & Wine" sections she'd not yet had the chance to peruse…

So many sources of pleasure, so much love and generosity, such inspiration and invention and possibility all in one place! Blessings, indeed. Thanks, Mom, for teaching me the companionable and convivial joys of the kitchen and the table—and for making these part of our daily lives. Thank you for showing me that preparing food for others can be a significant expression of love, as well as a profoundly creative act. And that cooking with others can forge relationships. Thank you for the many, many happy hours I've spent—with you and with others—talking, laughing, connecting, sharing, singing, and reminiscing as we cooked together. I love you, and I remember.