Around the Table

Life Goes Faster Than You Think

I was tooling down the road in my white convertible the other day (80 degrees and sunny in Florida) with the radio blasting country tunes. My thoughts ranged from the mundane - pick up the dry cleaning, make the bank deposit and get home in time to meet the carpet cleaner… to the more serious and significant - how will I ever come to terms with leaving the town where I have lived for the last 23 years. Don’t get me wrong-I can’t wait to settle in to our new house and life in Maine. But I am struggling…struggling with the notion that my kids will no longer have the house in Florida to come home to roost; to gather with their friends, to recall the innocence of their youth and to return to the “Mother Ship”. We have built a life and a family here and while it may be time to move on to the next stage, it is extraordinarily difficult to let the previous one go. To add insult to injury, when my son Chad was asked to describe his 19 year old brother’s thoughts about the upcoming move, he quipped, “you mean that he cries himself to sleep every night!” Chad has always had a tendency towards the dramatic so it didn’t take long to confirm that these words were a bit of an exaggeration. But there was a hint of reality in his words-for all of us. And if Chad’s comments weren’t enough, Kenny Chesney’s lyrics wailing through the air waves reminded me that “life goes faster than you think.”

Thank goodness I have a wise sage at the other end of my gmail account. Christine from My Plate or Yours counseled me “to remember that when there is loss or change in our lives, even good change, we grieve for the people we once were as well as the things we are losing in the change.” Furthermore (gosh, I sound like the lawyer I once was in my previous life), she advised me that my feelings were a testimony to how good that stage of my life had been. Thank you for those comforting words.

I am certain you have noticed that the pages of this blog have been conspicuously blank since the beginning of September! Please understand that it has not been for lack of subject matter. I have traveled extensively; enjoyed Southern hospitality and cooking; experienced an authentic cowboy Dutch oven feast for a group of 75 hungry folks and have begun to immerse myself into Maine life and culture. The house we recently purchased in Harpswell was built in 1795 and is just begging me to write about its history and tradition. I have written an article for a Needham, Massachusetts Parents newsletter and one for a Portland, Maine weekly newspaper about the importance of preserving family traditions. I have baked Challah with my grandchildren to celebrate Shabbat. If you have a few minutes, check out my wonderful son-in-law's creation posted on Youtube

So why the long absence? It may sound crazy, but I just had to complete this venting process before I could share all of my other culinary experiences. The house in Florida is not yet sold; the move is certainly not completed and my thoughts are still not settled. But my mind is a lot clearer about my family’s history and its future and where they both fit. I do know one thing with certainty: it is critical to remember the past, embrace the present and link the two. There is no better way to honor this mission than through food: cooking, eating and being together. See you soon around the table.

Lure of the Lobster Part II (Better Late than Never)

To my loyal reader base:

If I left you hanging (or salivating), I apologize. I did go off to Maine. My husband and I did buy a house-in Harpswell. If you are not acquainted with this quaint coastal community, read about it here, or better yet come visit us! And I did take time out to demolish a lobster roll.

So what is it about this “sandwich” that people drive for hours so they can have “the best lobster roll in Maine”; engage in heated discussion about the other ingredients besides chunks of succulent lobster meat or whether it should be served hot or cold; and pay $16 and up for lobster on a hot dog bun? The answer: I’m not at all sure. For some people, it just seems like the thing to do-something like, when in Maine… For others, I suspect they crave the familiarity and comfort of their particular tradition-whether it is stopping at the first convenience store after crossing over the state line into Maine or making the trek (I’ve heard of people driving 12 hours) to Red’s Eats where they stand in a line that often wraps around the corner. Red's boasts that each lobster roll contains all the meat from a one-pound lobster and more. And lastly, some folks just plain love the taste of lobster-any way they can get it.

For me, I suppose it is a combination of all of the above. I admit it: my name is Ronnie and I have stood in line at Red’s. I have stopped at convenience stores to get my lobster roll fix and I have just begun to take the seafood stroll down the Harpswell Peninsula. I like mine with huge chunks of lobster mixed with a small amount of mayo- just enough to hold the lobster together and then piled high on a lightly toasted hot dog bun drizzled with warm, melted butter. Pure decadence. Eat in or take out-it all works for me.

How about you? How far will you travel for a good lobster roll? Hot or cold? Mayo? What's your image of the perfect lobster roll?

Lure of the Lobster

Ever since I spent the July 4th holiday with friends in the Boothbay region of Maine, I have spent hours (ridiculous, I know!) pondering the lure of the lobster; and if that wasn’t enough of an endeavor, the seemingly serious attraction of the lobster roll. First, let’s examine the lobster-that kind of funny looking, spiny crustacean which has become a much sought after delicacy.

