Living to Eat

As far back as I can remember, food has been a gigantic part of my life.  Dad was a chef for most of my life, but Mom is the one who actually showed me how to cook.  I was making scrambled eggs, grilled cheese sandwiches, and Campbell’s tomato soup by the time I was 6.  I never actually ate scrambled eggs, mind you, because I’ve hated eggs ever since I can remember.  Even thinking about the smell and the texture makes me gag.  I can’t be in the same room if someone is eating any kind of egg.  Have to digress here, but usually someone who loves food so completely has something they don’t like.  In addition to eggs, I’m not a big seafood eater (but I’m trying), and I can’t stand okra.  The brilliant Robin Williams once described okra as “boogers wearing a sweater,” and I don’t feel he was all that far from the truth.  I’m sure even Andrew Zimmer or Anthony Bourdain have things that they just can’t eat, and I’ve seen Andrew Zimmer eat an ocean stew that way too closely resembled ejaculate.  He remarked that it was so thick that it made his lips stick together. It was incredibly revolting.  I turned around to see Mom’s reaction, and she opened her mouth with a loud, wet smack, and sent me into hysterics. Anthony straight up ate an antelope colon with the Kalahari bushmen.  They squished out the poop, gave it a roast, and served it right up, and that was right after he ate an ostrich egg omelette that had been roasted right in the fire ashes.  I don’t have nearly the intestinal fortitude of those guys, which is unfortunate, because I know there’s a lot out there that I should put in my mouth.  Okay, yeah that sounds filthy, but it’s a big deal in my family.  If Mom approaches you, and says, “Put this in your mouth,” it’s not a request, it’s an order.  There’s an implicit trust there, so without hesitation you just have to open your mouth and let Mom or Susie (my sister, the youngest) shove a food in there.  Susie will even prepare the perfect bite just for me if we’re having a restaurant meal, and I know that’s big love right there.  She does the same for mom, and for her husband Leo.  Now Leo has food rules, and food rules drive me crazy, but my hate for eggs drives a lot of people crazy so I can’t say too much about it.  Leo is the MOST fun to watch when he eats.  He’s got these caterpillary eyebrows that wiggle like a drunk uncle at a wedding trying to do The Worm.  Mom will stop what she’s doing just to watch his face as he eats, especially if it’s her cooking.  Mom’s cooking is beautiful.  It helps mend hearts, and satisfies the soul.  Susie, Daniel (my brother) and I, and our families all swear that her gravy could cure cancer.  I’m fairly confident that in small part, Leo, and my husband Tony, married Susie and I for mom’s cooking.  Susie and I have learned her most of her recipes, and now we cook for our families all the time. Mom does have two main things with her cooking that I have yet to master, but I vow to learn.  The first is her cancer curing gravy.  Maybe I am cooking the roux too long, or not long enough.  My gravy tastes way floury, and turns into glue immediately.  Mom’s tastes smooth and takes on the taste of whatever grease was used to make it.  A skin doesn’t form on it for at least half an hour.  The other technique is her perfectly golden crunchy on the outside, mealy tender on the inside, skillet sized hash brown.  Once she’s satisfied that she’s applied enough butter, and one side is cooked and ready to be flipped, does she grab a spatula?  Well yes, but only to peek at the underside, and loosen the grip on the skillet.  This is where the technique comes in.  She takes the pan off the burner with both hands, does a slight graceful bend of the knee, flicks her wrists, and sends that puppy skyward for a full 360 flip.  She has never missed.  Not once.