Weird Kid, Food Division

By

Susan Kelly

Susan KellyI’m pretty sure I was what, for my generation, would be described as a “weird kid,” at least in terms of my eating habits. Take, for example, a list of my favorite childhood foods. Here are the things I loved most, back when I was in the single-digit age bracket:

  1. Olives
  2. Oysters on the half shell
  3. Harvard beets
  4. Spinach

I ate my first oyster on the half-shell when I was, I think, nine. My parents, siblings, grandfather, and I had gone to the Molly Pitcher Inn in New Jersey for dinner. My grandfather ordered a plate of oysters on the half-shell as a starter. He noticed me gazing at them and offered me one. I took it.

Love at first slurp.

I don’t know how I acquired my love of olives—it goes pretty much as far back as I can remember—but I can tell you that one Christmas, again when I was about nine, I asked for my own personal jar of Queen olives (those colossal green ones) as a gift. I may be the first and only kid on the planet to have requested such a thing. I got my jar of olives.

As for the beets and the spinach, I have always loved all vegetables, apparently another thing that made me weird, since all kids are supposed to hate them. (I have always had a streak of the perverse.) The only vegetable I will not, cannot ingest—I suppose, strictly speaking, it’s a fruit—is lima beans. They’re disgusting. There is no form of preparation that will render them anything less than vile. Put this on my tombstone: Lima beans made her gag. That and: She screwed up every demographic she got into. The latter’s, however, another story.

As a kid, I didn’t care much for the two things kids then were supposed to adore: hamburgers and apple pie. I quite like either one now, but that’s because there are so many interesting ways to prepare them. (Try a shot of Courvoisier in the apple mix before baking the pie.) As a child, though, I found both rather dull.

But the all-time disgusting food I remember from school cafeterias is that culinary abomination known as…American chop suey.

Every kid I knew loved it. They’d gobble it like starving wolverines. As for me, I would eat it maybe as an alternative to being tortured. Under any other circumstance—no, no, a thousand times no. This stuff is slop: overcooked macaroni mixed with poor quality canned stewed tomatoes and overcooked pulverized gray hamburger meat. No herbs. No cheese. No touch of olive oil. No frigging salt and pepper, for God’s sake. Absolutely nothing to make it remotely palatable. But, as I said, every other kid seemed to love it.

Another thing I couldn’t stomach was those cold cereals in weird florescent colors. Worse were the ones that had rock-hard marshmallow bits in them. Even worse than that were the ones that were in the shape of animal, quasi-human, fairy tale, or horror movie characters. Happily, my mother refused to buy any of them. Even as a child, I hated getting up in the morning, and the only thing that would have made getting up worse would have been lurching to the table and staring down into a bowl of teeny green leprechauns or teeny brown vampires. (Lucky Charms and Count Chocula respectively, if you care.) To this day I avoid the cereal aisle in the grocery store, except on the rare occasions when I want a box of raisin bran, which I do find edible, although not as an every day or even weekly event.

The thing that strikes me, though—and I consider this a happy development—is that if I were a kid now, my tastes might be…mainstream. I once overheard a lively discussion about the level of cuisine in various Thai restaurants conducted by three of my nephews, who were, at the time, sixteen, eleven, and eight. More recently, another eight-year-old nephew informed that he’d eaten some “super-good” Indian food at a local restaurant, as opposed to the just “good” Indian food he’d had elsewhere. This is also a kid who, at age 2 ½ , devoured three helpings of a chicken-prosciutto tortelloni dish in an Alfredo sauce I made.

So perhaps I wasn’t weird, back then. Just…ahead of the curve?

Happy New Year to you all. And may your children and grandchildren never, ever have to consume a bowl of American chop suey.

If they do, and they like it…they’re weird.

Guests from Hell

By

Susan Kelly

Susan KellySince the biggest entertaining season of the year is now well upon us—starting with Thanksgiving, now past; proceeding into Hanukkah, well underway as I write this; with Christmas and New Year’s upcoming—I thought I’d write about everyone’s looming but generally unspoken seasonal dread. That would be The Guest from Hell.

Guests from hell come upon us in different shapes and guises, but they all have one thing in common: You never want them to darken your door again. Unfortunately, sometimes the dictates of family and friendship require that you do.

I should note that I have never actually entertained a guest from hell. (I must be lucky; my relatives and friends know how to behave at dinner parties. Or maybe I just have good taste in friends and relatives.) I have, however, attended a fair number of dinner parties at which a guest (or two) from hell was present.

Generally, guests from hell can be broken down into four categories: The bore from hell; the drunk from hell; the teetotaler from hell; and the pugilist from hell.

