Coming to the Ming Garden was a family treat and one we did infrequently. The restaurant occupied a storefront off of busy Beach Boulevard in Buena Park, the home of Knott’s Berry Farm. Tourists frequented the area but I don’t remember the restaurant being very busy. It must be difficult to both cater to tourists and maintain interest for locals who are a steadier business opportunity. I remember loving the dark lighting and smells that would entice me as I came into the restaurant with my family. It was a scent of spices and pan fried dishes, a perfume of cooking meats,various sauces, and simmering broths.
The thing about some recent generation immigrant families is that we have not yet become comfortable participating in many of the common local recreations. We don’t go to the movies, or bowling, or play recreational sports, but everyone knows about eating. So we would go out to restaurants and that was the outing.
I remember little about any of our conversations because often my mom would do most of the talking and once food arrived we usually just focused on eating anyway. What I remember best is the braised duck dish. The meat was incredibly tender, soft and falling off the bone. A starchy, savory sauce bathed the dish and bok choy garnished the duck as a side. When the duck entered your mouth, the meat practically melted.
This was one of the most amazing dishes that I remember eating. But unfortunately, that restaurant had long since closed and I have no recollection of the exact name of the dish or details about how to prepare it. Similarly, like most memories from childhood, I can neither confirm nor deny that this was indeed the most amazing food I have ever eaten. What I can say is that I have a very distinct sense memory of a particular duck dish linked to a particular place and time.
I love the way you approach your uncertain future. And I love the way you describe your experience of the world. I hope the future contains everything you wish for including an everlasting supply if cinnamon cookies.
My answer to your concluding question is ‘No!’ I prefer the image of you naked.
Great memory well told, thank you
Swimming lessons were never fun, but they were least fun on those cold, gray, rainy summer days when the wind whipped along the beach, fast enough that we couldn’t hold onto our towels long enough to wrap them around our shoulders. Still, the lessons were paid for, and that meant we went, whether we liked it or not.
Those mean-weather days meant some kind of hot cereal for breakfast, which was weird in summer, but welcome anyway. I hoped we were out of Cream of Wheat.
We all crammed inside my mother’s 2-door sports car (a gift from her young soon-to-be lawyer brother), and took the hills down to the beach at a faster clip than usual. There were no kids on bicycles standing on their pedals on those sad mornings.
My lessons were always first, because all the beginner lessons were early in the morning. I left the car reluctantly, dressed in jeans and a heavy sweatshirt, leaning into the wind.
I suppose the high school kids who taught us weren’t too enthusiastic about teaching in the wind and almost-rain, when the sand clung to your feet in great clumpy rings that I shook off repeatedly. I knew there would be sand in the cuffs of my jeans, and I didn’t care that there would be WORDS when I got back in the car. After the terrible moments of peeling off the warm clothes, we all hustled down to the water, knowing it would feel warmer than the air. We floated and flutter-kicked, blew bubbles and dog-paddled, and finally, released by the shivering instructor, raced back to our clothes and towels. We didn’t even dry off fully, instead, we dragged jeans over our wet legs.
My mother stood waving next to the car, and I ran across the lot. I slid past my oldest sister into the front bucket seat, wedged my left leg under the stick shift, and my mother poured hot chocolate from the giant green thermos. What a welcome smell. Inevitably, I was told not to burn my tongue. Sipping the cooling chocolate, I peeped over the thermos cup, and spied my mother reaching into the back seat, and my brother handing her a bag. She reached inside, and produced my reward, a powdered doughnut, loaded inside with jam.
It’s unusual growing up poor, part of a religious sect, and in an vegetarian environment. Though I will admit all the awful things I encountered, changed my life, how I react to others with sympathy and understanding and the ways I raised my children. When reading my story, we see now it was child abuse whether intended or not; but recognize how grateful I am for the gifts it gave me. My theory is that we all go through difficult learning experiences, sometimes as a child, or later in life - all change us, hopefully for the better.
