I miss the smell of her cake in the oven, especially now that strawberries are abundant and stacked impossibly high in their supermarket plastic container towers. Back then, we got our strawberries from a “grocer” that Mom nicknamed “Gaw-jus” because he bragged about his picture-perfect produce in a heavy Bronx accent.

“I went to Gaw-jus,” she’d say, presenting me with the bags full of perfumed berries to wash and slice. “One for the cake, one for me,” I’d say as I cut them and we would giggle together over this weakness we shared, our inability to resist sneaking a little piece before the guests arrived. In my mind’s eye, I see her unguarded, pretty face nearly free of makeup. She prefers simple things. Her wedding ring is often the only piece of jewelry she wears. I remember her fingernails shining with a thin stroke of clear polish on the edge of her spatula as she stirred the egg whites into the cake batter.

“It needed trimming,” she’d say, giving me thin slices off the bottom of the warm sponge cake straight out of the pan that we ate with our fingers, taking them carefully from the knife edge.

It is always 1975 in these memories of my mother baking with me in a New Jersey kitchen wallpapered with outdated yellow and brown pop-art flowers. After all, it’s where the woman who bore me is baking — not just then, but always and forever somewhere in my center, that essential place lost to me so much of the time. And everything she tried to teach me — devotion, patience, the importance of ritual, humility — is there in that simple act of making cake from scratch.

Our sponge cake recipe is an old family recipe from Helen, my Uncle Richy’s mother. A matriarch. In our family, that means strong, compassionate, capable. And so much more. The cake is also much more than its label — usually sponge cake elicits groans in the same way that fruit cake does. None of them are considered any good. This one always gets the raves. I made it for a party recently and it was, as always, a revelation.

Grandma Helen’s Sponge Cake

9 extra large eggs, separated
1 and 1/4 cup sugar (scant cup)
grated rind and juice of medium to large lemon
scant cup all purpose unbleached white flour (Passover cake meal may be substituted)

1. Preheat oven to 340 degrees (convection) or 350 degrees for still oven.

2. Beat egg yolks on an electric mixer fitted with the whisk attachment for 10 minutes adding the sugar 1/4 cup at a time after 5 minutes. Add the rind and juice of the lemon and beat until well blended.

3.. Beat egg whites until stiff but not dry. Sift cake meal over yolks and add beaten egg whites to yolk mixture using a rubber spatula and a folding motion.

4. Place batter in an ungreased tube pan with a removable bottom and tube section or in a spring form. Bake for 1 hour. Check cake after 40 minutes as baking times and oven temperatures vary. Remove from oven and invert pan to let cake cool. Using a sharp thin bladed knife release cake from the sides of the pan before removing and placing on serving plate.

5. With a whisk by hand, or on an electric mixer fitted with a whisk attachment, whip heavy cream to soft peak, adding vanilla extract and confectioner’s sugar to taste after the cream has thickened slightly. Do not overbeat. Slice strawberries thinly and sprinkle them with sugar to taste, then let them sit in the refrigerator until they form their own syrup. Slice cake and serve each slice with a generous helping of strawberries in syrup and freshly whipped cream.

We lived in New York City then and took the train, speeding down my homelands of urban New Jersey and past Philadelphia’s vista of crumbling row houses.  Then into the “mainline” of suburban towns with their grand homes and gentile neighborhoods.  I’d seen such things before of course.

It was the third hour of the journey, that I looked out the train window and was awed with surprise. We were rushing across fields greener than anything I’d ever seen.  Here was the emerald world of Lancaster County. Farmlands of the Pennsylvania Dutch.  Ordered and productive.  Lush and glimmering with blessed soil.  Onward we went to his small town of Hummelstown.

It was an exotic place to me.  They did things differently there. 

My husband and his dad got up at dawn to fish in the creek down the road.  They ate weird foods like scrapple and shoefly pie—and everyone distinguished whether theirs were the wet bottom or dry bottom crusts.  Oh that was just the beginning of it.

It was Memorial Day, and his family had a big picnic around the pool.  Everyone came by and checked out Herbie’s new girl. The hamburgers and hotdogs were on some very yellow potato bread from the grocery with a German name.  The salads were mayonaisey.  The people were friendly but reserved.  One guy had such a heavy south Central Pennsylvania accent I had trouble understanding him as he raved over the Lebanon bologna. 

