Like any complexity, food is loaded. Smell and taste evoke a stream of long-buried associations, sometimes comforting, endearing and occasionally painful. This is its wonder, its draw, its hold on all of us who keep coming back to the kitchen. Food is a way to hold onto your culture, your country, a source of pride and when you’re “different,” like I was growing up– a city roots family in a very small country town– a source of distinction, for better or worse. And so I have a gift for you today, with recipes from my roots and a little short story that you should totally feel free to skip (recipes follow below) if you’re not into that sort of thing. Make the recipes! They’re worth it.
A Food Tale
Grandpa came to America when he was thirteen. Despite living most of his life here by the time I was born, he maintained his accent, diction and all of his ways from pre-Israel-Israel and Romania where he’d spent a lot of time. He cooked dinner for the family every night after his work at the tobacco store. Food was important to him. Meals were like symphonies with a slow-cooked brisket in thick juicy sauce or a stuffed, roasted chicken with olives in the first chair, but with a supporting cast of characters that could each solo on its own melody. Beet salads, carrot salads with walnuts and raisins, noodle and potato puddings, roasted vegetables, candied cashews, mini meatballs in different sauces with herbs, thick black breads and sweet desserts. I would sometimes think Grandpa was invulnerable as he tasted his meatloaf by sticking his fingers in the bowl of raw meat and licking it or sucking on the spoon of his mix for beef sausages. Most nights, dinner was just Grandpa and me because my parents worked late and my sister was always out with friends. Grandpa would serve his feast, make sure I ate until I was beyond full. He’d put me to bed and like clockwork, would go out to the bar afterward to drink off the day.
One ambitious night when I was eleven I asked him if we could go to a restaurant for a change, expecting a fit of rage in response. We never went out to eat. Surprisingly, Grandpa said yes. He told me to get into the car while he got ready and we could go to TGIFriday’s, a respectable chain at a respectable distance for a man who really should not have been allowed to drive. Cataracts blurred his vision and every movement of his was slow and deliberate as if he moved in a world with thicker air.
I waited in the passenger seat of the old, used Cadillac, entertaining visions of juicy burgers with lettuce or maybe pasta in a huge pile with decorative parsley flakes. The car smelled like Grandpa, an imposing mixture of the smooth blue leather seats combined with his musky cologne, the wooden beads that lined the driver’s seat for his back and a hint of the spearmint gum he always chewed. I usually opened the windows as soon as he started the car. When Grandpa got in, he put a picnic basket in the back seat.
“What are you doing, Grandpa?”
“You want to spend money on someone else’s food? Is mine not good enough?
“It’s not that, Grandpa. It’s just that…sometimes a change is..”
“Change, nothing,” he yelled as we pulled out of the driveway, signal clicking in the background. “You want we should go to a restaurant, we will go to a restaurant, but you should still have what to eat, not some fast food junk.”
I knew Grandpa wouldn’t turn around. We were already hugging the right shoulder of the road and accelerating to our cruising speed of a solid fifteen miles per hour, blinker still on.
Talking to Grandpa was like talking to the genie who grants you three wishes, but unless your wishes are specific you get some horrible, haunted house mirror version of your wish. Wish for money and you’ll be turned into a Colombian drug lord, wish for time and you’re locked up in a Russian gulag for a life sentence. Wish for a night out and you get this.
Some of the other families in our town, the ones who were newer like us, would often go to the singular McDonalds in town and never order a thing. I used to sit there all day with my grandmother and her friends and watch them play mahjong, while eating their homemade perogies and salads. After Management’s signs about their policies went unacknowledged enough times, the ladies won their war of attrition and were tolerated, often even welcomed and looked after by the people who cleaned.
When we got to Friday’s, the hostess innocently led us to a seat in the middle of the restaurant. Strike one.
“Excuse me, young lady. Do you mind if we sit in a corner by the window?” Grandpa asks.
“Sure, Sir,” she answered cheerfully, “How’s this?”
Grandpa flashing his gap-toothed smile. “Fine, thank you.” Always the ladies man.
With the rest of the patrons eating their pasta bowls and lime chicken, Grandpa unpacked his basket with pride. He laid out his homemade appetizers of caviar in salads made of cheese, anchovies, olives and vegetables. He spooned it onto our plates and began to eat with abandon. He chewed loudly, sometimes choking on our main course of beef sausages or the little bones in the fish salads. His hacking cough would stop my heart.
