Wednesday, November 21, 2012

Welcome to The Cook in Me©

I created this blog to document and share with my grandchildren and friends some of the recipes I've created over the past 40 years. I'm kind of thinking of it as my cooking legacy to my family.  I've found that with every good recipe, there is a story.  I want to share those stories too.  I know that my grandchildren, and probably even my children, are unaware of  these stories.  They're just something you don't think to share unless the need arises.  I hope that some of you readers (if there are any readers) will share some of your stories with me.  All of life's stories tell us something about ourselves. One of the most important things I've learned during my life, through the good experiences and the not-so-good ones, is that I cannot survive without a sense of humor.   Some of my best stories today happened at a time when I thought I was in the middle of a catastrophic event.  There I was at the time, clutching the pearls, thinking that there was no way out of a crisis situation, when in fact it's the humorous side of the incident that I always remember.  It's better to recall the humor in the story, than to relive the fear and anxiety that the circumstances elicited.  I'm sure it prolongs your life.

Sometimes I think I missed my calling and should have embarked on a career that I knew I would love.  That would have been cooking or writing.   But being a single mom with two elementary school boys was not conducive to the hours that a culinary career or free lance writer career requires. And I didn't think I would be able to financially support my family as an apprentice chef. I didn't think, I KNEW I wouldn't be able to support my boys as a writer.  I wasn't actually sure I could write well.  And I didn't have the time to find out.  So I opted for an entirely different profession.  But I love to cook, and I love to write, and I knew I could still do both while pursuing  gainful employment.   I believe cooking is one of the ways that even we emotionally guarded, seemingly uninspired people can express love and artistic creativity.  I love entertaining family and friends.  I love making a knock out meal for friends, family, and even strangers.   To me, there is nothing more satisfying.  I don't care if I eat it or not.  That's not where the satisfaction lies.  It's in the process.  Once I  had a dinner party for a few friends when I was on an all liquid diet.  It didn't faze me at all.  They probably thought I was crazy, but they wouldn't be the first ones.  They enjoyed the meal, though!

I'm creating this blog at this time of year because the holidays evoke such wonderful memories, many of which are related to, or accompanied by food. I know that we all have our traditional holiday meals.  But if you're like I am, there's always something new and different to try--not better, just different.  I learned to cook from my GrandmaLasak (my mother's mother).  I also married into a family with two wonderful cooks from which I greatly benefited by observation:  my husband's maternal grandmother (Annie Myers), and my mother-in-law (Alma). My grandmother was from what is now the Czech Republic. She was actually either Moravian or Slavic. She immigrated to this country in the early 1920s when she was a young woman. I had to watch her closely to learn her foods. None of her recipes were written on paper, and when she said a cup of flour, she meant a heaping cup in one of her coffee mugs (probably about 12 oz.). I learned to make bread and pastries by watching her knead the dough for what seemed like hours. I can't knead a loaf of bread today without thinking of her. And the simple aroma of yeast dough immediately evokes Saturday morning memories.


Every Saturday morning she awakened about 4 a.m. in order to make her bread and pastries. They had to be ready before she and my grandpa went to the farmer's market to buy the chicken grandpa would slaughter for Sunday dinner. And oh, the pastries. I would be sleeping in the feather bed, tightly tucked beneath the feather comforter with my head on the goose down pillow, and by 7 a.m., the heavenly aroma of yeast pastries wafted under my door and tickled my taste buds. What a breakfast I would have! Buchta, little buchta, kolachke, breads, noodles as thin as a straight pin. If it was a Moravian or Slavic, she made it expertly. Whether it was stuffed with poppy seed or plum fillings, covered in powdered sugar (angel wings), or sugared with cinnamon, it was on that table every Saturday morning. My grandmother passed away when I was only 19 years ago. I regret that I didn't pay closer attention during my teenage years because I would give anything today to be able to replicate my grandmother's cooking. I've searched through cookbook after cookbook, but those recipes of hers, whether in reality or just in my own mind, aren't there.

Unfortunately, my mother did not embrace her heritage. As a child, her parents spoke only Czech at home, and my mother primarily learned English at school. She was taunted by classmates because they thought she was Polish (the similarities in Eastern European dialects are sometimes hard to identify to the untrained ear), and apparently in Northwest Ohio pre-World War II, the poles were not highly regarded. My father also didn't embrace my mother's heritage. His mother was also a good cook, and my father wanted my mother to cook like his mother. Consequently, mom did not make the wonderful ethnic dishes that my grandmother did. I loved my mother, but as cooking goes, she was a plain cook. She didn't like to use spices. She didn't try new things--dad didn't like it. We had wonderful times around the dinner table however, despite what the meal was--meatloaf, pork chops, ham and bean soup, and the standard Sunday dinner meal--pot roast. I have many stories that revolve around spaghetti & meatballs, or cook outs, and I'm sure we'll hit on those.

So, sit back, grab a cup of coffee, and plan to peruse my life as a cook.  If anything strikes you as familiar, or evokes a memory, please let me hear from you.  I'd love to hear your stories.

©2012 by Kathy Striggow

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