(by Dorette E. Snover)
Although I wasn’t actually born in the Reading, Pennsylvania, kitchen of my Pennsylvania Dutch family, I did grow up there. It was there that I learned how to bake shoofly pies and heard stories about my very Prussian and very spoiled great-grandmother, Laura. Over plates of schnitz un knepp, a hearty German hodge-podge of ham and dried apples, my nana, Dorothy, told me family secrets. Apparently Great-grandma Laura came from royalty and got “in trouble” with another person of royalty, but he couldn’t marry her, so she got thrown on a ship to America with the first fool to step forward and accept the payment, who also wanted to go to the new world, and that was my ne'er-do-well great-grandpa, Howard.
My mom, Aileen, became a doctor who couldn’t have cared less about the traditional roles of women that she had watched while growing up. I often thought she identified much more with being the granddaughter of a Prussian princess. The needs of everyday life were secured by Nana, who lived with us. I was named for her—the French version of the name—so when I was young, I imagined that Mom was trying to tell me I was French. I was wrong, but when I had my DNA tested, I found my Italian family, living very close by. Apparently both my mother and her sister also got “in trouble.” My mother had fallen in love with an Italian man who unfortunately was promised to someone else, and my aunt turned her affections to a mafia boss in Reading.
On the eve of many Fat Tuesdays when I was in grade school, Nana placed a bowl of fastnacht doughnut dough to rise on a table in my bedroom, where the main heating vent for the house was. I was given this room as I was quite sick during my first year. "We didn't think you'd make it,” Nana said. “You could hardly hold any food down."
Nana held court with Pennsylvania Dutch “potato filling,” a wonderful comfort food made of mashed potatoes with butter, sautéd onions, fresh parsley, and cubes of fried bread. My mom shunned such simple dishes and demanded to be served citified Delmonico steaks; perhaps to her they symbolized her rise from the “plain folk” (Mennonites) into being a doctor.
I felt a lot of pressure from my mom to measure up, academically and physically. She imbued me with a great sense of power that comes from knowledge and books. I loved studying and learning, so we shared that. But I was a pudgy child until I hit puberty, when Mom taught me the science of food and counting calories—an alien idea to my grandmother. When I hit my goal weight, I sat down with Mom to look at Vogue magazine, and then she took me shopping. Typically, she would pick out clothes that she liked, always red or plaid or loud in some way that was perfect for her, but made me scream No. Eventually I got a flower child wardrobe—hippie skirts, tie-dye shirts, no bra, halter tops.
One sweet memory is when Mom and I got our ears pierced together. It seemed as though Mom felt so proud of this mother/daughter act that she got doubly enraged when, a few weeks later, I got two more piercings. Going against her wishes was dangerous, and I especially wanted to avoid one of her drunken ridicule sessions.
I started thinking about a career in food the summer I was 18, waitressing at a Greek restaurant, and on a trip to New York with Nana where, in the dining room at the Waldorf Astoria, our waiter pushed open the doors to the kitchen, leaving me to wonder: Who were those people in white?
But I pushed the idea down, knowing my mom’s opinion that doctors were the only people in white to respect. I didn’t have the courage to enrage her or be a disappointment. For college, I went to her alma mater in my hometown. And it wasn’t until I married and moved away that I began to pursue my dream by attending the prestigious Culinary Institute of America in Hyde Park, New York.
My mom was not happy about this cooking thing of mine. Not at all. She told me that I was going backwards in my education, since the culinary program at that time earned an associate’s degree. Why on earth did I want to hang out in the kitchen with “those people?” But she sighed. What more could she expect? You couldn’t make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear.
When my husband and I moved to Laramie, Wyoming, so he could finish his college education, I got a job as a cook in a local hospital. When the dietician left for the day, I would sneak a little basil and oregano into the tomato sauce, and the patients told me it tasted so much better. There were more jobs as a private chef, and eventually I founded a cooking school and culinary camp for kids. For one week, the kids who come to our kitchen can experience the world through smelling, tasting, touching, and creating. I love to share this special space with them.
(me cooking in France)
I am glad I followed Nana’s way of doing things, to invite friends and neighbors into the kitchen, and to cook for them. Now that I am a nana, I enjoy the kitchen and table time with my children and my grandchildren. I am glad I went against my mom’s advice and her wishes to find my calling. I’d like to think that towards the end, she was proud of me. She always liked me cooking for her when I visited, and often had me cook for her friends. I don’t know if she actually softened or was just showing off.
I’ve thought it ironic that my mom and I both worked in fields that had been, maybe still are, dominated by men. She took me to see Helen Reddy, and we sang with her: “I am woman, hear me roar.” But it wasn’t until the last year of her life that we really connected with something: writing. She started keeping journals, and it was fascinating to read the stories about her time in medical school. I’m grateful that she gave me a love of words, and of fine food. I still have all her Frank Sinatra albums.
One time, shortly before my wedding, Nana, Mom, and I were having breakfast coffee at the kitchen table. I knew it would be one of the last times we were all together. But of course, Mom and I were having some disagreement about the wedding. Was it the music? I wanted the Purple Peanuts to play, and she wanted a jazzy Sinatra-like band. One of her favorite expressions was, “Who’s milkin’ this cow?” or more directly, “I’m paying for this, so it will be whatever I say.”
Surprisingly and begrudgingly, she relented, But I said, “One day I’m going to write about all this.” She laughed. Nana smiled a little. I just breathed deeply. So maybe this is a start. I don’t have to milk the cow, but I can press on, and simply enjoy the cheese.
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Dorette E. Snover is the founder of the C’est si Bon Cooking School and Kid-Chefs, a culinary camp for kids in Chapel Hill, North Carolina. She is the author of the novel Tales of the Mistress and a companion cookbook, The Bread of Dreams. She can be found at www.dorettesnover.com.
Pennsylvania Dutch Apple Fritters
Nana used to refer to these doughnuts as snowballs. Maybe because they were dredged in powdered sugar, or maybe because it was usually snowing outside when she made them on Fastnacht Day—Fat Tuesday.
2 c. flour
1 t. baking powder
1 t. salt
1/4 c. sugar
3 c. chopped apples
2 eggs
1 c. plus 1 t. milk
powdered sugar
Carefully fill a deep fat fryer with peanut oil and heat to 375 F.
In a bowl, combine flour, baking powder, salt, sugar, and apples.
Combine eggs and milk, then stir into dry ingredients.
Using a # 10 ice cream scoop or a large spoon, slip scoops of batter into hot fat.
Fry until a deep golden brown.
Test by breaking in half to check the doneness.
Dust with powdered sugar.
Warm Kartoffelsalat (Hot Potato Salad)
4 medium Red Bliss or Yukon Gold potatoes
4 bacon slices
1/2 c. chopped onion
1 T. unbleached flour
2 t. sugar
3/4 t. salt
1/4 t. celery seed
1/4 t. pepper
3/8 c. water
2 1/2 T. vinegar
Bring a large pot of salted water to boil, and cook potatoes until they can be pierced with a knife. Slice and set aside.
Sauté bacon slowly in a frying pan, then remove and drain on paper towels.
Crumble bacon when cool, and set aside.
Fry onion in the bacon fat.
Remove with a slotted spoon, and add to the bowl with the potatoes.
Drain off all but 2 t. of bacon fat.
Stir in flour, sugar, salt, celery seed, and pepper.
Add water and vinegar.
Cook over low heat, stirring until smooth and bubbly.
Stir potatoes and crumbled bacon into the hot dressing.
Serves 4.
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