TO MOM
I spend a lot of time on food blogs and with my nose in beautifully-photographed cookbooks following instructions and reproducing dishes I’ve never tried from people I’ve never met.
When I seek these recipes, I am usually looking for a familiar ingredient or a healthier version of some dish my mom used to make at that time of year. It’s all done in an effort to hone my cooking skills so I can one day feed my children in the same loving and excessive way her and my grandmother fed me. The funny thing is, I rarely go directly to them and get the exact recipe I have in mind. Partly because they don’t operate using recipes anyway – “just eyeball it” – and partly because I have these memories of their flawless food and what it feels like when we’re sitting around the dinner table eating it, and I couldn’t dream of trying to replicate that. Not yet at least. Until that day Mom, when I can take the reins in the kitchen and you can fulfill my duties as head taste-tester, I want to thank you for making me the eater and person I am today.
Thank you for cooking all our special occasion meals instead of making a reservation for them.
Thank you for carrying out traditions year in and year out. They mean as much now as they ever did.
Thank you for your meatballs.
Thank you for teaching me that dining out is a special occasion and should be treated as such.
Thank you for packing my lunch with love every day, and wrapping my pickle in tinfoil so it didn’t get my sandwich soggy.
Thank you for cooking my steak medium rare.
Thank you for tuna melts when it was just you and me home for dinner.
Thank you for always having the house stocked with snacks and a pot of coffee brewing.
Thank you for your potato salad, your perfect omelets and your meatloaf.
Thank you for showing me that food is love.
Happy Mother’s Day!
PERFECT PORTION
My sister was in town and we had decided to go to brunch. We cooked dinner the night before, and I had a gift card for a restaurant down the street known for their extensive selection of eggs benedict; it was a no-brainer. I had swayed between the classic Canadian bacon and the crab cake rendition all week, but was sure that she would be fine ordering one of each and sharing.
We grew up in the same friend circle, had the same piano teacher, played on the same sports teams and lived in the same apartment while we were in college. After graduation, I moved to New York and a year later she moved to Seattle. We still talked often, but it was during these visits that we had to do all of the whole-hearted catching up that only eating induces.
We had a reservation for one o’clock and were promptly seated at a two-top near the window. We each ordered a Bloody Mary and embarked on two hours of sisterly bonding.
I had decided on the crab cake benedict and my immediate reaction when the dish was placed in front of me was that there weren’t going to be enough potatoes. I like to take full advantage of a runny yoke and wasn’t sure I was going to have that opportunity. Little did I know, I was about to embark on one of the most impeccably portioned meals of my life.
The crab cakes were snuggled into the crispy turned-up edges of my toasted English muffin. The eggs balanced on top, held up by a steaming pool of hollandaise. A small group of breakfast potatoes anchored the other half of the plate.
I dove right in, sliced through the first egg and excitedly watched the yolk drench the muffin. Cutting and mopping and stabbing a potato every so often, I made my way through the first half of breakfast. I broke a piece of the other crab cake off so I could taste the sweet core on its own. It was delightful, and the flavors danced around my mouth as the conversation bounced from family, to men, to work and friends. This was something new in our relationship. When we lived together, we talked during all points of the meal except when food was in front of us. That time was sacred and belonged only to chewing and tasting. We made exceptions now, since our time together was limited. Before I knew it, I was constructing my last bite of crab with a little muffin and the last of the yoke. To my surprise—and delight—all that remained on the plate was one lonely potato.
The conversation lasted much longer than the meal, but no one cared, brunch service was coming to an end anyway. When it was time for her to catch her flight, we were sufficiently full and caught up on each other’s lives. It was the perfect helping of potatoes after all.
The thing about sisters is that we fully and completely understand and comprehend what each other is saying – to its fullest meaning- within the first 15 seconds. And unfailingly by the end of the third sentence. We two are one. But our purpose is not to merely convey the story or information until the other has comprehended. Our purpose is to take a long luxurious bath in each other’s ear and to disgorge the entire unedited contents of our brains – with sidebars, dead ends and repetitions- so that the other can examine them. -Gabrielle Hamilton in Blood, Bones & Butter
A DAY IN THE BLOG OF...
We met on the night of the Beer Dinner. The restaurant I was employed by at the time had hosted a four-course meal paired with local brews. As the guests filed out my manager called me over to meet his sister, a food-blogger in Astoria. That night I read the entirety of Tastoria Queens, whose posts focused largely on food and family, and her adoration for the sense of community in a place so culturally diverse.
