Comfort Food

Some place in Heaven, let’s call it “Legion Avenue in the Sky”, my Grandmother, Mommie Soph must be smiling. Her arms would be crossed supporting her ample bosom as she surveyed the scene.

The term “comfort food” came into vogue after she moved to her permanent address. But the concept would hardly be foreign to her. The idea of food nourishing your soul would have been right up her alley. Perhaps more than anything else “comfort food” would have defined for her the essentials of life, its experience, its enjoyment.

Mommie Soph would proudly patrol our kitchen and its adjacent dinning room and breakfast room like a sergeant major parading thru the battalion compound… how successful was the food prepared? Did people ask for thirds?

Let’s go back to the term… I think “comfort food” was invented for fancy folks who can enjoy “haute cuisine” on a regular basis; but still yearn (maybe secretly) for the simplicity of meat loaf, mashed potatoes w/gravy and mixed veggies.

Back to Mommie Soph, for a minute… Without proper definition she knew that “comfort food” would include the likes of chicken soup, flanken, potato pancakes (called latkes in our home) with sour cream, hot tea with lemon and honey, sponge cake and I have to stop here because there are far too many entries to be included. Mommie Soph knew comfort… big time!

I am reminded of a line attributed to the late Zero Mostel. “Good Romanian cooking was responsible for more Jewish deaths than Adolph Hitler.”

OK. It’s not a bad thing to pay attention to what we eat. What are the carbs? How much cholesterol? What’s the fat content? So I am thinking that the very term “comfort food” acts as a magic wand… it magically erases the unhealthy aspects of the foods we love, foods that feed our being.

I think we associate “comfort food” with foods from our homes; but there are few entries that take place at “away fields”, too.

I have organized a few of my favorites, with some comments as necessary. Smile Mommie Soph; because you know that I am.

I watched Mommie Soph make this when I was a little kid. And long before I had an inclination to go into the kitchen for something other than to raid the fridge, I noted the key elements of preparing this savory dish. First you can’t be concerned about butter. You will go thru plenty. Next, the onions have to be sautéed lovingly over low heat to a deep golden hue, with a few choice bits turned to black (those are the best). Next, the salmon is added and cooked to a pale pink (this takes seconds), and finally the heat is cranked up and the eggs are added and scrambled to your desired firmness. Bessie and Lynn may know Mommie Soph’s other recipes; but I “own” this. I prepare it once every two or three years. Be warned… it doesn’t leave your kitchen smelling particularly good. Also, resist the temptation to touch the food… it’s a smell that will defeat the strongest soap. But good? Oh, yes!

This is the ultimate morning travel food. Suzy and I have made study of the finest purveyors in the area. Her favorite is the Lakeside Diner in Stamford which features a generous portion of cheddar cheese… my favorite is Norwalk’s Atlantic Market where thickly cut slab bacon is used. Regardless… it’s early morning, you’re running for a train, maybe it’s a “road trip” heading north to go ski-boarding? What do you need to start your day? Simple. Bacon, egg & cheese on a hard roll! Self contained satisfaction.

When we lived in Stamford, I would walk to the train station and every now and then, I would stop in to the Moosehead to treat myself to a breakfast. As I waited at the counter, I would watch the griddle guy prepare French toast (which was excellent)… a beaten egg, a little milk, some sugar, a little cinnamon and a dash of vanilla. Voila! Delicious! Later I would learn to replace regular white bread with egg enriched challah bread for even better results. I’m not particularly good around the kitchen; but I could make this. My kids loved it. I loved that they loved it. It made mornings special.

The key to a good grilled cheese is patience. It must be cooked over lower heat. The sandwich takes time to acquire it deep brown appearance. After it comes off the griddle it has to sit for a bit so the melted cheese can set. Bacon and tomato can also be added; but from my days at the Rathskeller at Union, I enjoy this sandwich with a side of chili. Can’t get any better.

Please add a slice of cheese and a tomato. Bessie made outstanding tunafish that included chopped egg, onion and celery. To die for! When we were dating I put Ellen thru hell about the recipe… it had to include (OK… so I confused my veggies) which she and her mother dutifully made to my specification — my reaction? Where is the celery? In spite of it all, we subsequently married. And the inclusion of cucumber in the tuna salad had nothing to do with the divorce.

