Food, at its best, is not just sustenance or indulgence. It is a social unifier and a powerful focus for our memories. When we talk about loved ones from our pasts, we often mention the dishes for which they were known or the funny stories of their presence at the dinner table. Today, I would like to share my memories of my grandmother by visiting a few of the foods she so lovingly prepared.
My grandmother, a born and bred Texan, married a Sicilian carpenter with an appetite for fresh pasta. Studying under her mother-in-law, my grandmother learned how to make a proper, old-world spaghetti dinner from scratch and several generations later we still reaped the benefits. There is truly nothing in the world like fresh, hand-made pasta. It is never crunchy because it never had a chance to dry before it went in the pot, but also never gummy as long as the cook keeps an eye on it and doesn't let it boil too long. Fresh pasta holds onto sauce as if the two were never separate and it cuts without resistance so eating it is never sloppy. When my mother got engaged to my father, my grandmother taught him how to make this pasta as a way to welcome him into the family.
And the sauce itself? If your tomato sauce has spent less than half the day simmering on the stove, it isn't real tomato sauce. My grandmother's rendition was a deep red marinara with a decidedly herbal tone and only a hint of sweetness. She always served red pepper flakes on the side for those who wanted it extra spicy. For special occasions she would also include a variety of fresh meats in a separate container, from hot Italian sausage to extra-slow-stewed chicken and her famous meatballs. Such a meal graced our table on New Year's Eve, engagement parties and birthdays for decades.
While my mother has been the undisputed baking expert in the family for quite a long time now (perfect cheesecake, anyone?), my grandmother knew her way around a cookie like no one else. When it comes to cookies, I'm unabashedly traditional. Sure, I can appreciate the intrigue of a trendy concoction like a ginger and cayenne tea biscuit, but any tall-hat chef can put one of those together and coast on the novelty. It takes a sense of art older than the printed word to make a chocolate chip cookie taste the way it ought to. My grandmother's rendition was, without hyperbole, flawless. They were golden brown, crispy but not crumbly and there was chocolate in every single bite. As a small child, every visit to my grandparents' house began with an investigation of the cookie jar and I cannot recall a time when it wasn't full at the outset, or empty by the end.
I'm sure everyone has that person in his or her past who made food into something special. It's a combination of the objective quality of the food and the emotions attached to it that make it all so wonderful. I welcome all of you readers to share your own food memories in our comments section.
Happy eating.