Cook Until Done: Culinary Wisdom From Memere's Kitchen

The winter has been very cold. The search for comforts usually includes food, and as I was contemplating making a tortière, a French meat pie according to my grandmother’s recipe, it occurred to me how little I actually know about her style of cooking. Though some recollections are vivid, I realized I had very little written record to draw from. I’ve had stacks of her kitchen papers hanging around since she passed away several years ago, and one day I decided to go through them in search of inspiration. Would there be a theme? Could the tortière recipe actually have been written down, and would it differ from what I thought was in my memory? What would the collection of clippings, from God knows where, say about a frugal French-Canadian widow from Woonsocket and the way she lived? The results were unexpected, to say the least.

Life may have been hard for the working poor of that small mill city, but it certainly wasn’t without its pleasures, or even humor. Years ago, when I was in cooking school, a Canadian friend of mine decided to “help” me out with a project for the class I was taking at the time, Menu Planning and Design. Bob was born in Québec and English was his second language. Sometimes I thought Wise-Ass was his first language, no less so after the “Menu For The Shi-Shi (sic) Crowd,” a document I’d almost completely forgotten about until I found it, inexplicably tucked in with Memère’s recipes. All of the dishes contained a wicked double entendre or a play on words, most of which can’t remember except one. I’ve always believed that the French have a word for everything, and I relearned a new one in the raque à jeous d’agneau. “Jeous” (pronounced “zhoo”) is slang for a popular feature of the female anatomy— in a word, tits. Raque à jeous, therefore, is another term for a brassiere. The “tit-rack of lamb,” then, sold for the relative bargain of $36.95. Serves two, naturellement. Though Bob had explained each item, on the rest I could only speculate. Poulet farci avec gosses de tammarois? Don’t go there.

Most of the items in her collection were less, shall we say, pointed. Many are unintentionally funny, like her tendency to misspell “bowel” for “bowl,” as in, “put the ingredients in a bowel.” (Not tonight, dear, I have a headache.) Some have cryptic instructions, such as “cook until done.” If you don’t know what that means, then you shouldn’t be in the kitchen. Others were terse to the point of ludicrousness. Here’s a fudge recipe that I don’t mind reproducing for you verbatim. Typed on a tiny slip of paper it seems almost poetic, in a primitive sort of way:

No Fail Fudge

Mix Two ¼ cup sugar 3/4 cup of evaporated milk.
BOIL 5 MINUTES
Add I cup of choclate morsels I or 2 cups of
marshmallow fluff I tablespoon of margarine
add a few drops of vanilla

BEAT TILL COOL

I don’t think I need to point out that any recipe that calls for “I or 2” cups of Fluff could hardly be considered No Fail.

Disappointingly, however, very few of the recipes were actually hand-written. Most were clippings from various sources, not the least of which was the local newspaper, the Woonsocket Call. One entire page dated December 22, 1960, is headlined “Hospitality— It Begins At Home.” Really? I did not know that. It continues somberly, “The season of the bird is upon us;” a photo shows us a turkey on a plate surrounded by unrecognizable vegetable matter. The author tells us that some holiday dishes rate as entertainment as well as food, and that “eating is for everybody.” I wonder which recipes Memère wanted to save. Was it the Happy Clam Dip? The Sour Cream Prune Pie? Maybe it was the Miniature Bubble Loaves, a yeast bread covered in sugar and spice and everything nice. Probably not; Memère wasn’t the yeast bread type. In the middle of it all was the surreal meditation titled “What Is Food?” Not merely a rhetorical question, it continues, in part: “IT is the workman’s arsenal of energy. IT is the housewife’s obedient servant. IT is the happy, colorful, fragrant, tempting, honored guest of the holi­day. IT is the handiwork of nature and farmer, dairyman, rancher, manufacturer, processor, wholesaler, retailer, and every other responsible man and woman who make up the lifeline that is the food industry… IT is all of these things and more. IT is the force and source of life itself. WE call it ‘Food.’”

Most of the recipe collection is in the form of brochures, the kind that are designed around a specific product or type of food. Now, how could any smart cook think of keeping house without Minute Tapioca at her fingertips, one wonders? This particular mini cookbook throws around such words as wonderful, perfect, magical, and glamorous; indeed, it’s amazing what “savory, flavory” dishes may contain the Miracle of Minute Tapioca, from desserts and soufflés, to omelets, vegetables, and Miracle Meat Loaf (“so juicy, so tender!”). Surely, according to the author (Frances Barton, a Betty Crocker rip-off if there ever was one), you are going to find all kinds of good luck with Minute Tapioca! (I think I’ll have what she’s having.)

Speaking of meatloaf, one has to assume that there’s no end to the hyperbole and inappropriate food metaphors. Take Meatloaf: Theme and Variations (“An economical main dish made simply marvelous!”) as another prime example. That mainstay of many a family meal is capable of orchestration into dinner or luncheon party dish supreme! That is, if your idea of supreme includes pineapple upside-down ham loaf, or cheese and spaghetti loaf, or the eternal salmon loaf.

Eternal, I say, because of “The Story of Salmon: From Catch To Can To Kettle.” Few foods, this brochure assures us, have the romance and mystery that surrounds a can of salmon. (I swear I’m not making this up.) This beautifully illustrated brochure treats us to recipes for Salmon Party Mold (with sour cream and gelatin, delicately garnished with cucumber slices— no party is complete without one), salmon hash (which sounds delicious, I have to admit. Well, not really), and… Salmon Lemon Loaf! Furthermore, the booklet was available in a 16-page teacher’s manual, entitled Basic and Creative Cooking With a Can of Salmon, which was available free to home economics teachers. I would have waited for the movie. Actually, two movies were produced through the co-operation of the US Government (Salmon— Catch to Can and Take a Can of Salmon). Our tax dollars at work.

Actually I do have a canned fish story to relate. One time, while my mother was in the hospital, Memère stayed over our house to watch over my sister, Renée, and me. And while she didn’t make salmon loaf, she did make creamed canned salmon one night for dinner. I can’t remember very much about it, except that it was rather salty. Besides, how bad could it be if it could be served over mashed potatoes? Renée had a much different recollection. “Disgusting!” she exclaimed recently over Christmas dinner, as we were talking about the good old days. She shuddered and scrunched up her face as if she still had the taste of it in her mouth. “And she wouldn’t let me leave the table until I’d eaten it all!” (This from a girl who hated real strawberries, but would eat anything with strawberries in it: Pop-Tarts, preserves, even strawberry Nesquik, for God’s sake. She never could quite grasp the irony. But I digress.)

Clearly, there was no great wealth of information to be found in all of Memère’s cookbooks and recipes. I know what the secret ingredient for the meat pie is (I’m not going to reveal it here), and otherwise it’s basically the same— ground beef and pork, potatoes mashed into it, onions, and spices. Nevertheless I really don’t have a true idea of how close my meat pie is to hers. But it doesn’t matter because the feeling is the same. The aromas, as so many of them do, evoke so much more than the recipe itself: images of family, warmth, and the holidays; cousins I’d hardly ever see except at Christmas and New Year’s; and Memère herself, who was always quick with a laugh or a treat, or a bit of home-spun advice that was never intrusive but always seemed to have just the right timing and emphasis. True, the recipe may be gone. But the memory will live on forever.