MY LIFE WITH THE JEWS
I have been warned this may not be a politically correct title, but believe me during the course of my marriage, in terms of cooking and cuisines, I have had a life with the Jews. I always told Lew I was going to include this chapter in my cookbook, and his inevitable retort was “But what about my life with the Protestants?”
It had nothing to do with religions, it concerned cultural differences in the areas of food, ingredients and methods of cooking. Neither of our mothers were mavens in the kitchen and had never hinted at the bewildering challenges that awaited us. We were married in 1949, in a country still emerging from a war time economy. The roles of males and females were changing but generally the man “made a living” and the women took over what was conceived as “their job” keeping house, shopping and cooking. Frequently, she continued working also until the babies arrived and then automatically became a stay at home mom.
Lew and I made a major change in our way of thinking about food on our honeymoon. We spent three days in Atlantic City over Thanksgiving, 1949 in what I believe was a windowless room in a dingy hotel. We were two people without any memories of glorious holiday dinners, of incredibly involved, tasty dishes created by our mothers, or a crowded, groaning table laden with mouthwatering fare. It just hadn’t happened.
Our hotel rate included three meals a day on what I believe was known as the American Plan. For Thanksgiving Day dinner we both had our own demons indelibly planted in our minds after years of dried out turkey presentations. We lived next door to a bakery and my mother, in her big effort of the year, had deliver a 12 pound bird to her friend, the baker. He tucked it into one of the big ovens. After 12 hours in the oven with assorted cakes and pies, old Tom never had a chance. As soon as he arrived in the kitchen, a type of spontaneous combustion occurred. All of the meat seemed to heave a big sigh and drop off the bones. It was dreadful and was imbued with an odor of apple pie, almond tarts, and meringue. From what I could determine, Lew’s experiences were similar particularly in terms of edibility.
But what to have. Our choice was limited to turkey or lobster. Neither of us had ever had lobster(believe it or not, I was 24 and he was 29 ) and it sounded adventurous. Lew had been raised in a kosher household and made some mild reference to the fact that shellfish was not kosher.
I was prepared. “Outside of the fact that you eat shrimp and just act like that is not shellfish, it’s time to face this squarely. We are not following any special diet and it’s time for you to get used to the concept that your food life has changed.”
We ordered the lobsters and before long they appeared before us in red, shimmering glory, served on a silver platter with a fine array of shell crackers and picks. The bibs were tied around our neck, the waiter left, and we did nothing. What was the approach?
The waiter sensed an emergency and returned. “have you ever had lobster before?”
“No”.
He shrugged, pulled up a third chair to the table and gave us a thorough lesson on eating lobster. It was such a kind act and we loved it all—the miracle of cracking the shells, digging out the juicy meat, dipping it in the rich, clarified butter and gently savoring the flavor as it made contact with our mouths. Oh heaven, oh joy—we were married, we were eating lobster and we were throwing off old shackles. Good reason for us to be thankful.
I was solely lacking in knowledge about any ethnic food that my mother thought might be “different.” One Sunday, early in our marriage, Lew and I went to a deli in our town and he suggested we get herring in sour cream. Being Dutch, I was well acquainted with herring and smoked eel, but sour cream sounded outlandish. If cream soured at my house, we dispose of it immediately. Lew explained the joys of sour cream, not only as a dressing for herring, but also as a dressing for vegetables, stuffed cabbage and blintzes. (I can recall thinking, what in the world are blintzes?) I suppose you know what happens even to this day when I am offered a choice of tart sour cream or luscious, whipped sweet cream. The latter wins hands down and of course, pounds up.
Then there was the matter of smoked salmon. Once again, I had never had salmon in any form. Lew came home one Sunday with a quarter of a pound of what he called smoked salmon. I tasted it and was reduced to a wild spell of coughing interspersed with the words, “I’ve been poisoned, it’s all salt, it must be bad.” My dear husband insisted that this is the way smoked salmon should taste.
It didn’t make sense, nothing should taste so bad. Next day, without telling Lew, I returned the leftover salmon to the deli and asked for a refund “because the fish is bad.” The deli owner was summoned. He gingerly tasted the returned fish and observed, “Tastes fine to me.”
“It’s the saltiest thing I ever tasted,” I explained. It cannot be eaten!”
“Did you know this was belly lox and not Nova Scotia salmon?” he asked.
I assured him I knew nothing about salmon and its various names and that my husband had referred to this purchase as smoked salmon.
He was a friendly gentleman and went on to explain that Lew had purchased “belly lox”, which is a part of the salmon that is cured in brine, accounting for its saltiness. He assured me that I would like thinly sliced Nova Scotia smoked salmon as he expertly sliced a generous sample piece, placed it on a cracker, and sprinkled it with chopped hard boiled egg. It was love at first bite. Why had I missed this taste treat for so long?”
“Young lady,” my new food friend said, “Go home and tell your husband that he has to give up that cheap belly lox and start going for the Nova. That’s living.
Over the years, I have tasted smoked salmon from all parts of the world. I am partial to Scottish and Irish smoked salmon, but believe me, I never pass by good old Nova Scotia smoked salmon. After all, one never forgets a first love.
I never really mastered the whys and wherefores of kosher food. Neither of us cared, but Lew felt strongly that if there was a situation with dinner guests at our home we were obliged to provide them with food they were able to eat within their dietary regulations. We have a famous family story when that did not happen. Lew’s Aunt Mattie and Uncle Ben came for dinner. They were wonderful people, hospitable, friendly and accepting. I vaguely knew they were at least semi-kosher (if that is possible) and decided we could not go wrong on a turkey dinner. The children were six, seven and ten, old enough to join us around the table. We entertained frequently and had long since developed a system in the event Lew wanted to talk to me urgently in the privacy of the kitchen—Lew kicked Nancy, who kicked David, who in turn kicked Michael assigned to deliver the last blow to me. That night the table action took place . Aunt Mattie had been extolling the wonders of my stuffing and asked for the recipe. I started to reply, when the kick hit my leg. Lew had already started to the kitchen after offering an excuse and I hobbled behind.
“What was in that stuffing?” Lew whispered.
“My famous sausage bread stuffing that you like so much.”
“Just tell her you will send the recipe, and please, just give her the plain bread stuffing, without sausage.”
I had goofed again! I promised to mail the recipe the next day and Aunt Mattie was happy. Or so I thought. A week later Aunt Mattie called. She had received the recipe and tried it immediately “but it didn’t taste like yours at all.” For years, she complained about her problems with my stuffing and despite many pleas to “show her how”, I never told her the secret. This was long before the days of chicken and turkey sausage.
In terms of a marriage, these problems were simple and manageable. We realized that some tastes, formed early in life, were not going to change. I never developed a liking for pastrami and corned beef or for that matter, sour cream but when the situation calls for it I eat them. Lew, as he worked his way through pork chops and spareribs, though they were “boring”. Oddly enough, it was my parents who become enamored of so-called Jewish food. My youngest son, David, was born on Christmas Eve. Traditionally, my parents came for Christmas dinner and Lew assured me he could handle it. He did, too, with a simple call to the area kosher deli, for a full order of deli food ranging from salmon, both belly and Nova, herring in sour cream, stuffed cabbage, corned beef, pastrami, pickles, noodle pudding, slaw and what have you. My parents loved it and my father made me promise that we would always have kosher deli on Christmas. We did for at least the next 20 years. It just became a tradition.
Recipes
Turkey stuffing, bread and pork sausage