My food memories consist of the horrid slippery brown lima and garbanzo beans, mainstays of destitute people with non-meat eating diets. In my family, these legumes had to be cooked into a slimy, mucous mess seasoned with slithery onions, equally as unpalatable to call them ready for consumption.
When cooked to smithereens, brown lima beans separate as they enter the mouth. The outer shell slips off leaving a repulsive mealy inner mush, along with a paper like substance that can’t be chewed but must be somehow swallowed. Now for the hard part, getting that goop down your gullet and keeping it there.
Garbanzos have an outer skin but not near as big as that of the lima bean. Their inner substance is less mushy while lacking in taste. Once again the diner must find a way to swallow without gagging.
Try as I might, I could not hide these repulsive dinners, be it around the underside rim or by pushing them in little puddles of goo on the dish. There was no excuse for leaving a morsel of food at any meal. This was the clean plate crowd on steroids. Mom frequently worried from where the next protein might come, counting on people within the church to feed the divorcee and her 4 children. I would have happily gone hungry these nights rather than suffer through attempts to choke down either option. I knew the second the smell permeated my nostrils, I was in for another unpleasant experience at the dinner table. When I encountered the pungent odor of either bean my stomach automatically began rejecting these substances.
My mother saw me as a stubborn kid. I envisioned myself as a confused child knowing what ever choices I made, they would be wrong and always punishable. I spent most of my childhood waiting to find out what incorrect decision I’d managed to select this time. Occasionally, I knew I was doing wrong, but often, it never entered my head. I felt defeated before I started.
The grossest part of my story comes when I would gag and toss up these vile substances. The aftermath was that I was forced to swallow my vomit, usually causing me to regurgitation once again. I often spent hours attempting to retain what was no longer food. To this day I have a quick gag reflex, when thinking about this indescribable part of my childhood or hearing anyone else vomit.
As the truck came to a halt outside the porch, Olive leaned back into the truck seat and closing her eyes she took a deep breath. It had all been worthwhile. The move was not what Olive had planned for her life at this point but the past number of weeks had lead her to this final destination. Opening her eyes, she took in the scene around her. Autumn had arrived at Cloves Brooke and the leaves had turned the area into an autumn wonderland taken straight from a movie scene. The leaves rustled gently in the stiff breeze, the colours of amber, bronze, gold and muddy brown leaves creeping along the ground surrounding the truck. The kayak bobbed gentle at the shore line just beside the house, the sun was beginning to set along the lake horizon and the mesmerizing purple and pink tones of colours along the lake water invited Olive to leave the space place of the truck and explore her new home. The truck door creaked open, Olive slowly placed two boots on the ground and pulled the collar of her jacket closer to her. Sandy the chocolate Labrador turned he head towards the open door and began to smell the cool air flowing into the truck. Steadily walking across the driver seat, he leapt from the truck door and ran towards the porch door in front of them. The porch door slowly open and a whiff of cinnamon flooded the air. Olive turned towards the front door and smiled as she saw her Grandma standing by the porch door with open arms. Olive swung the truck door shut and bounded the steps of the porch two at a time and into the familiar warm place of her Grandma arms. Burying her head into her Grandma’s shoulder, they swayed on the porch until a loud crash was heard from inside the kitchen. Both turning at once towards the kitchen, in front of them was Sandy standing in the middle of displaced tray and a floor full of freshly baked cinnamon cookies.
“Oh Sandy” Grandma turned towards the kitchen and went over to gently pat his head. Sandy’s tail wagged faster as she approached sending a wooden spoon, tea towel and flour across the floor. “Now, now Sandy settle” Grandma patted his head. “Well child, are you going to stand there or are you going to help me make more of these cookies” Olive smiled and shaking her coat from her shoulders she walked into the kitchen and began to tidy the mess Sandy had so calmy arranged for her.