Pleased to have found a new foodie to follow, I took comfort in her words because I already had a taste of her family and could relate to sharing great moments over great meals with the ones we love.
Astoria seemed like a foreign country to me, but the posts were an escape to a beloved cannoli or a new sauce at an old pizzeria, and I could taste it through her words; the assortment of flavors and culture inside the intimate walls of this neighborhood.
I finally decided to discover if this cozy, flavorful place lived up to Tastoria’s words, committing an entire day to exploring as many blogs as my gastronomic endurance could handle. The preceding week was spent mapping my journey, careful to arrange a variety of special dishes in a somewhat cohesive manner.
I arrived at Café Boulis just before noon and was greeted by two curvy Greek women. They informed me that Saturday morning was reserved for cleaning and the ovens got started later than usual. A fresh batch of loukoumades—Greek doughnuts—would be ready in twenty minutes. I assured them I didn’t mind waiting, and was easily coerced into a spinach pie while I did. Locals strolled in for their morning coffee as I savored bite after flaky bite of delicately layered spinach and filo, peppered with feta, dill and scallions. “My hangover special,” one man labeled his cream pie as he wiped powdered sugar from his nose.
Honey-soaked with a loving portion of cinnamon sprinkled on top, my loukoumades (baked in rings, a gourmet alternative to the standard sphere) were wrapped to go. I bid my new Greek friends goodbye and headed to Bakeway on Broadway for Tastoria’s favorite latte.
A good portion of the afternoon was spent here, sharing a doughnut with a friendly resident as he detailed his experience working in restaurants and his recipe for tiramisu. After a while, I excused myself explaining I had a great deal of sampling left to do.
I slurped down a veal taco at Los Portales and waited in line at the King of Falafel food truck on 30th Ave before taking a seat at Pão de Queijo where an oblong fried morsel was placed in front of me. A compact collection of smooth potato, shredded chicken and sweet, creamy catupiry cheese crumbled in my fingers as I crunched into its exterior. I reached for the hot sauce three times but never followed through for fear of tainting the already exquisite combination going on in my mouth. A standout snack, as promised by Tastoria.
I soon found myself in the congested Ukus Café without an open table in sight. I began thinking of alternatives for my scheduled Bosnian lunch. Before I gave in, I inquired about the traditional soup. “We have one bowl left,” answered a woman behind the counter. Sold. I approached a couple in the corner who kindly allowed me to join their already cramped table. A generous helping of chicken soup was soon served with a side of warm pita bread. I began sneaking bites of bread without soup just so my taste buds could squeeze the soft pillows of pita as I tore them off. Guilty that I wasn’t giving the soup the attention it deserved, I took a hefty spoonful which turned out to reveal the most pleasant surprise of the day: a little cloud of sour cream hidden under the film of fresh broth. I broke it with my spoon to ensure that no bite was spared its elevating touch.
As a result of careful planning, I had hovered comfortably over satiated all day. Alas, it was at this point in the voyage that my appetite began to subside. Lucky for me, I had two hours before dinner.
My day of eating in solitude was punctuated by a bountiful Italian meal with two longtime friends. We gossiped over the brussels sprouts with parmesan cheese and laughed through the mussels, lasagna and half of a potato and pancetta pizza. Reminiscing with three spoons and one serving of homemade chocolate covered pretzel ice cream, my taste buds were smiling alongside my heart. I had tasted Astoria.
PUFF LOVE
Growing up I had a relentless infatuation for my best friend’s older brother. This was a blatant crush, of which he and his entire family were very aware. And supportive I must add, for fear of our relationship potential sounding hopeless. It was the age difference that kept us apart.
So, I baked him a batch of cream puffs.
For every monumental event my family had acknowledged in my short 14 years, cream puffs had been present. It was ritual to sneak one before dinner, and equally as customary to be caught in the act.
Their bite-sized existence at the table was a comforting emblem of celebration. It seemed obvious that for my future husband’s eighteenth birthday I would present him with a tray of the delightful morsels, lovingly prepared by his truly.
My grandmother fetched the recipe for me the minute I expressed interest. I was liberated that it was my turn to hold a guide that so many hands in my family had previously followed. I ran my fingers along the columns of ingredients and carefully read the paragraphs of instruction with script in the margins praising the end result. It looked like a tedious job, but my stomach jittered with excitement.
