If there is one thing I could go back in time and change, it would be to cook with my Grandmother.
My Dad's mom died when I was a scant 10 years old and lived all the way in California so I never really got the chance to experience, appreciate, and memorize her cooking. I loved my Dad's parents very much and I still love that Creole Californian family, but I have to admit I am closer to my Mom's family. I think it has a lot to do with proximity. Both families are spread but my Dad is from the west coast and my mom is from Michigan. One requires 5 hours on a plane, the other 1 1/2 hours (or 10 hours in a car, which we have done numerous times). As a result, I saw my Mom's family multiple times a year and my Dad's once or twice a year. Thanksgiving and Jewish holidays were spent in Michigan. I went to camp for 4 weeks up north every year. My grandparents were present for almost every childhood birthday and even made it down for Grandparent's day at my hoity-toity middle school.
New Year's Eve and some Christmases were spent in Florida with one of my Dad's brothers (he has 5 brothers and 1 sister...my grandparents really wanted that girl). Some other relatives would fly down and it was always a big party. (That's my Dad's family. The "lets go out to the farm and roast a pig" partiers. My Mom's family is the "lets make a reservation as a fancy restaurant, invite 20 or so of our closest friends and family, and get all gussied up" partiers. Both have their merits.) Anyway, trips to California mostly happened before I entered 5th grade so I don't remember them that well. I remember my Grandparent's house at Easter time. I remember my Grandpa calling me "poochy". I remember my Grandma's apron. I remember their backyard with the kumquat tree. But it's mostly snippets.
I vividly remember my mom's mom. After all, she only died two years ago. I remember how she would yell my Grandpa's name, telling him to "call Jack!" to repair something. I remember her standing at the kitchen sink, cutting up strawberries to be kept in a bowl in the refrigerator to pick from. I remember sitting next to her and asking her if she could knit without looking then laughing with her as she held my gaze for a couple minutes while smiling and saying "I don't know. Can I knit without looking?". She loved to shop. She loved to entertain. And I was spoiled because for almost 18 years, I was the youngest grandchild, the baby. I think I am a lot like her in many ways. I have been told that I look just like her when she was younger and I can't argue with that (nor would I want to). I definitely have her cheekbones and her big toe (which puts me up at a whopping size 11 1/2 shoe) and her hands.
Back to the point. I wish I could go back in time and cook with her. Or at least watch her. I cannot believe that I never did that. She was always cooking and she was the best. I know everybody says their grandmother was the best but I believe everybody is right. And mine was the best. She could produce perfect London Broils, with a tender and juicy inside and a crisp, caramelized outer crust. Somehow the fruit at her house was always riper and sweeter than other fruit. She had two kitchens, each with two ovens. In the basement, there was a giant refrigerator sized freezer where she kept meat that the butcher would deliver regularly. She would decide what she wanted to cook and with a simple "Go pull some lamb chops from the freezer", she was ready. And yet, I never stuck around to see how she made the chops. I was a helped but never really helped. I would retreat to the living room or kitchen table with my book or my knitting (or, later in life, my cell phone) and let her work her magic in peace.
I know, I know. How could this be? I am so infatuated with cooking now that it is hard to believe I once didn't care to learn. The closest I came was making "soup" when I was a child (throwing whole vegetables into a pot of water and simmering for 20 minutes. My mother ate it, bless her heart). This doesn't count baking. I baked up a storm with my mom for holiday cookies. My dad and I always took on the task of the double layer cake for birthdays, experimenting with icing flavors. There were isolated incidents when I would take it upon myself to produce something for Thanksgiving or Passover. But my cooking bug had not caught on. And I missed out on the greatest resource I had.
I should have watched how she worked in the kitchen. I should have paid attention to the ingredients and timing and how to tell if things are done. I should have smelled and tasted and memorized and recorded. But now I just have memories of the meals and no way to recreate them except through my own experimentation. I like to think that I have enough of her in me to get the job done but there is no doubt that I am a sloppy and somewhat impatient chef. So hopefully she is guiding me.
There is so much more I could say about this wonderful woman who was such a big part of my life. But I'll save it for another post.
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