Molly

Growing up in Great Neck, I encountered chickens in a multitude of ways, never alive. They were wrapped in plastic at the grocery store, spinning on a rotisserie at Poultry Mart or baked and cut into pieces on our dinner table. Here in Montana, we raise chickens in our backyards.

This is not just any Buff Orpington chicken; this chicken is a survivor. She has survived lightning storms, sub zero weather, hail the size of baseballs, and two dog attacks. She has survived winter in Montana. Need I say more?

When Molly was purchased from Murdoch's, she came home with five other chicks in a box. I felt like I just gave birth, only I had more energy. There was no formula or diapers in the picture and they ate and drank from their feeder whenever they had the desire.

Some people shelter baby chicks in their house and although I wanted to keep them in the kitchen, Peter would not consider it. The garage was insulated so they would be fine. (We hoped).

We made a nest for the chicks in a basin filled with wood shavings. The February cold kept the chicks huddled together under their heat lamp. Three Buff Orpingtons and Three Jersey Giants seemed like safe breeds for our first experience with raising chickens. Or so it seemed.

I felt like Godzilla when I tried to pet the chicks. Five of them ran for safety in terror of me. Molly, however, was fearless. She came over to my hand and walked up my arm. Maybe she was hungry, maybe she was looking for her mother, but, for some reason, she always hopped into my hand. Molly and I had a bond.

What kind of bond? Mother/daughter? Teacher/disciple? Chef/dinner? None of these. Molly was becoming a pet chicken. So many people have pet chickens that they sell diapers for "house chickens." I didn't want this relationship. But it was developing, every day.

Montana is a place where people raise chickens for eggs and meat. Most people don't give their chickens names like "Stretchy" or "Smiley." There are reasons for not getting too attached to a farm animal. (Stretchy didn't make it past ten days)

In Montana, people harvest their hens after about two years when the layers become less productive. I learned this at my doctor's office from the phlebotomist as she was drawing my blood. She was getting ready to harvest her thirty chickens and looking forward to a new crop of chicks.

To harvest, or not to harvest? This was the question...


Chicken Snack

4 leaves of romaine lettuce
2 zucchini
2 apples
4 carrots
4 bananas

Chop up all the veggies and fruit into bite sized pieces. Toss lightly in a metal bowl and carry out to the chicken run. Serves four chickens.