Lobster holds a special place in my heart-not because I had it on a first date or ate it on a special anniversary, but rather because my first lobster eating frenzy occurred on the Joysa, a beautiful 42 foot Chris Craft. The captain and first mate of this boat were two wonderful people, who 33 years later became my in-laws! How that came to be is a terrific story, but way too complicated to include in this post.

Anyway, one fine night as we were cruising to our evening’s “port of call”, we encountered a lobster boat, proudly displaying the day’s haul on its deck. After purchasing several beauties, Rhoda (my future mother-in-law and queen of the galley) steamed them to perfection in just a few inches of sea water. It was during that summer evening of 1965 that I learned how to eat a lobster. The memory of sitting on deck in the Atlantic Ocean, artfully using the nut cracker to get at the succulent meat of the claws and tail and sucking the tentacles with an occasional errant spray of lobster juice, will forever be etched in my mind. Having been raised in a very proper Viennese home, where eating with one’s hands was strictly forbidden, the lobster experience was certainly enhanced by the opportunity to actually handle the sucker!

This past trip to Maine certainly brought back those wonderful memories, but I was also struck by the notion that “lobstering” in Maine is a unique industry and is actually a way of life steeped in tradition. It is often a family affair-techniques and territories are passed from one generation to the next. In fact, these specialized fishermen are often called “lobster gangs”. The lobstermen ensure that certain lobsters are not over-harvested and that breeding stock remains in the cold, fresh waters off of the Maine coast. All of these men and women are dedicated to their families and their livelihood but all the while cognizant that they have the responsibility of managing a community resource.

So what is the lure of the lobster for you? Do you only eat it on special occasions? Were you one of those lucky people who spent summers in Maine and had lobster for breakfast, lunch and dinner? Are you at all like me in your appreciation of the history and tradition of the lobster industry? I know that Susan of Food Blogga has some special memories. You can read about it here. What is the lure of the lobster for you?

Off to Maine on Thursday to eat a lobster roll (and to buy a house!). Stay tuned for part II of the Lure of the Lobster.

A Visit to Pocasset

There is a house on Cape Cod that my husband and I visit every year. It is quite large; it has a tennis court, a pool and a magnificent vista overlooking the calm waters of Buzzards Bay. The bright orange sunsets signal the end of wonderfully relaxing days and the chirping birds lull us to sleep at night with the comforting feeling that all is right with the world. I am sure you are thinking - this is no ordinary house! True, but that’s only half the story. This house is an extraordinary home. It is owned by friends of mine who have six children and 11 grandchildren. I like to say that I married into my friends when I had the good fortune of entering into the blessed union with my husband almost ten years ago.

When you first walk into Diane and Chester’s house, you feel as if you have come home. The physical surroundings convey a warm, comforting and supportive feeling and within a few short minutes, we always find ourselves in the kitchen, catching up on the goings-on in our lives. Our visit last month was no exception. We arrived on a Friday just in time for me to help with the preparation of Shabbat dinner. The smell of freshly baked Challah was unmistakable and our first task was to take it out of the oven. This Challah was a beauty!

Delightfully plump, golden brown and raisins slightly protruding out of the rounded humps. Without asking, I knew at once that Diane’s family tradition was different than mine. I only make a Challah with raisins for Rosh Hashanah (the Jewish New Year) as the raisins symbolize the hope and optimism that the future will be sweet. It is only fitting that Diane makes the raisin Challah for her family all year round.

We proceeded to make the rest of the dinner for the evening-nothing complicated but certainly fresh and delicious. Diane reminded me that the meals in her family were designed with simplicity-certainly out of necessity while raising 6 kids, but truth be told, because it was the conversations that took place in the kitchen and then around the table that were most important. One of the many conversations that Diane and I had that serene Friday afternoon centered on the flowers we brought them for Shabbat-a beautiful arrangement of purple and yellow flowers with Gerber Daisies being most prominent.

Diane excitedly shared that the Gerber Daisy (named after the German naturalist, Traugott Gerber) was the “family flower”. Just as a state has a representative flower, so does the Black family. Next time you purchase a Gerber Daisy you will for sure notice the short plastic sleeve around the stem which is required for the flower to stand up straight. As Diane gently reminded me, everyone needs a little help and support now and then to manage the complexities of their lives.

