celebrating a family member

[oneidaone]

Today would have been my Dad's 84th birthday. For months I have been thinking what would

be a good quote for my signature, couldn't think of one. Thought of all the food writing I've read,

all the great events I've been to and what I heard at those. I just couldn't get it. So today while

I was cooking food for Manele & Koele and listening to some of my Dad's favorite songs (trucking

and cowboy songs to be exact) it came to me. This quote came one day when we were all sitting

around talking about eating and restaurants and places his friends owned and this is his famous

quote, and I believe it to be pretty true! Anyone else have any favorite quotes from family about

food/eating/reastuarants? Thanks Dad, Hauoli La Hanau and A hui hou...Daknuns

[chezcherie]

nice tribute to your dad...

[Maison Rustique]

I'm so sorry for your loss. My Dad's been gone for nearly 11 years and I still miss him every day.

[ronnie_suburban]

What a nice tribute to your dad.

I remember my dad teaching me the joys of eating marrow. I was probably about 5 or 6. One night at dinner I watched him remove the marrow from each bone, spread it on some toast and suck it down. When I asked what it was, he said it was called the "treat." Of course, once he called it a treat, I had to try it and I've loved it ever since.

My dad, as he loved to recount, worked in a deli when he was 14 years old. 30+ years later his connections were still paying dividends -- even for me! His former boss, Alex, had become the manager of the old Sinai 48 Outlet Store on Pershing Avenue, before it was bought by Best Kosher. Anyway, every once in a while he used to send me down to "see Alex" which meant picking up a with box loaded with salamis, hot dogs, polish sausages, corned beef, bologna, tongue and a kosher variety of imitation bacon called beef fry, IIRC. Alex would always be sure to ask if I wanted a sandwich -- an offer I never refused. They were just perfect; thinly-sliced hard salami or tender corned beef, piled high on perfectly fresh rye bread with a generous schmear of Plochman's yellow mustard. Dad definitely knew the coolest folks.

My dad's been gone for a little over 10 years and I think about him every day. So many of the foods I love are ones to which he introduced me, so he's never very far away.

=R=

[Pan]

Very sorry for your loss.

I can't think of a quote about food from my father offhand, but I'll always remember how he introduced me to innards and certain kinds of fish and seafood that my mother doesn't eat. And also the special dishes he cooked mostly on weekends when I was a kid, and how he later learned how to cook Indian food very well, especially Chettinad Chicken. My father is alive but hasn't cooked much in a long time. When I visit, I usually come bringing some excellent takeout from one or the other of my favorite Chinese restaurants.

Second thought, I remember my father telling me about the diet his doctor in Florence put him on, which included "Solo un bicchiere di vino nero con ogni pasto" ("Only one glass of red [literally, black] wine with every meal"). He lost weight on that diet!

[chow guy]

What a nice tribute to your dad.

I remember my dad teaching me the joys of eating marrow.  I was probably about 5 or 6.  One night at dinner I watched him remove the marrow from each bone, spread it on some toast and suck it down.  When I asked what it was, he said it was called the "treat."  Of course, once he called it a treat, I had to try it and I've loved it ever since.

My dad, as he loved to recount, worked in a deli when he was 14 years old.  30+ years later his connections were still paying dividends -- even for me!  His former boss, Alex, had become the manager of the old Sinai 48 Outlet Store on Pershing Avenue, before it was bought by Best Kosher.  Anyway, every once in a while he used to send me down to "see Alex" which meant picking up a with box loaded with salamis, hot dogs, polish sausages, corned beef, bologna, tongue and a kosher variety of imitation bacon called beef fry, IIRC.  Alex would always be sure to ask if I wanted a sandwich -- an offer I never refused.  They were just perfect; thinly-sliced hard salami or tender corned beef, piled high on perfectly fresh rye bread with a generous schmear of Plochman's yellow mustard.  Dad definitely knew the coolest folks.

My dad's been gone for a little over 10 years and I think about him every day.  So many of the foods I love are ones to which he introduced me, so he's never very far away.

=R=

←

My Dad owned restaurants so being raised in the busimess took the mystery out of food early on. I'm very grateful for that. I remember once he made a big pot of mushroom soup. My brothers and I were not going to eat any of that yuky stuff, till he said it was for adults only. Of course, after that we couldn't get enough of his wonderful soup. He loved shad roe and liver and onions, which my mother always cooked on birthday. I miss him.

[DTBarton]

Nice idea. My Dad is still with us but old age is encroaching quickly. Doesn't do the food related things like he used to.

No particular phrases, but he taught me to have an interest in food and that it was OK for a man to cook (and do dishes). He used to make bread on weekends, was very fond of Oysters Ernie http://www.recipecottage.com/shellfish/oysters-ernie.html and at the beach was obsessive about serving the fish we'd caught that day simply broiled with butter, salt, pepper and lemon and to the table piping hot. It was worth the effort every time.

