FAST FOOD

In the wee morning hours, home delivery trucks dotted the streets of our suburban neighborhood. White-capped milkmen ran from house to house filling galvanized tin boxes with fresh milk and dairy products. And snack foods like potato chips and pretzels went to other homes. Out from behind a brown speckled van, with the logo “Charles Chips,” a deliveryman would balance two or three impressively huge cans and drop them at their destination. We were, however, the first family to get delivery of Cott soda. Two cases of heavy glass quarts arrived every Friday: an assortment of grape, cola, black cherry, and the coveted cream -- always the first one tapped. No wonder there was always a milk-fed friend begging to have dinner with us.

Mom liked to sleep in. Getting up with the sun to serve a warm breakfast to her school-aged children wasn’t high on her list of priorities. She waited till the house was empty -- free and clear of questions and demands -- before having her coffee and buttered roll with a paperback romance novel. The day I started kindergarten was the day I received a crash course in the morning routine.

“Get up and get dressed,” My older sister, Lisa, ordered, like a drill sergeant. “Mom, laid out your clothes last night,” she said, pointing to the ensemble at the foot of my bed.
“Where’s Mom,” I yawned.
“Upstairs, don’t make any noise,” she said, tiptoeing down the hall.
The worst transgression in our house would have been to wake a sleeping parent. My sister and I had already been taught the moral principle of “consideration,” after it had been smacked into our asses.
“Isn’t Mom going to make us breakfast?” I asked, hoping for a hot bowl of Farina.
“Mom doesn’t get up early, get used to it,” she replied derisively, walking off to forage through the assortment of Drake’s cakes stored in the oven.

So my folks never had a problem finding a teenaged babysitter, because the word was out about our junk-food stockpile. Whipped cream from a can was a trendy delicacy when it hit the market, and we always had a can or two. That stuff which miraculously propelled itself from the funny white nozzle was good for a half an hour of entertainment. Lisa and I would compete by standing with our mouths gaping open as the babysitter injected as much whipped cream as the space would hold. Whoever gagged, lost.

We ate Yankee Doodles for breakfast and had Swanson TV dinners every Saturday night. Even after I had been to college, had revolutionized my dietary world, and returned home with an armful of bottles from the health food store to concoct a soy lecithin, wheat germ and organic honey gruel, Dad was still doing the morning cup of coffee -- with a cupcake chaser.

My father was a cosmetics salesman, and, though he was raised in an orthodox Jewish household by a mother that adhered to the kosher principles, he lived on a steady diet of quick-stop specialties, regardless of their orientation.

On Sunday mornings Mom would fry up some bacon and eggs, and then we’d pile into Dad’s ‘67 Impala; headed to Brooklyn for a visit with his parents. They were Polish immigrants who spoke only Yiddish and had raised four children in their two-bedroom apartment. For most of his youth Dad slept on a cot in the cramped kitchen, only acquiring a bedroom once all of his older sisters were married.

Somewhere along the way we’d stop for burgers and fries. McDonald’s, before the dawn of the Big Mac, was the ultimate roadside attraction. Outside, a red-and-white-tiled wraparound bench ran below impressive glass walls. Pressing our faces up against the window, Lisa and I spied burgers sizzling on an automated circular grill and an assembly line of men in starched white clothes churn out perfectly packaged sandwiches. The graceful beauty of their aligned posture, accurate aim, and controlled speed captivated my imagination.
When Burger King debuted in our hometown, we actually got dressed for dinner, eager to line up and sample their flame-broiled brand. There was no drive-through in those days, and the term “fast food” wasn’t common knowledge.

We ate the stuff in the backseat, balanced the cold soda cups between our knees and used the fries as swords in a duel, while Dad drove and Mom bit her nails. Before arriving at my grandparents’ third-floor walk-up in Flatbush, a small, dank apartment that was filled with the aroma of garlic and onions, Dad would stop at a dumpster and throw away any remnants of our lunch -- including all the paper packaging. The four of us would get out of the car so he could spray it down with Lysol. Then we’d jump back in, turn the block and arrive. Dad had always led his mother to believe that we were the fruits of an authentically kosher womb. He figured what Grandma didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her.

