The Cook Off Chronicles - Part 2

Over the past week I might finally have gained the Atavan-esque calm I need to cook for almost 200 people. Thank you Coop “Cooking in Harmony” Planning Committee.

     People love to trash-talk the Coop for its work camp ethics. But I think it's amazing, and the problem has less to do with its byzantine rules than its transparency.

      Key Food, for example, somehow organizes its staff to stock the shelves and keep the place relatively clean - I don’t care how they do it, just as long as I find my favorite brand of frozen waffles. At the Coop everyone works, so everyone sees the cracks in the overwrought system, giving tons of fodder for snarky detractors. But really: great food at amazing prices for 2.75 hours of work a month is a decent trade off. Plus I’m more and more fond of this rule-ridden, lumbering, idealistic community.

The Cook Off Chronicles - Part 1

Who let the miniature schnauzer out?
Once when I was about 8, my Mom had a party for scores of people. I remember she made a lumpy brownish mound of something that she called pate. To my young eyes, it looked disgusting. But our agile schnauzer Jolie knew from good liver and, before anyone knew what was what, managed to gobble up a chunk of the stuff - along with half of the other hors d'oeuvres. Oh, the screams of discovery, the sweaty chase, an overturned chair or two, the dog being tossed out the door. All hell breaking loose - this is my association with cooking for many.
            Why then, did I enter the Park Slope Food Coop's cook off which, net-net, means cooking for up to 200 people?  

The 38th Practice of the Kitchen Bodhisattva

Mystery food packets, Miracle Whip, and compassion 

Through Facebook I've recently been in touch with the grown children of good friends of my mother's family in France. When I wrote to Carole, she recalled how kind my mother had been in a time of need. I kind of remember this. But I remember more vividly the uncharacteristically bad meal she served to Carole and her brother Jean-Louis the first time they came to visit. At the time, my mom was living in Manhattan, briefly separated from my father after 20+ years of marriage. Her one-bedroom upper east side flat had a tiny kitchen which never stymied her masterful culinary skills.
My mother's skills in the kitchen were known throughout her Jewish pied noire community. The Meyers also knew from good food, as Mme Meyer has always been known as an excellent cook. But on the famous day when Carole and Jean-Louis arrived one night for dinner, nothing went right. The appetizers were soggy, the meat bland, the salad a little too oily. Nothing inedible, just not my mother's norm of stupendous.
Mom apologized profusely and charmingly, until everyone was laughing as they sipped her excellent coffee and ate the buttery and beautiful store-bought desserts. To me this was the model of graciousness and compassion for her guests that elevated her to a new realm of culinary guru.
Throughout our decades-long tenure in our mother's kitchen, through her sickness and health, and even on her worst days, each meal was a little treasure. So it's no surprise that the Night the Meyers Came for Dinner became a joke between us. Whenever the topic came up, her eyes would meet mine and, with a little rueful laugh she'd say, I still don't know what happened that night. Not wanting to hurt her feelings, but also knowing that the jig was up, I'd have to agree.

**
The other night I made a meal that would have made Mom feel better about the Meyer incident. The recipe came from a flavor envelope that I found on the shelf disembodied from its box of jasmine rice, wedged between two cans of garbanzo beans.

Why Eat Out?

Sadly, eating in is almost always cheaper than eating out. For the price of a dinner at Moutarde I can get a week's worth of meals at Key Food. But Moutarde is my mico-vacation from kitchen worries. There's a heavenly whiteness about the Moutarde decor that elevates its bistro comfiness. The only problem, cost aside, is that my 12-year old hates eating out. 

 Not us. My siblings and I always loved eating out for the sheer uniqueness of it. I remember more about The Clam Box, our family's favorite restaurant in the 60s, than I do most of my childhood. I had a Pavlovian response to the above menu when I saw it on e-bay. The Clam Box was where I tasted my first lobster at age 5. That experience turned me into the brazen eater I am today. I’m convinced this is one of the top reasons why my mother loved me.

Secret Sauce

When she was about 40, Mom went into the hospital for some routine surgery. She hopped out of bed (she had little tolerance for sitting still) and crossed the room. As always, I was overprotective - but she shook me off. "I have to move, don't I?"

 She stood at the window, staring pensively at the Miami skyline. After awhile, she said, "You know what I want?" I leaned in and put my arm around her, happy to do anything for her. "What?" She pointed out the window, the golden arches gleaming in the night. "A Big Mac." That's when I knew she was going to be okay.

This epitomized my Mom. She recognized value regardless of its packaging, the diamond in the rough. It's the same nose for quality that made her so indispensable at Marshall's. She could home right in on the designer gem among the overstuffed rack of pilly knitwear. The ultimate independent, Mom had no problem raving about a meal at La Grenouille while defending the beauty of the Special Sauce. The best things in life were sometimes labeled, sometimes not. You had to follow your instincts.

Like Magic

Every night for 20 years, my mother made dinner. Some nights she made 3 dinners. One for us girls. One for my brother after his hockey practice. One for my Dad when he came in late from the City. After I left for college and she was working hard in real estate, she still managed to muster up gourmet meals every night. 

This makes my head explode. I have one child and one husband. They never require for more than one meal a night. Even still I feel like I've won the lottery when they ask to order from New Happy Taco.
Tonight, though, I'm channeling my Mom. I'm a little tired and it's cold but we just ordered in last night. What can I buy on the way home that will quickly become a delicious meal? I have leftover linguine, which brings to mind Mom's Shrimp in Spicy Tomato sauce, a dish she would often prepare after we flew in from New York.

Exhibit A: Greenbeans

My Mom loved a good discussion almost as much as she liked designer shoes. And although there was plenty of passionate discourse in her kitchen, when it came to cooking vegetables she had the final word.

She was our master chef and, as much as she complimented us on our abilities, we always gratefully accepted our roles as sous chefs.

Mom held by several laws in her kitchen and in life. One was, if you look good, you feel better. This theory has proved true especially as it relates to my hair. It's also why I sometimes apply lipstick while cleaning the bathroom.

The food corollary goes like this:  if it looks beautiful, it tastes better. My sister Karren, a wonderful cook, is a master at this finishing touch. 
Exhibit A : green beans.