[oneidaone]

My Dad was an interesting character. Born and raised on a reservation in Wisconsin, lived the simple life although a hard one. Hunted, fished, picked berries and beans for a few pennies a day,

canned whatever they had with his mother. He went on to be a Flying Tiger and won the Distinguished Flying Cross among other decoration. He was an airline pilot for 30 years and used to

fly the White House press corps around for Kennedy, Johnson and Nixon. He has these amazing stories about going to the Johnson ranch for those big bar-b-q's that they would host. Lyndon called

him "Chief" and my dad coached him in skeet shooting. My dad ate all over the country and knew of all the little holes in the wall and would often bring back bread from SF, whole crabs, bolillos from

Mexico that were so good warm with LOTS OF BUTTER. I sometimes forget what an incredible palate he had in the simplest ways. He loved to travel the country in his beloved motor home and eat at his diamond in the rough favorite "ham 'n' eggers." He loved that my first job at 15 was at the drugstore lunch counter going to get the groceries down the street and then making the homemade

meatloaf, boiling the potatoes for hash browns, hand made burger patties, coming home smelling like the griddle. He ate there everyday when I worked and he was actually in town. He had a thing for not so great coffee which I never understood! Drank copious amounts of it all day/night. He would be pleased that all of you have such good memories of your folks too! a hui hou........

[Tess]

Happy Birthday, oneidaone's Dad!

My Mom's birthday is coming up on the the 15th; we lost her much too early. *Her* mother was an obsessive cook who could certainly have produced a cookbook or two; my mother rebelled from all that and only started cooking much when we were in high school and college. But she got really good at it.

Mom had a very funny way with words and I'm sure some remarks about food will come back to me. The only one I can think of offhand was that she said eating grapefruit was "A lot of darn hard work for nothing." That sounds kind of like W.C. Fields might have said it first-- which would also fit with my Mom and her family.

[suzilightning]

happy birthday to oneidaone's dad. so cool you knew him as well as you did.

all i do know about my dad was he was a mechanic with the flying tigers over the hump and later became a master carpenter. cool stories about your dad and lbj and the food he experienced.

hang onto them and put them down in written as well as oral form. they are invaluable gifts to the future generations.

as far as the sig line: it is almost the time to change it to my great grandmothers - though i'm sure it isn't her quote i can't quite track it down but it was always quoted to me as a kid out on shelter island....

happy memories to all

[srhcb]

My Dad was an interesting character. Born and raised on a reservation in Wisconsin, lived the simple life although a hard one. Hunted, fished, picked berries and beans for a few pennies a day, canned whatever they had with his mother. He went on to be a Flying Tiger and won the Distinguished Flying Cross among other decoration. He was an airline pilot for 30 years and used to fly the White House press corps around for Kennedy, Johnson and Nixon.

Oneidaone,

Sounds like your Dad was a very special member of a very special generation. It's interesting how so many of them were able to turn their experiences of hardship growing up in the Great Depression and fighting in WWII to theirown, and ultimately our advantage.

My Dad's older brother, my Uncle Ralph, also flew in SE Asia during the war, and that skill helped him land a job as Sales Representative for the regional Caterpillar equipment distributor where he also piloted company aircraft until they switched over to jets in the 1970's.

I hope you're able to write more about your Dad's unique life and times. From your Board Name I assume you're very proud of your Oneida, (Iroquois), heritage. For anyone interested, they have an excellent web site at:

www.oneidanation.org

My own Father has an interesting dining habit that might be considered a "signature". Befitting his civil engineering background, he eats with design and purpose. Every item is eaten in order so he ends up with one bite of each left in the end. If he notices things may not come out right, he'll add a bit more during the meal. Even now, dealing with Alzheimers and Parkinsons, he still eats this way.

One odd thing is that once you're aware of him doing this, you find yourself unconciously doing it yourself!

SB (honoring all the Dad's, past and still living, of the "Greatest Generation")

[JeanneCake]

Here's to your dad, and to your wonderful memories....

For me, my dad is growing older and it is hard to watch him struggle with every day things; it isn't easy to see your heroes become human. But sharing your memories makes me remember hot summer nights with us sitting on the stoop with a popsicle each (quite a treat, when you're 4, to be awake when it's dark and definitely past your bedtime! My father finished his degree at night so sometimes I would get to stay up and we'd stay outside and have ice cream but the big treat for me was a double-stick popsicle. Blue was my favorite!).

I am also recalling making "gravy" (what we called red sauce in our house) with our own tomatoes and basil; and watching my parents roll out tons of ravoli on a Saturday night every few months (these were the days of the mandatory Sunday dinner at the grandparents. We always brought the ravioli. They'd make enough to fill the freezer, so the ravioli exercise was rare enough to be an adventure to watch. Plus the thrill of how long would it take for me to get caught! I would get out of bed, with my pillow and a blanket, and open my door just enough so I could watch them and eventually, they would see me and the gig was up.

