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Cooking with Kip
A Cook's Memoir
By Kip Meyerhoff iUniverse
Copyright © 2016 Kip Meyerhoff
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4917-8202-6
CHAPTER 1
A Life of Learning
Dad taught me a lot of things, including that life is too short for cheap booze, tough steaks, or fast women. I caught on to the first two really quickly, but some lessons are best learned through experience. Of all the lessons he taught me, his lessons in the culinary arts served me best through my life's journey, although the pearl of wisdom about not drawing to inside straights probably saved me a fortune.
Dad's gourmand appetite provided me a culinary milieu in which to grow. A propensity for linear thought can be a one-way street to boredom, but the good Lord saw fit to wire me that way. Dad was similarly blessed (for you Darwinists out there). He was a color-blind math whiz; the numbers and chemistry of cooking intrigued him. Two tablespoons and two teaspoons, one-quarter cup or fourteen cups, a pinch of this, a dash of that — it was like reading the racing form for him. Salt-to-sugar ratios, volume to weight, heat to mass — these were mathematical equations telling him how long to roast a top round and at what temperature. The reasons why cake was not bread, why rice need not be bland, why green veggies should still be green when cooked — these were all chemical formulas to him.
He also taught me the axioms of cooking: a little sugar can go a long way; bitterness can spoil your appetite for life; tarts are not always a just dessert; heat can reduce heat; and hot is not always hot. The learning was fun, as much for me as for him, so when I showed an enthusiasm for the kitchen, he turned me over to a succession of hotel chefs to sate my curiosity.
Although technique and style varied widely, the science remained pretty constant, and as my knowledge grew, I felt free to experiment with presentation and taste. Dad firmly believed that if it looked good, it might taste better but that no amount of froufrou could help bad taste.
I won't shy away from the new as long as it falls within certain parameters. Celebrity chefs can be entertaining, but twelve inches of spun sugar on top of some ice cream rolled in crushed Oreos is not my idea of fine dining. So guys like Bobby Flay and Emeril and gals like Paula Dean and the Barefoot Contessa get my attention. They're putting out my kind of eats — wholesome food cooked right.
Applying the lessons I've learned has been an adventure. I hope my readers will pick up on some of these ideas.
CHAPTER 2
Fire
I remember an incident that occurred in my third June among humanity when I discovered fire. At the time I was not aware of the importance of this discovery, although I do recall a sixth-grade science teacher once telling us, "Man's discovery of fire led mankind out of the darkness to seek new adventures and eventually master the world." My discovery had a different result.
I was barely two and a half in June 1943. We lived in an old Victorian home on the banks of the Hudson River, somewhat similar to my current situation — a different house, different river, but eerily similar. I was an inquisitive youngster, always looking to explore the mysterious places and things found about the house. Not many boundaries had been set for me, mainly because I had yet to cross them. Except for being told where to go to the bathroom and not to go into my parents' room when the door was closed, I was free to follow my curiosity.
It was a sunny June day, as I recall. Mom specifically told me to play with my toys while she did the wash (my kids were told to watch TV), and so I pushed a toy truck around the kitchen floor until she took the wash outdoors to hang it on the line. I seized this opportunity to climb up on a chair to get at the cookie jar kept on the counter. Once I had the cookie population reduced by half, I spotted the box of Blue Diamond matches. As good as the cookie was, I put it down and grabbed the matches.
Wood-stick matches were a standard item in American households at this time in our history; there was usually a box by the stove, maybe one on the mantel. I'd watch with great interest the lighting of cigarettes, hoping I'd be allowed to blow the match out. Often the matches would be lit by striking the blue and white tips on the top of the stove, on the bricks of the fireplace, or on the bottom of a shoe to make fire. I once saw a man light a match with the seat of his pants, and my father could light one with the tip of his finger. Surely this was magic.
Seated on the rug in front of the stove, I proceeded to break a dozen or so matches in half, striking them on this and that. I remembered my mother using the side of the match box to light a match (Mom was a smart one for sure). Emulating Mom right down to the extended pinkie, I fired one up.
I held the burning match between my fingers, mesmerized by the flame. As the wood turned to ash, I discovered the flame could burn little boys' fingers and let it go with an "ouch" right into the open box from which it came!