Diane, many thanks for the conversations; the insights; the sharing of your family traditions and the support you have given us over the last ten years. To quote your words from a passage that you sent me with some great family recipes, “the smells wafting into the pores of our home said there’s always room at the table!” There certainly has been for us and I sincerely hope you know, there is a permanent place for you and Chester at ours.

Musings

Ever since Susan of Food Blogga kindly nominated me for the Thinking Blogger Award,

these pages have been curiously silent. I would like to chalk it up to extensive travel, other commitments and a general lack of balance in my life. But if I am brutally honest with myself, I suspect that I feel a bit intimidated and have seriously pondered how to ensure that I am up for the daunting task of properly communicating my message to the food blogging community and my readership at large. This blog was originally created to emphasize the connection between food and family-in mine and in yours. I have shared some of my family’s heritage, stories and traditions and have encouraged you to reminisce about yours. But I know that I haven’t even approached the tip of the iceberg. There is so much more to share!

Today is one of those exceedingly rare days when I have nothing on the agenda other than to catch up on my food reading and writing. Nothing could be more glorious. I am not at home overlooking the Gulf of Mexico or on a hilltop in the Smoky Mountains but rather in a hotel room on the outskirts of Atlanta. While that does not qualify as one of the most beautiful settings I have found myself in lately, I am experiencing something that is perhaps more precious -time to myself to muse.

One of the blogs I enjoy reading regularly is Play with Food. Deborah always has some thought-provoking ideas, beautiful photography and of course some delectable recipes. Her most recent post, Hits vs Dialogue, reinforced that I have missed my new-found friends in the food blogging community. By not reading my favorite blogs, I haven’t been able to thoughtfully comment and enjoy one of those comforting conversations. By not writing, I have prevented myself from the inspiration and encouragement that your comments provide.

So now that I am convinced that my online presence is nourishment for my soul, I have lots to share: a weekend with friends on Cape Cod, a culinary adventure with my grandchildren, an incredibly romantic birthday weekend at Blackberry Farm, exquisitely planned and executed by my husband and a report from tomorrow’s Slow Food Bloomington Chefs Dinner hosted by Christine from My Plate or Yours.

Thanks for “listening”. See you soon.

Circle of Life

As I nervously waited for the funeral service to begin, a little girl sitting behind me complained to her mother. “I can’t see!” she said with a bit of a whine. Her mother assured her, “there is nothing to see, sweetie.” This couldn’t have been farther from the truth. The funeral was for my former father-in-law, a man I adored long after my marriage to his son was a distant memory. What was there to see? From my perspective, plenty! The rows were filled with friends and acquaintances but more importantly, nieces and nephews who flew in to South Florida from Los Angeles, Washington DC, Rochester, New York and New Jersey to honor their uncle. It wasn’t at all surprising to me, as Walter was always the glue that bound the family together. Whenever there was a simcha (happy occasion) or an opportunity for consolation, most of the family members made it a priority to be together. And if some of them claimed they couldn’t make it, they received a stern, but loving reminder from Walter, of the importance of maintaining familial relationships. I loved this about him.

After the funeral, we went back to my former mother-in-law’s residence for the traditional Jewish “meal of condolence.” This is a fascinating and comforting custom. It is the first meal that the mourners eat after the burial, and it is customary to eat round foods, such as eggs, lentils, and bagels, symbolizing continuity and the cycle of life and death. Traditional practices of mourning attempt to strike a balance between expressing one's suffering and recognizing the need to resume one’s daily life. So it’s not surprising that the first moment of mourning is connected to a meal. Friends and relatives usually make the arrangements and in addition to the “round” foods, they provide a nourishing and nurturing environment for the mourners.

Once again, the connection for me between food, family and tradition was unmistakable. I am fortunate to have these rituals to lean on and I was incredibly fortunate to have known a man whose commitment to his family was paramount. I will miss him.

Happy Birthday Mom

My mother was born on May 7, 1913. She would have been 94 today. Happy Birthday Mom. We would have celebrated with a dinner in your honor. You would have elegantly strolled into our house, adorned in a fashionable outfit, complemented by a beautiful silk scarf. I can almost hear your words, enthusiastically announcing your arrival: “Hello Darling”. From that point forward, the house would be filled with your twinkling eyes, ever-present smile and vivacious personality. Prompted by your sincere interest, our recitation of the mundane events of the day would have inevitably lead to great intellectual discussions about politics, religion and social issues. Of course, there would be always be boatloads of laughter, as you loved to hear and to tell a good joke-even a raunchy one here and there.