So, thank you, for sharing your dad with us, and for giving us a moment to remember those dear to us. I hadn't thought about those popsicle nights in a long time....and now I want to make some ravioli....

[Angela Alaimo]

My Grandma Tedder, my mother's mother, is who you are reminding me of. I still cook some of her dishes and even used one of her food phrases just last night. How about that.

"Make out your supper."

Angela

[Badiane]

My Dad is celebrating his 82nd birthday today. Y'all have made me cry, right here at my desk. I'd tell you about him, but people are beginning to stare.

He's a strong man, my Dad...between my sister and I, he's suffered Sweet and Sour Spam, half cooked meatloaf, all manner of food 'made pretty' with food coloring, about a million EZ Bake oven desserts and every single one of my culinary school experiments. After each and every one, he would give a big hug, congratulate us on our efforts and utter his now famous (at our house, anyway) line:

"That was interesting, but you don't need to make it again on my account"

So tonight, just for you, Dad, it's plain roast chicken, boiled potatoes, gravy, peas and carrots. Just like you like it. And just for you, I will overbeat the cake and hop up and down in front of the oven so it falls in the middle, just like you like it. And I promise, I won't put any blue food coloring in the icing

Edited September 7, 2005 by Badiane (log)

[racheld]

My Dad was an airplane mechanic and became a Master Carpenter, as well. His war service was all spent in Albuquerque, at the flight training grounds, and since one mechanic was required to go up with each flight, he spent quite a few hours in the air. I don't know if it was that someone had to be aboard who could make an adjustment or fix a gauge, etc. in an emergency, or whether, like the legend of the parachute packers, you had to take the same risks as the guys you were keeping the planes safe for.

My Mother was left-handed, and my Mammaw just could not tolerate seeing her use a knife "backward," so there was NO cooking training going on. Mother was allowed to do all other domestic chores, including washing all the dishes, but cooking was not among her talents when they got married. She was legendary for well-browned undercooked chicken (which she hated anyway, and ate only the liver) and for shoeleather meats and breads.

So Daddy, having been raised by a mother with cooking skills similar to Mother's, was already a good baker and fryer and vegetable cook, though everything was cooked in the good old Southern "cooked down low" manner as to greens and green beans, peas, butterbeans, etc. All vegetables were tender and seasoned to perfection, with a good chunk of pork or bacon, cut into fan slices held together by the tough, flexible rind.

And Daddy DID love to cook. He fed whole Fire Departments and Police departments and the Sheriff's entire staff in our area. He could put on a fishfry or a barbecue or a Brunswick stew supper that drew crowds for miles. He and several friends established a (pardon the vulgar-sounding name) "Nut and Gut Club" which referred to their propensity for hilarity and for consuming gargantuan meals of game, beef, barbecue, fish, froglegs, and their most famous: Duck suppers. They would pool their bounty of mallards from the freezer each Winter, and have a couple of "feeds" to which every male in the community was invited, including some wee ones in diapers.

Men in that part of the country had no qualms about grabbing up a just-walking little boy and sticking him in the pickup on the way to a duckblind. They still do, and the number of carseats in Broncos and Rams now almost equal the number of firearms in the rack--and some of those carseats now carry tiny girls in State or Ole Miss sweatshirts, joining in merrily in their Daddy's Bubba-type activities.

And so these preposterone-laden events included any guy who liked a rousing, food-and-joke filled evening. Daddy built a huge reception hall out on the river, just for gatherings of this type, and entertained every dignitary, Congressman, Senator and interesting visitor our state had to offer, plus quite a few who traveled from "far off," the most incongruous one to me being Liberace, in town to visit a friend of ours whose antiques were world-famous. (The Bedazzling One wore jeans).

And Daddy had a courtly, gentlemanly manner which translated well to any kind of mixed gathering, or ladies' groups or church functions. We always said he'd come home after a day of hot, hard work, get all showered and dressed, and go to a dogfight if they were serving cake after. Over the years, he acquired cooking implements and stoves and warming ovens and bread proofers and every pot and pan known to man. He LOVED to feed people, and would just get the urge, go buy forty pounds of chicken thighs, make a cauldron of dumplings, and carry Tupperwares to everybody he could think of. And he wasn't above calling them to come get some, if time was limited and supper was ready...there would be a steady stream of cars in the drive and rings of the doorbell til the last scrape of the pot disappeared into the Winter night, held safe and warm in cold hands on the way home.