  1. The Bore from Hell. My most memorable encounter with one of these was at a dinner party I attended several years ago. Among the eight guests were a very cosmopolitan English couple who had arrived in the United States loaded with juicy gossip about the royal family and various members of the peerage. Everyone was totally dying to hear about the latest high-profile hijinks of Charles, Camilla, Anne, Fergie, Andrew, Edward, and whoever other of Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II’s spawn and grandspawn and other assorted relations had been doing something scandalous recently. After we were seated, and enjoying the first course, the wife of the couple began relating a saga that involved, if I recall correctly, the Royal Navy, some polo ponies, and an orgy. We were riveted. Except, of course, for the bore from hell, who decided he wanted to discuss…Schubert Now, I bow to no one in my regard for the canon of western classical music. But I don’t need to hear about—over dinner—alternate titles, numbers assigned in the catalogue, conflicting versions of the first line of any given song, or the history of various instrumentations of any of Franz Schubert’s works. Well, anyway…we finally managed to get back on the subject of royal orgies. Just as the resident story-teller was reaching the good part, Bore from Hell interrupted her with: “Getting back to the subject of Schubert lieder,” and treated us all to a non-stop droning monologue about the chronology of part songs for male and female vocalists. Everyone at the table glumly subsided into resigned silence. You could see the thought bubbles over their heads: “Oh, shit, let’s just get this meal over with.”
  1. The Drunk from Hell. My worst experience with a drunk from hell was at a very flossy Harvard dinner party thrown by a dean and his wife. I was seated at the table next to a very senior professor who had gotten himself insanely drunk during the preceding cocktail hour. He kept pawing me, which was extremely disconcerting for numerous reasons, one of them being the fact that his glowering wife was seated directly across the table from us, staring daggers at him. (I don’t blame her in the least.) Things got worse when he put his hand under my dress, and—I still don’t know how he accomplished this—managed to rip my pantyhose into shreds. (He must have had claws instead of fingernails.) I was considerably younger than I am now when this happened, and I had no idea what to do other than sit still and feel horribly embarrassed and uncomfortable. I know what I’d do now: I’d remove his hand from under my dress, place it on the table, impale it with a fork, and smile serenely at the rest of the company. I pass this advice along to any young women who might find themselves in a similar situation.
  1. The Teetotaler from Hell. This is the kind of person who, if you ask him or her if he or she would like a drink before dinner—martini, Scotch on the rocks, bourbon, wine, whatever, responds by saying: “No, thanks. I don’t believe in polluting my body with toxic substances.” This is not a person who is interested in maintaining a healthy lifestyle. This is a person who takes pleasure in being a morally superior killjoy. Rational people—good guests—who don’t drink alcohol, for whatever reason, simply ask politely for ice water, a soft drink, or fruit juice. I am always very happy to accommodate them, as I am when cooking for people with real, special dietary requirements, whether dictated by religion, culture, or genuine health issues such as gluten intolerance, lactose intolerance, or the need to restrict salt or sugar consumption.
  1. The Pugilist from Hell. This is the guest who will start a fight with anyone, any time. Both sides of the political spectrum produce this creature. The fight is always about some hot-ticket cultural, religious, or political issue that can’t be reduced to simple sloganeering, which is what the pugilist always does. The pugilist always thinks he’s in the right, and everyone else is completely wrong. Not just wrong, but evil. This does not make for a jolly evening.

Well, that about wraps up my list of Guests from Hell. Certainly there are sub-categories, such as the Drunk Horny Guest from Hell (which I believe I described above); or the Drunk Pugilist Guest from Hell (not uncommon); or the Teetotaler Pugilist Guest from Hell (a ghastly permutation of the breed); or the Drunk Bore Pugilist from Hell (I think we have some cross-breeding here), but you get the point. I’ve been there, seen that. And I wish they could all go to dinner by themselves and leave the rest of us alone.

That said: I wish you all the happiest of holidays, a very good New Year, and…a Guest from Hell-free guest list. With respect to the Guest from Hell-free guest list: Am I asking too much?

Some Easy Thanksgiving Treats, and More

By

Susan Kelly

Susan Kelly(PLEASE SEE MY COMMENT ABOUT THIS COLUMN)

 

As we approach this year’s Gorge-a-Thon, I thought I’d share with you some recipes for foods that everyone seems to like, as well as a bit of seasonal trivia.