My mother –sponsor of young love and the social demise of her teenager—generously purchased the necessary components and not-so-generously stayed up late into the evening helping me craft the dough and whip the pudding until it resembled the vanilla cream I knew so well. At first I was opposed to any assistance, but once we began I was relieved to have her seasoned hands to mimic.
My butter-drenched fingers shaped each sphere, while my mind was distracted with montages of his jubilant reaction the next day. I peered through the window on the oven as the dough went to work. The first two trays didn’t quite rise to the perfection I was seeking, but after a few more attempts, I had collected enough pretty puffs to fill a tray. In the morning each confection received a plentiful helping of cream and powdered sugar.
He received the gift precisely as you would expect a senior in high school to accept a tray of baked goods from his little sister’s friend while he sat amongst his: in horror. Being the gentleman I had so deeply fallen far, he graciously took my gift. After a hurried embrace, I walked away.
Later that night while I was perched at his kitchen table, he came home and smiled from ear to ear assuring me the treats had tasted as good as they looked. Whether a proposal followed or not, my cream puff offering symbolized my feelings for him, and I knew he understood that.
Cooking is often a vehicle for me to explore a new food or to re-create an enjoyable dish from a restaurant, but to this day, I follow the cream puff recipe with different intentions. It is a tucked away formula, only to emerge when I want to express my love or gratitude in the most special of ways.
Puffs:
1 c. water
1 c. flour
½ c. butter
4 eggs
Filling:
1 package vanilla pudding
1½ c. milk
½ pint of heavy cream
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
Heat water and margarine until it boils – add flour until it makes a ball. Remove from heat. Beat in eggs with spoon until smooth not wet. Drop heaping teaspoon full on ungreased cookie sheet. DO NOT preheat oven. Start at 400 degrees and reduce to 350 after puffs have risen. Bake approximately 35 minutes. Cool on rack away from draft.
Filling: Cook 1 package of vanilla pudding using 1½ cups of milk. Cool in the refrigerator. Whip ½ pint of heavy cream and 1 teaspoon vanilla extract. Fold cream into cold pudding.
Slit cooled puffs and fill – top with powdered sugar.
Makes 24 puffs.
I spend a lot of time on food blogs and with my nose in beautifully-photographed cookbooks following instructions and reproducing dishes I’ve never tried from people I’ve never met.
When I seek these recipes, I am usually looking for a familiar ingredient or a healthier version of some dish my mom used to make at that time of year. It’s all done in an effort to hone my cooking skills so I can one day feed my children in the same loving and excessive way her and my grandmother fed me. The funny thing is, I rarely go directly to them and get the exact recipe I have in mind. Partly because they don’t operate using recipes anyway – “just eyeball it” – and partly because I have these memories of their flawless food and what it feels like when we’re sitting around the dinner table eating it, and I couldn’t dream of trying to replicate that. Not yet at least. Until that day Mom, when I can take the reins in the kitchen and you can fulfill my duties as head taste-tester, I want to thank you for making me the eater and person I am today.
Thank you for cooking all our special occasion meals instead of making a reservation for them.
Thank you for carrying out traditions year in and year out. They mean as much now as they ever did.
Thank you for your meatballs.
Thank you for teaching me that dining out is a special occasion and should be treated as such.
Thank you for packing my lunch with love every day, and wrapping my pickle in tinfoil so it didn’t get my sandwich soggy.
Thank you for cooking my steak medium rare.
Thank you for tuna melts when it was just you and me home for dinner.
Thank you for always having the house stocked with snacks and a pot of coffee brewing.
Thank you for your potato salad, your perfect omelets and your meatloaf.
Thank you for showing me that food is love.
Happy Mother’s Day!
PERFECT PORTION
My sister was in town and we had decided to go to brunch. We cooked dinner the night before, and I had a gift card for a restaurant down the street known for their extensive selection of eggs benedict; it was a no-brainer. I had swayed between the classic Canadian bacon and the crab cake rendition all week, but was sure that she would be fine ordering one of each and sharing.
We grew up in the same friend circle, had the same piano teacher, played on the same sports teams and lived in the same apartment while we were in college. After graduation, I moved to New York and a year later she moved to Seattle. We still talked often, but it was during these visits that we had to do all of the whole-hearted catching up that only eating induces.
