The first weeks of marriage were tough. In addition to the cooking matter, I realized quickly enough that Lew was neat and I was not. My mother never taught me household skills. I do believe she thought I would never marry and it would be a waste of effort. I did not make beds. I did not dust. To this day, I do not know how to iron.
The second week after I married, one of my reporter friends called my mother to say, “You daughter looks like she slept in her clothes.” My embarrassed mother suggested that I bring our laundry to her house and she would take care of it. Then she contacted Lew and said the only solution was a cleaning lady and she would find me someone. Now that all the nonsense tasks were tended to, I could concentrate on cooking.
I worked in Paterson, NJ which even then had a variety of ethnic neighborhoods. I visited produce markets, diversified butchers, bake shops, grocery stores and any food place where I could acquire information about techniques. Don’t forget, I knew nothing.
I approached an older man in a small fruit and vegetable market and asked for iceberg lettuce. Once he ascertained that I didn’t even know there were a few other lettuces, he gave me an hour’s lecture on the evil’s of iceberg lettuce, “tastes like cardboard and has no food value.” He had me taste Boston lettuce and then a handful of leafy Romaine, referring to it as the “Queen of Lettuces.”
It was 1950, a time when a big variety of lettuce was not available, when fresh vegetables were strictly seasonal, usually from April through September.
Armed with a bagful of Romaine, I came home to follow my new found friend’s advice and make a Caesar Salad. Lew was horrified, where was the iceberg lettuce? His idea of a salad, and he preferred to skip it completely, was hearts of iceberg slathered in Russian dressing. (Mayonnaise mixed with catsup and chili sauce. With the exception of mayonnaise and Miracle Whip , bottled dressings as we know them today were not readily available.
With my usual lack of aplomb and tact, I announced, “Iceberg lettuce will never come in this house again!” In our 35 years of marriage, it rarely did. I notice that some food magazines recently are backing an “iceberg revival” . Good luck, but cardboard is cheaper. How far can retro go?
It was a strange time; money was scarce and the challenge was preparing great food with inexpensive ingredients. Swedish meatballs made the menu frequently, and I hate to admit it, but tuna fish wiggle (it was some awful casserole), was a winner at less than 40 cents a portion. Our favorite money-saver was scalloped potatoes, with several layers of sliced hot dogs and thinly sliced onions. It was delicious and I served it to guests without apologies. One friend, after many helpings, decided it was worthy of a lofty name and came up with “Wiener Pomme”. We christened it with a few drops of salad oil, and a new specialty of the house was born. Another favorite cheapy was stuffed cabbage and that recipe will appear elsewhere.
It’s important to remember that in the early 1950’s food was cheap and salaries were low. I seem to recall you could buy a decent steak for a dollar, chopped chuck was 40 or 50 cents a pound, chicken was almost a give-away. The supply of fish was limited to filet of flounder and sometimes sole. Sometimes shrimp was available.
Then joy in the morning. I discovered Gourmet Magazine. I believe it was first published in 1941. I was still in high school and had never even heard of it until a dear friend, Sue Howe, who married a few years before I did, suggested I subscribe. It was wonderful; in those early days the recipes were relatively simple and practical for our life style. I still subscribe to Gourmet. There were a few years I felt it had outlived its usefulness for me, but as I changed Gourmet also changed, and I rejoined the host of loyal readers. Now of course we have a plethora of food magazines not to mention dedicated food television shows. It’s a time when chefs are as noted as stage luminaries and sports figures and I say it’s about time.
When the children were young in the early 1960’s, I was a stay at home mother for the most part. I read an article in the NY Times about cooking schools which were just coming into their own in the city. Dione Lucas and James Beard were the forerunners and they were rapidly joined by other competent people. I knew I needed some formal training and Lew encouraged me. I selected an excellent person, Ann Roe Robbins, who had converted a huge apartment on Central Park West into a big kitchen. Hers were demonstration courses and I attended for a few years. Once I signed up, I realized I had never driven to or in the city. Lew took me on several test runs and I’ve been doing it ever since. I eventually took Chinese cooking lessons from a follower of the famous cook, Grace Chu, as well as bread baking courses.
Never one to sit back in the corner, I was sure it was my duty to share all of this expensive knowledge. Over the years, I have given cooking lessons in my own kitchen and for charitable events in different locations. The classes in my home were fun, we chopped, sautéed, fried, roasted, baked and ate but I always lost money. It wasn’t important because I became a better and a more patient cook in the process.
Just a year or two ago, I did a mini-course for the twin daughters of a neighbor. The young women were enthusiastic and my goal was to teach them some basic recipes that they could use for different occasions. Despite my apartment galley kitchen, it was a great success. I immediately dreamed dreams of a revived career. Even the hours of standing did not dissuade me. But the next morning, stiff and sore I limped out of bed. The hard facts of life could not be avoided; I was just too old and too achy, leave that career to a younger generation. But maybe, just maybe, it’s not too late to learn how to iron.