Sunday Peas

 Mother love takes many forms.  One of the more common ones is cooking for the family.  Although it seems that, nowadays, as many dads as mothers serve as primary meal preparers, back when I was a child, that job, along with most others having to do with hearth and home, fell to the woman.  And that woman, at least in my neighborhood, proudly saw cooking as central to her identity and vocation.

Not so much my mother.

At Mama's funeral in 2003, my brother lovingly began his eulogy with “There wasn’t a can our mother wouldn’t open to feed her family.”

Mama was a modern woman, an Army lieutenant  who served as a physical therapist in Australia during WWII.  And, being a modern woman, Mama loved new technology, including those newfangled aluminum containers called cans.  If food could sit on a shelf for months or even years without going bad, it had to be good.

 Although Mama maintained that anyone who could read could cook, she was the living embodiment of that untruth. She was a smart and interesting woman but her genius didn't run to the culinary arts. 

Mama just wasn’t interested in cooking.  She was interested in fishing and crabbing and painting, and sewing and knitting and refinishing furniture, and whatever else took her fancy, like learning to play (badly) the small organ she set up in the breakfast room.  This alternative use of a space designed for enjoying meals  provides insight as to the place food held in her psyche.  Mama was one of those “eat to live” as opposed to “live to eat” people.

My mother was also an outsider.  After all, she wasn’t from Georgia.  She was from Arizona of all places.  Folks knew she wasn't a yankee but they couldn’t quite figure out what she was.  Because of her legacy, Mama wasn’t a southern cook.  She didn’t know about fatback or collards and she wasn’t going to waste any time finding out. She did blame Daddy for not telling her that grits should be salted during cooking to make them anywhere near palatable, but she couldn't blame him for her Sunday Peas.

Every Sunday, if I remember correctly, we gathered around our big oak table in the dining room, eating either oven fried chicken coated with Bisquick or chuck roast in aluminum foil.  And with those enticing entrees, we typically had Sunday Peas, which consisted of LeSueur peas heated up with a pat of margarine.

Other days of the week, we had supper in the kitchen at our red formica table, enjoying Salisbury Steak, which was, in our reality, one giant hamburger patty. Mama gave us each a wedge after she sliced it in the frying pan. We also had Chop Suey, which was made with pork chop pieces and canned bean sprouts.  We, of course, also enjoyed that 1950s staple, canned peaches, pears, or fruit cocktail with the requisite dollop of mayonnaise topped with a scattering of grated American cheese.

I remember that our mother always made my brother and me a Boston Cream Pie for our birthdays.  From a Betty Crocker mix.  We called it Boston Cream Pie Cake because it actually was a cake, and we loved it, especially that instant pudding part in the middle.   Mama’s sour cream pound cake, never much of a hit but something she continued to bake throughout her life, should have been called a three-pound cake.

A childhood friend recently reminded me of the time Mama baked  marbles in the oven.  This was a project for our Brownie troop.  The baking of the marbles caused them to crack in an attractive way and we Brownies were then to glue the marbles to fittings in order to make bracelets.  I can't imagine how she found that idea without Pinterest. 

Recalling Mama's bad cooking reminds me of what a wonderful mother she was.   She was kind and creative and loving and brave, and she was a great role model for a little girl (and a grown women).

I think about my mother when I sew or paint or write or think about taking piano lessons, grateful that I had her as a role model.  

