(by Stephanie Chambers)
My mother did not like to cook. Which was unfortunate because she was actually very good at it—particularly the food she grew up with, like goulash, chicken paprikash, and nokedli (dumplings). The aromas of these Hungarian dishes filled our New York City kitchen when she was in a nostalgic mood, if only on rare occasions.
She was the youngest and only daughter of Hungarian immigrants with four older brothers, and her father’s antiquated ideas meant that she was responsible for the preparation and clean-up of meal after meal after meal, leaving her with a less than enthusiastic appetite for cooking for her own family. She was, as she put it, their “servant,” and anything that was deemed necessary for the men of the home to be comfortable was her and her mother’s domain. She tried to fight against it. She was bold and scolded her father for not letting her mother sit with him while he ate. But he had no tolerance for her outspoken nature. She had a “big mouth,” and her only job, in his eyes, was to be “a good girl,” get married, and be quiet. Even her mother couldn’t come to her rescue. A husband was a prize to be worshipped, simply because he chose her.
She told me cautionary tales of her childhood in pieces when I was a girl--over meals, at my bedside, on a walk to Bloomingdale's as she held my hand, and in the moments that I folded myself into the nook of her shoulder as she watched the evening news. I believe wanted to remind me again and again of what I could choose not to live with. Perhaps she hoped it would sink into my subconscious so I could make better decisions than she did. She believed I was special and didn’t want anyone or anything to get in my way.
The underlying tragedy of her upbringing was that she was the gifted one. She was smart and beautiful, a talented artist, and she dreamed of a better life far away from the worn couch in the living room that was her bed and the bathroom where she hid for a moment of privacy as her body and mind developed. She bided her time, watching her mother sit in the kitchen while her father ate, until she could show the world all she had to offer.
And she did get out. She skipped grades in high school but worked until she was 18 and was accepted at City College, the public university that accepted bright students who didn’t have much money for tuition. In the summer after her senior year, she fell in love with an eloquent, irresistible writer who saw, for the first time in her life, all the wonderful things she was. But he wasn’t the settling down kind—he dreamed of traveling the world.
Soon after she graduated, and broken-hearted, she met another man. He was intense, arrogant, ambitious. He liked things “perfect” and decided she would be the perfect wife. For my mother, although he made her laugh, he felt dangerously familiar in an inchoate way. She married him by the end of the year. And on their honeymoon, when my father raged at her for the first time, she knew she had made a mistake.
Years later, she read me the letter her first love had written when she said goodbye to him. He wanted it all, including her. I asked her about her regret for what could have been, but she just said, “Then I wouldn’t have you and your sister,” and I knew we were her anchor to a life filled with storms.
And stormy it was. With a failing, violent marriage and two daughters who were trying to make sense of their dysfunctional home, she tried to make it through the days without being consumed by bitterness and anger. It didn’t always work. My mother was like two people in those years. She was the stylish, loving beauty that my friends adored talking to, but had an erratic temper. Back from school, I would find pans on my bed with a note that said, “CLEAN THIS AGAIN!” She would barge into my room asking if I had done it yet, so that friends would look at me with concern and ask if it was okay to stay. I wasn’t sure but lied and said yes. I wanted to be normal. In our volatile home, I feared for her, not from her, but she embarrassed me over and over and over again, creating little fires everywhere because she was burning.
And then her mother died. I remember the call in the middle of the night and the cries that came from her bedroom. Although my grandmother had been hard on my mother, she still loved her deeply.
It was then that she began to cook more of the Hungarian dishes that felt like comfort food. I would watch and help her, joyfully, because for those moments, I was witnessing something new in her. She was at peace because she was creating again, or rather, re-creating. I imagine now that she was remembering cooking with her mother, sharing gossip and stories of relatives recently arriving from Eastern Europe. Or maybe it was just time the two of them could be alone together, without the sounds of demanding men. And it was the same for me: a contained space where my mother and I were free from the turmoil of our home and where she could share a part of her childhood, her heritage, her story that wasn’t filled with regret.
Eventually my parents divorced, and although my mother never found love again, she lived on her own terms. She used her artistry and became an interior designer; she took acting classes and was hired for local shoots. She frequented the theatre and traveled the world from China to Madagascar. It wasn’t the life she pictured, but it was one of her own making.
And although her story was fractured, she found great joy in mine. She loved my husband—sometimes, I joked, more than I did. She saw the kind of man she didn’t know could exist—a kind man who truly wanted to be a good husband and father. All those talks together, all those times of telling me how loved and gifted and special I was, perhaps did lead me to a marriage with a man that was my equal. For my mother, that was everything, and for that, I thank her.
With this writing, I’ve come to realize why cooking is important to me. Somehow, in the memory of my mother cooking, I can transcend time and perhaps ease the pain of my own childhood, maybe even of the generations of women who came before me like my grandmother. Perhaps when I cook, I remember a woman who was far more complicated and fierce than the “good girl” that was expected of her. And in the end, that brings me great pleasure, and peace.
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Stephanie Chambers is a TV producer and writer who lives in Los Angeles, California. She can be found at www.dahlia23.com and on Instagram.
Chicken Paprikash
(adapted from The Daring Gourmet, as it seemed the most like my mother’s)
2 T. pork lard or butter
3 lb. chicken pieces, bone-in and skin-on
2 medium yellow onions, very finely chopped
2 cloves garlic, finely minced
2 Roma tomatoes, seeds removed and very finely diced
1 Hungarian bell pepper, diced (optional)
3 - 4 T. imported sweet Hungarian paprika
2 c. chicken broth
1 1/2 t. sea salt
1/2 t. freshly ground black pepper
3/4 c. sour cream, at room temperature
1/4 c. heavy whipping cream
3 T. all-purpose flour
Heat lard in a heavy pot and brown chicken on all sides.
Transfer chicken to a plate.
In the same pot, fry onions until golden brown.
Add garlic and tomatoes (and bell pepper, if using) and fry another 2 - 3 minutes.
Remove pot from the heat and stir in paprika, salt, and pepper.
Return chicken to pot and place it back over the heat.
Add broth so that chicken is mostly covered.
Bring to a boil, the reduce to medium-low, cover, and simmer 40 minutes.
Remove chicken to a plate.
In a small bowl, combine sour cream and heavy cream.
Stir in flour to form a smooth paste.
Stir mixture into the pot, whisking constantly to prevent lumps.
Bring to a simmer for a couple of minutes until sauce is thickened.
Add salt and pepper to taste.
Return chicken to the sauce and simmer to heat through.
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