I go thru streaks with this childhood favorite. As a kid I liked it on Wonderbread and folded. As an adult I prefer it on toast (the peanutbutter melts just a bit) and cut on the diagonal. I have tried different “gourmet” jellies and jams perhaps in an effort to raise the stature of the sandwich. But I usually return to the simplicity of Welch’s Grape Jelly. I also flip-flop on peanutbutter texture from smooth to chunky. I am presently in my smooth phase. I no longer feel like I am regressing when I eat a peanutbutter and jelly (as I would if I were to have a “fluffernutter”, for instance). I make no apologies… it just a great sandwich.

We all have Mothers. We all have Grandmothers. And I think that it is important to our mental well being that each of us believe that he or she had the best Mother (or Grandmother) who made the best chicken soup. I am no different. Mommie Soph’s chicken soup was simply divine (and this is not meant to “diss” the many fine examples of this dish that I have also enjoyed from other Wives, Mothers & Grandmothers). To make the soup a chicken was required and then the necessary root vegetables and assorted herbs. The chicken is cooked to a “fare-thee-well” and then removed along with all the other stuff (the chicken would be cut up and reserved for later use). What remained in the pot was the “Jewish Elixir” of life. I enjoyed it with cut up bits of chicken and, when available, an unborn egg. During Passover it was the foundation of Matzo Ball Soup. As a kid chicken soup was just soup. Today I remember it as a creation of the heart.

This is a “Sunday Soup”. And more specifically a Fall and Winter soup. There has to be a bite of cold in the air to truly appreciate the warmth of a hearty soup. Ellen made a marvelous version of this soup. What I loved was that in the making of this soup, as the afternoon wore on, Ellen kept transferring the contents into larger pots as she kept adding ingredients. Ellen made it chock full of veggies and macaroni. Served with Italian bread on a Winter Sunday and it represented the goodness of hearth and home.

I feel sorry for the part of the country that is not along the Atlantic seaboard between Maine and the South Shore of Long Island. For you unfortunate souls, clams are merely littlenecks and cherrystones. But for us lucky ones there are also “soft shell” clams informally known as “steamers” — because that is how they are classically prepared: in a double steamer pot. These wonderful clams are harvested from our sand bars at ebb tide. The clam has an elongated foot (bearing a resemblance to a flattened male “member”) that helps propel him (or her?) about the ocean floor. These clams are sold by the pound, rather than by the piece. And after steaming several pounds, the bounty is brought to the table in a heaping bowl, cups of clam broth and cups of melted butter are placed strategically close by — the clam is easily opened by hand, the membrane covering the foot is peeled off, the clam is given a cleansing bath in broth and then is dunked into the butter & then happily consumed in a quick bite. This activity is repeated a multitude of times, interrupted by a sip of your favorite beverage… beer for many, I have always preferred a gin ‘n’ tonic or a crisp white wine. Sporting sun tans and summer smiles, this first course is best enjoyed outdoors, preferably at a locale that offers a view of the water and with air kissed by the smell of the salt sea.

I am an hors d’oeurve snob. I love fancy, and I love aesthetics… tid bits that please the eye as well as the taste. But there is the little kid in me that could eat, by the dozen those little hot dogs rolled in pastry dough. This treat is the antithesis of those carefully crafted new age morsels; but boy do they satisfy — mini-marvels swathed with a shmear of mustard… I’ll just have one before moving on to the chicken satay with peanut dipping sauce. Well… maybe I’ll have one more “pig in the blanket”. OK… just one more…

I discovered chili when I went to Union. When I tired of Freshmen Commons’ dinning, I would go to the student run Rathskeller and enjoy a nutritious dinner of a grilled cheese sandwich with a bowl of chili. On a weekend home I mentioned to my Mother that I “liked” chili… a dish that was never prepared in our home. She filed this information away for later use. When I got married, Mom presented Ellen with a of Hormel canned chili. She explained that I “loved” chili. Yes, I “liked” chili; but the Hormel version looked like Alpo. No thanks. But Ellen made a very good version, as it turns out, served with warm corn bread and rice. And I have had any number of restaurant versions since, sometimes served with chopped onion, or in a crock pot covered with a layer of melted cheddar. These versions I also have enjoyed… to a degree, each are supremely satisfying, each returns me to the low light and joy of the Rathskeller.