Not so gratefully, I also think about her when I cook.

~~~

In case any of you would like my mother's recipe for Sunday Peas, please see below.

Sunday Peas

1 can LeSueur peas

pat of margarine

open can

pour peas in pan

turn on the burner

add margarine

serves 4

You might want to add a dash of salt, although Mama never did.

Haute Cuisine

Neither Joe nor I can cook, although he can grill up a mean steak in his back yard or even in his kitchen with George Forman at the ready.  However, at some point after we started hanging out, we decided we needed something to go with the steak, so our first foray was into the realm of the baked potato.  Now, I know how to cook a baked potato as I eat them all the time.  However, I believe God would never have invented the microwave if He’d not wanted people to “bake” their potatoes in one of them.

Joe disagreed, being the Yankee purist he is.  He said we needed to bake our baked potatoes.  That’s when the degrees argument ensued.  He said 400 for an hour.  I said 350 (because basically 350 is my setting of choice for all cooking).  I won and what we won was a rash of rawish potatoes after an hour.  Joe was smug and said he told me so but I just put the potatoes in the microwave for a few minutes and that way I won again.

Next we tried quiche because Joe is a Francophile, plus I guess he feels manly enough to withstand any aspersive remarks toward said manliness based not only on his quiche eating but also his quiche cooking.   The quiche was good and we ate it for the next three weeks.

Next, we decided to take a cooking class.  Again, because Joe thinks he’s French, we chose the Spring in Paris Hands-On Class at the Cooks Warehouse in Decatur.  It started at 6:30, which is not only late for me to cook or eat, it’s also past my bedtime.   However, I womaned up and we set out for the class (after stopping by Taco Mac so Joe could get his free beer glass because it was Free Beer Glass Night).

Our class consisted of 12 participants in two groups, a bevy of sweet volunteers, and Chef John Wilson, who was not only not French, he was also a bit of an ass.  Our group had Joe and me, an adorable mid-20s couple who were just moving in together, a woman who was a history professor at Agnes Scott, and another woman who just liked to cook.

Chef John yelled a lot, although I don't entirely blame him.  He had an ambitious menu and 12 morons in the kitchen, people who couldn't follow directions very well.  The menu consisted of:

Three Cheese Spread with Olive Oil

Corn, Tomato, and Basil Individual Souffles

Green Beans with Bacon and Mushrooms

Pan Seared Sea Scallops with Beurre Blanc Sauce

Buttery Madeleines

Chef John was an equal opportunity yeller and we all caught some of his wrath; however, I was the only one he told to step away from the stove and to "go stand over there."  Somehow, though, having John abuse us only brought our group together in that weird common foe way.   And the class was really fun, although I think we should wait until after our instructor retires and opens that bed and breakfast he's planning before we show up for another one.

Since the class, we haven't used anything we learned, although Joe spent about thirty bucks on a Madeleine pan and a lemon zester.  We did cook a pot roast (at 350) in 80 degree weather a few weeks ago.  It took us all day but tasted good and certainly warmed our bones.  We still go to the Waffle House for breakfast most days and supper is often a bag of Lay's Salt and Vinegar potato chips.

I can't remember the temperature for baking Madeleines.  I wonder what Chef John would say if I were to tell him I just cook them in the microwave.

The Cast Iron Skillet and some Thoughts about Family

I come from a long line of bad cooks.  My mama preferred fishing or shrimping or knitting or painting or playing that god-awful little organ of hers to cooking.  Me, I’d rather be reading or writing or watching House Hunters International than doing anything in the kitchen.  But Mama was a good mama, a post WWII mama, who believed the key to a happy family was dinner on the table, eating all together, and that’s why she gave me the cast iron skillet for a wedding present.

I liked that skillet for several reasons.  One, it was from my mother whom I loved dearly and respected more than just about anyone.  Two, it felt historical, knowing that people had used iron skillets for eons.  Three, it didn’t have to be cleaned all that well.  In fact, it wasn’t supposed to be cleaned at all.  For someone who enjoys cleaning even less than cooking, there it was gaving me personal permission not to clean it.

That’s because iron skillets need to be seasoned.  True to form, Mama gave me more detailed instruction on seasoning the skillet than she did on cooking with it.  Seasoning involved lathering it with lard or, in Mama’s modern case, Crisco from the can, and then putting it in the oven for a while.  When it came out, you were supposed to cool it down, wipe it out, put it in the cabinet, and never wash it again.  Just wipe it out.

I used that skillet most days for the twenty years of my married life.   However, when I divorced, and in spite of my still needing to feed my kids, I left that skillet along with the house Gary (aka The Big Kat) and I had built in our younger and more optimistic days.