The Shiksa

The first time I met David Levine's new wife, she served us paella that was rich with saffron and hot pepper. The pan glistened with black mussel shells and scarlet lobster tails. She poured sangria from a tall pitcher into the adult's glasses. The year was 1979 and most of my parents friends were divorced, separated or just plain miserable. Megan and her two sons had moved into David's new house. Tan and blond, she wore no make up and dressed in a loose peasant blouse and worn jeans. My mother glared. As soon as we said goodnight and were in our car, she turned to my father and said,"David is going to regret marrying that divorcee. She is too young for him! And her kids seem slow; the older one must be retarded." My father, who had clearly enjoyed the evening, pointed out that David was divorced too. I could see that Dad appreciated Megan Levine. He laughed with her and enjoyed her cooking. The only one who looked tense was my mom. "I think the clams were spoiled. I feel sick." she added, clutching her stomach. The second time we went to Megan Levine's house, David poured glasses of scotch for my parents and Megan invited me to help her in the kitchen. She handed me a serrated knife and I sliced a baguette as she told me stories about a summer she worked in a vineyard in Southern France. I tried to picture myself picking grapes with a basket on my arm. "Can you check the recipe for me? How much olive oil?" she asked. No one in my world would ever consult a cookbook. Why would they try a new recipe? Why not eat the same food all the time? "Sure," I said, eagerly opening the book. For my thirteenth birthday, Megan surprised me at my house, to my mother's discomfort. I could hear the false greeting in her voice:"Great to see you! How are your sons?" Megan gave me a hug and I unwrapped her gift. It was The Good Housekeeping Cookbook. The same one she used. My initiation had begun. I could become one of the women who use cookbooks. I loved the bright color photos of Ham Steak Hawaiian, Cheese Fondue and Banana Cream Pie. All I had to do was follow the directions. What could be easier? My first attempt was cheese souffle, the photo on the book's cover. Just the word "souffle" sounded dangerous and French. It looked like grown-up food. In the back of the kitchen cabinet I found a souffle dish. I was on my way. While I was beating egg whites, my grandmother, Nan, barged into the kitchen. "That is not how you whip eggs. All wrong. Let me show you," she demanded. "This is how the cookbook says to do it," I answered, still holding the electric beater in my hand. "Who knows better, your grandmother or a cook book?"she challenged me. I pictured Megan Levine with her confident smile in her kitchen. I could hear Simon and Garfunkel on her radio. Megan gave me this cookbook for a reason. "I'm just following the recipe," I said, shrugging. I should have winked at her but you couldn't wink at my grandmother. She smelled a traitor. "You'll be sorry. It won't rise if you don't listen to me." she warned. I held up the book as if it was a talisman. The choice had been made. I had chosen the way of the shiksa. Classic Cheese Souffle from The Good Housekeeping Illustrated Cookbook 1/4 C butter or margarine 1/4 C all purpose flour 1 teaspoon salt 1/8 teaspoon cayenne pepper 1 1/2 C milk 2 four oz. packages shredded cheddar cheese (2 Cups) 6 eggs, separated 1. In a 2 quart saucepan over medium heat, melt butter or margarine; stir in flour, salt and cayenne pepper until smooth. 2.Slowly stir in milk and cook, stirring constantly just until sauce is smooth and thickened. 3.Add cheese and heat, stirring, just until the cheese melts. Remove pan from the heat. Preheat oven to 325 F. 4. In a small bowl, beat egg yolks slightly. Beat in small amount of the hot sauce to prevent lumping when added to saucepan. 5.Slowly pour warm egg mixture into hot sauce in pan, stirring rapidly to prevent eggs lumping. 6.In large bowl with mixer at high speed, beat egg whites just until stiff peaks form. Lightly grease bottom of a 2 quart souffle dish. 7.With rubber spatula, gently fold cheese sauce into beaten egg whites. 8.Pour mixture gently into prepared dish. For "top hat" effect, with spoon, make a 1-inch deep circle in top of cheese mixture, 1 inch from side. 9.Bake souffle in center of oven for 1 hour or until puffy and golden brown. Serve immediately.

Waldbaum's

For most shoppers a trip to the grocery store is an uneventful errand. In the larger scope of life it is painless. It can even be pleasant, as far as chores go. It certainly ranks above cleaning the bathroom.
Going to the grocery store can also be an opportunity to bump into friends, gossip, zone out. Not for me and my mother at Waldbaum's. This wasn't just about running an errand. This was a mission to get a low number in line at the delicatessen.

"Run!" she commanded before the car pulled into the parking space at Waldbaum's. "Get a number!" I sprung from the car and darted into the store across the slippery linoleum floor. Was it dangerous? Yes. I had to avoid huddles of women in bright lipstick exchanging gossip about their neighbors.

"Have you seen Ida's new Mercedes?"
"What was Bobbie thinking? It is fluorescent yellow!"
"Bobby told Saul he is sick of her car accidents. Now they will see her coming."
"Yeah, you can see Ida from five miles away!"
"You can see Ida from the space shuttle."

I had to choose a route. Some aisles were so jammed with carts that I couldn't pass through. I had to move fast so I chose the baking aisle, which was deserted. No one in this town would ever turn on their oven to bake. Maybe to reheat a frozen pound cake, but not to bake from a mix that read "Duncan Hines."

Prepared food was Great Neck's daily bread and the busiest part of the store was the Mecca of prepared food: the deli.
I saw my destination: the bright red machine that printed numbers for the line. Women swarmed around the machine, clutching their numbers in their fists. I plunged in and grabbed a number. 198. The deli man's nasal voice announced, "Number 122. Serving 122." I had time.
I decided to check in with my mother.

