My culinary roots are divided between the American South,
and the Finger Lakes region of Northern New York State.
My maternal great grandmother came from farm folk in the
Shenandoah Valley of Virginia. It was a
harsh and a make-due existence. She could
recall a time during the Civil War, when hungry Union soldiers marched onto the
farm looking for food. Luckily her
mother had hidden a ham, the last food her starving family owned, under the
home’s floor boards. Granny, as I called
her, grew her own vegetables and fruit (the surplus she sold to the wealthy
people in town), kept her pantry full of homemade preserves and pickles, and butchered
her own chickens and pigs. She was also famous
for miles around for her signature marble cake.
My first culinary venture nearly ended in disaster. One
Christmas, Santa gave me a tiny electric toy stove. I enthusiastically whipped up a batch of scrambled
eggs which I fed to my baby brother. Unfortunately,
the eggs were raw, and my little brother screamed for days as if I had tried to
poison him!
Thankfully, my Grandmother stepped in, and became my spirit
guide to all the mysteries of cooking. From
measuring, sifting, stirring and timing – I learned it all. And that year, my miniature cherry pies sold
out at the annual church Strawberry festival.
Summer was the time for berry picking in the woods. When we got home, Grandma would always make
a blackberry roll, which she steamed in cheesecloth on the top of the stove. I could hardly wait for it to cool.
Come fall, the New York Finger Lakes region would be dotted
with small farm stands. Tart and crisp native
apples, Concord and Niagara table grapes, and gallons of sweet apple cider were
something to savor.
Spring would bring a family pilgrimage back to
Virginia. Aunt Lois lived in Richmond,
VA, and was a true Southern hostess. Her
big house was always filled with succulent food aromas, and at each meal her
table beautifully set. The memory of her
homemade biscuits (based on a secret family recipe), filled with paper thin
slices of Smithfield ham, makes my mouth water.
And there were always visits to the old Mixing Bowl bakery for their
famous Sally Lund bread and Seven Layer cake.
Aunt Lois worked for the Virginia Travel Council, and her personal claim
to fame was appearing on a television show in NYC with James Beard, and
presenting him with a Smithfield ham.
Aunt Lois was also famous in our family for introducing us to avocado as
used in a salad with grapefruit. Years
later, at my rehearsal dinner which she hosted, she bravely served my soon-to-be
husband’s family, salmon mousse.
My mother’s culinary skills were less refined, and more on
the ready–made side. Many nights we dined
on tin-foil dinners or charred cube steak.
Casseroles were her greatest kitchen efforts, but these were mainly reserved
for dinner parties with friends. We
greedily looked forward to the leftovers.
My own taste was equally unrefined.
For instance, one summer each day of Girl Scout camp my lunch consisted
of a tuna fish sandwich on white Sunbeam bread, a bag of potatoes chips and
lemonade, all packed in my official GS lunchbox and thermos.
Nancy Lewis, my mother’s best friend, a graduate of the Cornell
School of Home Economics, had worked as a food demonstrator at the New York
World’s Fair in the French’s Food Pavilion.
On picnics and at meals at her house she experimented on us. We did not know what to make of this gourmet
fare loaded with some strange spices and plenty of French’s mustard. Poor lady, she was way before her time.
My father’s business partner was an old bachelor, and very
lonely. Each week he took us out to dinner
with him. The destination was often a church
supper in one of the local towns. The
food was good, the lines were long, and we would often have to sit and wait patiently
with the mostly older folks in the church sanctuary. We would be taunted by the delicious aromas
coming from the dining room. But the wait
would be well worth it when we finally spied the vast array of wedges of
homemade pies – which always made for a difficult choice. Sometimes, Mr. Fink would take us to fancy
local restaurants with real white linen tablecloths. Minding our manners, we sampled
such unknown dishes as shrub, prime rib au jus or French Silk pie.
Our family vacation in Europe was full of food firsts - my
first croissant and my first bottle of mineral water. But one dinner at the Hotel de La Poste in
Vezelay France topped it all. My brother
and I watched in wide-eyed amazement as the elegant French lady at the next
table lustily devoured a plate of big juicy snails! I vowed then and there, to never never eat a
snail. That, of course, was a vow that I
did not keep.
When my own children were little, we had a weekly ritual of
making bread. They particularly enjoyed
punching the dough down, and braiding the three pieces together. Influenced by the writer Euell Gibbons, I
became a bit of a food forager, and would drag the children through the local
fields in search of wild edible food.
I guess I would call myself a “foodie”. For the past ten years, I have eaten my way
around the world, but along the way I have done far less cooking. I am anxious to rediscover the foods, flavors
and tastes of my family’s culinary history.
I look forward to taking time to browse through Aunt Lois’s recipe
clipping file and to reading the handwritten recipe book of my paternal
Grandmother (who I never knew). I know I
will learn more about those who have gone before me, and about myself.
I am a great supporter of the concept of “Farm to Table”,
and becoming acquainted with the regional foods and cuisine of the Pacific
Northwest is on my to do list. I am also
intrigued and inspired by the new crop of Culinary Food and Lifestyle bloggers
- who seamlessly integrate cooking, photography and styling with social media.
Marjorie
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