OK, this is my deal. I am sure that each of you can find a similar dish that, as unappetizing as it sounds to the rest of the world, just hits the mark with you. As previously noted, Mommie Soph made chicken soup, some of the chicken was reserved to be cut up and added back to the soup, the larger portions would be served for dinner(sometimes cold). And rather than use ketchup as a flavor additive, the condiment that was was beet horseradish. I think that in part, the chicken breast was just an excuse for consuming horseradish (sort of like eating sushi for the wasabi). No matter. I think that plain boiled chicken is the path we eventually return to as we get on in years… whether we like it or not… only not accompanied by fiery horseradish; but by weak tea.

Thanksgiving is the ultimate American meal and it should come as no surprise that the penultimate artist of Americana, Norman Rockwell, painted a Thanksgiving Dinner for a cover of Saturday Evening Post. At no other time of the year do so many folks sit down to what is essentially the same dinner. While the dinner itself is a marvel, and will be described here shortly, the special quality of the dinner goes well beyond the table. The swirl of activity in the kitchen sets the home afloat with savory fragrances of turkey roasting, pies baking and the organizing of the numerous side dishes. Even if the food prep falls to only a few hands, the rest of us can’t help but stick our noses into the kitchen to assess the progress of the dinner prep. In our home watching some of Macy’s parade to be followed by a bit of football on TV was a pre-dinner ritual. And maybe some energy had to be burned, and if the weather were hospitable, then we would take it outside for some friendly football. Regardless, we all champed at the bit to be called to the table. I know there are those who love seeing the whole bird presented at the table and then carved… I prefer that the surgery take place in the kitchen so that we can immediately tuck in when we sit down. In addition to the turkey, which was browned to a turn, there were candied yams (or sweet potatoes… I know there is a difference… I just get them confused), chestnut stuffing, creamed onions, an unimportant green of some type, and at least two variations of cranberry “sauce”. Some further words about the chestnut stuffing — where Mommie Soph got the recipe I have no clue (and maybe it was my Mother’s discovery); but besides the chestnuts, which were duly cooked days in advance, the other key ingredients were sautéed onions and Cornflakes (for bulk). Both Paul and I adored this stuffing, and if truth be told, I could have labeled this segment “chestnut stuffing” and not “roast turkey”. Janet replicated this recipe for Paul on Ethan Allen Lane until his family could no longer withstand the dishes’ curious side effect it had on his digestive system. Apparently Paul developed a world class case of gas within a short time of eating his favorite side dish. Somewhat legendary, the closer you sat to Paul, referred to as “ground zero”, you were at greater risk, and the first person to dramatically drop his or her fork to the plate (sometimes as early as the dessert course), acted as a warning to the others that it was time to beat a hasty retreat to other rooms not yet infected.

I could never get enough of this… beautifully browned meat, potatoes, carrots, stewing onions, celery… all cut to generous size… all cooked slowly in a pot and Ellen was excellent in timing everything just right so that the veggies weren’t cooked to mush. At the very end, Ellen would add peas (for colour). The stew was served with warm biscuits and this became a meal that I savored. I would always eat more than I needed; but even then there were still leftovers to enjoy on a second night. I made judging portion size difficult. No matter how many folks the recipes was to serve — ten? even if it was just the two of us, the stew never lasted past a second night (and on some second nights it was only the vegetables that remained). I have enjoyed “fancier” versions of this dish… like ; but I keep coming back to the basic dish. It’s like wearing your favorite Shetland sweater… it just makes you feel good.

Maybe this will come as a surprise; but the first time I had this dinner, Mommie Soph made it. And I will admit that I didn’t care for it at the time. Ellen said it was because she cooked it in chicken . While not true, it’s a funny line and close to how much she relied on this Jewish cooking staple. Somewhat later in my development I learned that this is a traditional meal served on St. Patrick’s Day here in the States; but curiously enough . Well… I live and it became a meal that Ellen prepared every March 17. And praise be to her for introducing a more “authentic” version of this celebratory dinner. By that time I had also developed an appreciation of John Jameson’s Whiskey. And in truth I couldn’t get enough of either: corned beef cooked with cabbage, potatoes & carrots… chased by some Jameson’s. And then more of the same. Sometimes soda bread would be included. And I would always add a healthy dollop of Grey Poupon to my plate, in spite of Ellen’s protest (she said this wasn’t a “deli” meal). I am sure that I could enjoy this dinner at other times of the year; but on March 17th it rises to a different level of appreciation. Then again maybe it’s just the Irish in me! Come March 1, I can only think of two things: the Ides of March and St. Patrick’s Day: one to give evidence of my knowledge of literary trivia, the other to feed my soul.