I was amazed to see the box go up in a flash. Soon the rug caught on fire, and then the newspapers and kindling in the basket by the stove joined in. I panicked and let out a scream. "Mommy!"
"Kippy," she shouted as she rushed in the door, "what have you done?" She grabbed me by the hair on the top of my head and whisked me out the door. I watched excitedly as she dashed back in to battle the blaze. Using the kettle from the top of the stove, she extinguished the flames. The smoke and steam filled the kitchen, and the tears of a baby rolled down my fat cheeks. But I had discovered that water puts out fire. The thing about blisters was all new to me too, but I wasn't done "discovering" just yet.
When my father came home from a hard day of work, he found the doors and windows wide open, the kitchen a mess, and no supper to eat. When told his pride and joy almost burned down his house, he caused my arse to burn with the very hand that magically lit all those matches.
I often think of that incident, mostly when lighting my grill or the pilot on my stove. Now and then I'll burn a finger or two and hear my father's voice saying, "Don't play with fire, Son; you could get burned."
Did my fascination with fire lead to a lifetime of cooking? Searing and broiling, baking and boiling, sautéing and flambéing, roasting and toasting — I've done them all. Hot coals of charcoal, wood flames, gas, electricity, microwaves, and even infrared radiation have all put heat to my food. Did matches on a stove start me on this path?
Chef's Notes:
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CHAPTER 3
My Hero
Every time I roast a chicken, I think of Sunday dinners at my grandmother's. Stuffed, trussed, buttered, and seasoned, the freshly plucked bird would lay in a large roasting pan, surrounded by potatoes, carrots, onions, and parsnips to await the heat of the coal-burning oven.
When the time and temperature were just right, the lid would go on, and into the oven the roaster would go. Nanny would add more coal to the firebox. At the optimal moment, the lid would come off the roaster, and I would be given the task of basting, ladling pan juices over the bird with an ancient wooden spoon. I can still hear her voice cautioning, "Be quick about it, Kippy. You'll let all the heat out of my oven," the lilt of her Irish brogue music to my ears. Wonderful aromas would soon fill the house, letting all know it was time for Sunday dinner.
Nellie O'Shea arrived at Ellis Island during the early part of the second decade of the twentieth century. She made the nine-day journey from Ireland, drawn by the promise of marriage and a new life in America. Michael Cassidy had preceded his intended to America, leaving the "old sod" the year before. He met her at the gate, and they were soon married. Good Catholics, they brought four children into this world between 1915 and 1922.
All was good for the Cassidys as the twenties roared in, and all seemed possible until tragedy struck. Michael lost a leg in a work accident. Left crippled and mangled, he was never to work again. Thus it fell upon Nellie to become the breadwinner of the family.
These were not the times when married women with children entered the workforce. Untrained but undaunted, Nellie took her experience as a housewife and mother of four to the workplace. Her talent for cooking led to a job preparing meals for patients at the state hospital. When the resident physician tasted a patient's food that had been prepared by Nellie, he pulled her out of the mess hall and installed her as cook for the medical staff.
In spite of all her prayers and novenas and the candlelit icons in every room of their house, Michael died, leaving Nellie to do it all. Grief and hardship could not get her down, and bitterness was not let in the door. Her faith unshaken, she persisted. She never drove a car and couldn't afford one if she could. She bicycled over three miles to work, rain or shine, walking through the snow when the bike wouldn't go; she worked to feed her family and to put clothes on their backs and a roof over their heads.
Nellie got her children through school, not letting even the Great Depression slow her down. She saw her daughter marry. She sent her sons off to war, and her prayers brought them home. She doted over eight grandchildren, never missing a birthday and giving them "a little something" for Christmas too. This great lady did all this while working at the same hospital for over thirty years. No need to ask who my hero is.
My grandmother kept a flock of layers in a coop out back until the war ended in '45. I was five years old when all my uncles returned home from their service to our country. Although the end of rationing meant fresh eggs could now be had at the market, the celebratory dinners marking the return of each of her three sons were the real reason her flock was reduced to zero.
