That's Not How My Mom Does It

We were fortunate this Thanksgiving to have several of our friends and family travel great distances to be with us for the holiday. One particular couple, Sarah and James, travelled from Northern California to visit our home and join us for the repast. I have known these two for as long as I’ve known my wife, and in fact have to give Sarah a lot of credit for getting us together. Well, I guess Evan Williams deserves recognition too, but the lion’s share definitely has to go to Sarah for her skillful application of his spirits.

Sarah and my wife have been friends for a long time. They lived together in Santa Cruz, California, both enjoying a carefree life of breathing fire, skinny dipping and all around hell raising. They have both walked the entire Appalachian Trail, Sarah doing the trip with James, and Cat, my wife, doing the journey solo a year later. I’m not sure how they decided on fishing together in Alaska but somehow by the grace of god they showed up one night on the beaches of Humpy Pointe to be part of a set netting crew that I’d been working on for ten years.


It’s funny how things work out sometimes. Going into that season I had been under the impression that I was ending a chapter in my life. My tenure as a salmon fisherman was coming to an end. I’d just started crabbing in the Bering Sea and my services were required for tendering in the Bay. Somehow I’d weaseled out of that summer’s detail to fulfill a commitment I’d made to my old boss and a desire I’d had to end my career there at an even decade. I had no idea what was about to hit me, no frame of reference that could have prepared me for the kind of female force that was about to descend on our tiny beach community. I got an inkling the morning after Sarah and Cat arrived, when I heard rumors that after reaching camp late that night they’d immediately stripped naked and ran into the Inlet. Naturally my first question was, why the fuck didn’t anyone wake me up? But then a more sober feeling came over me. As the foreman of the crew I was going to have to deal with these women. I had to be professional. I was their boss.

It really is funny how things work out sometimes. For one glorious summer I was the one giving orders. Now I’m the one receiving them. Honestly I don’t know if my wife ever took me too seriously as her boss. I know Sarah didn’t. She was the cook on the site and immediately took the position that she didn’t have to answer to anyone but the head honcho. I don’t know where she got that idea but it turned out to be right. Apparently ten seconds as the cook outweighs ten years as a fish choking grunt! I’d been the cook on several boats by that time too but had never started any assignment with that kind of presumption. I preferred to slowly work my way into a feeling a haughty contempt for the other fishermen. I liked to feel that I was on solid ground, that I could keep up with them on deck and cook the food that sustained them. Only then did I feel I could be as big of a dictator as I wanted. The same went for working in a restaurant. I felt out the place first. I didn’t just jump right in and start abusing the servers without first finding out who wrote legible tickets and who was capable of turning in their appetizer and dinner orders in a timely fashion.

I don’t know, maybe it was something about Sarah’s nature. She’d never cooked professionally before but she certainly had the aura of a tyrannical chef. She drew lines in the galley across which no one was allowed to cross, she scolded people for overtaxing the cookie jar and for wasting food, she stomped her feet and hollered directions like she was commanding a pack of dogs. I was thankful in a way for her strong management of the galley even though I was a little bitter about being treated like a three year old in what amounted to my own home. I tolerated it mostly because I didn’t know how to handle it otherwise and it was just one less aspect of the day to day operation that I didn’t have to personally oversea. Besides that she turned out to be a tremendous cook and a very funny and kind person provided you stayed out of her way.

Often times, while I had Cat, James and the other crew members out slaving away mending nets I would amble into the cook shack to look in on what was for dinner. I have always had a lot of ideas on how things ought to be done and so despite my better judgment I would offer Sarah unsolicited advice on how certain dishes should be prepared. I was never really aware that I was doing it until it was too late. Sarah would turn this hawkish look on me and squint her eyes like she was trying to figure out how best to rip out my throat if I said another word. It was at those moments that I realized just how limited my prerogative as foreman really was. It was much later that I discovered that my unwelcome advice had become kind of a joke between Sarah and Cat. As it turns out I was using the phrase, “that’s not how my Mom does it,” maybe a little more frequently than a grown man ought to.

At the risk of impugning my own manhood I have to confess that I am sort of a mama’s boy. My Mom was a stay-at-home-mom so I found myself under her governance most of the time. Far from doting on my Mother or being at her beck and call I spent my childhood in loving fear of her temper and in quiet awe of her energy and varied skills. I was genuinely interested in some of the things she taught me, like how to cook and sew, but was marshaled in a lot of other tasks, like weeding in the garden and vacuuming the house, that left me wishing she’d be hit by a bus.

Like most boys I had mixed feelings about my Mother’s influence over me. She never tried to force my brothers and I to play with dolls or anything but I did have an Easy Bake Oven growing up and I was encouraged to participate in the kitchen. I don’t know exactly how I got interested in cooking. The Easy Bake Oven was a big part of it I guess, the kind of science-like mixing of ingredients, the application of fire (what turned out to be a 60 watt light bulb) and of course the tasty baked goods that resulted. But even that came after a much more organic experiment I had undertaken in the street one hot summer day in July when I was about five.

My older brother and I were both in a pyrotechnic phase of our development, demonstrating our primordial powers over nature and trying perhaps to discover some distance from our Mother’s apron strings. We’d been disciplined a couple of times already for playing with matches so we’d sought other ways of harnessing fire by following our Father’s suggestions that it could be caused by rubbing two sticks together or by focusing sunlight through a magnifying glass. My older brother was always pretty analytical and also very bossy so I didn’t get too much pleasure from these attempts. We came close to causing fire several times but somehow I was always to blame for it not working out. I wasn’t rubbing the sticks together vigorously enough, or I’d stood in his light at a critical point in combustion. I’d just about lost all excitement for these experiments when on that hot summer day I’d overheard my Dad comparing the weather to when he was a boy, saying that “It got so hot when I was a kid that we actually fried an egg on the street.”

