My
mother is what I have always referred to as a scratch cook.
That
is simply an observation. It doesn’t say how good her cooking
is. It doesn’t give her marks for plating or appearance. Very
general and simple observation, and one that almost says more
about the kitchen when there isn’t a single person in it than
it does about the food that is produced. See…
It
means that in her kitchen, virtually everything is made from scratch.
If there’s suddenly talk in a group watching television about
how brownies might just be a good idea, there will be sightings
of unsweetened chocolate squares being prepared for melting. I’ve
even seen talk of brownies explode into a kitchen with homemade
chocolate sauce on the stove and whipping dream being brought
over to a mixer.
You
will not find boxes of cake mixes in my mother’s kitchen. You
will find a toolkit filled with an assortment of decorating supplies
that even in what she considers her amateur status would still
make even the most dedicated of Wilton enthusiasts lightheaded.
When
she cooks, she cooks from scratch.
My
mother is not the most professional of cooks. I am not attempting
to suggest that anyone would envy her knife skills. Nor am I suggesting
that she is a marvel of recipe creation or culinary expertise.
Let’s
offer this summary up before we meander too far down the road
of tangents: (1) She is an outstanding cook. (Her Christmas party
buffets and other social event spreads are the stuff of legend.)
(2) She takes the cooking done in her home very seriously. (Ok…
one more good story…)
Once,
when an opportunity arose to get a group of the immediate family
in the same place at the same time, Terry and I were planning
a brunch kind of gathering. My mother reached out to me to ask
about waffles. Did I have a recipe? And, before I could respond
in any way, she sent three that she liked since she wasn’t sure
if I used a recipe that beat the separated egg whites into stiff
peaks or not. (I didn’t have the heart to tell her that usually
my waffle recipe decisions are made based on whether or not the
store I am in has Hungry Jack buttermilk complete on the shelf.)
Want
another example? Ok. One more. Bit of a thinker, so stop and consider.
How often do you go to a summer cookout, head to the condiments,
and find an assortment of several different relish options?
When
it comes to her kitchen presence and awareness, I love her for
it.
Maybe
it’s some appreciation for generations of family before me that
is deep and hidden in my thoughts… perhaps a realization of how
hard it can be at times to even find a handful of extra minutes
to make a full recipe ingredient by ingredient instead of pulling
a bag out of the freezer and bringing it to the microwave… maybe
it’s something else. I’m not really certain. But I do know I think
about such concepts when I’m in the kitchen… and I appreciate
it when others are in their kitchen cooking for me.
I
grew up with three grandparents… Nana, Meme and Pepe. Love them
all.
Meme
was a very dry, quiet woman. Hard to explain. She had her ways,
those are what made her comfortable, and so those created her
life and home environment.
One
absolutely amazing memory I have of Meme and Pepe involved the
greatest recipe in my family. French pork pies. I was at their
house one afternoon when both Meme and Pepe were in the kitchen,
cooking together. This was beyond unheard of. Spotting the Loch
Ness Monster rare. And yet, there they were… one working on the
crust… one working on the filling… cooking together.
And
that’s where the magic is in made from scratch cooking. Sure,
we could explore all of the health benefits of making stuff at
home as opposed to some of the additives used when buying package
mixes and premade meals. But that is irrelevant in the discussion,
because it almost isn’t about the food. It’s about the thought
and the effort.
You
know when people try to do that one special ingredient stuff—love—about
a recipe. Every so often, that’s true. And it usually starts from
scratch.