Wednesday July 11, 2012
This week, Carole has asked me to consider the foods that I crave most on returning home to my small mining town, Copperton, in southwestern Utah.
I pondered this a while, as my tastes from early childhood have considerably changed with the exposure to new foods and a stronger sense of where my meals originate and are processed from. As a result, grape juice from concentrate, frozen French fries, and pancakes from quick mixes are now off the list. Regardless of this, I still have a weakness for Kozy Shak’s Tapioca pudding cups and beg my mother profusely to buy them before I return home, so that they are waiting for me in the morning.
My grandmother never cooked more than the odd dry chicken or ham for the holidays when my mom was a kid, so she tells me. Her expertise lay in the sugary confectionary of candies and sweets, which were about the only homemade things that my mom could ever recall her making, to this day. In hindsight to this, my mother has come considerably far in her own meal-making, and there are several, relatively homemade dishes that I find instant comfort and inner peace with as soon as I smell them. Her famous chicken Coq a Vin, for one.
My mother’s job keeps her away from the house most of the day on weekdays and is thus a big fan of the bag-freeze method of making meals that are time consuming. She will often devote an entire day to making the Coq a Vin, cooking it slowly in a huge soup pot for hours, adding in a touch of this and that for seasoning, sticking her wooden spoon in every so often to balance the flavors. Once the chicken is finally cooked, the meat is practically falling off of the bone and is infused with the delicious broth from the pot. Quick as anything, she will lay out handfuls of plastic zip lock bags onto the counter and ladle portions of Coq a Vin into each bag, carefully labeling each bag in black sharpie. Then off to the big freezer downstairs they go, to be slowly consumed over the next few months at the family’s leisure. For me, there is nothing more comforting than coming home for lunch and getting into one of those freezer bags. Even the defrosting part in the microwave is a kind of food ritual in our house. And the Coq a Vin? To die for.
Since coming to Smith College and getting absorbed by Carole’s own food process, I’ve come to appreciate the difference between canned vs. locally grown produce, plantation beef vs. grass fed, and admit that the homemade tapioca pudding that we made several weeks ago, seriously trumps my treasured Kozy Shack cups. I see this as a positive thing, as I am likely to make more meaningful decisions regarding food when I return home in the future, bringing with me the recipes and cooking skills that I have developed over the summer at Heirloom Meals headquarters. I plan to make some killer batches of tapioca, canning them in the fridge for months of enjoyment in the traditional family way. More importantly, it will be my way of giving back to my mother, of saying, “thanks for the home cookin'.”
Friday July 06, 2012
We Want YOUR family Blueberry Recipe!!
July is National Blueberry Month! So here at Heirloom Meals we decided to host a contest to try some of your authentic family favorites that include Blueberries. To enter please follow this link: http://www.facebook.com/HeirloomMealsWithCaroleMurko/app_197602066931325 or comment below. We can't wait to try your recipe!!
Friday July 06, 2012
“Come y bebe, que la vida es breve" ...my madre española, or Spanish host-mom, used to say this phrase to me as we would sit down to eat. Translated it means “eat and drink because life is short”. I was fortunate enough this last year to spend nine months living and studying abroad in Barcelona, Spain. As you can imagine, it was an amazing and life-changing experience. I could go on-and-on about Spain and its interesting history, unique culture and amazing food! Spain is somewhat of a “hidden treasure”. Most people seem to pass over it during their travels and only in recent years has it started to gain recognition. However, after having lived there I have learned how vigorously Spain maintains and treasures its traditions and culture. Ironically, or tastefully in my opinion, many of Spain’s traditions revolve around food. To begin with you have the traditional paella; historically a workman’s meal that is eaten year round and continues to appear at every town’s Fiesta Mayor (Major Festival). When made for these festivals it is large enough to feed thousands of people! Beyond the Paella, Spain is well-known for its Sangria and Tapas dinner (an appetizer-style dinner). And finally each holiday has some kind of traditional food to go along with it. The Spanish are fond of food and love to dine-out with friends. Nevertheless, some of my greatest food memories were at home around the table of my madre española.
