Who is in the kitchen?
In the pantheon of great family food, ours would probably not find a place.
That is, unless, there were a special category for cheap and weird food.
My Mom, as wonderful as she was, had a limited repertoire of meals, some of which were unusual at best…at least unusual when compared with most people who ate in the U.S.
We ate things like tripe in white sauce which tasted like, oh, let me think, a fat rubber band in white sauce.
And, if you know what tripe is, well, that only adds to the awfulness. Tripe is the lining of a cow’s stomach. We ate kidneys. We ate chicken feet and we ate liver and onions. Enough said.
Now Mom wasn’t tied to these delicacies. They were, of course, the food that she had eaten as a child right after World War I in Camborne in the UK.
She did learn to make bolognese sauce from our neighbor who was a cook on the Andrea Doria steam ship. She did attempt to make chow mein, which my youngest sister absolutely refused to eat.
Mom had her high points in the kitchen.
She made a sublime chicken fricassee with dumplings, dumplings as light as clouds. Her lemon chiffon pie was equally delicious as was her special blanc mange, a pudding of inestimable lusciousness.
My Dad, though, a man who dined daily at various eateries in New York City would often step in and make something which for us was the epitome of exotic … something like a crab salad.
But it was on Sunday morning that Dad shone as the family breakfast chef.
After 7:30 Mass the family would stop at the IGA for a carton of orange juice and some fresh kaiser rolls, you know, the kind with poppy seeds.
Once at home we would set the table while Daddy would begin by frying bacon.
After that comestible reached its perfect done-ness, he would fry cubed potatoes that Mom had boiled the night before.
With salt, pepper and some parsley they reached a crispness that is difficult to explain. You would simply have to taste their crunchy outside and soft insides to know.
Fried eggs joined the bacon and home fries on our plates along with rolls and OJ.
That was Sunday morning every week. First church, then breaksfast. Nothing elaborate but elaborate in the way its memory evokes the idea that we were building bonds that lasted through a lot of difficult times.
Then came the era of Ann and Sunday dinner.
I had always wanted to learn to cook.
It was what the women did in our world and I wanted in.
My grandmother offered her expert tutelage and over time I became the appointed Sunday supper chef. I perfected only one meal, fried chicken, mashed potatoes, peas and biscuits.
I am smiling now as I recall how proud I was that no one complained. With three siblings, that was a great feat.
The chicken was always crisp, the potatoes smooth and buttery and the peas were warmed from the freezer. The biscuits were the best of the meal. I still remember the recipe: 2 cups flour, 4 tablespoons of shortening or butter, 4 teaspoons of baking powder, 2/3 more or less of milk. Brush with whole milk and cook for 10 minutes or so at 400 degrees.
Sunday dinner had a grand finale which was also my Dad’s creation.
Using oblong glass dishes we got when Swanson turkey pies had a big promotion, my father made real banana splits for us every week they were legendary even among our friends who were lucky enough to share the meal.
Each of us had a whole split banana, three scoops of ice cream with three different sauces, topped by whipped cream and a cherry.
Family rarely missed Sunday meals at our house.
I made up for the tripe.