 

 

 

Smoked Tuna Pate

One can solid white tuna

One 8-oz. brick of cream cheese, softened

Liquid Smoke (You can find this in the condiment aisle of any grocery)

Dried onion flakes (optional)

Dried dill (optional)

Drain and thoroughly flake the tuna in a mixing bowl. Add softened cream cheese and mix well with a fork. Add one tablespoon of Liquid Smoke. Add one tablespoon of dried onion flakes. Add one teaspoon of dried dill. Again, mix very well. Dump the whole mixture into a pretty 12- or 16-oz. serving dish; a nice soup bowl will do well. Pat it down nicely. Cover with plastic wrap. Refrigerate overnight. Serve with crackers or small squares/triangles of pumpernickel or rye bread. Excellent with pre-dinner drinks. (Note: Do NOT try to make this in the blender or food processor, or you’ll end up with slop.)

Turkey Stuffing (Side dish)

One 6-oz. box of turkey stuffing mix

4-5 small breakfast chicken or turkey sausages, cooked and sliced into coins

2 oz. chopped pecans

½ cup dried cranberries

Prepare the stuffing mix according to package directions, adding the dried cranberries to the mix when you add the liquid. When the stuffing has been prepared, mix in the sausage coins and pecans. Pack the whole mess into a greased 8 by 8 baking dish. Let it cool and then schmear the top with butter or margarine. (This is not a lo-cal comestible.) Cover with plastic wrap and refrigerate over night. Bake at 350 degrees for 30 minutes or until the top has browned nicely. Let it rest for a for a few minutes before serving. This recipe doubles or triples quite easily, though obviously you’ll need a bigger baking pan and a longer cooking time.

One of the nice things about Thanksgiving is the many food variations different ethnicities add to the traditional basic meal of turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes, gravy, and cranberry sauce. In graduate school I had an Italian-American friend whose mother made a huge lasagna as the first course. In many African-American homes, macaroni and cheese is a standard side dish. Puerto Rican-style turkey entails immersing the bird (cut into parts) in a curry, garlic, and chile marinade and then grilling the parts. Two Jewish dishes, butternut squash kugel (or cranberry-apple kugel) and sweet potato and carrot tsimmes, seem created for the occasion. A Mexican-inspired stuffing for the turkey involves cornbread and chorizo.

A Bit of Trivia

The Wampanoags and the Plymouth colonists probably ate ducks, geese, and venison for dinner in 1621. It would take another 50 years for someone to figure out how to make cranberry sauce. They also didn’t know from white potatoes. Onions, carrots, parsnips, spinach, collards, cabbages, and turnips were known by the collective name of “herbs,” lumped in with parsley, sage, thyme, and marjoram.

Acorn squash were once known as “vine apples” and pumpkins were “pompions.” I love the word “pompion.” I’m not crazy about pumpkin pie—I prefer apple, cherry, squash, or pecan—but I would relish a pompion pie, just for the sake of the name.

Something I wasn’t aware of until recently was that we owe the existence of tv dinners to…Thanksgiving. In 1953, the Swanson food company found itself with an enormous number of frozen turkeys unsold just before and after The Big Day. A Swanson salesman named Gerry Thomas conceived the idea of defrosting and roasting the birds and putting the sliced cooked meat into compartmentalized foil trays along with potatoes, gravy, and a vegetable; freezing the tray and its contents; packaging it in tantalizing fashion; and marketing it as a complete meal that only required reheating. Thomas was, apparently, inspired by the containers of the meals served on airplanes.

You probably know that Ben Franklin wanted the turkey to be our national bird. He considered the eagle to be a creature of “bad moral character.” I am not clear as to the criteria he used to arrive at this conclusion.

According to some southern writers, notably Florence King, Thanksgiving was considered a “Yankee holiday” below the Mason-Dixon Line, and thus not celebrated with a great deal of enthusiasm there until well into the twentieth century.

I have no idea if this story is apocryphal—I heard it on CNN—but the Friday after Thanksgiving is the busiest day of the year for plumbers. There are a lot of toilets to be unclogged. I suspect some “gourmet” contributions brought by well-meaning guests, such as Aunt Lucinda’s (in)famous blueberry-scallion-peanut-chocolate-sardine chip dip might be disposed of discreetly via the bathroom, thus causing some congestion issues with the soil pipe.

I once made a Thanksgiving dinner in which I realized, retrospectively, that the most consistently used ingredient was booze: dry vermouth in the gravy, apple-flavored bourbon in the pureed sweet potatoes, rum in the cherry-apple pie (I used dried cherries, and reconstituted them with a bit of the rum), and, for the cheese course, a Champagne-infused cheddar along with a non-alcoholic Brie. I don’t think I did this deliberately; it just worked out that way.

I may have been inspired by my late mother, who once observed: “If you use garlic, cream, butter, and wine in a recipe, you can probably make shirt cardboard taste good.”

And on that note, let me wish you all the happiest of Thanksgivings.