(A traditional Spanish meal my madre española made.)
Spain’s food scene is uniquely diverse. Each region has its own specialties. Living in Barcelona I was in the providence of Cataluña, a politically and culturally unique area from the rest of Spain. However, my padres (Spanish host-parents) were from Valencia and so I got to see a unique blend of the Spanish food traditions. From the time I arrived my madre introduced me to a plentiful array of Spanish food and eventually let me assist her in the kitchen (a rare occurrence by a Spanish madre). The kitchen was my madre’s domain and it was how she showed her love and affection for those closest to her. It was over the food that I bonded with her. I spent many days sitting on a little stole in the kitchen watching her cook and talking with her. She loved food and was particularly appreciated really good, fresh pan (bread) doused with good Spanish olive oil. Almost every morning she would wake-up and go down the street to retrieve freshly baked pan. Greeting people along the way she had been going to the same bakery for the past 30 years and the family considered her a friend. Some mornings she would come home with a surprise croissant for me. I am convinced that Cataluña has better chocolate croissants than France. You may hesitate to agree but Cataluña is known for its bakeries and I could not stay out of them!
One of my favorite things about the Spanish cuisine is the freshness of the food. Each neighborhood has their own Mercado (Market) heaping with fresh fruits, vegetables, fish and meat. During our trips to the Mercado my madre taught me the best tomato is always the heaviest one because they have the most “meat” to them. The Mercado was a meeting place; everyone knew each other and in addition to the food stands there was a bar where people would grab lunch or coffee after their shopping trip. My madre was an amazing cook but the fresh foods only made it better. Often while I sat in the kitchen watching her cook she would come up to me, place a tomato below my nose and tell me to smell its freshness. As I sit here trying to think of my favorite dishes my madre would make I think of the traditional Spanish flavors such as garlic, olive oil, chorizo, rice, onions, seafood, etc. The Spanish flavors remain a prominent memory in my mouth but it was the approach my padres (host-parents) and other Spaniards have towards food that I’ll carry with me.
(Fresh fruit at one of Barcelona's Mercados)
I would frequently come home between classes to sit down and eat lunch with my padres. This is a common practice in Spain and children still make their way home from school to eat lunch with their families. While in Spain I learned how to slow down and appreciate the simple things. For the Spaniards, sitting down to a meal or having something to eat is not just another check on their ‘to-do’ list but is something to enjoy. I’ve make a pact with myself that as I return to Smith College this coming year I will make an effort to sit down for lunch with friends as often as possible. I want to take that little extra time to enjoy the food and the people instead of racing off to complete the things on my checklist.
As I finish up this blog post I must admit that I have only brushed the surface of Spanish food and its culture. If I had more space I would talk about their unique summer dishes such as gazpacho or jamón iberico with melon. I would share the uniqueness of the Catalan pastries in their bakeries and the sweets they made for different holidays. There are also fun, little stories behind different dishes and Spain is brimming with freshly cultivated foods. The more I learned about Spanish food while I was abroad the more I wanted to know, and the more I realized how connected food is to culture. So much of understanding the Spanish culture is understanding the food and the customs around it. For the Spanish, food is connected to tradition, history, family and friends and it is an experience that should be enjoyed everyday. As my madre would say, “Come y bebe, que la vida es breve”. After hearing this for nine months I don’t think I can approach food in any other way!
(My madre and I when I showed her my family's apple pie recipe)
Tuesday July 03, 2012
This past week Jim was out working on the garden, and he picked these BEAUTIFUL Wild Lilies. We already had some Garlic Scapes in the kitchen, so I decided to arrange them. Look at the pictures of the two. They make for a gorgeous pair, don't you think?
A match made in heaven!
Wild Lilies and Garlic Scapes add a touch of Summer to the Heirloom Meals kitchen.