We closed out the family home on Thanksgiving weekend the year after my Mother's death; the sheer number of items stocking that kitchen was mind-numbing; the nesting pots and their lids, the skillets of all sizes and shapes, the ladles hanging like stalactites in graduated sizes from soup-kitchen to boardinghouse to doll-stew; the knives and spoons and cannisters and ranks of vinegar bottles and dishes which could have served hundreds. The three freezers were transported "as is," one to each household, with their cargo of hard-won game, greens, cut corn, homemade soups and sauces and stews. After packing and splitting all the household into three rented trucks, we finally gave up, laid out dozens and hundreds of items on the bare dining room and sunroom floors, and called the neighbors in. They chose and loaded and carried, murmuring their appreciation and their memories of which dish had brought what wonderful dinner to their house, and when.

Daddy's been gone for more than a year, now, and the cooking memories are the ones which linger strongest. Those gnarled old hands, scarred and battered and calloused from decades of hard work, chopped and stirred and folded and layered and seasoned with a magic not found in restaurants or clubs or diners or famous kitchens. There was nothing better in his life, no enjoyment, no reward, to his notion, than "flinging a good meal amongst 'em." And the "em's" still mention his generosity and kindness. What a lovely legacy.

Edited September 7, 2005 by racheld (log)

[Badiane]

Beautiful, Rachel....really. Crying again. Oh boy, my staff are going to think I've gone over the edge!

[Abra]

I guess we're all of an age, here. My Dad died in April, at age 90. He was born and raised in Italy (really, he was my step-father, not that it mattered) and his biggest contributions to my culinary life were teaching me to use lots more garlic, and then even more, and to drink red wine with dinner.

He died at home, according to his wish, and I was with him. Sadly, in his last days all he could manage was jello, pudding, and ice cream. I wish I could say he died after a hearty dinner of pasta in garlic and parsley sauce, washed down by a good Chianti, but since he didn't, I have to have that for him.

Up until a couple of days before he died, I kept trying to get that pasta recipe out of him. He swore up and down that he'd never made any such thing, but still, my childhood memories are filled with chopping piles of parsley and garlic in a wooden bowl, frying them in olive oil, and tossing them with the thick macaroni-pasta that reminded him most of Italy. He may have forgotten it, but I haven't, even if I don't know exactly how we made it. I still have the bowl and the wooden-handled chopper, and the ancient cast iron skillet we made the sauce in, and the recipe's in there, somewhere.

[NutMeg]

The 3-year anniversary of my mom's death is coming up in mid-December....she died way too young (at 53, I was 24) and I think about her all the time, of course. She wasn't around to see me go to pastry school - I know she would have been so proud. She wasn't much of a cook - mostly casseroles, pot roast, meatloaf, frozen veggies....but those are the things that now bring me comfort - I call them "mom food." Even though I may use fresh veggies, or expensive cheeses, they make me feel a smidgen closer to her when I make them, using the stained church cookbook with her handwriting in it, asterisks marking the recipes she liked best.

Around Easter, she would always buy a bag of those Hershey candy-coated chocolate eggs, and hide them in the dishtowel drawer in the kitchen....she and I would never tell my dad, and seceretly much on them for weeks....er....days. Maybe there was more than one bag..... I may make my own hand dipped chocolates now, but I still can't resist buying a bag every Easter.

I'll never forget the last birthday cake she made me. It was my 22nd. It was yellow Betty Crocker cake with chocolate frosting from a tub - she didn't take it out of the baking pan, but she decorated it with M&Ms...... it was great. She had just been through a really rough spell, health-wise, but she was doing better, and she made that cake all by herself. Those were some of her last really GOOD days.....

Okay, made myself cry, I better cut this out now.

Thanks for sharing your stories, and letting me share mine.

Meg

[racheld]

NutMeg, that was a wonderful remembrance. It told a complete story in just a few words, of the sweet memories and the holidays you shared.

My children's most vivid memory of my Grandmother---Mammaw---was that she always had a tiny treat for each of them stashed in the drawers of her ancient Singer sewing machine. Each of the children had a drawer, and each visit to her tiny pink house brought forth a little something to find---one Hershey's kiss or a handful of jellybeans, nested in a matchbox in some leftover Easter grass; a tiny handsewn bag of marbles or jacks or raisins or one perfect golden plum, resting on little shreds of fabric in the tilt-out bobbin drawer.

Our family lines are connected most strongly through the dinnertable, I think, those gathering times when we all sat in a circle over a meal of soup or stew or a big chicken dinner; the togetherness and the warmth of the bonds elevates Stovetop and Chef Boyardee to grand cuisine in our memories of home.

We're all members here because of our interest and our connections with food in any of its incarnations; we cook and savor and buy and experiment and find delight in the simple and the intricate. And we're somehow imprinted with those longago memories, those times of familyness and warmth of the kitchen and dining room, and even the TV trays arrayed around a favorite evening's entertainment.

Our families are gone from us too soon, and we carry on the memory-making in our own kitchens and around our own tables, passing on the recipes, improving or just enjoying, tasting home in every spoonful.