Twenty-one years later, my oldest child, Melissa, moved back to Georgia with her husband, Trevor. In less than two months' time, Kat had had enough of three generations living together and decided to purchase a new home, one close by but far enough away.

Trevor is a cook, a good cook, one who likes the old ways.  And while all my kids inherited my lack of culinary skills, and my grandkids, Miles and Cami, inherited my left handedness, my last grandchild, Georgia, inherited her father’s interest in cooking.  So these days, my son-in-law and my granddaughter stand in the same kitchen where I stood so many years back, sautéing in the cast-iron skillet my mother gave me over forty years ago.

That’s family for you, inheriting some things you hope for and expect, and others you couldn't even begin to imagine.

Waiting for Dinner

I’m glad my daughter, Melissa, married her husband, Trevor, for quite a few reasons. First and foremost, he's taken her off my hands and generally puts up with her. Second and secondmost, he’s a great father to Miles and Georgia, who, by the way, look alarmingly like him.

But another important reason I’m happy to have Trevor as a son-in-law is that, of everyone in our immediate family, he is the only one, and I do mean only one, who can cook.

The Big Kat, my ex and the father of my children, has vegetable soup as his signature dish. Said soup is made by pouring canned vegetables in a pot with one chicken bouillon cube and boiling it.

Although my son, Billy, purports to excel in All Things Poultry (i.e. an egg or a boneless breast of chicken) using the melting-butter-and-then-putting-the-poultry-item-in-a-pan-and-covering-it method, the only recipe of his I’ve personally experienced is his Flaming Fart Dip. No need to say any more about that.

Molly, my youngest, is a master at Hamburger Helper and frozen dinners. However, during a recent foray into better eating, she called to ask about fresh vegetables. When I inquired as to if she knew how to peel a carrot, she said in a somewhat sad and tremulous, not to mention a tad accusatory, voice that she didn’t know how to peel anything.

Melissa, who doesn’t cook much at all since she snagged Trevor with her womanly charms, still likes to call my Coca Cola ham recipe her own, although she has to phone me on the Wednesday before every Thanksgiving, asking me what the ingredients are. Since there are only four: ham, brown sugar, honey mustard, and yes, a can of Coca Cola, I’m able to help her no matter where I am or what I’m doing. The only problem with my rendition of Coca Cola ham is that its ultimate level of success depends on how long I sleep the night before, as it is meant to be cooked all night. If I undersleep, it’s underdone. If I oversleep, well, you get it.

So, we are left to Trevor and he with us.

Trevor is a very good cook, a gourmet cook.  He loves good food, fine wines, and craft beers (whatever they are).  He actually flips his dough while making the best pizzas in the world. The bad news for Trevor is that we, his adopted family, are, at best, an inadequate group of appreciators.   Remember, we are the Hamburger Helper, Flaming Fart people.

However, a dearth of understanding of the culinary arts and a lack of palate don't stop us from sitting around and waiting for dinner to come to us.  In the summer, we gather in the back yard, eyeing the grill.  In the winter, we decorate the couch, sniffing the air for food-like aromas. At Christmas, we sit under the tree like a biggie-sized nativity scene, looking like we are expecting our entree to arrive with Baby Jesus.

Waiting for dinner, that's what we do.  That's all we contribute.  And, overall, we are pretty good at waiting.  In fact, it seems we will wait forever.

And that's because Trevor, being the artiste he is, can't be hurried.  Dinner, for him, is a journey, not a destination.  Off to Salmon Dan's house across the street for fish so fresh it's straight from Dan's beer cooler still in the back of Dan's boat sitting in Dan's driveway.  Then down the block to Sharon's coop for eggs so new the hens are still checking under their feathered asses. Finally, he comes through the front door as our mouths begin their serious optimistic waterings, but no, out the back door he goes to the garden for salad greens, reds, and yellows.

Back in the kitchen, he opens a bottle of wine, letting it breathe, and then mixes up an exquisite dressing for the salad.  We, on the other hand, share the couch and a mint from the bottom of my purse.

When dinner finally arrives, it's to die for and we are spent, all of our work done.

Trevor thinks one day he'd like to open a small restaurant, a breakfast or lunch place, farm to table, only the freshest ingredients.

But, in case his patrons get tired of waiting for fresh, good, and real food, or if they run out of bottom-of-the-bag mints, maybe he'll want to offer Billy's dip as an appetizer to keep them entertained while they wait.

Tuna Tuesday

I come from a short line of bad cooks. My mother always said that anyone who could read could cook, but she and I proved her wrong. At Mama’s funeral, my brother brought us all to tears when he said, “There wasn't a can our mother wouldn’t open to make sure we were fed.” Because I am a more modern cook, my preferred mode of culinary conveyance is the microwave. I not only nuke normal items like potatoes and frozen foods, I also microwave meatloaf and barbecued chicken, dishes known for their slow cooking in order to develop flavor. I tend to believe fast cooking just develops it faster.