Sunday July 01, 2012
Our girls are old and their egg-laying has tapered off quite a bit. So, I bit the bullet and ordered the "rarest of rare" mix of chicks from Murray McMurray Hatchery. I was expecting them tomorrow but I received a call from the kindest person from the Pittsfield Post Office. She said they'd be at Stockbridge tomorrow but if I wanted to pick them up today, she would wait for me to come get them. All I needed to do was call her cell when I was outside the PO. Her kindness resonated with me. I jumped in the truck with Mia and headed up to Pittsfield and now the adorable balls of fluff are peeping happily in my kitchen..AHHHHH...the wonders of farming life!!
And Becky Narum couldn't resist picking up and loving one of the chicks. Love at first sight!!
Friday June 29, 2012
I grew into adolescence a picky eater. One incident my mother is fond of retelling involves the two of us when I was fairly young, about two or three, and ends with me being fed ice cream, quite reluctantly. New tastes were a trial. Acquiring a new taste for something, required years of pressure, threatening, and frustration from my parents. Often, it the trial would end with me hiding the food in a napkin or feeing it to our cat under the table.
My main food staples consisted of hamburgers, French fries, beef, carrots, PB and J sandwiches, chicken noodle soup, pizza, Cheerios, and my personal favorite: apples. With these items, and these items in majority, I spent much of my years in elementary school a happy eater. Dinner athome was quite a contrast. Though my mother was, at the age of 42, studying at a local University to get her college degree, healthy, whole food meals for her children and spouse did not strike her as any less of a priority. With her determination that we would be fed well and often, my family and I were treated to pot roasts, chicken cacciatore, vegetable soups, baked chicken, beef stroganoff, and many many mashed potatoes based dishes. For my older sister Emily, food was the gateway to the soul. With each new addition to our dinner menu, she grew brave and assertive in choosing to fight for the last garlic broccoli rather than to let it vanish at the fork of another family member. For me, meals at home were a jack-in-the-box experience. Often times they were filled with too many nasty surprises for them to ever really be enjoyable. When, on the rare occasion, for instance, we got shrimp for dinner, the beady eyes of each tiny shrimp face were enough to make me pinch up my face in disgusted anguish and clamp up my mouth tightly. Should my mother dare command me to either load several small bits onto my plate or go without dessert, I went without dessert.
My approach to food has always been one of distrust. I blame this on the destructive cycle that I applied to any new food that made its way out of one of my mother's cookbooks and into the oven. It began with smells. That was always the first official declaration that we weren't, in fact, having leftovers. Unlike leftovers, daily meals commonly cooked for hours in my home and this gave sufficient time for their aromas to waft though every corner of our living space. Often this would torture my sister and stepfather with the constant smell of food that was, of course, still only half cooked. Leftovers, on the other hand, were really only a five minute preparation in the microwave and thus lacked any genuine surprise or anticipation. With this knowledge, it was then critically important for me to try and identify the meal in order to “custom” a reaction to it. If it smelled of, say, hamburger meat than it was likely to be the beginnings of a spaghetti sauce, meat loaf, or a casserole. In this case, my “custom reaction” allowed me to remain calm. For I knew that the sections of meat would be cut into chunks big enough for me to locate when the dish was served. I could then separate them from the rest of the meal and enjoy them on their own with only so much as a fiery look of disapproval from my mother's direction. If, on the other hand, I was either unable to distinguish, or worse yet, knew and disliked the smells that filled the kitchen, my “custom reaction” told me to it was time to. Get. Away.
When dinnertime finally arrived, I would have either been already present in my own chair for the past half hour in hungry anticipation or else ordered out from under my bed or closet in a state of uncontrollable panic. My food cycle was thus so efficient that by the time the dish was finally placed in the middle of our small dining table, my mind was already made up, either way, about eating it.
Since coming to work for Carole Murko, I have given up many restraints to foods that I swore I would never touch again in my own home. From raw broccoli to fresh asparagus and organically grown cherry tomatoes, Carole’s meals have transformed my inner perception of taste. Though I still hold the right to tread the path of new food lightly, I have learned to disregard any immediately negative judgment and openly embrace the first forkful.
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