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Comamamunity: The Way to the Heart

Not long ago I found myself wistfully recalling the pot roast of my childhood. I remember the carrots and potatoes soaked and wilted under the juice of the slow-cooked beef. Until recently, I considered this meal the domain of my mother's generation. I know it's absurd, but the idea of cooking a pot roast felt like a mythical undertaking. I have always been pretty good at throwing together a salad or soup, but my efforts in the kitchen have included slicing a to-go burrito in half as much as preparing a meal from scratch. I found myself wondering, "Can I do more than roast vegetables? Can I make a pot roast?"

I called my mother and told her I was aspiring to make pot roast and could I have her recipe? The request was surely unexpected, and I think it warmed her heart. My mother and I have shared few warm and fuzzy moments over the years. We don't gossip over wine, get manicures together, or partake in the other mother-daughter rituals I imagine others do. But the unexpected inspiration that came in the form of my mom's pot roast took me by surprise. I began to recall all the meals—from simple to extravagant—that our family has shared.

Like every other family I know, ours had its ups and downs, but good times or bad, we all sat down to dinner together each night. And my mother made a remarkable number of memorable meals. Her commitment to setting a nice table seems in turns heroic, loving, and even a bit sad to me now. We were a family of five, and it's sobering to consider the time, energy, and devotion it required. For most of my childhood, my mother worked, so preparing meals was done after a day at the office. How many nights did she just want to throw a frying pan at the wall? Was it something she saw as her job as wife and mother, something she enjoyed and took pride in, or a little of both?

My father was paid twice a month, so my resourceful mother would create a two-week menu. Drafted in pencil, her ultra-neat cursive writing clearly plotted out fourteen meals. Wondering what was for dinner? Consult the fridge. Groceries were bought in mass, our station wagon stacked full of brown paper grocery bags (the ones without handles, before plastic). The menu amazed my high school friends who found it on our fridge after school. Their disbelief helped me realize this was some kind of masterful approach to homemaking. They got a kick out of picking their night to come over. Saturday, 4/20: Fried chicken, green beans, salad, bread. Sunday, 4/21: Meat loaf, mashed potatoes, peas. Monday 4/22: Spaghetti, garlic bread, salad. Tuesday 4/23: Pork chops, rice, applesauce. Wednesday 4/24: Polish sausage, noodles, and sautéed sauerkraut. Thursday 4/25: Tuna casserole, salad. Friday, 4/26 Hamburgers.

There was enchilada night, chop suey night, and lasagna night. There were homemade soups, biscuits, and macaroni and cheese. There were pork roasts, lamb legs, flank steaks, tri-tips, briskets, roast chickens and sautéed fish. There were slaws and salads and veggies. Friday night was always hamburger night, and my dad took over. I was often put in charge of prepping tomatoes, cheese, red onions, lettuce and pickles and buttering the buns for grilling. Condiments were unceremoniously put directly on the table. The only side dish was a basket of potato chips. I loved the consistency and informality of hamburger night. It felt like an unspoken acknowledgement that we had all survived another week of work, school, and life. It signaled a kind of solidarity that it was everyone's turn to take it easy and keep it simple. A culinary sigh of relief, and I realize now, a relief to see my mother get the night off.

A few weeks after asking my mom about the pot roast recipe, I got a package in the mail. She had sent a collection of favorite family recipes. Leafing through them I was taken by surprisingly sweet memories. It wasn't just the food. It was the bond to family life those meals represented. Those dishes are permanently linked to my experience of togetherness, nourishment, ritual, and even womanhood. Notated on many of the recipes was their origin: Oatmeal & Molasses Raisin Cookies, as made by Don's mother (Frances H. Meyer Dennis) from a recipe made in the 1940s. Mexican Lasagna, a favorite recipe given to JoAnne by sister-in-law, Connie Sennewald & brought to Easter on the beach–c. 1970s. Chili Macaroni, a family favorite found in a 1972 issue of Family Weekly Cookbook Magazine.

Reading through the recipes, I saw something wonderful: countless perfect moments from my childhood. They were perfect moments not because everything was perfect, but because they bring back the best tastes, the best smells, the best anticipation, and the feeling of satiation. They are perfect because they engage my senses and my heart simultaneously. I think for a lot of people, recounting our childhood can be a blurry vision both of happy and sad, magic and disappointment, belonging and alienation. But the humble smell of browning onions or baking cookies can animate and crystallize memories of childhood like a healing elixir. Reading those recipes, I felt happy. I felt gratitude. Recognizing my mother's diligence in feeding her family well reasserted in me an aspect of family I might have discounted. When I look back at my childhood, I now see my mother never stopped feeding me really good things.

My Mom's Famous Cheese Noodles

1 large package of egg noodles (12-16 oz)—cook as directed.
8-12 oz grated cheddar cheese (we like extra sharp)
1 cube butter
Salt & pepper to taste each layer
Milk

Layer half the noodles and cheese & half cube of butter (sliced and distributed on top of cheese), salt & pepper in buttered 9 X 13 baking dish. Use remaining half for second layer of noodles, cheese, butter, salt & pepper. Pour enough milk so there is about a 1/4 inch at bottom of pan. Bake at 350 degrees until golden brown & slightly crunchy on top (45 minutes to 1 hour—or at 375 degrees for 30 minutes—whatever works best time wise).

Enjoy!

column added on 2006-05-28 :: ::

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