Adopted at six-months
First weekend with "new mommy"
Mothers Day 1957
I do not have happy memories of my mother. She turned 92 in February 2009, and she is still the same woman she was when she raised me -- mean-spirited, cruel, abusive, manipulative, controlling, unreasonable, and a teller of blatant lies. I stopped all contact with her after my father died in December 1998, and in those ten years since I have been able to step back from the narcissism and determine one good thing about the woman who raised me -- she was a fabulous cook!
Until I was 8 years old we lived on a piece of property that had a small orchard. We had lemon, apple and peach trees, all kinds of vegetables, and rhubarb. Because she did not have to work outside the home, and because she had studied nutrition in college, my mother enjoyed preparing fresh meals. We grew up on homemade bread (because the store brands were “too expensive”). We ate fresh apple, blueberry, peach, and lemon pies, with crusts so light and flakey the layers could be separated with a feather. My favorite was her apple pie, a double-crust delicacy filled with fresh apples, cinnamon, sugar, and butter. I never asked for a cake on my birthday; I always asked for an apple pie. We had fresh applesauce and rhubarbsause for breakfast, each fruit soaked in its own juices and added suger.
My favorite meal was meatloaf with baked potatoes and vegetables. Her “secret” was to use crushed Saltine crackers instead of bread crumbs, and to mix in a quarter pound of ground pork with the beef. The baked potatoes were covered in butter and sour cream, with lots of salt and pepper added to taste. Absolutely “hog heaven,” as my Aunt Rosie would say.
When I got married in 1977, I, of course, had to prepare meatloaf for my new husband. That is when she told me her “secret” to the recipe, and explained that the pork added fat and flavor to the beef. I remember I made the meatloaf for my husband as a surprise. He came home just as I was pulling the steaming meatloaf from the oven. The smell filled the house, the juices were bubbling in the pan, and I thought he would love me forever as soon as he tasted my masterpiece. Instead, he looked at the pan in my mitt-covered hands and said, “If that’s a meatloaf I won’t eat it. I hate meatloaf.” When we divorced a decade later, one of the first meals I prepared for myself in my new apartment was meatloaf and baked potatoes.
My mother also made the best potato salad I have ever tasted. I used to watch her prepare the salad, and cut the potatoes into perfect little cubes. Then she added hard-boiled eggs, scallions, celery, celery seed, celery salt, and mayonnaise. Whenever I think of summer, I think of her potato salad and her finger-licking-good fried chicken, with strawberry shortcake for dessert. Her secret for the potato salad is to allow the cut potatoes to soak overnight in Italian salad dressing. It adds more flavor to the potatoes.
She also perfected a “gringa” recipe for enchiladas. She would brown the ground beef in oil and spices. In a separate pan, the tortillas were fried in hot oil, then placed in a baking dish and filled with the cooked beef, sliced yellow onions, and chopped olives. Then she folded the tortilla in half, covering the filling. She could get about 20 of those tortillas into the baking dish. Then she poured canned enchilada sauce over the folded tortillas and then covered all of that with grated cheddar cheese. As the enchiladas baked in the oven, the house filled with a smell that even now is making my mouth water. After 20 minutes, the piping hot, cheesy enchiladas were ready to eat. It was heaven!
Over the years I have tried to duplicate her cooking. I never learned how to make a pie -- it was her secret and she would not share it with me. The last time I had her apple pie was in 1995. After that she stopped making them for me. She said it was “too much trouble.” I also never leaned how to fry chicken. Another secret she’ll take to her grave.
I’ve leaned how to make potato salad, and everyone who eats my potato says how good it is. The truth is, I do not have the patience to cut the potatoes into small cubes like she did. Also, there’s just “something” missing from my salad. My friends cannot taste it, but I can. Nothing is as good as the salad she made.
I could go on and on about the extraordinary meals that came from her kitchen, especially on holidays like Christmas, Easter and Thanksgiving. I guess I can say I’m lucky to have these good memories, for then I can see that my childhood wasn’t all bad. I do confess, I miss those days of coming home to a house filled with the smells of home cooking.