One of my memories of those times is of a tree stump in Nellie's backyard and the sharp hatchet protruding from it. They were used to dispatch all those poor birds. I also remember a large kettle of boiling water on an open fire for plucking the chickens and burning off pin feathers. In fact, the smell of wet feathers still conjures up visions of headless chickens flapping around the yard in search of their heads.
Nellie's Roasted Chicken
For best results, use a large roasting pan with a rack and domed lid. I highly recommend brining your bird by soaking it overnight in a solution of one cup kosher salt with one gallon of water.
Ingredients:
1 fat hen, 3 to 3 1/2 pounds
1 stick of butter
2 cups chicken stock or water
1 tablespoon kosher salt
1 tablespoon fresh ground pepper
1 tablespoon dried sage leaves
Bouquet
1 bunch fresh parsley
1 bunch carrot tops
1 celery root
1 large Spanish onion, quartered
Vegetables
potatoes, carrots, onions, parsnips
Preheat oven to 425 degrees F.
Rinse the chicken and thoroughly pat dry with paper towels. Place bird on nonporous, clean surface and rub inside and out with softened butter. Season with salt, pepper, and sage.
Stuff the bird with the bouquet. Place seasoned bird on rack, breast side up, and roast uncovered 35–40 minutes, allowing bird to brown.
Arrange potatoes, carrots, onions, and parsnips around bottom of pan. Pour in two cups of chicken stock, cover with lid and place on middle rack of oven. Bake at 375 degrees F for 45 minutes.
Remove lid and continue to cook, basting frequently with pan juices, for 20 more minutes.
Remove from oven and let bird rest on serving platter for 15–20 minutes before carving.
Meanwhile, make a gravy with the pan juices.
Vegetables will be well done, stew-like, and buttery. Yum!
CHAPTER 4
Bookie Cookie
It is my hope that readers of this effort might be inspired to allow their kids to learn what it takes to navigate a kitchen, steer a stove, and appreciate the efforts of others trying to provide for them. It's the old "feed them a fish or teach them how to fish" argument.
I could wash a dish from the time I was five and never thought of reporting my parents for violating child labor laws. Getting ready for school, I could open a box of Wheaties, pour milk and juice, toast bread, and stack dirty dishes in the sink to await my return. These early lessons in self-reliance have served me well over the years.
My father began my real cooking lessons when I was but seven. Dad received his formal training in the culinary arts while doing a stretch "upstate," thanks to the efforts of New York's Governor Tom Dewey. While "up the river," Dad prepared thousands of meals for some of the toughest food critics ever assembled.
While answering calls in a phone bank with a couple of his cohorts in his lucrative bookmaking operation and awaiting the results from Aqueduct, Saratoga, or Pimlico, Dad would instruct me in the preparation of that evening's dinner fare. By the time I was eight, I knew the difference between braising and broiling, baking and boiling. I also knew the difference between the daily double and a three-horse parlay.
One of my first cooking lessons required a dozen eggs, an egg cup, a toaster, a loaf of bread, and a saucepan with water. What I thought was going to be a lesson on how to boil eggs was really, like most things in life, a lesson about timing. He made me a breakfast of a perfect, soft-boiled egg and hot buttered toast, and after I ate, he had me make breakfast for him. Six eggs and five slices of burnt toast later, my inner clock worked. The following two recipes might be a way to start your kids on the path to self-reliance.
Cheesy Soup
This soup selection is a combination of two kid favorites: boxed macaroni and cheese and canned tomato soup. Have your young ones follow the stove-top directions for each and then combine them just before serving. Sprinkle a little shredded cheddar on top to "kick it up a notch!"
The King's Sandwich
This grilled peanut-butter-and-banana goodie was Elvis Presley's favorite. You'll need a large nonstick frying pan, a little butter, and some slices of white bread.
Peel a banana, slice it in half lengthwise, and then cut each strip in half crossways.
Fit a couple of pieces of banana on one slice of bread, spread peanut butter on another slice of bread and press the two halves of bread together to make the sandwich.
Melt some butter in the pan and grill to desired doneness. Flip to do other side.
Instead of trying to explain Elvis or why he was "the King," play "Hound Dog" or "Blue Suede Shoes" for them while they eat the King's favorite.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Cooking with Kip by Kip Meyerhoff. Copyright © 2016 Kip Meyerhoff. Excerpted by permission of iUniverse.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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