We had a reservation for one o’clock and were promptly seated at a two-top near the window. We each ordered a Bloody Mary and embarked on two hours of sisterly bonding.
I had decided on the crab cake benedict and my immediate reaction when the dish was placed in front of me was that there weren’t going to be enough potatoes. I like to take full advantage of a runny yoke and wasn’t sure I was going to have that opportunity. Little did I know, I was about to embark on one of the most impeccably portioned meals of my life.
The crab cakes were snuggled into the crispy turned-up edges of my toasted English muffin. The eggs balanced on top, held up by a steaming pool of hollandaise. A small group of breakfast potatoes anchored the other half of the plate.
I dove right in, sliced through the first egg and excitedly watched the yolk drench the muffin. Cutting and mopping and stabbing a potato every so often, I made my way through the first half of breakfast. I broke a piece of the other crab cake off so I could taste the sweet core on its own. It was delightful, and the flavors danced around my mouth as the conversation bounced from family, to men, to work and friends. This was something new in our relationship. When we lived together, we talked during all points of the meal except when food was in front of us. That time was sacred and belonged only to chewing and tasting. We made exceptions now, since our time together was limited. Before I knew it, I was constructing my last bite of crab with a little muffin and the last of the yoke. To my surprise—and delight—all that remained on the plate was one lonely potato.
The conversation lasted much longer than the meal, but no one cared, brunch service was coming to an end anyway. When it was time for her to catch her flight, we were sufficiently full and caught up on each other’s lives. It was the perfect helping of potatoes after all.
The thing about sisters is that we fully and completely understand and comprehend what each other is saying – to its fullest meaning- within the first 15 seconds. And unfailingly by the end of the third sentence. We two are one. But our purpose is not to merely convey the story or information until the other has comprehended. Our purpose is to take a long luxurious bath in each other’s ear and to disgorge the entire unedited contents of our brains – with sidebars, dead ends and repetitions- so that the other can examine them. -Gabrielle Hamilton in Blood, Bones & Butter
A DAY IN THE BLOG OF...
We met on the night of the Beer Dinner. The restaurant I was employed by at the time had hosted a four-course meal paired with local brews. As the guests filed out my manager called me over to meet his sister, a food-blogger in Astoria. That night I read the entirety of Tastoria Queens, whose posts focused largely on food and family, and her adoration for the sense of community in a place so culturally diverse.
Pleased to have found a new foodie to follow, I took comfort in her words because I already had a taste of her family and could relate to sharing great moments over great meals with the ones we love.
Astoria seemed like a foreign country to me, but the posts were an escape to a beloved cannoli or a new sauce at an old pizzeria, and I could taste it through her words; the assortment of flavors and culture inside the intimate walls of this neighborhood.
I finally decided to discover if this cozy, flavorful place lived up to Tastoria’s words, committing an entire day to exploring as many blogs as my gastronomic endurance could handle. The preceding week was spent mapping my journey, careful to arrange a variety of special dishes in a somewhat cohesive manner.
I arrived at Café Boulis just before noon and was greeted by two curvy Greek women. They informed me that Saturday morning was reserved for cleaning and the ovens got started later than usual. A fresh batch of loukoumades—Greek doughnuts—would be ready in twenty minutes. I assured them I didn’t mind waiting, and was easily coerced into a spinach pie while I did. Locals strolled in for their morning coffee as I savored bite after flaky bite of delicately layered spinach and filo, peppered with feta, dill and scallions. “My hangover special,” one man labeled his cream pie as he wiped powdered sugar from his nose.
Honey-soaked with a loving portion of cinnamon sprinkled on top, my loukoumades (baked in rings, a gourmet alternative to the standard sphere) were wrapped to go. I bid my new Greek friends goodbye and headed to Bakeway on Broadway for Tastoria’s favorite latte.
A good portion of the afternoon was spent here, sharing a doughnut with a friendly resident as he detailed his experience working in restaurants and his recipe for tiramisu. After a while, I excused myself explaining I had a great deal of sampling left to do.
I slurped down a veal taco at Los Portales and waited in line at the King of Falafel food truck on 30th Ave before taking a seat at Pão de Queijo where an oblong fried morsel was placed in front of me. A compact collection of smooth potato, shredded chicken and sweet, creamy catupiry cheese crumbled in my fingers as I crunched into its exterior. I reached for the hot sauce three times but never followed through for fear of tainting the already exquisite combination going on in my mouth. A standout snack, as promised by Tastoria.