But to me, oddest of all were the red beet eggs.  It was a custom these Germanish people had of putting peeled hard boiled eggs—whole-- in a sweet-sour sauce with red beets.  After a while, the eggs became fuschia colored. Very shocking.

This Not To Be Forgotten recipe from 1774 Lancaster is a winner—a classic pickled beet recipe from the Germans.  It was intended for winter pickling but makes a wonderful summertime salad.  Try this in your modern life on greens with ricotta salata or blue cheese crumbled on top.  Maybe some walnuts and red onions, too.

For me of course, this recipe can’t help but remind me of the moment I entered a foreign family.  It was that very same weekend 21 years ago, that father told son I was the best woman he’d ever brought home. He gave his blessing—for me ever associated with the sight of red beets in that strange emerald green world.

Modern interpretation

6 red beets
pinch of salt
¾ cup red wine vinegar
7 to 8 tablespoons of honey or sugar (according to taste)
salt, pepper, and chopped fresh dill weed to taste

1.  Scrub beets, leaving skin on and removing stems.  Put in big pot full of water, add pinch of salt, and bring to boil.  Cook on medium heat 1 hour or until beets are cooked.  You may need to add boiling water if water level goes below beets.

2.  Let cool and peel off skins.  Cut each in half, then slice.

3.  In nonstick pan, heat vinegar on medium high heat and add sugar or honey, stirring until melted.  Turn down heat to medium and let bubble until it reduces by fifty percent, to a syrup.  Pour over beets and add salt, pepper, and chopped herbs. 

Keeps well, covered in refrigerator, up to a week. 

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But times have changed--and home cooks no longer strain their sauces through mesh too often—at least not here in New Jersey, where we tend to be in a quite a rush and cut our vegetables rather large.  So you feel free to skip this straining step if you wish. 

Begin, of course, with a fish that’s impeccably fresh.  Of course, there are many potential variations—you can use squid and shell fish in combination and add them in succession according to size—the smallest and quickest cooking, last.  I like to use a cup of very dry white wine instead of the vinegar water.  And you could add capers or herbs you might like.  In winter I used canned tomatoes or cherry tomatoes, cut in half.  I suggest you do as I do and use a sautee pan.  After I add the fish, I spoon some of the tomatoes on top and cover with a tight fitting lid, then cook a few minutes on low heat. 

This cacciucco comes to you from a star in the Italian culinary canon, Pellegrino Artusi It was published in 1891—a mere 30 years after the unification of Italy—and it was intended to be the tome of Italy’s culinary unification.  Between two covers, Artusi gathers 800 recipes from all over the peninsula.  No easy task.  Anyone who’s done a little culinary research on Italy knows how common it is to find a word for a dish that means one thing in a particular region, and something else in another. But why don’t I let Artusi speak to you directly on this matter: 

“Cacciucco!  Let me say just make a little comment about this word, which is understood perhaps only in Tuscany and on the shores of the Mediterranean, since the shores of the Adriatic it is called “brodetto.” In Florence, “brodetto” means a soup with bread and broth, bound with beaten eggs and lemon juice.  In Italy, the confusion between these and other names from province to province is such that it is almost a second Tower of Babel.

After the unification of Ialy, it seemed logical to me that we should think about unifying the spoken language, and yet few can be bothered with such an undertaking and many are outright hostile to it, perhaps because of false pride and the ingrained habit that Italians have of speaking their own regional dialect.

To return to cacciucco, let me say that naturally enough this is a dish prepared in seaside towns more than anywhere else, because it is a there that you can find fresh fish of the kind needed to make it.  Any fishmonger can tell you the varieties of fish that are best suited to a good cacciucco.  Good as it may be, however, it is still quite a heavy dish, so one needs to be careful not to gorge oneself on it.”

In fact, this dish is far more complicated, than he lets on and turns up all over Italy and the Mediterranean in endless variation with endless dialect names.

But Science in the Kitchen is a “modern” cookbook.  And by modern, I mean, many things.  First of all, it seeks to codify and standardized.  It was written not for the cooks of noblemen, but for the home cook who wanted to learn.  Second of all, we see a fair amount of exact measurements and precise directions—and the idea of rationality—which modern people love. 