The waitress came by ready to kneel enthusiastically beside us and go over the menu. When she saw the basket and our food already set out the struggle to keep her composure asserted itself in the muscles of her face and her slowly attenuating smile. She wasn’t accustomed to being a teacher and authority figure. The dissonance between humanity and corporate policy was not yet in the purview of her life experiences. Mustering her best “normal” voice she said, “Sir, you can’t bring your own food into the restaurant.” Grandpa, ignorant of the atmosphere he created, became indignant immediately and started screaming with bits of brown kasha varnishkas clinging to his chin.
“I’m 82 years old and lived through the war! Do you really want to kick a veteran out?!”
The manager came out, clean cut, although sweating, and tried to remove us.
“Headquarters won’t allow non-company food in the building. We don’t have a license for it, Sir.”
Grandpa wouldn’t budge.
“Sir, please.” The manager looked at his watch and fiddled with a walkie-talkie he had in his pocket, probably for communicating with the hostess for seating.
Belligerent silence.
“Sir, I’m calling Security. You can either order with us, leave on your own, or you’ll be escorted out.” Impatience crept into his voice.
Silence.
“Please just give in, Grandpa,” I thought with enough urgency that maybe I could will his capitulation. Some people laughed and whispered, while others gave dirty looks. The red in my face spread in spurts down my neck and across my body like an old faucet finding the strength to carry its load from the depths of a well. I learned in that moment some of the many ways you can feel shame. Shame about your family, your culture, yourself. You could die a thousand deaths without anyone else noticing it.
“Eat!” Grandpa commanded, looking at my full plate. He pulled out dessert, cataif, with a sweet stuffing of almonds and caramel vanilla and his version of curried helbeh, a semolina orange marmalade cake with coconut drizzled with syrup and almonds. I was too mortified to eat under the dim, stained glass chandeliers that strove to temper the bright reflection of the sun off the salted, snowy parking lot outside.
“Grandpa, can I buy a Sprite?” I asked quietly. A compromise, like Grandma’s friends buying a coffee.
“What’s the matter with you?” A familiar refrain. “You want to buy an American Sprite?” his voice boomed back, prompting more stares. “Always giving in, you.”
Grandpa talked in black and white. Facts. This caused me to hear him in inferences, understanding perfectly what he said and intuiting, often wrongly, what he meant. Here’s what the above conversation sounded like in my ears:
“Grandpa, can I buy a Sprite?” (We can compromise. There’s a way out of this. You’re embarrassing.)
“What’s the matter with you? (What’s the matter with you?) You want to buy and American Sprite? (American is bad. You want something American. You’re bad.)” Always giving in, you.” (You’re a coward).
The waiters were ignoring us so I walked to the soda fountain myself. I kept my head down to avoid eye contact, filled my cup at the fountain with my back to the dining area and repeated my long walk of shame back to our table. When we were ready to leave, I’d leave my pocket change for the Sprite. When Grandpa was good and full, he began packing up the containers, throwing a disapproving glance through his cataracts at me and my full plate. As he was doing so, two security guards came up behind him.
“Sir, you’ll have to come with us.”
Preserving his dignity he got up without a fight, but then he started to protest. They dragged him out, restraining his flailing arms.
Grandpa was something once. He had gained wealth and power by opening a factory on Flower Street near Bistrita and a tannery on Leca Street, on the other side of Bistrita River in Romania. The production process was rudimentary at first. He would gather bird residues and oak barks using them as tannin at first. Then his primitive factory evolved in the decades to come into a glorious complex when, after years of experimenting with different ingredients he finally developed a chromium leather tanning process, producing for the first time, black and colored leather. With this process he beat out all his competitors who, until this time could only offer regular leather that would wither upon contact with water and did not vary in color. Grandpa’s leather was soft and durable, smooth and of the highest quality. During the Second World War, “Lefsky Enterprises- Romania’s First Chromium Processed Fine Leather Factory and Systematic Tannery” was the only factory in the country supplying the army with leather manufactured goods and soles, producing boots, harnesses and furred goods.
Then came what Grandpa always referred to cryptically as “The Event.” All I know of it was that his factory was burnt savagely to the ground by anti-Semitic forces, taking his brother and parents with it.