And she had her own way of faking out the powers that be. We would bring shopping bags of fruit from the farmers market on Long Island for her to use in the apple cake recipe that came from the old country. If the previous weeks’ produce hadn’t been processed; she had an ingenious, if not totally devious, method for letting us know.

“Hello, this is the operator with a collect call for Mrs. Noapel,” the long-distance lady would say.
“I’m sorry, there’s nobody here by that name,” my father answered, declining the incoming charges. As Grandmother and Father silently listened, using the phone line as the operative, “NO APPLE” was decoded.
“No fruit, straight to Flatbush,” Dad would proudly announce after hanging up the receiver.

Grandma Sylvia’s Apple Cake
3 cups flour
2 cups sugar
4 large eggs
1/4 cup orange juice
1 cup vegetable oil
3 teaspoons vanilla extract
3 teaspoons baking powder
6 apples
3 teaspoons cinnamon
6 tablespoons sugar

Directions:
1. Preheat oven to 350 degrees F. Grease and flour a large rectangular pan (lasagna-type).
2. Combine the first seven ingredients and beat at medium speed for 10 minutes.
3. Peel and thickly slice the apples and add cinnamon and sugar.
4. Layer half of the batter in pan; add apples, then the rest of the batter. Sprinkle top with additional cinnamon and sugar.

5. Bake for 1 hour and 15 minutes, or until the top crust is crisp.

Serves 16.

Featured in "Latina Magazine"

Latin Fusion Lovers! What a wonderful response we have received from our coverage in Latina Magazine...keep those e-mails coming! Here's two favorites from the Cuba and Brazil menus. Enjoy!



CONKIES

3 cups grated coconut
3/4 pound pumpkin, peeled and grated
1/2 pound sweet potato, peeled and grated
1/2 pound brown sugar
1 teaspoon powdered cinnamon
1 teaspoon grated nutmeg
1 teaspoon almond extract
1 teaspoon salt
2 cups corn flour
½ cup all-purpose flour
4 ounces raisins (optional)
6 ounces shortening
1 cup milk
Wax paper or plantain leaves – cut to 8” wide strips

Mix grated coconut, pumpkin and sweet potato with sugar and spices. Add raisins and flours last and combine well. Melt shortening over low heat; add milk, then combine with other ingredients. Place a few tablespoons of the mixture onto wax paper or leaves. Fold securely with seam down on steamer rack. Steam over boiling water until they are firm and cooked. Cool before unwrapping.

Makes 24 bars.

Conkies are perfect with the next recipe!

BRAZILIAN ICED CHOCOLATE

2 ounces unsweetened chocolate
¼ cup sugar
1 cup double strength coffee, hot
2 ½ cups milk
1 ½ cup cola, chilled
Whipped Cream
Vanilla Ice Cream

In the top of a double boiler, over hot water, melt the chocolate squares. Stir in the sugar. Gradually stir in the hot coffee, mixing thoroughly. Add the milk and continue cooking until all particles of the chocolate are dissolved and the mixture is smooth, about 10 minutes. Pour into a jar.

Cover and chill. When ready to serve, stir in the chilled Coca-Cola. Serve over ice cubes in tall glasses.

For a beverage, top with whipped cream.

For a dessert, add a scoop of vanilla ice cream.

Serves 4 .

Out to Launch - One 'Mo Time

2005 was a great year for our "Recipe Deck" series manufactured by Boston Warehouse Trading Corporation, with over 70,000 copies sold! Look for three new titles at a gift store near you: Salad Gourmet, Soup Gourmet, and Snack Crazy! The line makes it's debut at the Atlanta GiftMart January 10-18, 2006 at the Dougan-Bliss showroom.

The Gravy Train

Gra-vy: noun 1:a sauce made from the thickened and seasoned juices of cooked meat. 2.something additional or unexpected that is pleasing or valuable.
--Merriam Webster’s Dictionary

It comes to mind that most of my childhood meals were very dry. My mother was a great homemaker and our family did enjoy her “from scratch” dishes, though most fell under the heading “B.C.” -- Burnt Cookery. It was not any more appetizing than it sounds.