Finally, this really seems like a modern cookbook to because it’s full of personality and sometimes Artusi feels like a performance artist doing a shtick on stage.  He gives amusing jabs to the French and English.  He attacks the stupidity of the publishing industry (as authors are known to do), and he offers bizarre observations: for example, he’s got a sauce for you that’s “like a woman whose face isn’t so pretty on first glance but gets better with time.” Or, say, a strudel that may “look like a giant leach—but don’t worry:  it tastes good anyway.”

With such personality, no wonder Science in the Kitchen quickly became a bestseller.  Artusi would have taken to blogging like white on rice.  His book, by the way, came at around the same time the Fannie Farmer published her scientific cookbooks in America.  Needless to say, I’d take Artusi any day.

All Italian Americans (and others interested in Italian cooking) should get themselves a copy of Science in the Kitchen and the Art of Eating Well, which is beautifully translated by Murtha Baca and Stephen Sartarelli.  Click here.

Want to see the original Italian?  Of course you do:
www.homolaicus.com

Want to see the model for this beautiful painting? 
http://www.jellypress.com/about/#about

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Next I tried a different canister in pastel, but I knew right away that the freshness of the pastel medium was not right for the old feeling of these dinged-up cans.

I did another pastel with more going on in the composition than just the cans. I liked the quality of the light, but I still felt that pastel was not right for this image.

In the end this painting with the more subtle qualities of oil paint captured the canisters best. 

Hi Amy, thanks for your question. My Jewish grandmas didn’t bake hamantaschen, though they were major cookie mavens. Here’s a recipe that has a cookie crust texture like the one you seek. I culled this during the time I was a pastry chef. I love it and hope this tastes like the favorite one you miss from childhood. It’s got the poppyseed filling too. The orange is optional. Enjoy.
—Nancy

Orange Hamantaschen
Dough:
2 2/3 cups all purpose flour
1 1/2 t. baking powder
1/4 t. salt
1 1/2 sticks cold unsalted butter, cut into small pieces
2/3 cup sugar
1 large egg
1 large egg white
Very finely grated zest of half a medium orange

Filling:
2 cups poppyseeds
1 cup water or milk
1/2 cup honey
1/4 cup sugar
1/8 t. salt
2 eggs (optional)

1. Combine poppyseeds, liquid, honey, sugar and salt in a saucepan. Cook over medium heat until thick, stirring to prevent scorching. Let cool.

2. Add eggs, beating in thoroughly. If egg thins out filling too much, return to heat and stir while cooking 1 – 2 minutes

3. Combine flour, baking powder and salt in the bowl of a mixer fitted with the paddle attachment. Add butter and mix briefly. Or, if you are not using a stand-up mixer, add the butter by rubbing it into the flour, using your hands or a pastry cutter. In either case, you should mix until mixture resembles coarse crumbs.

4. In a small bowl, beat together sugar, egg, egg white, and orange zest. Add egg mixture to the dough, and use a wooden spoon or beat using stand-up mixer on low speed only until the eggs are incorporated and the mixture begins to mass around the paddle, be careful not to overwork the dough. Press the dough into a ball, divide in half. Wrap in plastic wrap and refrigerate about 30 minutes or until cold but not hard and stiff.

5. Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Grease or cover several baking sheets with parchment paper and set aside.

6. Working with one piece of dough at a time, roll out to about 1/4 inch thick between pieces of waxed paper, being careful not to let creases form in the bottom sheet of paper. Turn dough over, peel off bottom sheet of waxed paper and replace it loosely. Turn dough right side up and peel off and discard top sheet of paper. Cut dough into rounds using a 3 inch round cutter. Place a large teaspoonful of filling in the center of each round. Form each round into a pocket by folding over about a third of the edge over the filling. Fold another edge and pinch to form a point, then do the same with the last edge. Repeat until all hats are formed, spacing the cookies about 2 inches apart on the baking sheets. If rounds become too soft to handle, fridge the dough until it is workable again. Gather dough scraps and fridge until firm enough to reroll.

7. Bake for 12 – 14 minutes, or until cookies are just tinged with brown. Keeps up to one week in an airtight container. Yields 30 cookies.
Variations: For prune filling: Combine 2 cups prunes, 1 1/3 cups orange juice, 2/3 cup honey, 1/8 t. cinnamon and the grated zest of half a medium orange in a large saucepan over medium-high heat. Boil. Lower the heat slightly and simmer, stirring occasionally for 12 – 15 minutes, or until mixture is soft and most of the liquid is absorbed. Cool.

