My grandmother, Nan, could cook everything from meat loaf to Baked Alaska and I ate at her table as often as possible. I was thinking about my grandmother when my brother, Laurance, phoned me.
"Think of all the dishes Nan cooked for us," I said "What was your favorite?"
Without a pause he replied "I would have to say her salad dressing." Then he added"But I still can't believe how she made it."
The setting is Nan's kitchen in 1989. America is in love with balsamic vinegar, goat cheese, baby lettuces and imported extra virgin olive oil. Here in Roslyn, New York, the fridge is stocked with ample quantities of American cheese, Hebrew National salami and iceberg lettuce. The director John Waters has called iceberg lettuce"the polyester of lettuces." He may have been right. In Nan's salads, iceberg is the star ingredient.
Seventies floral wallpaper in blue and silver is the main decor. The white countertops are covered in prescription pill bottles, orange packets of Sanka, pink packets of Sweet and Low, and several salt and pepper shakers. One spice bottle reads "MSG." She clears a space and finds an empty mustard jar for her dressing. Her radio is playing Perry Como but she is not listening. The idea of relaxing to music is and always has been absurd.
Into her jar she puts one tablespoon of ketchup, two tablespoons of Dijon mustard, vegetable oil, olive oil and white wine vinegar. With a little whisk she mixes up the dressing. The phone rings.
It is my mother who gets right to the point: "Mom, duck is on sale at Waldbaum's. Do you want one?"
"Alright Joyce. And I need some chicken livers...O.K.?"
When she replaces the phone she adds salt and pepper and a dash of dried basil. Then she adds a teaspoon of sugar. In my grandmother's cooking, sugar is added to everything, from tomato sauce to beef stew. She peels two cloves of garlic and smashes them on her cutting board. At this moment, Little Dog tinkles on the floor.
"On no, bad little girl!" She lifts up her dachshund and carries her outside to the yard.
When she returns still holding Little Dog, she puts the garlic into the jar. Then cuts a lemon in half and squeezes the juice into into the dressing. The doorbell rings and Little Dog starts to yap.
"Alright, I'm coming," calls Nan as she rushes to the front door.
A salesman with a truck of frozen steak is trying to sell her a case of meat. "No thanks," she says, shutting the door in his face and grumbling about a scam. Little Dog continues to yap.
"Shhhh, now go to sleep."
Back in the kitchen, Nan reaches into a cabinet and emerges with her teak salad bowl, shiny from years of use. She tears up a head of iceberg lettuce. The salad cannot be complete without sliced cucumbers, cherry tomatoes and radishes. Last she crumbles up some Danish blue cheese and puts it in the bowl. She replaces the cap on the jar and gives it a few good shakes.
Most people would use salad tongs but not my Nan. She pours the dressing over the greens and mixes everything with her bare hands. Her knuckles are swollen from arthritis and her skin is freckled from years of sun. Nan's method may not have won awards for cleanliness, but it is essential to the flavor of the salad. Her dressing wakes up the vegetables and makes a person fall in love with her salad. I know I did.
Nan's Dressing
2T Dijon mustard
1 T ketchup (Nan used Heinz ketchup)
1/4 C vegetable oil
1/4 C olive oil
1/4 C white wine vinegar
1 t sugar
2 garlic cloves, chopped
1t dried basil
salt and pepper to taste
lemon juice from one lemon
To make the vinaigrette,combine the oil, and vinegar in a small bowl. Add the remaining ingredients and whisk to blend well.