Pepper steak from the Westinghouse electric wok was my favorite. Never a fan of nightshades, I couldn’t handle the peppers and cared less for the onions, but the thin slices of tender beef soaked through and through with salty teriyaki sauce was right on the money. Come to think of it, that may have been the only dish in her repertoire where sauce was fundamental to the recipe, not optional. She may have had a moral issue with gravy, akin to the sacrilege of putting ketchup on steak. Quite possibly, she wanted one less pot to clean. Either way, we never got it.

Every Friday night, year in and year out, was the traditional roasted chicken meal. One night, though, after seeing that the white meat was parched to the wishbone and gravy wasn’t being served à la carte, I decided to challenge the powers that be.

“Can we vote on it?” I asked my parents, regarding the weekly poultry ritual.
“No, there’ll be no voting in this house!” barked my father, with the ultimate voice of authority.
“Some families take votes,” I murmured quietly into my fork.
“Are you under the impression that this house is a democracy?” he said, raised his lung power. My mother was silent when Dad was about to rage. Even my sister knew enough to keep her mouth shut. I, on the other hand, always took the bait.
“Yes,” I said. (Wrong answer.)

He hunched his shoulders menacingly. “This is not a democracy,” he said slapping down his drumstick,” his dark eyes sparked with fire. “This is a dictatorship!” That was just too complex a statement to be easily answered or solved by a ten-year-old. “What do you think of that?” he asked.

“I don’t like it,” I said. I was definitely flirting with disaster.

My sister slouched inconspicuously into her chair, feeling a victim of circumstance. There were six chairs at our kitchen table, and only four of us. Lisa always set the dishes and, with artful subtlety, placed me right next to Dad. Her plate at the other end of the table made her so close, yet so far away. Oh, there were times when I’d undo her clever handiwork and slide my place setting next to hers. But, miraculously, as we all sat down, my dish was back in its original position. Damn, she was good, always employing me as interference to the striking range.

“If you don’t like it, leave!” was his familiar retort. The Hobson principle, of apparent free choice offering no real alternative, was my father’s standard. “You’ll take what’s given to you, or have nothing at all!”

To present a counterargument would have gotten me kicked out of the kitchen, and surmising that my options were as limited as the dinner menu, I replied simply, “Dibs on the dark meat.”

Pepper Steak

1 1/4 cups beef broth, divided
1/4 cup soy sauce
1 1/4 teaspoons ground ginger
1/2 teaspoon granulated sugar
1/4 teaspoon pepper
1/2 cup thinly sliced mild onions

1 (1 1/2 pound) boneless round steak, cut into strips
1 garlic cloves, minced
1/4 cup olive or vegetable oil
4 medium green bell peppers, cut into julienne strips
2 large tomatoes, peeled and chopped
3 tablespoons cornstarch
Hot cooked rice

Directions:

1. In a small bowl, combine 3/4 cup of the broth, soy sauce, ginger, sugar and pepper; set aside.
2. In a skillet or electric wok over medium-high heat, brown beef and garlic in oil.
3. Add peppers and tomatoes. Cook and stir until peppers are crisp-tender, about 3 minutes.
4. Stir the soy sauce mixture and add to pan. Cover and cook until the meat is tender, about 15 minutes.
5. Combine cornstarch with the remaining broth until smooth; add to pan. Bring to a boil; cook and stir for 2 minutes.
6. Serve over rice.

Mystery Pie

I was standing in line at the school cafeteria, pushing a tray full of carbohydrates. It was Thanksgiving season, and through the cardboard cutouts of cornucopias I detected that there was just one choice for dessert. Kids were grabbing the plates as if under a blue-light special. I scrutinized the little paper plate with the orange concoction.

“It won’t bite you,” said the kid next to me to keep the line moving. I was looking around for a red Jell-O alternative. “C’mon Shorty, take it of leave it!” he snapped.

“It smells like spice cake,” I said to him with my nose in it, though he wasn’t interested in discussing the matter.
“She’s smelling the pie -- gross!” remarked someone else.
“She once licked her plate after spaghetti.”