Two words: Frank Pepe’s. Maybe it bores you to listen to New Haven natives extolling the virtues of the pizza emporium on Wooster St. And for you nay sayers who think that the best pizza comes from New York, Newark, Chicago or wherever you are from… Get over it! Although opinion in New Haven is divided… it’s between the two titans tucked away on Wooster St.: Pepe’s or Sally’s. But make no mistake, regardless of your allegiance, the “pizza crown” resides on Wooster St. And for me, Pepe’s is the High Temple of Neapolitan pizza. Yes, there are imitators of “New Haven brick oven pizzas” — but the ovens just aren’t the same… nor the bakers. Pepe’s bakers are a class unto themselves… they know each square inch of their ovens the way that Tiger Woods knows the course at Augusta National. Pizzas are carefully turned and maneuvered to take advantage of pockets of heat to insure that the thin crust pies are cooked to perfection with their signature bubble and blistered edges. My brother loves their white clam pie. I am a traditionalist: plain cheese, or on occasion with pepperoni and mushroom. To “out worlders” it can be disconcerting to find yourself at 4:15PM on a Sunday standing on line the doors to wait for a table… a wait that might be only an hour if you are lucky. I mean, this is pizza after all… it’s not like you are waiting for a choice table at Tavern on the Green. Oh… and don’t expect the service like Tavern on the Green. I think that some of Pepe’s waitstaff are holdovers from the second Eisenhower Administration. Don’t look for a menu either. The pizza, the toppings and prices are noted on the wall… no calzones, no antipasto, no salad… no, no, no. It’s pizza, 4 types of beer, 5 types of soda, 3 types of wine and iced tea (and the numbers of beverages are probably off, so don’t hold me to it). But oh, is that pizza And nothing fixes a pizza craving better than Frank Pepe’s. And by the by, only dead people don’t have pizza cravings.

I adore Italian food the way I adore Italian wine. The cuisine is marvelous. But there are times that the fine dishes, as in any cuisine, don’t provide the core satisfaction we derive from simpler fare. And while pizza is plenty satisfying, there are times when we want to step up from that. Now I truly enjoy spaghetti and meatballs, or come to think of it, just about any pasta with just about any sauce; but chicken parmesan successfully transposes my love of chicken soup/plain boiled chicken of my heritage to a recipe of another land. Italy, whose regional cuisine’s are rich in variety, also excels with a chicken breast pounded into a thin cutlet, breaded, with a layer of mozzarella cheese added and then topped with lush tomato sauce. If Mommie Soph were Italian, this is what she would prepare. And there wouldn’t be any questions about having seconds!

Sundays in the summer it was “cook out”. When the season turned to cold weather, Sundays became “take-out”. And take-out was always from the Far East, New Haven’s popular Cantonese Chinese restaurant. For Jews Chinese food is almost as necessary as Deli… I have a scrap of paper in my wallet that hasn’t been updated in awhile; but you will get the idea: 5760 years in the Jewish Calendar, 4676 years in the Chinese Calendar, 1064 the number of years Jews went without Chinese food (if you want to have fun, try to get into a Chinese restaurant in New York on Christmas Day… if you don’t have a reservation you better know somebody). As a kid my tastes were quite simple: Wonton Soup, Eggrolls, Spareribs & Chicken Chow Mein with white rice. I have since moved past the blandness of Cantonese and on to Szechuan and Hunan. And like salmon swimming up stream to spawn, there is a “force” that draws me to “take-out” on a near weekly basis. Today I love succulent scallops in a hosin sauce with broccoli, vegetable fried rice… and, oh yes, an eggroll. Somethings never change.