Placing another log on the growing camp fire outside, Olive turned to her chair and relaxed back into the comfort of the crispy autumn night. Taking the woolen blanket she wrapped herself cozily inside and brought the large white mug of hot chocolate towards her. The soothing sound of ting ping as the metal knitting needles collided with each other as Grandma became lost in her kitting, the crackling of the fire, the slow rhythmic movement of the lake water covering the shore line Olive turned towards the small wicker basket and took a deep breath in. Mixed with the crisp autumnal air was freshly baked cinnamon biscuits, apple muffins and scones laid out in the basket ready to be devoured. Taking a cinnamon biscuit and biting down to crunch of the perfectly made homemade biscuit Olive looked out across the lake and final knew inside she would now be safe and happy back where she belonged.
It never crossed my mind that her comfort food would become my own. A variation on the quintessential Aussie staple of meat and three veg, the lamb was the star of the dish. In my childhood, it was lamb chops, because they were the cheaper cut. All her meat had to be well done. I suppose that’s the one thing I’ve changed substantially now that she’s gone. I can get away with a juicy medium without anyone freaking out about the “blood”. She loved the crispy fat but I couldn’t stomach it, so I’d cut off the tails and move them to her plate. She’d add too much salt to hers. She’d pick up her cutlery and swap them each to the other hand - fork in the right, knife in the left. In between bites, she’d comment how her mum always made her chops when she visited from Teachers’ College. Sometimes, especially after a drink or two, she’d express how much she missed her mum, and lament that she hadn’t been a “better” daughter. The vegetables would be potato, usually mashed, and peas. Sometimes with corn or carrot so that there were three. As I grew older, I started to cook the meal for her. She wasn’t a bad cook, she just hated doing it. I’d often cook chips instead of mash, because her mash was somehow always better, and after the meal she’d rub some leftover chips in the pan of lamb fat and eat them during the washing up. So now, when I’m missing my mum, this is my comfort food - lamb chops that remind me of her, with chips to dip into the grease. Just like her, I pick up my cutlery and swap it between my hands. I don’t add too much salt. Now, I eat the fat too.
A Bite of Heaven
Big City. Small kid. Ok, actually, small teen. I was shorter than most girls my age, and thus looked like some type of fairy from the 19th century, wandering around bustling Little Italy in Boston, Massachusetts. North End was impressive and gorgeous in early January, especially at night. I was hungry and tagged behind my mom, who was attempting to enter a teeny, tiny pizza place. The snow was piled up to my knees on the curb, and I waded, shivering, trying not to get squashed by the many, much taller people, wrapped up like Eskimos. I was slightly afraid, as this was a strange city. I mean, I was just on a whirlwind, mini, mid-winter break vacation. Mom thought it was the last opportunity to visit historical places in big Boston, on account of some odd situations. She and Dad consulted, and we hopped on a plane out of the blue and left the relatively warm south to freeze our toes off. I was starved, and it was getting late and colder. So it was then we entered Paradise. The pizzas were lined up, on display. I was like, “Ok, well, yay! Pizza. I just hope the cheese doesn’t make me sick.” Oh yeah, I had not SEVERE dairy allergies, but they were there. Too much was not good for me. Aaaaannddd these slices were H-U-G-E.! All of them looked good, but I settled for a ricotta and mushroom slice. I was surprised how cheap the 2 slices and bottles of water were. I mean, to buy good stuff in Boston, you had to be “an American Millionaire” as Mother Maria would say in “The Lilies of the Field.” We sat down on some tall stools facing the wall, across from the cold countertop and waited as the pizza slices were (thankfully,) reheated. I glanced over my shoulder and saw the pizzas going around in a fire oven. I was thinking “mental sign of approval and kudos on the oven.” For me, that was a sure sign of quality. Then, I got my pizza. It was nice and warm, quite welcome to my numb hands. “Ahh… that’s reallllllllllllyyyyy nice,” was what my hands were saying. Finally, my first bite of authentic, New York style, Bostonian pizza. Ka…Boom…with Frank Sinatra crooning in my ears on the tv above my head, I died, was buried and started dancin’ in Heaven. I turned to my mom, who was enjoying the ooey gooey cheesy goodness of her Margarita pizza. “This is the best pizza I have ever had!!!” I exclaimed. “Yeah!” she replied. Man, it was good. The cheese was perfect: it stretched and was a little sticky but was not so sticky that you couldn’t enjoy the pizza. The mushrooms were buttery but not greasy. The crust was the king of the pizza crusts: solid but not burned, as local Floridian crusts commonly were, and it was puffy but not fluffy like a cotton ball. We loved the food, washing it down with sips of cool water. But like probably Aslan the Lion from “The Chronicles of Narnia” would say, “All good earthly things come to an end.” Ok, he’d probably say sooooommmmeettthhhiiinnng like that.