They side-stepped me like I was toxic waste. I happened to think the school’s spaghetti and sauce entrée was quite delicious and took their comments in stride. I had eaten spice cake once at the school’s holiday carnival, but this stuff wiggled like pudding. The smooth and dense texture filled my mouth. The sweet fragrance of the custard sent waves of pleasure right down to my Buster Browns. I felt a bit naughty eating something that seemed so exotic.

When I came home that night and explained the details of the dessert to my mother she replied simply, “Oh that’s pumpkin pie.”

“How come we never have it?” I asked in utter amazement. “It’s really good!”
She looked at me as if I had just suggested that we start celebrating Christmas.
“My mother never served it.” She bit off every word. “NOT a very Jewish dish.” I had gotten the same comment once before, regarding spice cake.

I didn’t understand the explanation at the time. My mother was an atheist, and didn’t believe in the existence of a supreme being. But she was very devout in regard to tradition. She called herself a gastronomic Jew and thought that if a dish fell outside the parameters of traditional Jewish cuisine it wasn’t worth serving.
But it went deeper than that. To mother, Thanksgiving was an assimilated non-holiday. She celebrated the event with little enthusiasm knowing that those people weren’t her forefathers. There hadn’t been one Jewish Pilgrim at the original Thanksgiving table and she resented that! So, she held out on pumpkin pie for as long as she could. Now that the secret was out, she had no objection if I ate it -- she just wouldn’t bake it. From that year on, I had to purchase Entenmanns’s from the convenience store if I wanted pumpkin pie with Thanksgiving dinner.

Tipsy in the Kitchen

October 16 is National Liqueur Day!

What's the difference between a liquor and a liqueur?

This question confuses many, and with good reason. Many liquors are available in flavored forms nowadays. Both liquors and liqueurs contain alcohol, but the terms are not interchangable.

In general, liqueurs are sweetened spirits with various flavors, oils and extracts. Liqueur alcohol content can range from a low 15 percent (30 proof) to 55 percent (110 proof), so potency is not a distinguishing factor. Rum, whiskey, brandy, and vodka can serve as a base spirit for liqueurs. Cream liqueurs have cream added, while créme liqueurs are much sweeter, likened to a potent syrup. Our ancestors referred to liqueurs as cordials, and they were often used medicinally.

Here’s a first look at two recipes from our upcoming book “Liqueur Amore” which will be published in 2007 by Boston Warehouse.

This cake is so moist and so rich; the stuff of a decadent “wedding cake”. The taste of orange will entice your tastebuds and the silken texture will tease your palate! Serving this cake at our Wild Rose Inn bed and breakfast brings oohs-and-ahs, and I always print out extra copies of the recipe for interested guests!

If you’re feeling adventurous; prepare your own orange liqueur (similar to Grand Marnier)…but plan this well in advance; curing time for the liqueur is one month.

The secret to this sensuous recipe is pouring a mixture of liqueur and juice onto the hot cake. (Poke a few small holes with fork to help the liquid absorb.) The recipe makes two cake rounds for a layered effect ( I’d use a simple whipped cream to frost) or one 1/2 sheet for cutting into squares.

Orange Blossom Cake

2 cups flour
1 tablespoon baking powder
1 teaspoon salt
1/2 teaspoon baking soda
1/2 cup butter, softened
1 1/8 cups sugar, divided use
2 teaspoon orange peel, grated
3 eggs, separated
3/4 cup orange juice
1/4 cup clear orange liqueur (such as Triple Sec®)
1/2 cup whole milk
Whipped cream for garnish

Stir together flour, baking powder, salt and baking soda; set aside. In a large bowl, with an electric mixer, beat butter and 1 cup sugar until fluffy. Add orange peel and egg yolks, one at a time, beating well after each addition. Blend orange juice and liqueur. Combine 1/2 cup juice mixture with milk. Add flour mixture and milk mixture alternately to creamed mixture, beginning and ending with flour. Beat egg whites until stiff, but not dry; gently fold into batter. Pour into (2) greased and floured 9-inch square pans. Bake in preheated 350 degree F. oven 35-40 minutes. Cakes will be very dark on top. Combine remaining 1/2 cup orange juice mixture and 1/8 cup sugar. Pour mixture over hot cake. Cool before removing from pan. Serve with whipped cream. Serves 12-16.