When I was married, The Big Kat said that whatever fell out of the freezer when I opened it was what we had for supper on any given day. That wasn’t true, but about once a month we would have what I liked to call our Missionary Meal, which was made up of all the tiny bits of leftovers from former tasty meals I’d packed away in the freezer. There would be a spoonful of this and a spoonful of that on each of our plates, all suffering from some degree of freezer burn. I think that was about the time Melissa started eating soup from a can, literally from the can without benefit of bowl or stove-top or even microwave. Billy still swears he starts swelling up when he just gets a gander at my French fries because of the amount of salt I put on them. I am one of those cooks who thinks if a little bit of something is good, a lot of it will be that much better, especially when that something is salt.


Then there was my powdered milk phase. When Melissa and Billy were little, instead of buying milk and just having to throw it out when it went bad, I discovered the wonderfulness of powdered milk. It was especially great for cereal. My technique was this: pour the cereal in a bowl, pour on some still-granulated powdered milk, walk over to the sink to add a little water from the faucet, stir, and, finally, holler "breakfast is ready!" It was perfect for kids who knew no better until their Aunt Dianne invited them for a sleepover and ruined everything with her refrigerated real milk the next morning.

I’ve passed the bad cooking gene down to all three of my kids. Billy has as his signature dish something known as Flaming Fart Dip, and Melissa has been relegated to dish-washing duty in her family. The other day, I was talking on the phone to Molly and there was a strange noise in the background. When I asked her if she was peeling carrots, she said she wasn’t because she didn’t know how to peel anything. The noise was, instead, associated with tearing the plastic wrap off of something before putting it in the microwave, which, I surmise, is a form of peeling, thereby proving Molly wrong as she can, indeed, peel something.

Not too long ago, my friend Allison invited Molly and me over for dinner. She said it wouldn't be any trouble, she's just do up a London Broil. When I told Molly about it she was really excited, but, because she is my child, she wasn't quite sure what a London Broil was. When she got home, she called Billy in Oregon, asking him what he thought it was. His response: "I'm not absolutely sure, but I'm pretty confident it's some kind of fish."

Although not a good cook, I am an organized planner. When the kids were growing up, they could always expect fish sticks on Friday even though we were Methodist and not Catholic. Monday was tacos; Tuesday, spaghetti; Wednesday, Tuna Helper; and Thursday, dogs in a blanket. Since I didn't want to have the DFACS people stopping by and interfering in my life, there were usually some vegetables thrown in each evening, mostly broccoli.

Now that I live alone and because I love alliteration, most every week I have Salmon Sunday, Meatloaf Monday and Tuna Tuesday. After that, it falls apart since I can’t cook anything that begins with W or Th and because Allison and I do our early bird dinner on Fridays. Saturdays are sometimes saved for my current specialty, which I first called Mexican Goulash because of its cilantro and noodles. Then when I realized that I might not have offended enough ethnic or food groups with that name and when I remembered my special secret seasoning (Tony Chachere's) and the fact that I sort of stir fry it, I changed it to Mexican Cajun Asian Goulash. So far, no one has accepted my invitations to stop by for a taste.

As sad as this story has been so far, there is a happy ending. When I'm in Portland, I eat like the queen I was meant to eat like. That's because of Melissa. Whereas some people marry into money, Melissa married into culinary expertise in the form of Trevor Stelson. Melissa's husband, Trevor, is a fantastic cook who creates dishes out of his brain and out of his garden, things I don't even know what they are, but they sure are good. If it weren't for Trevor, we'd all be skinny or dead or most likely both.

However, although Trevor is a great cook, he's not a perfect husband. One afternoon a couple of summers ago, Melissa and I were at her house with Miles, who was still a baby. Trevor, however, wasn't at home. He was out drinking beer. Melissa was talking about how it's usually the women who end up keeping the kids while the men are out carousing. I concurred, saying how women have to do it all, how we are overworked and under-appreciated. At that point, I looked at Melissa and asked, "What are we having for supper?" to which she responded, "I don't know. We'll have to wait until Trevor gets home."

So it looks like we'll have to keep Trevor, despite his need to play and/or watch every sporting event known to humankind and don't forget that beer thing. I just wonder if I could get him to spend his winters in Atlanta. I wonder if he would like my Mexican Cajun Asian Goulash.