For the next hour I begged my Mom for an egg so that I could see for myself if it really worked. I’d never cooked anything before but I’d watched my Mom cook eggs on several occasions and I felt like I had a pretty good grasp of how it was done. First I would need a spatula and something to butter the street with. Then I would need salt and pepper and a plate to put the egg on once it was done. I can’t say my Mom wasn’t impressed by my knowledge of egg preparation but she wasn’t about to surrender any of these things to me just so that I could “make a mess in the street.” I promised on all things holy, crossed my heart and hoped to die that I wouldn't make a mess. I told her that I had every intention of eating my egg once it was done. I had big plans for that egg. I was going to put it between two pieces of white bread with mayonnaise and have it for lunch. This last part I think was what convinced her that I was serious. Not only was I going to cook something but I was going to combine it with other ingredients in a kind of rudimentary recipe, one, in fact, that she’d prepared for me before. I was showing real initiative, and, with my final suggestion that I might add some of that red stuff, like on the deviled eggs, signs of a natural flare for cooking.

When I reached the street and announced to the neighbor kids that I was about to make cooking history some sneered in disbelief and others gathered around with great enthusiasm. With an egg in one hand and a daring idea I had separated myself from the rest of the children on my block. For a brief moment I had become a minor celebrity. I was both exhilarated by the attention, and terrified by it. Suddenly I realized that I had to perform. I had an egg and an idea but no practical skills. I’d never cracked an egg before. I’d never deposited it on a surface without breaking the yolk. And that’s when it hit me; through all the jeering and yelling I could see a clear image of my Mom performing this task. Her motions were deliberate but effortless, a reflex from years of cracking eggs, a flawless, elegant transaction between a hard surface and a delicate object.

Cracking that egg and laying it on the street with such perfection was my first great triumph as a cook. Watching it sit there, raw and unresponsive, as the children lost interest and moved on to other games was my first great defeat. I don’t remember what happened to that egg once I realized it was never going to cook. Maybe a dog ate it, or maybe I’d cleaned it up like I’d promised. What I do know is that from that experience I can sort of trace my development as a cook. I know now how much I’ve relied on my Mother’s techniques over the years. They are the foundation for my confidence as a chef. And even though we no longer cook similarly (she is a disciple of recipes and I’m a scratch cook) I still have a tendency to relate certain foods to her masterful preparation of them. I know that it is sort of ridiculous to maintain that my Mom makes the best Caesar Salad on the planet, or the best Cheesecake, but I will never eat these foods again without comparing them to her achievements.

I suppose it is natural for a man to have a strong connection to the food his mother prepares. It is, besides gestation, birth and nursing, the most physical relationship and bond he’ll have with her for the rest of his life. This is perhaps why comfort food is so important. It is a reminder of our ancestry, and a genuine connection to our origin. It might also explain why a man might complain if a dish is not prepared like his mother made it.

Food is part of our individual identity, and Thanksgiving, more than any other holiday, is an expression of that identity. Personally I’m not totally married to the old traditions. Mine and my wife’s first Thanksgiving together consisted of Rib-eye steak and King crab legs. But when it came to this year’s giant gathering I tried to please all of our guest’s sensibilities. Turkey for the traditionalists. Oyster dressing for my Dad. Cranberry Sauce with Orange Zest, compliments of my Mother-in-law, and apples in the stuffing for my wife’s side of the family. Crab cakes and King Salmon because we’re fishermen and because seafood has always defined mine and my wife’s relationship. And our friends Craig and Kari (Craig is also a Humpy Pointe alum) brought a delicious Green bean casserole to round out the feast.

It was an added treat to have Sarah there to try some of my Mom’s and our family’s traditional offerings. It was also nice because when the question of gravy came up Sarah was able to step in and spell my Mother, who’s been suffering from a fractured tibia. I have to confess, Sarah does make gravy just like my Mom. That was certainly one thing I never griped about back on the beach.

I want to thank everyone for coming to our house this Fall and for all the wine and treats you brought us. We’ll do it again some time. I want to thank Sarah and James for the beautiful Hubbard Squash they left us (it’s about 15-20 pounds). I almost feel like it’s part of the family. It’s gonna be hard to carve it up some day but I plan on eventually featuring it in this blog.

I want to leave you all with a recipe compliments of my Mom.

Snow Pea Salad (part of our traditional Thanksgiving fare)

1 bag of frozen petit peas (12 to 16oz.)
Equal amount snow peas, raw and julienned
1 can sliced water chestnuts, slivered
1 bunch green onions, chopped
1 small bottle Kraft Coleslaw dressing
4 -6 slices maple flavored bacon, crisped and crumbled
1 small package hazelnuts or filberts, roasted and crushed

Set oven to bake at 300° F, place nuts on baking pan and bake 20 minutes.
Cook bacon over medium heat until it is browned on both sides, place on paper towel or used grocery bag to drain grease.
In a small microwave safe bowl microwave frozen peas for 5 minutes on medium to high heat depending on the power of your microwave. If you don’t have a microwave set the peas out a couple hours ahead of time to thaw.
Julienne the snow peas, sliver the water chestnuts, and chop the green onions widthwise.
In a large bowl mix the petit peas, snow peas, green onions, water chestnuts and desired amount of Coleslaw dressing (my Mom uses about 2/3 cup).
Over the top crumble the bacon and the crushed hazelnuts.

Enjoy!