Chopped Liver

I was young and hungry and there was always a bowl of chopped liver on the coffee table of my grandmother's house. The relatives sat around and sipped red wine, each aunt and uncle looking at us kids with both amusement and expectation. Always within reach of my little hands and conveniently served with a plate of crunchy matzah, the bowl of chopped liver smelled like fried onions. Eagerly I smeared the chopped liver onto my cracker and took a bite.
"Look at her! Such a good eater!"
"Have another Brookie! One more!"
"David, look at Brookie! Such an eater! Why won't you eat the liver? Try some!"
My cousins could not keep up with me. They preferred to eat plain matzah.
I chewed slowly, savoring the taste. I had watched my mother and grandmothers make this concoction in their kitchens many times. Liver did not gross me out. In fact, I loved it. And when I looked at my grandmother's expression of pride, I understood. This was our cultural heritage. I ate more.

It wasn't until I was a teenager that my mom gave me the job of preparing the chopped liver when we had company. I plunged in with self-importance. I followed her recipe as best I could. This was not a time for improvisation. My younger brother watched as I sauteed the livers in a frying pan. As he could see, this was a teenager's task. This was bigger than any other household chore.

"What is that?" asked my brother, Laurance pointing at the frying pan. At five years old he was curious about everything.
"Chicken livers."
"What is a chicken liver?" he asked.
"An organ in the chicken's body." I said.
I had never thought about it like that. I pictured it in my mind. The frying livers started to smell like old clams.
"What is an organ?" He persisted in asking.
It was then that I understood what Laurance needed to know about chopped liver. He needed to appreciate the finished product. He did not need to contemplate the image of a "large glandular organ in the abdomen of vertebrate animals which secretes bile, detoxifies the blood, and is important in the metabolism and storage of major nutrients." Chopped liver was a sum of its parts and it was delicious. Why break it down and think too hard about each component? It was a more than a piece of liver or a hard boiled egg. It was simply itself.



Chopped Liver
(adopted from Joyce Green's Recipe)

2 large onions, chopped
1 lb. chicken livers
4 hard boiled eggs, peeled
3 T vegetable oil
2 t salt
1 t black pepper

1. Pulse the eggs in a food processor until chopped and set aside.
2. Cook the onions in oil until golden for about 15 minutes.
3. Add livers to the onions and saute until livers are cooked through.
4. Put liver mixture in the food processor and pulse until pureed. Stir in chopped eggs, salt and pepper.
5. Chill for 1 hour.
6. Serve with crackers.

Years later, on my first day of work at a bank, I met my husband-to-be for lunch at the local deli.
He selected a vanilla yogurt and a red delicious apple. A bottle of spring water.
I stepped up to the the counter and ordered chopped liver on rye with iceburg lettuce and tomatoes. A root beer and a half and half cookie.
I was about to ask if he wanted to taste my sandwich but he beat me to it. "Is that chopped liver? Can I have a bite?"
Had he ever eaten chopped liver? Maybe not, but he was willing to try and I liked that. He took a huge bite and looked as it he was deciding something.
"That is so good!"
"You can have half." I said. This man had potential.

Pepsi Ham

Peter stared speechlessly as my mother smeared half a jar of deli mustard on the latticed ham. Without hesitation she unscrewed a gallon of Pepsi cola and poured it over the ham until the meat was drenched in a three inch bath.

The kitchen counters were cluttered like a garage sale. Bottles of condiments and jams crowded the counter space. House plants of various sizes occupied the rest. Some were green but most were closer to yellow. Mom had cleared a place to cook us dinner. This was the first time Peter had been to a Green family meal. I did not want it to be the last.
"Why only half a jar of mustard, Mom?" I asked.
"The rest is for tomorrow's salad dressing." She answered as she lifted the pan and heaved it into the oven.

While I admired her for planning ahead, I felt anxiety creep up my back and tighten the muscles on my neck. Yes, I wanted this dinner to impress my boyfriend. Mom could grill a hot dog like a pro. She could scramble an egg. But a ham was something else.

"Oh no, I forgot the green vegetable." She dug into the fridge and pulled out a perfect head of broccoli, two onions and a head of garlic. With a cleaver she chopped it all to unrecognizable bits and threw the pieces into an electric fryer.
"Isn't that for frying chicken, Mom?"
"Says who?" she answered defensively.
She had a point. I was not a culinary authority. My repertoire was limited to chili and spaghetti with tomato sauce.
Mom poured olive oil over the vegetables and turned the dial to medium heat. Then she replaced the top and poured herself a white wine spritzer. She reached for the T.V. on the kitchen table and turned it on.
"Let's watch the six o'clock news." This was not a question but a command. We poured ourselves glasses of wine and joined her.
During commercials, Mom basted the the ham. When she opened the oven door a scent of burnt sugar filled the kitchen. I began to feel hopeful.

By the time we sat down to dinner, the ham had lost its pink color and turned brown. Pepsi brown.
"Not bad." said my husband-to be.
"Crispy." I added.
Looking pleased with her culinary efforts Mom brought the fryer to the table. She lifted off the lid with some drama revealing a formless mass of green mush.
"Wait until you taste it!"

Cola Ham

1 gallon of Cola, Pepsi or Coke
Half a bottle of Mustard
five pound ham

Preheat the oven to 350 F
Put the ham in a roasting pan.
Brush the ham with mustard.
Pour the cola over the ham.
Bake for two hours. Baste the ham every fifteen minutes.
Enjoy!