Comfort Foods
After a long hard day at work (proofreading the monthly issue), I came home tonight and immediately started making my nana's baked custard. This is a creamy custard, made with simple ingredients, that traces its roots directly to the Joy of Cooking. But it's one of those recipes that goes beyond its four ingredients. As soon as the warm milk hits the eggs and sugar, as soon as the nutmeg leaves the jar, as soon as the smell of baking custard reaches me in the living room, I am back in Nana's kitchen at the age of eight, standing on a stool at the counter, "helping" with the baking.
I didn't do much cooking at home when I was a kid, other than my turns standing at the stove, stirring the white sauce my mother made for tuna and peas over toast. We baked every once in a while, usually when we had to bring brownies to school, but my mother never really enjoyed cooking all that much, and too this day she "doesn't bake."
My grandmothers, however, were a different story. They were mid-century housewives of the first degree, and they loved having small grandaughters around to help. Going to Nana's house meant baked custard and scones, going to Grandma's meant cinnamon buns, dutch almond pastry, and black cows, otherwise known as root beer floats. These were served to my sister and I in tall glasses, usually without my mother's knowledge.
Although I think of my grandmothers every time I enter the kitchen, the draw of their recipes becomes stronger at Christmas. Nana died several years ago a few days before Christmas, and Grandad just sold the house with the kitchen I knew so well. I was given the task of cleaning out the kitchen, and found myself crying when I discovered the pastry cutter that Nana used to make scones. Grandma, too, just sold her house, as she and Grandpa have decided to live out their days in a nursing home. New, young families have taken over both kitchens, just in time for the holiday season: I hope they spend it baking.
I didn't do much cooking at home when I was a kid, other than my turns standing at the stove, stirring the white sauce my mother made for tuna and peas over toast. We baked every once in a while, usually when we had to bring brownies to school, but my mother never really enjoyed cooking all that much, and too this day she "doesn't bake."
My grandmothers, however, were a different story. They were mid-century housewives of the first degree, and they loved having small grandaughters around to help. Going to Nana's house meant baked custard and scones, going to Grandma's meant cinnamon buns, dutch almond pastry, and black cows, otherwise known as root beer floats. These were served to my sister and I in tall glasses, usually without my mother's knowledge.
Although I think of my grandmothers every time I enter the kitchen, the draw of their recipes becomes stronger at Christmas. Nana died several years ago a few days before Christmas, and Grandad just sold the house with the kitchen I knew so well. I was given the task of cleaning out the kitchen, and found myself crying when I discovered the pastry cutter that Nana used to make scones. Grandma, too, just sold her house, as she and Grandpa have decided to live out their days in a nursing home. New, young families have taken over both kitchens, just in time for the holiday season: I hope they spend it baking.
posted by Al at 4:57 PM
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