Oh well, my mom told me we had to go because it was getting late, and we were near a lot of alleys. At night. Which is for a total bookaholic, like the English alleys from “Nicholas Nickleby” or “The Picture of Dorian Gray”: cold, narrow, dismal, dark aaaaand kinda creepy. But not nearly as bad. So, grasping the last big, warm piece of crust in my grateful hands, I ran outside, following my mom into the dimly lit streets of Boston, in my Victorian, burgundy, ankle length coat, savoring every, last, delicious bite. “I’ll come back someday,” I promised myself, “I will. I have to.” Like in fables, the spirits of the dead roam the earth, but always come back to where they died. So would I. I’d come back. For another bite of Heaven.
Great work! I love it! I feel like I’m there, eating all the yummy food.
The smell of hot roast chicken permeated the air as the back door to the kitchen was opened. Granny stood smiling in the frosted maple leaf entranceway, her figure rotund, wearing her usual pale lilac skirt hitched high over a cream blouse though this was currently hidden under a mildly stained and well-used apron.
“Come in, come in my darlings.” Her voice trilled and her smile widened as she saw her gaggle of hungry grandchildren waiting on the driveway. We tumbled in, each succumbing to a soft hug and wet kiss as we passed her. I turned my cheek away into her shoulder to avoid the latter, but she knew my games and waited until I pulled away to plant a slightly tickly kiss on my cheek all the same. I may be a squirrelly eight-year-old but my Granny was onto my tricks.
We bounded deeper into the bungalow in search of Grandpa, he sat in his usual armchair by the large bifold garden windows. Leaving in our wake Mum and Dad to make the pleasantries.
“Sorry, we’re late.”
“Sarah couldn’t find her shoes.”
“Duncan insisted on bringing his sticker book.”
“I bought biscuits.”
“Oh, you shouldn’t have.”
After giving Grandad a welcoming hug too and gaining a high weak ‘oooh thank you’ from the tall man for my trouble I bounded onto the deep sofa with knitted granny square headrest with my sister and waited for Granny to come into the living room and
eagerly grill us about our week’s adventures at school as she always did.
The bungalow was relaxed, quiet and held that very air of life going at a different retired place. Not that I knew this at the time, I just knew it was familiar and I loved coming here.
The card games came out as we waited for Sunday lunch to be ready. I matched bright-coloured girls with bright coloured horses as dishes clattered in the kitchen, a wooden disc with swirling marbles was the next venture with my younger brother. Grasping the cool smooth treasures in my hand as the sound of water running heralded that peas and cabbage were being strained into the sink. I flipped through the thick ‘look and find’ alphabet book with its strange pictures in the search of objects with the letter B as my parents wondering into the kitchen to help bring food in.
I rushed to the table as the first steaming platters arrived, not immediately interested in the food, but looking for my utensils. My grandparents had the most amazing knives, each handle, flat, smooth and a different colour. They had the feel of stone and the look of soft smartie shells. They were slightly pastel too, green, blue, orange, yellow, red and my favourite…purple.
I went to inspect my plate, we had set places at my grandparent’s table, my brother and I were small so we were always shoved in the small wedge between the table and the glass cabinet of trinkets. No matter how hard we tried we always knocked the cabinet clambering into our chairs and it would give a tinkling echoing rumble from the glassware inside.
