Taking a turn.

This is a story from my childhood- an instance in my life where I tasted hints of my passion for food. This passion soon blossomed into a full on love affair, never to cease.


Fritters for the Family

Every year my family and I would join the Lind family in a neighboring Chicago suburb for a Christmas Eve meal. The youngest children would run around this beautifully restored historic home chasing the dogs and knocking over vases, while the teenagers would be in the basement listening to music, playing pong-pong and probably coming up with some rascally scheme that usually resulted in getting themselves in trouble. While the house was bustling with pets and children everywhere, the parents would always be in the kitchen. There would be several bottles of wine circulating and the occasional cigar being passed between the men. For as long as I can remember, this is where I wanted to be. I didn't really know why, but I was fascinated by the noticeable transformation throughout the night. The raw ingredients would transform into delectable delights. The conversations and laughs would progressively get louder and louder as more vino was consumed. The kitchen would become smokier, dirtier, noisier – in a way – homier.

My father would often pick at the food that was cooking – always when it was too hot, and when it was cooled, he would sometimes slip a nibble to me, in a way similar to when kids sneak food under the table to the family dog. But if I were to go in for a bite by myself, my hand would get slapped in the same way one would smack the family dogs nose when it would leap up for food. My father would look at me and say, "Only the chefs get to taste the food." It was obvious to me at that point that I would become one of the many chefs in that warm magical kitchen.

So, one of those nights at around the age of maybe six I wanted to partake in the action. Mrs. Lind fastened an over-sized durable red and white striped apron on my fragile bony body, pulled my long brown straggly hair back out of my face, and my father and I began to formulate antipasti, which would eventually be named, with the aid of several glasses of wine, "artichoke fritters." I tossed the quartered artichokes through a light egg wash and coated them in a breading made of coarsely chopped stale baguette. My tiny fingers were more coated than my precious artichokes, but I didn't care. Dad and I tossed them in a hot oiled pan on the stove and let them sizzle away. My father has this way of parenting where he would get us started on something in life and then let us loose. For example, teaching us to ride a bike, he would make us feel so comfortable and trusting in him, while he sturdily got us going, and I swear – just as he got us going – he would say something to the extent of : "It's all you" or "Go get 'em." On occasion this method would be beneficial, however many times it would result as a massive crash into a huge bush with twigs in my hair and big "bees on my knees." So, like bike riding, he handed me two potholders that covered my entire forearms past my elbows, put me on a stool for a little height, and let go of the spatula, leaving me in charge of the fritters. While sautéing an artichoke may not seem like a big deal, it can be if your forehead barely skims the top of the stove. So with a big smile on my face, and excitement in my heart, I flipped and fried these little guys, dousing them with fresh lemon and eventually serving them up to the adults in the kitchen. This was when I noticed the true benefits to be reaped of working in the kitchen. I received tastes of wine, bits of titillating adult conversation, compliments of my cooking, and as many bites of artichoke fritters and other exciting appetizers as I wanted. Needless to say, sitting at the kid's table for the next ten years or so, was something I always tried to get out of!