Grief-stricken and stoic, he arrived on the shores of America. My mother being too American for his tastes, especially in marrying my American father, and because he never had a son, Grandpa believed it fell to him to raise me and teach me the values that he believed a father should pass onto his granddaughter (makeshift son); strength, the ability to support oneself, the distinction between right and wrong and, when necessary, how to reconcile the blurry line between the two. He taught me never to be the one to apologize first and if I could, to avoid situations that might warrant an apology in the first place. He would always ask me, “Do you want to be a winner or a loser? A schlemiel or a schlimazel?” which I have come to realize is a judgment call depending on what kind of person you are and what constitutes winning.
I watched the mall security take him away, my Grandpatchka, and looked for the habit he had of pursing his lips and bringing them up to his nose so he could smell the sweaty scent of his mustache combined with remnants of his food. His shiny head reflected the light except where his still-black hair was gelled down on the sides and across his head in a sweeping comb-over.
He resisted arrest with the same robust and brutal spirit that had cost his parents their lives. I knew already that later that night Grandpa would recount this story with pride to his friends at the bar and say that he taught me something important.
Carrot, Walnut & Raisin Salad
This side comes together in about 10 minutes. It’s so easy and so delicious. I’ve had all the versions of it, but simple is my fave. When my grandma makes it for me, much to her pleasure I eat SO much of it. She gave me the recipe last night upon request. My favorite recipe of hers will always be Grandma’s meatballs with sweet potato, goat cheese and zhoug. I’ve also mastered the noodle kugel, but this is way quicker. I promise I’ll do a kugel for you soon.
Ingredients:
- 1 bunch of carrots, shredded
- 1 tbsp mayonnaise
- 1 tsp sugar, maybe less
- 1 tsp cinnamon
- 2 tbsp freshly squeezed lemon juice or apple cider vinegar
- 1/4 cup chopped walnuts (I sometimes use almonds)
- 1/4 cup raisins
Variations or Additions
- 2 diced apples or
- 1 cup crushed pineapple. If you opt for crushed pineapple don’t use lemon juice.
Directions:
Combine all the ingredients in a large bowl and serve cold.
Semolina, Coconut, and Marmalade Cake w/ Almonds
This cake is actually an adaptation of two recipes from Jerusalem: Helbeh and Semolina Marmalade cake. It’s the Semolina cake prepared in Helbeh form. It’s a serious keeper and so authentically Middle Eastern, which is why I chose this dish. It reminds me very much of my Torta de Santiago because of the almonds, which in turn reminds me of my family. I actually made myself a little ill just eating the batter, but the finished version was unreal. This is a cake that gets better with age. Cover with foil and store in the fridge for best results.
Ingredients:
- 3/4 cup canola oil
- 1 cup fresh squeezed orange juice
- zest of one orange
- 1/2 cup apricot jam
- 4 eggs
- 1/2 cup granulated sugar
- 3/4 cup shredded dried coconut
- 3/4 cup flour
- 1 cup semolina
- 2 tablespoons ground almonds
- 12 almonds for decoration
- 2 tsps baking powder
- 1 tsp salt
Syrup:
- 1 cup granulated sugar
- 1/2 cup water
- 1tbsp orange juice
To Serve:
Greek yogurt, olive oil, candied oranges
Directions:
Preheat oven to 350F.
Mix together the wet ingredients: oil, fruit juice, marmalade, eggs and zest. Then added the dry ingredients: sugar, coconut, semolina, almonds and baking powder. This should form a runny cake mixture.
Grease and line a tart pan (mine is 11inches) pour the filling in and bake for 45-60 minutes. In my pan it was done around 50 mins.
Check with a fork that the cake is cooked all the way through, if it is clean, it is.
Just before the cake is ready to come out, add the syrup ingredients to a pan, bring to the boil, remove from the heat and pour over the cake when they come out of the oven.
Remove the cake from the oven and score it with a very sharp knife in diagonal lines, parallel to each other 2 inches apart, in both directions. Put an almond in each diamond.
Pour syrup over the cake and let it absorb. Add more until most of the syrup is used up.
Leave to cool completely then slice and serve with yogurt and candied oranges.
That’s a great story. In France it’s normal to buy cakes in a patisserie, which you then take to a cafe to eat with your coffee. When I lived in Paris I always felt very uncomfortable doing that, unless with French friends, because like America it’s completely unacceptable to do that in the UK.
I kept looking at your cake pictures thinking Torta de Santiago – I bet it tastes good with Pedro Ximénez 😉
You’re the best, MD. Thanks for reading the story. I’m pretty sure that no one will take the time to read it. It is asking a lot.