Dinner might have been your traditional Chicken Paprikash or in all likelihood, I would have tried some new recipe. After all, I wanted to impress you with my recently acquired culinary skills. And of course, as any good lawyer would do, I also wanted to prove the point I made to you when I was 16- that I didn’t need to spend time in the kitchen with you because when it was necessary to cook for my family, I would learn how to do it! You probably brought your own Rehruecken for dessert as my baking skills still are nothing to write home about.

An old friend of yours called me today to reminisce about you and share some of the wonderful memories of your friendship. She has some serious health issues but she couldn’t let the day go by without giving you and your birthday the recognition that they still deserve.

Mom, I want to dedicate this post to you. Although not physically present, you and the example you have set serve as my beacon each day. Your generosity of spirit, strength, courageousness and compassion live on. We remember you-your grace, your beauty and your dignity. We remember you-wherever we are… but especially around the table.

A Weekend of Firsts

We had a few firsts in the Weston household this weekend. My husband Evan went out fishing with his buddies and with some good tutelage from a local guide, he caught his first snook. Ok, if you are at all like me (not exactly capable of winning the angler of the year award) you are probably wondering- what’s a snook? According to the “definitive snook fishing site”, ‘the common snook, or centropomus undecimalis, is a gamefish generally found along the lower east and west coasts of Florida and throughout Central America. Most snook caught fall between 18 and 30 inches, but large specimens have pushed well beyond the 52-inch mark and weighed in at over 50 pounds.’ ” So, it looks like Evan’s snook at 33 inches and about 12 pounds, was a real nice catch. Well done, my love.

The second first was that I got the distinct honor and pleasure of preparing my first snook. I assumed (with no prior knowledge!) that snook was a lot like grouper (white, somewhat flaky fish that loves a good grill). Naturally, I solicited a consult from my good friend, Christi (you all know her as Christine from My Plate or Yours). I wanted to replicate the absolutely divine smoked grouper dip from Seafood-2-Go, which we have devoured on several occasions in Apalachicola, Florida and recently here in Palm Harbor. Upon reflection, we agreed that the key ingredient which made that dip so special was finely minced jalapeno pepper. No sooner than five minutes after the e-mail consult concluded, Christi’s husband called and enthusiastically and quite adamantly told me that snook is the best eating fish there is. Just a little lemon, salt and pepper and you will have the nectar of the gods.

So I got to thinking. We were having some friends (including Evan’s fishing buddies) over for cocktails and hor d’oeuvres before attending a local theatrical event. Why not grill one of the snook fillets and make some fish tacos. Mmm…smoked snook dip; fish tacos and fresh guacamole. It would make for a perfect beginning to a wonderful evening. A few short hours later, I had smoked ½ of a fillet of snook in a make shift smoker (cheapo Webber charcoal grill with hickory wood chips inside)

and then grilled a snook fillet for the tacos.

I do have to tell you that I am feeling a bit guilty about this post as this blog was originally conceived to honor the family traditions that are passed down through the generations. But upon reflection, traditions can be years in the making or they can start today-new and fresh but still something that bears remembering. And often, traditions celebrated among good friends, become lasting memories and serve as comfort when the waters get a little rough and life seems a bit too complicated.

This post is being submitted to the Weekend Cookbook Challenge 16-Something New. Thanks Sara for compiling these entries and I look forward to the roundup shortly after May 12.

Snook Dip

½ snook fillet, smoked
Mayonnaise , salt, pepper and fresh lemon juice- all to taste
1 jalapeno pepper, minced

Ronnie’s notes: This is one of those recipes where the quantity of seasoning is totally according to your own taste. How much of a kick; how salty-its all up to you. Try it and decide for yourself!

Mom's Chicken Paprikash

Yesterday was Yom HaShoah, Holocaust Remembrance Day. Although all year long we try to teach people about the horrors of the Holocaust, there is one day which is specifically dedicated to remembering. We mourn and honor the memory of those who perished and we pay tribute to those heroic souls who fought for freedom and survived. While Yom HaShoah rituals vary from community to community, the theme is consistent. My new friend at Baroness Tapuzina shared her thoughts and observance in her latest post. I chose to pay my respects by lighting a memorial candle in memory of those family members who I never had the opportunity to meet. I lit another memorial candle in memory of my parents who were among the fortunate ones to escape from Vienna, Austria in 1938 (one day before the Nazis invaded) and endure an arduous journey through Germany, Belgium and France, before arriving in the United States on August 1, 1939.

Yesterday was a somber day for me. Although my husband tried his best to cheer me up and my best friend came over to hang out and eat Chinese take out, I couldn’t quite seem to get out of my funk. I suppose it was meant to be that way. But it’s a new day and I want to honor my parents’ memory by enjoying one of the many gifts I received from them-Austrian/Hungarian cuisine.

