December 28, 2013
Lily and Zoe, South Lake Tahoe’s, if not the world’s, most adorable three-year-old blonde twins, are taking turns twisting, turning, and giggling as they race down a snowy video slope among flagged poles and slaloms in front of the Wii they got for Christmas. I am standing by in culinary combat position in the open kitchen of their home, determinedly dumping box after box of Chex cereal, bags of bite-sized pretzels, and cans of deluxe mixed nuts into two giant roasting pans, racing against the clock to get our New Year’s Eve feast on the table before their bedtime.
Chex Party Mix, what my mother’s recipe card calls Scramble, is just the opening volley in our first real family holiday celebration. This savory mélange of breakfast cereals and snacking bits doused in salad oil, Worcestershire sauce, seasoned and garlic salts, was what in my house, at their age, signaled Party Time. Of course, that was back when bags of commercially prepared Chex Party Mix weren’t falling off the shelves of every supermarket, convenience store, gas station food mart, and vending machine. Back then, when homemakers still roamed the earth, it was strictly homemade. Back then it didn’t have to compete with such seductive techno toys as the Wii. I didn’t know about the Wii when I planned my menu months ago, foolishly thinking the twins would find this mid-century American nibble as utterly enthralling as, say, a Wii. While I stir up the batch, I consider their crushing lack of interest, and the possibility that it is a sad testament to my childhood that I found such enchantment in a snack I now only ever eat while drinking in airport lounges.
I could always go sit on the couch with a bowl of my bar snack, my drink in hand, and turn off the Wii for some lively, intelligent conversation with the girls. We’d talk about my favorite author, W.G. Sebald, even though I can barely remember the titles of his books, let alone the drift of his texts, except for the mood—the mood was like being in a postwar German bar where people were feeling a little mental for not stopping Hitler.
Or, I could keep on cooking.
My mother’s succulent and exceptionally messy Oven-Baked Spareribs are also on the menu, a primal family gathering food. What better way to define your tribe than as those people who are comfortable sitting at a table gnawing meat off bones while smearing their faces and hands in a sauce too closely resembling blood? None that I can think of. I am, after all, their step-grandmother, as determined to whip up some end of the year fun as I am unsure of my place at their table. Not only must I try harder, but also I must hedge my bets. If nobody gets any more pleasure out of the evening than I do, and so far I’m operating at a good times deficit, at least I’ve gotten to re-experience some of my fondest childhood food memories.
Gathered for the evening, besides my husband and the twins, are the twins’ parents, my stepson Matthew and his wife Angela, and my stepson Nick and his partner Chris, who’ve abandoned more urbane party invitations to drive up from San Francisco.
My cranky elder Tibetan terrier, Dalai, adds to the evening’s mood with intermittent barking tirades against Matt and Angela’s aging husky, Kaya, as they and the house’s ever diplomatic rescue beagle, Cruiser, intently pace the open kitchen in hopes that a slab of pork ribs might fall to the floor.
Yes, I have brought along my mother’s recipes and my socially challenged diva of a dog in an effort to impress the little girls. But the little girls fail to pay any attention to what I’m doing, and as they speed their avatars on to ever greater Wii ski achievements, I am starting to feel more than a little ridiculous and coming a little unglued…
(I hope you enjoyed this excerpt. To read more, ask for Compromise Cake: Lessons Learned From My Mother’s Recipe Box (Counterpoint Press, 2013) at your favorite bricks and mortar book store, or purchase it online at Amazon, Barnes & Noble or Indiebound, the links to which can be found on the opening page of this site.)