Passover was Mommie Soph’s Holiday. It’s a Holiday to celebrate the Exodus of the Hebrew Tribes from their Egyptian captivity. The Holiday lasts for eight days. We are told that Moses and the Hebrews wandered the desert wilderness for decades before entering the land of “milk and honey”. He should have asked for better directions, if had taken a right instead of a left, would have the oil fields, and would have had the orange groves. No matter. The meal we enjoy in commemorating this event is a ceremonial dinner called a Seder. And Mommie Soph had a busy time prepping all the foods that are unique to the Seder meal. One dish is called . It is simple really: chopped apples, chopped walnuts, some cinnamon and red wine (Concord grape wine, which is sweet, makes the best). This dish is said to symbolize the mortar we used as slave labor in building the massive Egyptian monuments. Mortar doesn’t sound pleasant. But far from unpleasant, charoset is tasty beyond belief. If they wanted an unpleasant reminder we could substitute (which not only looks bad; but can also give citizens a mean case of “gas”). Let’s forget hummus & stick to the real deal. Charoset is the type of simple dish that you learn to make when you go to religious school as a kid. It becomes a way for kids to “help” with preparation for the Seder dinner. And I took to this in a big way. I made sure to make plenty so that I could enjoy some, scooped on to matzoh on succeeding nights. When Mommie Soph passed away, my Mother would remain in Florida during Passover, and the celebration of the Seder passed to our individual homes. And in my home the major food prep fell to Ellen’s shoulders. She did an outstanding job: turkey or beef brisket, matzoh ball soup, matzoh kugel, carrot tzimmes & gefilte fish (the latter was store bought). My task was to make the charoset. I loved it. And when the kids were old enough, they would pitch in. They loved eating it, too. And for a week it would become the staple of their school lunches. This past year, in a twist of schedule difficulty, the Passover Seder was moved to Zack’s flat in the City. We catered the major food from an outside source — but Zack soloed on the making of charoset. He did a credible job, too. It did me proud.

My parents’ friends, Jacques and Josette Spiro, who hailed from Europe, were repulsed by the thought of eating corn on the cob. You see, on their side of the Atlantic corn was only used to feed livestock. My thinking: that’s problem! Yes, corn is available on a year ’round basis in the can. But corn on the cob is as much a summertime treat as burgers and dogs on the grill. There were three key advancements to improving my enjoyment of summer’s ultimate side dish. First, our neighbor Bunty Cohen, designated a stick of butter whose sole purpose was for rolling cooked corn on the cob. There has never been a better way to apply a serious coating of butter to an ear of corn. Next, Alan identified that young corn with white kernels (known as “Country Gentleman”) was the most tender, the sweetest and made for the best eating. Last, Stuart Cadan introduced our family to Whitey’s, a Guilford roadside stand, that roasted corn on their husks over an open fire thereby adding a dimension of taste that is irrepressible. There was a time, as a teenager, with Jacques and Josette in attendance, perhaps just to prove a point, that I ate ten ear of corn in one sitting. It set the standard, and importantly, for my mother, established my consumption norm. From that point on, whenever our family gathered and Mom had to prepare the appropriate amount of food… when it came to corn Mom would take the necessary census… “Sid 3, Me 2, Alan 3, Lynn 1, Paul 3, Jan 2, Ellen 2, Jimmy 10.”

This is something that my Mother made for me. There is probably another name for this dish. I would like to think that its origin goes back to Queen Victoria and the Empire. It’s not particularly complicated, it just takes time and has numerous steps… the type of time that is not important to folks who supervise Empires. The start is easy: a baked potato. After it’s cooked, the potato is split and its contents removed from the skin, the potato is put thru a ricer, then mashed & then put in a sauce pan with butter and milk and reheated. Finally the heavenly mixture (hey, maybe that’s why it’s called “angel”) was returned to the skin and presented on the plate. Now that I think about it… my Dad’s nickname for my Mom was “Angel”. Maybe that’s where the name came from? Yeah, “Angel Potatoes”, a piece of heaven.

I think I enjoy just about every style of pickle: kosher, dill, bread & butter, sweet gherkins, half sour… just about everything. But my favorite by far is a half sour whose every bite is a sharp crunch into pickledom. Proper lunch places provide a sliced spear with their sandwiches… very good. But I prefer the entire article, unsliced and ready for serious munching. Not overly saturated in brine, the half sour retains a vague idea of the originating vegetable: a cucumber. I buy these by the jar, and part of the fun is wedging out the first pickle from its tightly packed quarters. Once the log jam is broken, succeeding pickles are far easier to retrieve. As much as I love a half sour to accompany a sandwich or burger, I love a good pickle by itself at about 10:30 at night. And it’s never pickle. One good crunch deserves another, and it’s rare that I have fewer than two.