I soon found myself in the congested Ukus Café without an open table in sight. I began thinking of alternatives for my scheduled Bosnian lunch. Before I gave in, I inquired about the traditional soup. “We have one bowl left,” answered a woman behind the counter. Sold. I approached a couple in the corner who kindly allowed me to join their already cramped table. A generous helping of chicken soup was soon served with a side of warm pita bread. I began sneaking bites of bread without soup just so my taste buds could squeeze the soft pillows of pita as I tore them off. Guilty that I wasn’t giving the soup the attention it deserved, I took a hefty spoonful which turned out to reveal the most pleasant surprise of the day: a little cloud of sour cream hidden under the film of fresh broth. I broke it with my spoon to ensure that no bite was spared its elevating touch.
As a result of careful planning, I had hovered comfortably over satiated all day. Alas, it was at this point in the voyage that my appetite began to subside. Lucky for me, I had two hours before dinner.
My day of eating in solitude was punctuated by a bountiful Italian meal with two longtime friends. We gossiped over the brussels sprouts with parmesan cheese and laughed through the mussels, lasagna and half of a potato and pancetta pizza. Reminiscing with three spoons and one serving of homemade chocolate covered pretzel ice cream, my taste buds were smiling alongside my heart. I had tasted Astoria.
PUFF LOVE
Growing up I had a relentless infatuation for my best friend’s older brother. This was a blatant crush, of which he and his entire family were very aware. And supportive I must add, for fear of our relationship potential sounding hopeless. It was the age difference that kept us apart.
So, I baked him a batch of cream puffs.
For every monumental event my family had acknowledged in my short 14 years, cream puffs had been present. It was ritual to sneak one before dinner, and equally as customary to be caught in the act.
Their bite-sized existence at the table was a comforting emblem of celebration. It seemed obvious that for my future husband’s eighteenth birthday I would present him with a tray of the delightful morsels, lovingly prepared by his truly.
My grandmother fetched the recipe for me the minute I expressed interest. I was liberated that it was my turn to hold a guide that so many hands in my family had previously followed. I ran my fingers along the columns of ingredients and carefully read the paragraphs of instruction with script in the margins praising the end result. It looked like a tedious job, but my stomach jittered with excitement.
My mother –sponsor of young love and the social demise of her teenager—generously purchased the necessary components and not-so-generously stayed up late into the evening helping me craft the dough and whip the pudding until it resembled the vanilla cream I knew so well. At first I was opposed to any assistance, but once we began I was relieved to have her seasoned hands to mimic.
My butter-drenched fingers shaped each sphere, while my mind was distracted with montages of his jubilant reaction the next day. I peered through the window on the oven as the dough went to work. The first two trays didn’t quite rise to the perfection I was seeking, but after a few more attempts, I had collected enough pretty puffs to fill a tray. In the morning each confection received a plentiful helping of cream and powdered sugar.
He received the gift precisely as you would expect a senior in high school to accept a tray of baked goods from his little sister’s friend while he sat amongst his: in horror. Being the gentleman I had so deeply fallen far, he graciously took my gift. After a hurried embrace, I walked away.
Later that night while I was perched at his kitchen table, he came home and smiled from ear to ear assuring me the treats had tasted as good as they looked. Whether a proposal followed or not, my cream puff offering symbolized my feelings for him, and I knew he understood that.
Cooking is often a vehicle for me to explore a new food or to re-create an enjoyable dish from a restaurant, but to this day, I follow the cream puff recipe with different intentions. It is a tucked away formula, only to emerge when I want to express my love or gratitude in the most special of ways.
Puffs:
1 c. water
1 c. flour
½ c. butter
4 eggs
Filling:
1 package vanilla pudding
1½ c. milk
½ pint of heavy cream
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
Heat water and margarine until it boils – add flour until it makes a ball. Remove from heat. Beat in eggs with spoon until smooth not wet. Drop heaping teaspoon full on ungreased cookie sheet. DO NOT preheat oven. Start at 400 degrees and reduce to 350 after puffs have risen. Bake approximately 35 minutes. Cool on rack away from draft.
Filling: Cook 1 package of vanilla pudding using 1½ cups of milk. Cool in the refrigerator. Whip ½ pint of heavy cream and 1 teaspoon vanilla extract. Fold cream into cold pudding.
Slit cooled puffs and fill – top with powdered sugar.
Makes 24 puffs.