"198!" she exclaimed as she perused ten pound mounds of ground beef. "We'll be here all day!"
My mother was always in a rush for no apparent reason. No job, a full time house cleaner, gardeners, etc. but she had little time to spare. I suppose she had places to go that were more pressing than Waldbaum's.
I felt defensive about my high number for the deli line. I should have knocked someone down to get a better number.
"You don't know that for sure." I said. "The line could move fast."
What a liar! I knew the line never moved fast. Why? Because of the sacred ritual of samples.
"I'll have two pounds of tongue," said a lady with orange hair. The deli man opened the case, extracted a log of tongue, lay it on the slicer and sliced off one piece which he offered to the lady.
"O.K.?" he said.
"Fine." she replied after chewing her sample.
As he commenced his work on the log of tongue I wondered why she needed to taste it. Does tongue vary in flavor from week to week? Did the meat processor in New Jersey change the preservatives and spices in the tongue? Anything is possible.
Everyone who orders cold cuts engages in this ritual. Everyone except me.
When my number was called I spoke quickly."I'll have two pounds of pastrami, two pounds of smoked turkey, two pounds of roast beef, one pound of potato salad, one pound of cole slaw and half a pound of scallion cream cheese."
"Anything else?"
"Half a pound of whitefish salad."

The deli guy opened the case and removed a piece of roast beef. He heaved it onto the slicer and cut one slice. He leaned across the counter and offered me the pink slice of meat.
"O.K.?"
"No thanks."
"What?!"
"No thanks."
He chewed on his toothpick, considering the situation. Something was clearly wrong, but what? People were listening to us. I had become a curiosity, maybe a freak. I had to say something, anything.
"I just ate breakfast!" I blurted out.
It was 2PM. The hum of the crowd resumed.
Still working on that toothpick, the deli man sliced meat, scooped salads into plastic containers and placed everything into a brown paper bag. Handing me the bag he said, "Have a nice day," without making eye contact. I guess that was part of the ritual too.

The Essential Pastrami Sandwich

This is a classic deli meat lovers sandwich and the absence of vegetables is essential. That means that lettuce, tomatoes and onions have no place here. Coleslaw, however, is a welcome addition and it is best to place it on the middle layer so the bread does not get soggy.

two slices of rye bread, preferably dark rye
deli mustard, preferably Hebrew National
ten to twelve slices of pastrami

cole slaw (optional)

Spread mustard on both slices of bread. Put five slices of pastrami on one piece and add four tablespoons of coleslaw. Add another layer of pastrami and put the bread on top. You will know you have enough meat on your sandwich if you have to open you mouth very wide to take a bite.

This sandwich tastes even better when accompanied by a dill pickle.

The Battle of Stuffed Cabbage

As a nine year old I often slept at my grandparents' homes on weekends. My parents dropped my brother Lee and I at one of their houses, barely slowing down the car before tossing our overnight bags out with us.

It is not that they didn't love us. They needed a break and my grandmothers needed to feed us. Although I can't prove this, I believe they planned their meals days in advance. My grandmothers, Helen and Beatrice, each owned a cast iron roasting pan purchased on a trip to Europe, carried home on the plane beneath their seats for the purpose of baking stuffed cabbage.

Stuffed cabbage was more than meat rolled inside a lowly cabbage. It was a source of pride and a symbol of heritage. Our ancestors got their asses kicked by Cossacks in Kiev. They were chased out of Poland. So what happened? My great grandparents got on boats and came to America with next to nothing. Their children's children drive fancy cars and live in big houses but they eat hamburgers and cold cuts.

They can eat whatever they want(and both grandmothers approve of large quantities of food at every meal) but they like to remember where they came from. "We should eat what my mother made for me," said Nanny Helen.

My father's parents lived in a large Tudor house filled with antiques and fascinating knick-knacks. Lee and I played hide and seek in the many rooms and dressed up in my grandmother's gowns and hats from the fifties. Nothing was asked of us, except to have a hearty appetite at dinner.

My grandfather, Poppy, sat at the head of a long, oak table set with bone china and my grandmother's wedding silverware. Lee and I felt the formality of the moment and remembered not to put our elbows on the table.