I don’t remember how old I was when this became my “birthday cake.” Let’s just say 10 or so. I don’t know where my Mother got the recipe from; but it hit me as the perfect combination of flavors and textures. I loved the density of the cake rich with ripe bananas, and then blanketed by a flavorful and smooth chocolate frosting. I am not a chocolate freak; but there is something in flavor of the Mary Oliver that makes it taste like no other frosting. My Mother also made a chocolate mousse cake that was sinfully good… but that was a “company” cake… something to have when we had company over. The banana cake started out as a “company” cake; but once I designated it as my special “birthday” cake, it would only appear on February 2. I turned 21 my Senior year at Union, Ellen and Gary Moss drove up to Schenectady for party that was to be a surprise for me. Mom provided a cake to make the celebration official. I haven’t had the cake in years (and at this point I certainly don’t need the extra ballast)… Rumor has it that Bessie and/or Lynn know the recipe. *

I think I was walking on the beach of Avalon on a sun drenched afternoon with Bernie Stone, when we talked about what was essential in life. After a lengthy deliberation we settled on three necessities: well chilled Dom Perignon Champagne, fresh oysters & The rest of life, as the saying goes, is “commentary”. For me cheese cake has to be absolutely plain and unadorned save for a slightly flavored crust (almond is my preference)… keep the cherries, blueberries and flavored styles of cheese cakes for the amatures. Cheese cake is all about the purity of flavor and texture. Good cheese cake is dense and firm to the fork, and in the mouth it will cling to the roof of your mouth. This is one of two desserts that I will order at a restaurant when I have established their bonafides (the other is creme brulee). I have had some good homemade entries. Brett Mueller made the best. But let’s not kid around, this is a dessert that is best left to the specialists. I will always look for cheese cake on a menu. To paraphrase an old tag line, “there’s always room for cheese cake.”

You know, it’s been some time since I last treated myself to a hot fudge sundae. I turn back a few pages in the book and I see myself as a kid… young enough to still be wearing pajamas (I think I gave up PJs when I hit double digits), it’s a warm summer night, you can hear the hum of the cicada and cricket symphony, the air is thick with humidity and there I am at the Carvel on Whalley Avenue, standing on line in my PJs, barefoot… while Mommie Soph waited in the car like Bonnie Parker waiting for Clyde Barrow to hit the bank. I was ordering a large hot fudge sundae with vanilla ice cream (with crushed nuts) to go. I loved Carvel soft ice cream to begin with… you add hot fudge, whipped cream, a maraschino cherry (and nuts) and you will have a better idea of why Captitalism truimphs over Communism. This was a treat in every way… but not a “true” dessert to be connected to a meal. It existed as a separate entity, to be enjoyed on its own merit. You’ve had dinner, you’ve had your bath, your hair is still wet, and you wait patiently for your turn to order the perfect “night cap” to a summer night. It’s been a long time since I’ve worn PJs; but I could return to a Carvel hot fudge sundae in a nano second.

I do not know if God planned for watermelon to have no seeds. In the first place, it seems to be a violation of the natural order. In the second place, it deprives us the joy of sinking into a healthy slice of melon, channeling the seeds to the side of our mouth while we consume the succulent red flesh, and then, like a Browning Automatic, spraying the seeds across the perimeter of the deck. You can’t spit on a platform of the IRT; but spitting watermelon seeds in your backyard is not only acceptable (even in fashionable society), it is a sport for Olympic consideration. As much as I love the convenience of the “seedless” variety of melon that is typically available today, I still yearn for the variety from yesteryear. This is a fruit that brings me back to my youth, when on a summer’s day I would retreat to our backyard with a huge hunk of watermelon, take off my shirt, pick out a patch of shady lawn, and put my face into the juicy sweetness of the melon… and then in an age old tradition that goes back to ancient pastoral times, spit an offending seed to the furtherest possible reaches of the property line. Then after spending a good quarter of an hour reducing a seriously sized wedge, face and chest dappled with sticky juice, it would be time to seek out a garden hose for a refreshing rinse. On a summer’s day, could there be anything more satisfying?

