"Good Morning Sunshine..."

   

Over the years we have been lucky enough to take a number of family vacations. Whether a resort, a cruise or a city hotel, one of my favorite meals was always brunch.

   Now,  I’m not normally a person who eats at buffets, but there’s something about the whole vacation atmosphere that’s conducive to a long and leisurely breakfast. No rush to get to work or (at that time) get the kids to school. No quick cooking oatmeal or frozen waffles eaten on the dash to the car. Just a relaxing stroll from the hotel room to the dining room, and more than enough time to peruse all of the breakfast offerings.

   It wasn’t so much the amount of food that we loved, it was the endless array of choices we had that we could never get at home (especially in MY kitchen).

   Having an entire table of fresh fruit already cut up and ready to eat without even having to lift a finger made me crave the healthy stuff even more. I rarely buy mangoes at the grocery store, but of course, I fill my plate with those and other “exotic” choices when they are right there in front of me, ready to eat.

  

And I know it sounds silly, but I always was obsessed with the little individual boxes of cereal available. Particularly when we’d go out of the country and have  “Zucaritas” (or Frosted Flakes) and “Bolas de Chocolate”. Even the oatmeal tasted better; no doubt because it was made with real cream and sugar instead of water in a microwave.

   Of course, the array of breads and pastries on most breakfast buffets would normally send this carb counter running the other way, but the special treats coupled with the fact that I would probably not have the chance to eat something that yummy again for a long time made them definitely worth the calories. However, the absolute BEST part of a breakfast buffet, no matter where we were was the omelet station.

   I tend to be kind of picky about how I like my omelets (half whole egg, half egg white, vegetable spray, well done, light cheese, double flip, etc, etc), so to actually stand right there and tell the chef how I want your food prepared is a joy to me!

    On one of our first trips to Mexico, my then 8-year-old daughter loved the “so-good omelets” as she called them because she could have them plain, which was how she liked them at the time. My husband loves smoked salmon (lox) and would always convince the omelet chef to cook it in to his eggs. I used to love seeing what my growing 6’4’ son used to pile on his plate and how I would try and be “healthy” in my choices, but rarely succeed. I’d stand over the chef annoyingly pointing to the egg whites, and vegetable spray, always insisting they cook the eggs more. Usually they got it perfect by about the 5^th day of vacation, but by then I’d succumbed to the pastries and rolls, so it really didn’t matter any more.

    My husband and I recently returned from a vacation where breakfast was, again, one of our main events of the day. We slept late, worked out, and just took as much time as we wanted at breakfast. The whole vacation was wonderful, but there’s something about those “so good omelets” that makes me want to go back for more!!

    I've tried to recapture that feeling at home but the closest we’ve come to that is making our own omelets.  We’re actually getting closer to the look and taste that those egg magicians create at the breakfast buffets, but  I still think everything tastes much better when someone else makes it for you!

"Turkeys In Vegas..."

   

Thanksgiving was always a big family affair when I was growing up, and the food and festivities continued with my husband’s family for many years.

Once we moved away from family, we celebrated with friends and their families. It was always my husband’s favorite holiday, particularly because of the dishes his grandma and mom always made on Thanksgiving.

When my mother-in-law passed away about a month before Thanksgiving in 2009, we all were reminiscing about past Thanksgivings; sad that we wouldn’t have anymore of the his mom’s holiday food. As we talked about the traditional Thanksgiving and what we planned to do to celebrate that year, we all looked at each other     and said, “Why do we need to stay in town? Let’s go to Vegas!”

   As harsh as that might sound, it was the perfect remedy for preventing an epic holiday disappointment. After all, we’d all be together, we’d see great shows, have fun, and best of all, eat well. But not turkey and cranberries; it would be steakhouses and sushi, and our motto became, “F*** the turkey, we’re going to Joe’s” (the amazing,  Miami/Chicago,/Las Vegas  restaurants, famous for their incredible stone crabs and steak).

   To top it off, as soon, when we got to the hotel, we saw that Stevie Wonder was giving a concert that weekend. I have every one of his albums and had never seen him in concert; and although my kids grew up in the 80s and 90s, they have listened to his music since they were born.

   The holiday began with the amazing Thanksgiving meal at Joe’s (sans turkey). First course was what Joe’s is most famous for; cold jumbo stone crabs with a mustard sauce like no other I’ve ever had, followed by salad and steaks and even their amazing fried chicken, ending with a key lime pie that beat any pumpkin pie I’d ever eaten. Then, I got to bask in the music of my favorite artist with my family by my side. It really doesn’t get any better than that.