My grandmother, Nanny Helen, dressed impeccably as always, carried in a pan of stuffed cabbage. Lee and I weren't picky eaters and our grandparents fondly watched us devour our food.
"So, how do you like my stuffed cabbage?" asked Nanny Helen, innocently.
"It is yummy," I answered with a mouthful of food. I felt I had to eat quickly. She didn't look satisfied.
"Have you tried Bea's cabbage?" she asked, raising an eyebrow.
Bea was my other grandmother. She and Helen did not get along, although they pretended to in public.
"I don't remember," I said.
"You know I love Bea, but her cooking is a disaster," said Nanny Helen with a dramatic sigh. "Too much salt. She is going to give Lou high blood pressure. Do you know who taught your mother how to cook?" She paused for emphasis. "Bea taught Joyce and that is why you and your brother don't eat anything at home."
This wasn't a kind thing to say but she had a point.

The next weekend, my parents brought us to my mother's parent's house. Nan and Gramps had a huge backyard and Lee and I ran around the trees playing spies until it got dark and we came inside for dinner.

It was essential to work up an appetite because in Nan's house the plates had to be licked clean. If we couldn't eat everything we discreetly fed our leftovers to her dachshund, Little Dog, who waited patiently at our feet under the table.

Dinner was served in the kitchen, unless it was a holiday, and a small black and white T.V. was always on with the volume on low. Nan served us stuffed cabbage. My grandfather ate quietly, listening to the drone of the newscaster. Nan watched us with the intensity of a hawk who eyes a mouse in a field.

Convinced that we were underfed, she willed every morsel of food to pass to our lips. Fortunately Lee had a pudgy tummy so her attention was primarily focused on me. She was not shy about lifting up my shirt to examine my rib cage while shaking her head in disapproval.

Nan wasted no time. "I bet that tastes better than Helen's cabbage," she said.
Lee didn't answer. He was too young to understand what was going on. He and Gramps stared at the T.V..
"Yours is better," I said, hoping to satisfy her.
Nan had to speak her mind. "Helen's is too sweet. That is not how you are supposed to make it. All her cooking is sugar, sugar, sugar!" Nan scowled.
I couldn't help but think about Nanny Helen's lemon meringue pie and appreciate her ability to cook with sugar.
"I don't know how your father grew up in that house with her cooking! Hmmph. Maybe he only ate dessert."
Nan looked at me for agreement but I just nodded my head and changed the subject.

Here I was lying to my grandmother. Why? Because I felt pressured to judge their cooking. I was just a kid who was hungry. What did I know about Eastern European cooking? I didn't understand that this was about them and their need to feel superior to the other. It really was a battle.

Many years later when I was stuck in a college cafeteria looking a bowl of gummy turkey tetrazzini, I dreamed about stuffed cabbage. If only I knew how to cook it. The next time I was home from college I was ready to learn.

Nan's Stuffed Cabbage

1 large head of green cabbage
2 pounds of three meat blend (ground pork, beef and lamb)
1 medium onion, grated
2 garlic cloves, minced
2 t salt
1 t pepper
1/2 C raw long grain rice

Sauce:
2 T vegetable oil
1 large onion, chopped
1 15 oz. can of crushed tomatoes
1/2 C ketchup
1/2 C white sugar
1/2 C raisins
1 T white vinegar
1 t salt
1 T pepper

1. Boil the whole cabbage until the leaves are cooked but still firm
2. Preheat the oven to 350 degrees
3. Make the filling: mix meat, rice, onion, garlic, salt and pepper in a bowl.
4. Cook the sauce: saute onion in oil on low heat for five minutes. Stir in sugar, tomatoes, ketchup, raisins, salt and pepper and white vinegar. Cook for another five minutes.
5. Roll 1/4 C of filling in each cabbage leaf. Place seam side down in a roasting pan.
When all leaves are rolled, pour sauce over the cabbage rolls.
6. Cover pan with foil and bake for one hour.
7. Remove foil and bake for another 30 minutes.

note: Nan's three meat blend can be substituted for two pounds of ground beef.