Looping my legs up onto the green leather of my chair I noticed my plate had been given the yellow knife, Grandads seat the purple, I swapped it with my own and thumbed the smooth handle with a tentative delighted finger. Years later when I was much older, an adult myself, I would draw this same knife from the cutlery draw when sorting through old forgotten things. It would be worn, the cool smooth handle now rough to the touch, the edges seeping white beneath the faded purple veneer. The sight would sadden me, the utensil so old and forgotten, but it would also bring a smile, for there had been no other joy when I was a child than swapping these knives surreptitiously around the table so that everyone had the colour I felt suited them best.
Once seated a pitcher of Vimto, was brought in and poured, not blackcurrant squash, but Vimto, it always had a stronger sharper taste and I only ever had it at my grandparents. The cups that held the fruity drink were also special, tall clear glasses with red parrots painted upon them. These were reserved for the children, the adults had plain glasses.
And then the food would arrive. Sliced succulent chicken, steaming veg, thick gravy with a couple of carrots floating in the plastic pitcher for good measure and last but not least. My favourite thing of all, the roast potatoes. Always pilled high in a large plastic mixing bowl, so many I could have seconds, even thirds. Some crispy, some succulent, but always with just the right amount of bite to them and the linger of goose fat on their skins.
Once given permission from the adults to dig in I would proceed to pile my plate high. Thick crispy Yorkshires stuffed with veg and sage stuffing, chicken splattered with red current jam, vegetables littered between them all and gravy swimming amoung the crevices.
There was too much and there was always too much, even as my stomach budged at my fullness my Granny would be offering me another potato, and anouther. A smile lingering on her face as she watched her grandchildren indulge in her mornings toil. Thinking of how far removed this sight of indulgence was when she was not much older than myself in the second world war so many years ago.
Once we had feasted it was back to games on the old matted red rug in the living room, whilst the adults cleared the table, but soon there would be puddings. Not one, not two, but my Granny was terrible in her over-estimation of how much we would eat and it was a good day when six desserts would be laid upon the table cloth for the four of us to stand mouth-watering beside. A fruit salad for Grandpa, the diabetic, a handmade (never shop bought) trifle, chocolate eclairs, a meringue and strawberry pavlova usually still a little frozen in the middle, a chocolate gateau and then ice-cream.
My mother would always berate Granny when the sweet treats were produced, this was not a special occasion, it was not Easter or Christmas, it was just regular Sunday lunch with her grandchildren. One pudding would have been enough! We were not round, greedy beasts, we were all slim, lithe little creatures, full of energy but not girth.
But my grandmother would swat away my mother’s protests and always say something like, ‘You can always take the leftovers home.’ Then call us children to the table to pick our first of many puddings before Mum could protest further.
The late afternoon was a time of rest and sleepy snuggles on the sofa, an old movie of Grannies would be put on their small television for the children to lazy watch while the adults talked. This time was always a little hazy to me, my head filled with bright songs from Sound of Music or sinister smiles of the child snatcher from Chitty Chitty Bang Bang, while the smell of thick coffee hung in the air from my parents cups and the soft chatter from the adults bled into the back of my mind.
When we were finally all bundled into the car in the early evening, Granny would press a small fabric book bag into each of our hands as we left the door, followed by another wet lingering kiss. We would open them up on the back seat on the drive home, each were hand stitched with our own initials so there would be no fighting or confusion to whose was whose. Inside would be a new book brought from the local charity shop that week, the 50p sticker still pressed onto the inner dust jacket, a couple of 20 pence pieces tinkling at the bottom and a packet of Roundtree tooty fruitys. Small square sweets with hard bright coloured shells and soft chewy insides.
I would rip my packet open in the car, no matter how full I was, no matter how much I had consumed over the course of the Sunday and watch the rolling hills and trees whizzing by from the rear passenger seat as I sucked one, two, maybe three of the sweets all the way home.
“Shall we get dessert?” I rarely answer “no” to this question. I have always had a sweet tooth. I could talk about so many desserts from my childhood, but the one that stands out is my gran’s rhubarb crumble.
My grandad grew rhubarb in the back garden and there would be an abundance of it every summer. Dinner at their house usually meant a rhubarb crumble, fresh out of the oven.