Grand Orange - Cognac Liqueur

3 cups brandy or cognac
11/2 teaspoons pure orange extract
1 cup orange-blossom honey
1/2 teaspoon glycerin, thickening agent (optional)
dash of ground cinnamon and ground coriander

Place all ingredients into a clean container to age. Stir, cap and let age in a cool dark place for 1 month. After initial aging, pour through fine mesh strainer placed over medium bowl. Rinse out aging container. Place clarified liqueur back into bottle. Makes 4 cups.

Recipe Riddle - October

October is National Seafood Month.

Here's a riddle that has stumped the best.

A few clues: it's not exactly comfort food - unless you're a penquin!

Think: temperature, animal, and Bullwinkle.

You Gotta Be In It To Win It

After losing out on FoodTV's "Next Food Network Star" contest last year I vowed never to try another. The $1,200. spent to have the entry videotaped stung, but my hopes for becoming a celebrity television chef were squashed like compactor trash when a congratulatory phone call from the network executives never came. Yes, I really thought me and the kids had a shot with our show "Family House Party!" It was an expensive lesson; but just like NY Lotto says, You Gotta Be In It To Win It!So, for the last several months I licked that $1,200 wound, figuring my plate was full enough without having the additional worries of stardom. After watching a rerun of "The Secret Life of French Fries" I was about to turn the TV off, and heard the promo:" You could be the winner". Oh no, I thought, here we go again. I felt all rationale drain out of me like bathtub water and Mrs. Hyde, the sweepstakes maniac, was all ears."Enter the Haagen-Daz contest and maybe your flavor idea will win." I tossed and turned with conflicted thoughts but finally fell asleep to visions of sweet victory. The only problem was, I had to have a videotaped entry in the mail by the next evening to beat the deadline. Another damn videotape! What ever happened to the lost art of the essay? I bargained with myself that this one would only cost the price of a mini-8 cassette. I grabbed my daughter's camcorder, plugged it into the sign post outside because my kids had used the battery in some science project, and stood outside waiting for traffic.

To one passerby I yelled (with the camera rolling) "What do you think would make a better ice cream, Apple Strudel...or Macaroni and Cheese". To the next victim I hollered a choice between Apple Strudel and Garlic Bread. I got more laughs than answers. Beings this is Woodstock, and folks walk the streets with neurotic agendas, one guy wouldn't play the game stating it was "an inappropriate question". Geez, it wasn't like I was asking him for an opinion on Roe vs. Wade. But I was getting into it, so I threw on an apron and dragged the camera downtown, hoping I'd find an electric receptacle and more willing players.

I changed my approach and told people (off camera) that I was helping one of my kids with a homework assignment. The tactic worked and I soon had a crowd.

"Hey, UPS man, what do think would taste better in ice cream, Apple Strudel or Chicken Soup". Not so surprising; he went with the apple! I ripped the tape from the machine, ran it down to the P.O., and felt like a winner.

Epilouge: They haven't called yet. But there's always tommorrow.

APPLE STRUDEL ICE CREAM

2 1/2 apples, peeled and cubed
1 cup brown sugar
1 teaspoon cinnamon
1/2 teaspoon nutmeg
1 quart heavy cream
2 packages Dream Whip Topping Mix
1 box instant vanilla pudding
1 quart plain yogurt
1 pint half and half
1 cup granulated sugar
1 tablespoon vanilla extract
1 cup chopped walnuts
1 pre-made or frozen pie crust

Bake pie crust according to package directions. Cool shell and then break into small pieces, not crumbs. Measure 1/2 cup of broken pie shell, set aside. In a saucepan, combine apples, brown sugar, cinnamon and nutmeg. Heat, stirring, until apples soften and are well coated, but not limp. Refrigerate for 1 hour. In a large bowl, manually whisk together cream, Dream Whip and pudding. (Do not use an electric mixer!). Whisk in yogurt until well blended. In a blender, thoroughly combine half and half, granulated sugar and vanilla. Whisk blender ingredients into yogurt mixture. Stir in apple mixture, nuts and pie shell. Pour into ice cream mixer prepare according to machine directions. Makes 8 cups. Serves 16.