Nan's Dressing

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.

Friday Night Rituals

Friday Night Rituals

For most Jewish families in Great Neck, when the sun set on Friday evenings, a candle was lit and Sabbath prayers were spoken. For others, the kids piled into the back of the car and everyone drove to the local Chinese restaurant.

I remember going to the same restaurant every Friday: Szechwan Garden, and being welcomed at the door by Janie, the owner: I wanted to hug her. The room had red and gold paint,hanging paper lanterns, and a pudgy Buddha with a huge grin. After a week of burned and undercooked dinners, coming here was what I anticipated.

We were always seated at the same round table and two bowls of deep fried noodles and duck sauce sat waiting for us. I looked at my family and no one was sulking or frowning. We stopped bickering when we came to this restaurant. It felt like a special occasion.

The waiter gave everyone a menu but it didn’t matter because we always ordered the same dishes: Pu-Pu Platter, Mu Shu Pork, Whole Crispy Fish, Beef with Broccoli, and Szechwan String beans.

First the waiter took our drink order. Mom and Dad ordered Chinese beer. At ten I felt sophisticated ordering a Shirley Temple. It came with a plastic skewer of pineapple pieces and maraschino cherries. I took little sips to make it last. When it was all gone I drank green tea from a tiny teacup.

For us kids, there was nothing as exotic as Pu-Pu Platter. It was a platter of appetizers with a flaming hibachi grill in the middle. The flame added an element of danger. We could burn ourselves or, even worse, set the red and gold room on fire.
On a wooden platter were spare ribs, pork dumplings, egg rolls, crab Rangoon and crispy shrimp toasts. I saved the best for last and the best was shrimp toast.

A shrimp toast was a piece of white bread smeared with minced shrimp and fried. A crispy triangle, it looked dainty, much like a little sandwich at a tea party, but it tasted chewy and delicious. Like everything else, I dipped it in duck sauce.

My brothers and I grilled our already precooked food. My mother and I watched Julia Child religiously and I thought of her as I held the crab Rangoon in the flame of the grill. I was ten years old and already grilling my own food at a Chinese restaurant.

When the waiter carried over a tray with our dinner, my mother exclaimed: ”Look at all this food! It’s too much for us,” while shaking her head.
My parents were always impressed by the size of the portions. For them it was more than a tasty meal, it was a great deal.

For my youngest brother Laurance, the meal was all about Mu Shu Pork. One of his first words was “pork.” (No, we were not Kosher) He liked to spread the hoisin sauce on the pancake and roll it up with the filling. If we had let him, he would have licked the plate clean.

At the end of the meal, when all the platters of food were bare, the waiter brought the bill and a bowl of fortune cookies. I cracked open my cookie to get the fortune before I took even one bite. We went around the table and everyone read their fortunes out loud. Nothing could ruin our mood of contentment. On one night mine read:


"Everything has beauty, but not everyone sees it." Confucius



Shrimp Toast


½ lb. cooked shrimp, peeled and chopped
1/3 C. water chestnuts, minced
1 T grated fresh ginger
2 green onions, minced
4t cornstarch
1t salt
2 T oyster sauce
1 egg, beaten
6 slices of day old bread, crusts removed
2 C canola oil

In a bowl, mix the shrimp with ginger, salt, oyster sauce and egg.

Cut each slice of bread into two triangles. Arrange on a baking sheet. Spread shrimp mixture over each triangle. Refrigerate for 15 minutes.

In a frying pan heat oil to 365 F, drop bread into oil, shrimp side down. Fry until golden brown. Flip over for a few seconds. Remove from oil, drain on paper towels.

Serve with a bowl of duck sauce.

Birthday Chicken

My Aunt Terry was turning forty and my mother and grandmother planned a party in her honor, whether she wanted one or not. Nan came over with the intention of discussing the menu two days before the festivities.

My grandmother knew how to cook. My mother knew how to overcook and undercook.