My mother’s Chicken Paprikash was one of her “go-to” meals although she would never have termed it that way. Not something an elegant, sophisticated Viennese woman would day. But I can see her standing at the kitchen counter at 186 Hemlock Road in Manhasset, New York, strongly urging me to help her prepare our evening’s meal. I rarely joined her in the kitchen because I was always having too much fun playing kick ball with my friends in the neighborhood (yes, I was a tomboy). Somehow though, her culinary skills must have been transferred to me by osmosis or something along those lines, because according to my husband, I have turned from tomboy to cook extraordinaire.

Chicken Paprikash is an easy dish to prepare and my mom’s recipe, handed down to her from her mother (my Nani Klara), and was even easier because she omitted the sour cream which is always present in the classical Hungarian dish. She served it with knockerln (a form of spaetzle). I would give you the recipe for knockerln but after searching high and low for my grandmother’s recipe, I am at a loss. So I buy Maggi Spaetzle instead. I just ordered a spaetzle maker though and can’t wait to try to make it from scratch. Here is the recipe for Mom’s Chicken Paprikash, incorporating my revisions over the years.

Chicken Paprikash

1 whole chicken, cut up
Butter
2 medium size onions
Salt, paprika, flour

Wash and dry chicken pieces. Combine flour, paprika and salt and dredge chicken pieces with mixture. In a heavy pot, brown chicken pieces in butter and seet aside.
Slice onions and saute them in butter until slightly browned. Add to chicken.
Add ½ cup water and cook on low for about 40 minutes.
Add more salt, paprika and/or water to taste.

“Good luck”- a direct quote from my mother’s recipe!

Ronnie’s notes:

•Sour cream is often added to the sauce at the end of the cooking procedure; makes it much richer and much more fattening!
•The type of paprika you use will make all the difference in the world. I use Szeged Hungarian Paprika (a combination of sweet and hot) and you can find this brand at most upscale grocery stores. I have also used the Hungarian Sweet Paprika from The Spice House

Merging of Traditions

I am one very lucky girl. My husband and I live in a beautiful home which overlooks the Gulf of Mexico. It is 7:00 PM; the temperature is 58 degrees, which for this time of year is cold. I know… you are not feeling sorry for me right about now. The sun is sitting low in the sky and I am anticipating the beautiful sunset that we often see from our decks. I have a fire going in our southwestern style chiminea and I am typing this post fireside, with the breeze blowing.

The only thing missing is my husband, who had a previous commitment. You see, he is a member of something called the Temple of Fitness. It sounds religious, but it isn’t at all. It is a fraternal group of guys committed to keeping in shape. Good mission, no doubt. The founder of this group is a soulful Italian American who commands a tremendous amount of respect from all who know him, for he is a leader, a mentor, and for our narrow purposes, a wonderful foodie. Everyone calls him Coach.

So, my husband planned to leave our home this magnificent evening to attend his annual “Godfather” meeting with his Temple of Fitness buddies. Yes, they watch the Godfather movies at this event but they also cook great pasta, Italian sauce and other wonderful Italian specialties. You will meet Coach, his son and some of the other members of his wonderful Italian family in a future post.

Throughout the afternoon, I was perplexed. What would a good Jewish man do on Passover when all of this wonderful pasta was to be served? Would he remain true to his heritage? Would he succumb to the temptations of the scrumptious, aromatic sauce on the stove that would soon grace the perfectly al dente pasta? Being the good Jewish wife that I am, I didn’t want to give him the choice. So I baked a Matzo Lasagne! I had seen recipes for this dish in various Jewish cookbooks, but had never attempted to make it. As my friend often says, the juice wasn’t worth the squeeze. But tonight seemed like the perfect occasion.

So, I made a bought some wonderful buffalo mozzarella, made a quickie tomato sauce from San Marzano tomatoes, sautéed garlic, onions and ground beef; layered it just like a traditional lasagna noodle casserole and voila (or should I say alora) matzo lasagna was ready for my husband to take to his dinner.

Only one more detail to negotiate. He was going to ride his Harley to his friend’s home. Alas, where would he put the Matzo Lasagne? Never fear; when a true HOG wants to ride, he can find a way. He put it on its side in the saddle bag!

Good thing I really didn’t care about the integrity of the dish. It really was all about preserving our religious tradition and at the same time, giving him the opportunity to participate in this sacred, male bonding experience. We will have to wait until the comments to this post come in to determine if the culinary experience was worthwhile.

PS. The sun has set and it is a another beautiful night in Paradise!