More on humor/ my mother's cooking

My mothers’ kitchen

 

 

Until the day I met my husband I was convinced that my mother was an excellent cook. Our culinary menu at home was a mixture of Austrian and Hungarian dishes, she brought from her parent’s home, combined with new inventions she introduced continuously. If there’s anything, I learned from her about cooking is not to be intimidated by new tastes, colors and unique food combinations.

That was also the common view in my extended family. Whenever my aunts, uncles and cousins came to visit they all marveled at her cooking, and baking, but mostly her sense of innovation and boldness at trying new things.

I have some fond memories of helping her creating her dishes, rolling out and cutting the dough for a special dish she made of boiled dumplings, dipped in bread crumbs and sugar. Filling Hanukkah donuts with sweet red jelly, sweet cheese balls, and my all time favorite, a spicy cheese dip I could never reconstruct in later years, even though I have the exact recipe in my hands.

My husband came from the US and his favorite all time story is how he always thought, until he came to Israel, that vegetables came from a can. Yet he had the audacity to vocally and outwardly dislike my mothers’ cooking and declare it not appetizing and odd.

When we got married, I had to make a choice. And following the words of the bible (Genesis 2:24)” Therefore shall a man leave his father and his mother, and shall join to his wife…” I believed that as a devoted wife, I too had the duty to stick with him and accept his taste in food. But being my mother daughter I still felt some loyalty, and deep fondness, to her cooking and the home flavors.

Over the years I gradually reintroduced back my childhood favorite dishes, some with my own minor modifications, to make them more palatable, to my own family. It turned out to be a success, not only did my husband learn to like many of them, they become a constant part of our menu to the point that my own daughters, now living independently, call me for instructions on how to prepare certain dishes, or ask me to make them on their visits home.

And so even though my husband keeps repeating the old script, in family gathering, how my mother couldn’t cook, the cold facts are that he eats my dishes, which are really her dishes. I wonder what my mother will say if she would still be with us and it makes me smile. So often things are not what they seem, and our food connection is just one small proof.