   

That weekend began a celebration with our son and daughter and our son’s then girlfriend, now wife as the nucleus of our new tradition. We shared fun and food in a new way, and I was truly thankful for the fact that we all really WANTED to be together!  We went back the following year and my daughter-in-law even had t-shirts made with our new motto “Forget the Turkey, We’re going to Joe’s!”

Since then, we have happily spent every Thanksgiving together. Last year in Chicago, and this year in St. Louis, with new and innovative flavors and recipes, the feeling is still the same. We love what we grew up, but, even more so, we love what’s ahead!

Happy Turkey Day!

"I Love A Parade..."

  

   

Although no one in my immediate family has served in the military, Veteran’s Day always seemed special to me as a kid.  Growing up, there was always a parade in downtown Columbus on the eve of my birthday, and until I was about 6, I thought the parade was for me.

   My mom would dress me up and we would go downtown to the statehouse square, wave our little flags as the bands and military went by, and pick up the candy they gave out to the children watching the parade.

   My mother was famous for “bending” the truth, so since I seemed so enamored with the whole event, she told me they were having the parade for my birthday.

   But it didn’t stop there. My dad’s optometry office was downtown and he had office hours one evening a week. Mom and I would often take the bus downtown and meet him for a quick dinner between patients. But on special nights like my birthday eve, we would go to the “fancy” restaurant called Kuenning’s across the street from his office. 

   To a five year old who usually ate dinners at her grandma’s while her parents went out to dinner on Saturday nights, this place was the big time. Kuenning’s was located next to the Deshler Hilton Hotel and was a fine-dining restaurant known as the place to be in its heyday. It was also voted one of the most beautiful restaurants. With its ornate carpeting, various levels of seating and beautiful hand carved wooden railings throughout, the place seemed like a castle to me. The deep-set ceiling lights and the tapestries on the wall were all the more magical when I was escorted to our table and allowed to sit in one of the beautiful plush chairs in the main dining room.

   During the day, the place was filled with a business lunch crowd, my dad included. But at night Kuenning’s took on a big city vibe, rare in 1960’s Columbus, Ohio.

The tables had crisp white napkins, folded into a tent , surrounded by heavy silverware and large red water glasses.

   Because of the parade, it was a busy night downtown. The stores stayed open until 8 PM that evening and hungry shoppers were there as well. Dressed in a satin pinafore with puffy sleeves and a lace collar, I walked in with my mom, (Eight months pregnant with my brother) and my dad, feeling like a princess among the crowd.

   Of course there were steaks and lobster and even snails on the menu, but my favorite was a hamburger. Baskets of fresh baked rolls and creamy butter were placed on the table and I got to eat as many as I wanted. At five years old, a salad was not on my list, but Kuennings was famous for their special salad (a kind of Caesar salad with a creamy anchovy dressing and lots of chopped egg), and of course, my parents each ordered one.

   When the waiters brought the main course, they were on plates covered with silver handled globes to keep them warm. The dishes were set down in front of us and, Voila, all the covers were lifted simultaneously to reveal our dinners. 

   Although I’ve had a lot of hamburgers since then, I don’t know if any have tasted as good as the one under the silver dome that night.

   The parade may not have actually been a celebration for my birthday, but in taking me to Kuenning’s, my parents made me feel like the whole night was made for me.

Guest Post: " Leading by Example..."

As promised, I will be including guest posts from you. This sent to me by my friend , Sarah Berglund:

        Most of my personal childhood memories around the dinner table seem to revolve around yelling matches between my father and my sister while I cowered in the corner of the bench I shared with her.  It was usually about homework not turned in, organ practice not completed, leaves not rakes, or high school graduation announcements that weren’t ordered in time.

I’m sure this didn’t happen every night, but it happened enough so that when I had my own family, I determined their memories of our  dinners would be pleasant, or at least neutral. We all sat down together, ate the same meal and went around the table in turn discussing our day. Very Ozzie and Harriette, but without the jokes. As I recall our dinners were civilized, nutritious,  but definitely not memory-making.

However, you never know what grown children are going to remember. 

I have a son who has become a chef of some fame and recognition. A reporter asked him why he went into the field. His reply startled and amazed me. He told her it was because of his own memories of the dinner table: “I want to replicate for others what we had when I was growing up: Good food and good conversations.” 

You never know where a macaroni and cheese casserole might lead...

Her son, Paul Berglund is the executive chef at The Bachelor Farmer in Minneapolis,  Paul was a nominee for the 2014 James Beard Awards Best Chef: Midwest. It seems those dinner table memories are the perfect recipe for success!

"All Night Long..."