Really? It’s totally cool in Paris to bring food from elsewhere to a cafe? That’s it, I”m moving to Paris. You’re such a connoisseur that you thought of the torta! They taste very similar. Thanks again. 🙂
It’s normal in the whole of France to buy a croissant or pastry and then take it to a cafe, even if they themselves sell pastries.
I thought Torta de Santiago the moment I saw your cake – I knew about the Jewish passover cake connection – Claudia Roden was much celebrated in Galicia for recognising the origin and history. I’d like to go on the El Camino pilgrimage one day:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Camino_de_Santiago
Oh i know all about el camino. Some people do the whole thing on their knees. Id like to try. I’m planning a possible trip to El pais vasco in march or may. I’ll let you know if this actually happens. Claudia roden is awesome. Spain was the first cookbook i feel in love with. Thus my url.
I like the French custom then. Must go there now! I’m sort of excited that this story has traveled around the world into cafes everywhere.
I hope you get to visit San Sebastian on your trip – the food and food culture is amazing. You can visit France from there – it’s only 10 miles from the border. You can catch a bus to St. Jean de Luth for a couple of hours – there’s almost no border. It’s an interesting thing to do – it’s still Pais Vasco but the culture is more French.
That’s part of the plan. I’m working on it. 🙂
Cool 🙂
Thank you for sharing your story, your grandfather sounds brilliant 🙂
Thank you so much for your comment, Elaine! He was a funny guy kind of a loving tyrant 🙂 I love that you took the time to read it.
Wonderful seasonal cooking Amanda and the cake looks so appetizing. I loved the correlation to your “roots” and your excellent recollection.
I can really relate. Our Grandfathers had a lot in common, although they were of different backgrounds. Mine came from Italy after being in the military, He learned tailoring and eventually opened his own clothing factory. He was opinonated, stubborn, resourceful, but oh so likeable. By the way, he never went to a restaurant either.
Wonderful post.
What a wonderful comment, Jovina. Thank you. I love the way you describe your grandfather. They really did have a lot in common. I used to call him a loving tyrant. He was so likeable, exactly as you said, but very opinionated. He knew the right way to do everything, which was always his way. But he was a sucker for children and charming. So funny. Old world men. Thanks for sharing. As for the food, it really is so good, but I might be biased based on history 🙂
What a moving memory, Amanda. Thank you so much for sharing! I love both recipes, they are so simple and yet so delicious, and it is lovely to remember things from the past when cooking – and eating. Your grandfather sounds like quite a character! I can imagine how you must have felt when he made such a demonstration in front of “everybody”! I bet the food he brought was delicious though… at least it sounds like it.
(And I’m sorry but I have to disagree with Mad Dog’s comment up there, I would never dream of bringing a pastry to a place that serves food! The only case I can think of would be bringing a croissant to a café in the morning, but only if I know the café doesn’t serve its own croissants).
Thank you, Darya. Mad Dog did seem to think it was only appropriate in a cafe. The story is about my Grandpa on my mom’s side, and there were many moments eating out with him that were….”Special”. This is actually a work of fiction so the moment in the story is kind of a composite of various moments with him and the cooking is a composite of meals from grandparents in general. The personality though, was all him, 100% fact. 🙂 Thanks so much for taking the time to read it.
As for the cafe, it seems like Mad Dog felt like the situation you describe, a cafe that didnt serve its own food, seems the only appropriate time to do that. Either way, it’s an excuse to check Paris out.
Oh yes of course! Any excuse is a good one for checking Paris out!
Even if you did a patchwork of stories, your grandpa still sounds like a real character 🙂
What a wonderful story, Amanda! I was captivated by it. They just don’t make men like your grandpa anymore.
I am certainly enjoying your blog! Keep the posts coming! 🙂
Thanks so much, Debbie! You’re so sweet. I appreciate you taking the time to read. Yes, he was such a character. They just don’t make them like that anymore. I just remember all the times growing up when I used to duck in the back seat of his car so none of my classmates would see me in the car driving 5 miles an hour and hugging the shoulder. LOL!
Oh, I’m not sweet…lol! I just know a good read when I come across it. Too funny! All hunched down in the back seat. Sounds like a movie 🙂
Ha. I like that. I really appreciate you saying so too. So thank you. Oh you could totally make a movie out of some of his stories.