Who would have thought that just rhubarb, flour, sugar and butter could create something so mouthwatering, so intoxicating? The decadent smell of cooked sugar and the sweet tang of the rhubarb melting on the tongue. I always had mine with custard, which is the best accompaniment to crumble.
My grandad passed away last summer, and my gran has been immobile for a few years now. The rhubarb gets kept by their children and grandchildren now. I made sevearl crumbles this year, filling me with warmth and happy memories.
Dessert will always be my favorite.
I really feel for both you and your dear mother. I’m afraid I did smile at your nostalgic journey into childhood culinary horror. Your story reminded me of David Copperfield by Charles Dickens, a childhood favorite that I later dissected for an English course in college.
Very nice with a little humor at the end.
When you hear, read, or see the word ‘gumbo’ does not an image of New Orleans come to mind? It surely does for me. Louisiana is where both sides of my family hail from and where interestingly enough, I learned the slight difference between Creole cooking and Cajun cooking.
Take, for instance, one of my favorite childhood meals, which was a steaming bowl of seafood gumbo. I learned to make it both the Creole way and the Cajun way. The Creole way involves shellfish and lots of it. My father, being Creole, always added tomatoes. Dad’s gumbo comprised hot sausage, crabs, shrimp, tomatoes, and seasonings, plus the Holy Trinity (bell pepper, onions, and celery). Sometimes he threw in chunks of yellow corn along with the okra.
My mother’s gumbo was inspired by her Cajun roots. While she also put crabs, oysters, and shrimp in her pot, she also added andouille sausage and chicken legs. Unlike Dad’s there were no tomatoes in Mom’s concoction. Both gumbos were served over rice. Mom’s was spicier than Dad’s because of the andouille sausage and the different pepper blends she used. Dad’s gumbo held a soup like consistency while Mom’s was thicker in texture. Mom’s addition of the chicken and sausages added to the stew like quality.
As side dishes, if you will, Dad always prepared skillet cornbread to sop up his gumbo. My favorite part of Mom’s gumbo was the dollop of potato salad that was always added to the side of the bowl. The potato salad was made one of two ways. If my older sister made it, she added mustard to her mixture, but when I made it, mayonnaise all the way.
To this day, whenever I’m homesick, I pull out a large pot, and make seafood gumbo - minus the tomatoes. Sorry, Dad.
The Orchid
Renee Schnebelin
She saw him….
Dark brown hair, hazel eyes, incredible smile. He was wearing khaki shorts and a button-down black shirt. She watched as he made his way towards her. As he sat down across the table, she said hello. That was how it began. He smiled.
“Are y’all ready to order?” The waitress snapped them out of the trance they were in, bringing them back to reality. They had decided to meet for lunch on a whim after meeting in a chat group on Twitter. He asked and she accepted. That was yesterday.
“I’m sorry, we haven’t even had a chance to look at the menu, but we will take two waters please.” She said as she let her gaze drift back to the handsome gentleman that sat across the table from her. “Thank you for asking me to lunch.”
“Thank you for saying yes,” He said as he shifted nervously in his seat.
Their conversation continued on for the next few hours and seemed to flow smoothly. After lunch they walked through the park hand in hand.
She could feel the butterflies building up in her stomach when he asked what she would be doing for dinner. She told him that she planned on making spaghetti with garlic toast and asked if he would like to join her. He obliged.
“No funny business I promise.” He squeezed her hand.
“It never even crossed my mind.” She squeezed back and giggled.
She almost couldn’t believe that the date was going this well.
As they walked past a flower shop she mentioned how she loved to buy flowers. She mentioned that this shop had the best Orchids. He said that every potted plant he had ever purchased had died. She laughed and squeezed his hand tight.
They walked that way all the way back to her quaint little cottage that sat back from the road a bit. He noted how beautiful and serene the lot was. She had purchased the home for that very reason. The privacy.
She pulled her keys out of her purse, unlocked the door, and opened it. She let him walk in first and locked the door behind them as they entered the spacious living room. The cottage was professionally decorated and immaculate. Filled with only fine pieces hand picked and shipped in from around the world. The purple elephant riding a bike was her favorite and was a gift from her first love, Andrew. He had bought it for her on their first date at the coffee shop.