This is a near perfect food. Easy to eat, of good size and proportion and conveniently available in a bag that holds a “feature film” amount… meaning: you put your first twizzler in your mouth when the bird is wheeling over head in , eat twizzlers non-stop during the war of wills between Colonels Nicholson and Saito, and enjoy the last twizzler when Clifton decries “Madness” in the movie’s final scene. My history with twizzlers goes back to when I was a kid and it was used as a bribe to induce me to drink milk. I hated milk then. I still hate milk. I haven’t had a drop in 35 years (except with cereal). I don’t know if it was Mom, Mommie Soph or Bessie who came up with idea of giving me a twizzler with a glass of milk; but I would bite off a piece at either end of the twizzler, and then use is as a straw to drink the milk. Great short term thinking; but it created a life long twizzler addict.

I think that micro-wave popcorn has made this food far too accessible. To make matters worse, some genius has come up with the idea of shedding some of the “unhealthy aspects” to make this snack acceptable on many diets. Hey! What fun is that? Healthy is all well and good; but if you are not going to have popcorn with butter and salt, what’s the point? I don’t go to the movies much; but when I do, as soon as I pay for my ticket I feel the gravitational pull of the candy counter. You can smell the freshly made popcorn (it’s absolutely intoxicating)… it calls to you. You would have to the twizzlers under the counter in the glass case; but you could be blind and the smell would tell you that a huge bucket of buttered popcorn was there for the asking. Home popcorn is at best a decent imitation of the “real thing”… just like “surround sound” in your den is not the same as a full blown Dolby system in the theatre. Movie popcorn? I have never had a bad bucket. Dip your fingers into the bucket, seek out the butter coated top layers, pop a few into your mouth… It’s great to be a kid, it’s great to continue to enjoy the “kid” in us.

I will spare you the long story and prefacing remarks on how I began my voyage into the world of Martinis… just put May 1973 as the time, and Cambridge Beaches, Bermuda as the place. While not technically a “food”, it would be impossible not to include this drink when a perfectly made Extra Dry Martini has provided me with so much “comfort” over the years. First, there is the selection of the ingredients… Tanqueray Gin (Bombay Sapphire is a tad more perfumed and is better straight, Beefeaters is good but lacks sufficient personality) and Noilly Pratt Dry Vermouth (anything else is fourth place). Next, the garnish… I love the variety, for me it’s purely a matter of mood… all of the following are acceptable: stuffed olives (big is good), Gibson onions (big is good), fresh lemon twist, Tomolives (mini pickled tomatoes that my Mom discovered in the Cabbage Keys), pickled mini-corn or pepperoncini… these latter a-traditional accoutrements are put into play on obscure feast days or in acknowledging birthdays of the 1955 Dodger starting line-up. Next, the glassware: I rarely have a Martini on the rocks anymore; but the traditional “double old fashioned” glass is OK. My stemware of choice is an “up” glass that has at least a 5 oz. capacity. The best place to store a Martini glass is in the freezer (at least two, and three if you expect to entertain someone who knows how to drink). Next, the construction. Into a glass shaker pour an adequate amount of Tanqueray to make two “entree” size Martinis, add a slurp of Noilly Pratt (if you don’t add Vermouth you are not making a Martini… you are having Gin straight up… which is fine, just don’t call it a Martini), then fill the shaker with ice leaving room for a vigorous stir without making a mess. Then stir it like you mean it… and this James Bond stuff “shaken, not stirred” is a bunch of crap! When you shake the ingredients, the Martini pours cloudy and destroys the asethetics. Prep the garnish on a stick or cocktail sword and at the last possible moment remove the glass from the freezer, drop the garnish into place, strain the Martini into the glass and have your first sip while frost still coats the glass (even before the toast if necessary). Not for the faint of heart, a well made Martini offers an excursion into a strong tasting spirit served in its most seductive form. There is something irreplaceable about glancing at a woman above the rim of a Martini glass. I have collected many quotes about Martinis; but my favorite, perhaps speaking to the lethality of the drink, is said by Bette Davis in her legendary performance as Margot Channing in : Bette has just finished a Martini, she slams a second, and quickly reaches for a third, and with a toss of her head says, “fasten your seat belts, it’s going to be a bumpy night.” But they are not always bumpy nights or afternoons (I love a Martini at lunch because it means I have a day off, and it seems so decadent)… No, a Martini is not something to resort to on a bad day, rather it’s something to look forward to as a reward for a “good day in”…

Well… I think that’s about all for today. I could certainly come up with more entries, and I am sure that you could add a story or two to this modest collection. I think I will be writing some more; but before I pick up my pen again… do you think you could pass me one more “pig in the blanket”?

Kisses to you Mommie Soph.