Glad you can at least share them here! 🙂
Anyone who skipped the story missed a good one…I can imagine that at times your grandfather may have caused you embarrassment but I know that there were many times that he gave you great pride. Thank you for sharing both the story and the recipes. 🙂
Thank you, Karen. I’m glad you liked the story. You’re totally right. He was smart and funny as well as totally embarrassing because nothing embarrassed him. He also really loved kids and would entertain random kids he passed on the street. He was in full command of himself leads to embarrassing behavior, but it’s also something to aspire to. Thanks again. BTW I’ve made your beans like 3 times in the past week.
I’m thrilled that you have enjoyed the beans…my husband requests them often. 😀
Your Grandpa was colorful, stubborn, resourceful and values driven . . . . the latter character trait especially that is rarer and rarer these days. And probably a lot more adjectives you could add. What a great, great story you shared with us . . . thank you so much! I love family stories and I’ve got them up the ying yang. Salad looks fantastic, too!
You nailed him exactly, Sue. It is a dying breed. Thank you so much for showing your appreciation. I already knew you had the story-telling trait though, just by reading what you write. Do tell! Though you’re kind of on a delectable photo kick too. I honestly saw that pie slice of yours last night and wanted to jump through the screen. Thanks again.
Haha, so glad I found you!
Amanda, your short fiction is brilliant! I love the way you portrayed your grandpa and how horrifying would that scene in TGIF’s be! What I love is how you featured two recipes you mentioned in your story. Wonderful post and I would never skip down and bypass your stories! I hope you continue to feature them.
Aw. I’m so glad you liked it. I edited it to fit the recipes and trust me, I’ve had some pretty similar experiences with him at diners, especially with the choking. The humor comes later. Thank you for the encouragement. It may just spur me back to fiction, so scary and taxing, but cathartic and necessary.
Everything is wonderful Amanda and that semolina cake has me licking the screen. It looks incredible, a truly beautiful post with gorgeous photo’s and great recipes.
Thank you so much. I really appreciate it. The cake is so good!
Amanda what a powerful and poignant story about your grandpa. Thanks for sharing. It was so wonderful and inspiring to read through. And yes food indeed brings back memories! Your semolina almond cake looks so good! Also the simple carrot salad sounds delicious! Your grandpa must have been a terrific cook!
Thank you for taking the time to read it and comment. The feedback is so nice to hear. We ate well growing up. There is something irreplaceable about “home” food, whatever that may be, if done well. Definitely try the carrot salad 🙂 Thanks again. It really does mean a lot to get input.
I want to comment, but don’t have the words (outside of the food looks great and I had stubborn grandpa, too. Love your opening sentence–certainly is loaded. OK, guess I do have a few words.) as this is all so moving. Thank you for sharing something so personal.
Thank you for your great comment. I really can tell that you were moved by it, which is such a humbling and wonderful thing to hear. I feel like the days of stubborn grandpas like ours are waning, but they could still could exist. I know some pretty stubborn guys who might turn cantankerous as they age. I was happy and nervous to share it, but we all have built such a supportive community that I was happy to. Oddly, over the weekend, and I may write about this in another post, I got a bit of a pushy comment, not rude, per se, but not quite friendly either about a cooking method or my choice of words in a recipe. He wrote it in response to someone else’s comment by accident (a gardener that I follow, we kind of follow casually since I”m not a gardener and he focuses less on food than plants). Well on monday, my lovely gardener found me through my facebook page just to tell me how rude he thought it was and gave me all of these lovely compliments so I wouldnt get discouraged and then liked my last 5 or 6 posts.It’s because of this kind of community that I was comfortable writing this story and everything else I do here. Thanks again, Liz. I love reading your comments. We need to have a bourbon together one day…and bring those cookies.
Amanda, I’m taking my breakfast and finished to read your beautiful story. Wonderful memories and your grandfather had a strong character. Your two recipes sound delicious 🙂
So funny, Linda. I’m about to go to sleep! But I wish I were eating with you, as everything you bake is incredible. Thanks for taking the time to read it over breakfast. He certainly had a strong character! But a loving one too. I did learn from him. You might actually like these recipes as I’ve seen kind of similar ones from you! Enjoy your day!
Have a good night!
Amanda what an adorable story, now after so many years. With your recipes, you just helped to create part of my Thanksgiving Dinner.