When Nan arrived, my mother was working in our driveway.
“I’m baking lasagna,” said Mom, without looking up from a crooked side table she was painting white. He new habit was spending Saturday and Sunday mornings cruising garage sales for “gently used” (beat up) furniture. After painting her new treasures white they were stored in our garage for future use.
“Well, I’m cooking leg of lamb,” said Nan. “Terry loves lamb.” She added. We all knew this was true as did my mother but she wasn’t the type to concede anything. Not ever.
They argued back and forth for a while until Nan suggested cornflake chicken. Mom said “Oh fine,” as if backing down and lowering her sword.

While not a personal favorite of mine I was happy they agreed on anything. There was nothing wrong with cornflake chicken. I did have texture. I just couldn’t unite poultry with a breakfast cereal and feel satisfied.

The day of the party arrived. That morning Mom went shopping for twenty pounds of chicken pieces. She lugged the bags onto the kitchen counter and she and Nan went to work. I was given the job of crushing a box of cornflakes with Mom’s rolling pin until the flakes were as small as breadcrumbs.
The next step was mixing yogurt and mayo. Nan dipped the chicken pieces in the mixture and then rolled them in the cornflakes. She spread them out on a baking sheet and put them in the fridge for the time being.

With the remainder of the mayo, Mom made her famous seafood salad. This was basically boiled shrimp and snow peas in mayonnaise.

Condiments can reveal quite a bit about a person. Our fridge displayed a preference for mustard. There may have been seven types of mustard at any one time and maybe a bottle of Heinz ketchup. Rarely was mayo present, unless company was joining us for dinner.

When the guests arrived they drank wine and tried to find a place to stand around the rented tables and folding chairs we had packed into our living room. At my mom’s request I passed platters of egg rolls. The guests dipped their egg rolls in a dish of neon orange duck sauce. They mingled and drank more wine without interruption.

The real excitement was in the kitchen. The agitation between my mother and grandmother kept increasing. It started as little snippy comments and grew to outright anger. Inside our double oven, chicken pieces sizzled.
Nan and Mom rushed around the kitchen island flinging plates. Mom opened one oven, pulled out a hot pan and announced that the chicken was cooked.

Nan disagreed “Those chickens have to cook for one hour and it has only been forty minutes!” This attention to detail was the missing part of my mother’s cooking. She was known for burning or undercooking every meal. Time was not her friend.

Nan didn’t worry about whether time was her buddy; she always used a timer. She knew that those chicken pieces were raw and she had logic on her side.

Mom had a glint in her eye that she seemed to reserve only for my grandmother. “I say they are done! If you had your way you would cook them to death!”
As Mom turned off the oven, Nan stormed out of the kitchen door. I heard her car ignition turn on and she drove off.

Mom then turned to me as if I were her accomplice and commanded: “Let’s get them onto plates.”
Her eyes, already large, looked like huge frying pans and I was afraid to say anything. The chicken parts sat on the counter awaiting their fate. I was young enough that I couldn’t challenge my mother or point out that maybe we should check more carefully.

My grandmother had taught me how to check for doneness so I twisted a leg to see if the juices ran clear. These juices were bloody. I put a fork into a thigh and saw the unmistakable pink of raw chicken.

Nonetheless, My Mom and I plated the chicken parts on my mother’s Tiffany china and proceeded to serve it to our guests.

As far as I know, no one died or was hospitalized after this meal. Since these were my aunt’s friends, they were both polite and prudent. I imagine they drank lots of wine and didn’t touch the food on their plates.

Cornflake Chicken

8 chicken pieces (thighs and legs)
4 cups cornflakes
½ cup mayonnaise
½ cup plain yogurt
1 ½ teaspoon paprika
salt
pepper

Preheat oven to 375 degrees.

Rinse the chicken in cold water, pat dry and season with salt and pepper.

Crush the cornflakes by placing them in a plastic bag, and running over the flakes with a rolling pin. Pour the crushed flakes onto a plate.

In a bowl mix the mayo with the yogurt and paprika.

Dip each chicken piece in the mayo mixture and then in the flakes.

Arrange the pieces on a baking sheet and place in a hot oven. Cook for one hour.

The juices should run clear when the meat is pierced with a knife.