For apricot filling: Substitute apricots in the above recipe for prune filling.

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Now that we're here a while in this new place, we are thinking about the garden and land around us. The backyard is quite shady but the front yard gets full sun. My dear neighbor and friend suggested we dig up the front lawn and plant a vegetable garden. We're ready. Maybe even offend the rest of the block with raggedy tomato plants right in full display a few feet from the sidewalk.

I pledge, today, on the first day of spring, to do this. And I'm thinking about the gardens I saw all over Liguria where fruit, vegetables, herbs and flowers all mingled quite beautifully in the front yard.  I will plant borage for my ravioli, and true tender Genoese basil for pesto.  To give myself inspiration, I watched this video about edible estates, an organization that says it's attacking the American front lawn.  Count me in.

--Laura

http:/www.youtube.com/watch?v=q7JgenD4fdw

--LS

Quince fell out of use probably because they are not a fast and easy fruit. They do not bring quick They do not bring quick gratification.  You cannot crunch into a quince like an apple or pack it in a lunch.  In fact, you cannot eat it raw at all. But with the addition of sugar and cooking, quince becomes a joy, transforming in color from to gold and pink.

When Nancy sent me this image, I looked up from my computer and reached across my cluttered little office of papers and books and tried to dig for the story of this fruit.  which originates in €”the Caucasus mountains--a meeting place of Europe and Asia, near Russia, Turkey and Iran.  A convergence of worlds--bounded between the Black and Caspian Seas.

Arabs and Persians and Turks have been using quince forever in both sweet and savory dishes--often with meat. The ancient Romans preserved them whole in honey and vinegar--a preparation that may be the forerunner of jam.

This is the sort of thrill of discovery I love.  When walls of my office fall away for just a brief second, and I’m flying across the globe with quince.  I realize that’s why I love history and food.  Not for the moments when I discover things that reflect the things I already know--but to learn something new and different €”to think of stewed quince and meat in an ancient Persian court, or a quince paste, like the one above in 16th century England.

Modern life cooking tip:

Make your quince jam according to taste €”but basically the same procedure explained above will work just fine.  Scrub the quinces and cook them whole, covered by water, at least one hour until they are soft.  One way is to put them in a pan in a 350 degree oven. Reserve the water.  Then do the messy work of removing skins and seeds.  Add the quince flesh to a stew pot on top of the stove, along with sugar and whatever flavorings you like, whether rosewater mentioned above or vanilla.  If you want to make quince paste stir constantly.  If you want to make quince jam, add reserved quince water as needed to get the consistency of jam. Cook until golden pink, not red, constantly stirring.

see also: To Draw a Quince

Over time, Marialuisa and I developed a correspondence based on old foods and memory.  I was writing a book on my search for my great grandmother's Genoese ravioli recipe, and it turned out Marialuisa's mom was a famous ravioli maker in a mountain village north of Genoa.  Before long Marialuisa was inviting me to come and visit. "My mother awaits you.  She will make ravioli when you come."

Six months later, I was driving up into the hills of Liguria with Marialuisa at the wheel.  She was taking me to her mother's town--full of Schenones--higher and higher into the mountains, filled with chestnut trees.   She took me to the graveyard there, filled with dead people who shared my last name.  And finally to her mom's small cottage, where we entered to find ninety-year-old Giuseppina bent over her pasta board, kneading dough. 

That day, Giuseppina, taught me to roll pasta in a big thin circle, just as my great grandmother used to, using a long stick--a skill that has been largely cast aside in favor of machines.

In the search for old family recipes--I had many similar amazing encounters in Italy, and so many were based on a similar initial thread of email.   In other words--I found my rustic, pre-commercial, handmade ravioli recipe--and traced it back to the 13th century, largely through this modern technology.  What a paradox.   

Now if only I could figure out my new cell phone.   Damned technology.

On a brown cutting board their color really glowed, and I liked the intensely blue shadows but the background color was competing with them.

I liked them better against the neutral color and grid of my tiled kitchen counter, but watercolor still wasn't getting everything I loved about them.

It took my pastel chalks to really catch the way the light hits them. Now I long to see them in oil paint . . height="312" />