If you don’t mind I will read this story to my guests. Thank you for sharing. cornelia
OMG, I’m so honored that you would read it out loud. Thanksgiving at your house must be so warm and fun.I’d love to come over. Yes, in hindsight there is actually a ton of humor in this story and love. I’m glad you could see it. Are you going to do the carrot salad or the cake? I think the carrot salad works well for Thanksgiving. You definitely need to report back on all of the above! 🙂 I’m seriously touched.
Amanda I will make both, actually I will bring it to my friends house, celebrating Thanksgiving there. As I am not a friend of Pumpkin pies, I think your cake is a great alternative. I think your read Roger’s post on his inside about pumpkins…Oh I think it’s a real loving story, what great memory.
That is so cool. I really like pumpkins, but i did read Roger’s post and can see how not everyone does. I hope you enjoy them both! I know you will. I haven’t had a pumpkin pie yet this season.
That is a cracking story, my friend. Your grandpa is a staunch man… He sounds like my grandad. Bloody legend!! 🙂
Thank you. I appreciate it. I have a feeling your kids will say you’re a legend as well. Especially the cooking over those campfires.
Thank you. I can only hope…
🙂
What a beautiful story! Loved reading, and especially the part about the values such as “strength, the ability to support oneself, the distinction between right and wrong and, when necessary, how to reconcile the blurry line between the two, and the specifically – do you want to be a winner or loser?”. I can relate to it. Though i come from an Indian background, my grandfather who is all of 95 is stubborn, highly opinionated, doing his daily chores in his own way, highly resourceful, you know the Old world men. I am happy that i read your wonderful memories <3
Thanks a lot. I’m glad you can relate. I always say that a lot of patents and grandparents that come from a strong culture sometimes embody this stubbornness. A lot of my friends from India, Korea, Italians, Greeks and Jewish backgrounds have told me that I’m describing their parents or grandparents. Thanks for you comment.
Amanda, how could you think that nobody would read this? I’m sitting in a café in Dublin and can see myself sitting with you and your grandfather. A wonderful, evocative tale. This is the reason I follow your blog. Beautiful writing. In this case, the recipe falls off into a distant second place. Not because it is below your usual high standard. But because the story is so beautifully written.
BTW: My french experiences are identical to Mad Dog’s. It’s normal to bring your own pastries to the café.
Wow, Conor. I’m really touched by your comment. I love that my story made its way to Dublin and that you could appreciate it. I really like the fact that we are from such different backgrounds and generations and find common ground. I’m perfectly okay with my story trumping the recipes here. Also, I’m the most kafka-esque here. When I read people’s posts it’s from a room within a room within a room in a big building. No cafe for me. 🙂
If what you and MD say is so, I’m all about getting to France!
What a great story! So much fun to have a window into your life!
Thank you! I’m so glad you liked it.
Bravo! Looking forward to many more stories to come.
Thanks so much, Michelle!
I doubt very much, Amanda, that anyone will skip your story. There are plenty of recipe sites but your readers come here for a bit more — and you certainly delivered today. Your Grandfather was quite the man and you life enriched by him. I’d gladly welcome any more stories that you care to share with us. I’m not at all familiar with today’s cake recipe but, I have to admit, if it has almond flavoring, I’m sure to love it. I’m pretty much hooked on almond-flavored baked goods. 🙂
Thanks for your thoughtful comment. It means a lot. It’s funny because i think i test people’s patience with my writing. Like “get to the recipe already! ” I’m so glad for such a positive response here. Your site too is so rich with family history. I think it’s so much a part of how we approach food. You have me thinking about actually remaining creative! Thanks very much.
An incredible story and beautifully written, it really moved me. I had to sit back and think about your grandpa and other amazing people like him before I could move on to the beautiful recipes.
What a thoughtful comment, Chica. Thank you so much. It’s so nice to know that people can actually relate to this story which feels so specifically mine. But i realize that men like my grandpa exist, embarrassing young girls everywhere, but also making them proud 🙂 Thanks again. I hope you’re doing well!
Damn delicious cirtusy almond cake!!!
the carrot walnuts salad looks irresistable too….
Amanda, I thoroughly enjoyed your story and wish you would write a book. You are sharing about a generation of grandmas and grandpas that I am afraid is fading – so much to learn from them. Your recipes are gorgeous. Carrying on your family recipes is so special. I have a real weakness for syrup soaked cakes – I’ve made orange and almond cake many times for Passover (from Claudia Roden) – and love the look of your semolina cake. Keep writing and cooking for us!