  As a child of the baby boom era, my family life was much like those on 60s sitcoms. Mom stayed home and took care of the house and children, and Dad went to work every day. Dinner was kept warm until he came home from the office, so bonding with the kids usually meant asking obligatory questions about our day at the dinner table or watching TV together. We’d say good night, go to bed and then see him off to work in the morning. I never imagined what went on while I was sleeping.

Most nights, a few hours after my brother and I fell asleep, my dad would wake from his evening nap and head out of the house. I would have been thrilled to think that he was a part of some secret mission or doing undercover police work, but he was simply going to eat his “real’ dinner at the local diner, called the Toddle House.

   The Toddle House, a national restaurant chain that specialized in serving breakfast, was open 24/7. Each tiny outlet was built to the same plan. No tables; just a short counter with ten stools. Famous for their grill-fried hash browns and burgers and their incredible chocolate “ice box” pie , the tiny kitchen space and single grill cook could whip up any number of artery-clogging treats.

   My father was a glutton for greasy foods like bacon and sausage, but since my mom kept a kosher home, he never got that at the dinner table. And although my mom tried to stock plenty of Hostess cupcakes, Mallomars, and greasy potato chips in the house for his late-night cravings, he could only get his fix at the Toddle House.  

 

This secret sanctuary was first revealed to me at the tender age of 10. As my homework got more difficult, I stayed up later. During one particularly late study session, I heard the front door open. It was after 11 o’clock and the noise scared me. I crept down the top steps so I could check out the situation and saw my dad putting on his coat and hat.

 “Are you going to work now?” I asked

 He looked a little sheepish, but then he turned to me and smiled.

 “If you can get your coat and shoes on in two minutes, I’ll take you for the best treat you’ve ever had!”

  

  So began my indoctrination into the world of “breakfast anytime”, because once we got there, that was all I wanted. Sitting at the counter, watching the cook  break open eggs with one hand and flip pancakes with the other, I imagined ordering everything on the menu.  

    Besides my dad and me, there were only about two or three other people in the diner. The waitress greeted my father by name and didn’t even ask him what he wanted. She poured him a cup of coffee and had the cook start an order of eggs, bacon and hashed browns.

 “And you, little one?” she asked.

 I looked over at my dad who asked, “Pie or breakfast. It’s your choice!”

 “Breakfast!” I blurted out. “Pancakes!” And the show began.

 Our stools at the counter were so close to the open grill that I could almost touch it. The eggs sat out in an open carton next to a milkshake machine (the green porcelain kind with a silver blending cup). An aluminum pitcher, filled with melted butter, bubbled on the grill, and I watched as the fry cook ladled out enough to start the hash browns. I watched him grab a metal ring (kind of like a spring pan for cheesecake, but only about three inches in diameter) and stuff some shredded potatoes inside. He fried them until they were crisp on one side and flipped them to finish the process. Then, he turned the ring onto the plate and out came a perfect disc of golden spuds!

    And it didn’t stop there. He mixed the pancake batter in the milkshake machine and formed flawless circles with the batter on the grill. At the exact moment they began to bubble, a spatula appeared in his hand and he flipped them. No uneven, burnt pieces with gooey middles like the ones that came from my mother’s Farberware pans. These were golden, fluffy, and incredibly tasty.

As we ate, my dad chatted with the waitress named Betty, explaining that now that I was older, I had to work harder in school, but he knew that I could handle the extra load. She asked me about my brother, my mom’s new car, and even my dog, Nikki. It was obvious that Dad had spent a few evenings there bragging about his brood. He even had me tell Betty about the salt clay map I was working on. I didn’t even think he knew what grade I was in, let alone which assignments I was doing!

 I finished every last bite of my pancakes and, as I scraped the plate for crumbs, I looked over and saw my dad smiling at me.

Thus began a lifetime fixation for diner food, be it bacon and eggs, burgers and fries, or pancakes covered in butter and syrup. Our before bedtime outings turned into pre-Sunday school food fests! They continued well into my teenage and college years. I’d cross paths with my dad going out as I came home, needing to sober up from the campus bars. Our diner excursions gave us the time to share with each other as we devoured our plates together   

   When my children were born, he joyfully introduced them to this world of coffee shop camaraderie, bragging to the waitresses and cooks about their pre-school accomplishments. They knew breakfast with Grandpa had no limits on fat, sugar or quantity and his indulgence raised him to hero status in their eyes!

   He’s been gone nineteen years this November and, to this day, I can’t eat pancakes without thinking of him. Most major religions have all sorts of rituals to make sure we never forget those we have lost, and saying a prayer in remembrance is important. But, I find the same comfort remembering that I got to be part of Dad’s secret little late night feasts at the Toddle House