“Sit wherever you like. Make yourself at home and I can grab us something to drink. Wine or a beer?” She said as she headed for the kitchen.
“Red wine if you have it.” He said as he took a seat in the chair that Ben had purchased for her while they were backpacking through Europe. Ben was her longest relationship, one that she almost married, but the wedding ended up getting postponed after Ben became ill.
She headed into the kitchen and pulled the special bottle of red down from the shelf, poured him a glass, and smiled. She poured herself a glass of white and carried the two drinks out to the living room, handing him the glass as she passed by.
“That painting is amazing.” He said pointing to the mural that hung above the couch. It had two red bicycles in the center, both had a basket, and a bell. Nothing more, nothing less. It wasn’t her favourite piece, Cal had it made specifically for her after finding out that she loved bicycle art. Cal was her third love, which only spanned a week, but she fell in love hard with him and even cried a bit when she had to let him go.
“This wine is making me sleepy.” He said with a yawn. He closed his eyes.
She began to count as his chest rose and fell. It wouldn’t take long for the poison to take hold. She smiled at the thought. David had no idea that this would be his last date. She knew that this one wouldn’t last long because he didn’t buy her an Orchid.
thanks for the education about gumbo. I love this New Orleans dish and was just thinking about gumbo tonight while we were having some Popye’s chicken, which makes me want to find some actual gumbo rather than settle for dirty rice.
My mother’s reputation for her apple pie reached beyond her family, to her friends and their friends in turn. My father claimed to have married her because of her apple pie. Though I think her blond hair and her charm helped.
I too, enjoyed her apple pie. But my real love was her lemon meringue pie. I’ve never eaten better . Though I’m happy to keep searching for another pie as delicious, lemon curd filling as tangy and lemony.
Mum had a flair for the pastry. The secret was to keep it cool and not overwork it with too much kneading an rolling it out. She instructed, “Keep you hands cold. Cool them with cold water. Don’t let them warm up. don’t overdo the mixing - just do enough. Just enough!” My hands had flakes of soft, sticky dough still on them but I’d quickly take them out of the bowl. “And now roll it into a ball and pop the dough into the fridge. Gently, gently!”
And yet my pastry was never as good. Never as light or flaky.
She tried to teach me to cook for a family or guests. As the eldest of her four children, and a girl, she believed that I should be able to do this. But my mind would wander and I’d become distracted. As a teenager, I would decide that this was the best time to practise the piano. I could spend a quick five minutes working the new piece while vegetables were bubbling on the stove.
This continued into adulthood, despite being responsible for feeding my children and husband. I could make a couple of quick phone calls, while cooking the dinner. The pre-mobile era, the landline calls took me out of the kitchen, away from the stove. Until the distinctive sharp smell of a stew catching on the bottom of the large cooking pot had me rushing back to save what could be rescued.
I loved the invention of the microwave oven and the packet meals that could be heated up in a few minutes. Some could actually stay inside the packaging until they were ready to be served. How wonderful. How convenient. Surely these could not fail. I could set the timer to stop the cooking and notify me with a little “ding” sound at the appropriate time: one minute, two minutes. Rarely more was needed for these almost instant dinners.
Till, one evening, while I was tinkling on the piano, my son rushed in, urgently asking me about the terrible smell coming from the kitchen. “It’s ok,” I explained. “It’s dinner. It’s called pasta with smoky onion sauce.” He still seemed worried. “I’ll show you”, I said reassuringly.
But billowing black smoke came from the microwave. And a terrible stink. I’d managed to set the timer for 10 minutes instead of 60 seconds. An acrid smokey onion and burnt pasta smell coming from the little oven.
I never told mum. I never confessed that she had raised a daughter so incompetent that even a two-minute microwave meal was beyond her. It was our family secret.
Oops, I have a formatting problem.
Any tips on how to delete my post so I can upload it again? Thank you, Klforde
Sort of a modern-day dark fairytale. I absolutely loved it!