Hanna, thank you so much for your thoughtful encouragement. It really keeps me going. Soaked syrup cakes are amazing. I love the way you cook too so we will have to inspire each other. Xo
I love your grandfather tale, Amanda. What a personality and the sheer moxy of going to a restaurant / diner with a basket is glorious. From today’s knowledge and insight into fast-food, even visionary. As someone who also grew up at her grandparents while my parents worked and having an extra special bond with my grandfather, I can say, his heart was in the right place. About the cake: sigh. I adore the ground Claudia Roden walks on and her Jewish Food was my first one. Is the other cake you are talking about the boiled orange-almond cake? Equally adored is Ottolenghi, so what am I waiting for to try the recipes! Nicole.
Thank you for such a thoughtful comment, Nicole. And for taking the time to read. That’s very cool that you had a bond like that with your grandpa too. It’s a special thing. As for the cake, it’s two ottelenghi cakes from Jerusalem but very much like roden’s torta de santiago. Very good stuff. I love roden too though i only have her Spain. Thanks again. Xo
What a memory. I’m astounded, saddened and humoured in equal measure. I feel for the little you being placed in such a situation – even as an adult that would be difficult to deal with, but as a child you must have felt mortified. But what a wonderful grandfather in so many respects, and what a rich food history your grandparents have passed on.
The carrot salad does sound wonderful! I’m living off salad much the same as yours only with raw grated beetroot too (which I could eat ALL day). Adding cinnamon is a wonderful idea though. And your cake? Scrumptious! I am definitely bookmarking the page because these two recipes are too good not to make 🙂
xx
Thanks, Trixpin. I feel like everyone has some mortifying memories of childhood. I just love the ones revolving around food. Looking back you see the humor. Thanks so much for reading and for your thoughts. I hadn’t thought of doing it with raw beets. I”m going to try that next! Last night I made the carrot salad again using cinnamon and cumin. Combined with the raisins it made it taste so Middle Eastern. Certain spices complement each other perfectly. Enjoy the week!
I envy you Amanda, for growing up knowing your Grandparents, and also receiving recipes that are handed down to you. This story of your Grandpa sounds like a story out of a TV program. Both the salad and the cake sounds delicious. I especially like how the cake is made in a shallow dish and covered with syrup. 😛
Thanks, Fae. I realize how lucky i was. I had all four of them until about 5 years ago. It really is such a great thing. Hands for reading the story. I think you’d really enjoy the cake. It’s so good. Xo
I love the simplicity of this dessert. I can tell th is cake is definitely delicious and wonderful.
Thanks so much! Nice of you to stop by and comment.
Oh Amanda! Where to start? Yours posts are always so many sensory layers …
The food: I can’t take my eyes off the cake, so I’m afraid the salad, good looking and nutritious as it is, will have to accept that my affections are given elsewhere.
The story: I loved reading it. I relate to being different and I think it’s meaningful and brave and beautiful to share it. And I love the way you write.
Thank you so much, Azita. It’s been so nice connecting with you through our spaces here. I really appreciate your thoughtful comment. The cake was spectacular. I think you would actually like it a lot. I agree with you, we must meet up sometime soon for coffee or tea 🙂
Poignant and beautifully written story Amanda – though frankly – I’m glad it’s fiction because that would have been a lot for a young girl to endure. The picnic in the restaurant was actually fiction – right?
One of the many things we have in common is a powerful grandfather figure in our early lives. I love your comment that you were a makeshift son and found it so interesting that he taught you to avoid situations where you might have to apologize. I’m assuming that’s real? I can imagine with his background that was sadly necessary. And yet – the ability to apologize must be one of the greatest human attributes. So such a contradiction. I love my grandfather so much that sometimes I think I’ve made him a fictional hero. Surely no one could have been that wonderful? But in mind – he was. The patron saint of my childhood.
By the way – I want to walk the Camino next year. Just trying to figure out my schedule so that I can plan.
I’ll have to make the cake now. Because of the story. Because of the connections. Because it looks beautiful. Like you.
xo
Lindy, what a thoughtful and moving comment. I’m touched. I know how much you loved your grandpa. I loved both of mine so much too. I think about them and it’s hard to imagine a world without them in it, except that they are here, through us, through spirit, through stories through having been here and through everyone who loved them. The picnic part wasn’t true, although the Mcdonald’s part was certainly true. We’ve definitely had picnics in McDonalds or been in diners where he choked on everything he ate and become demanding enough for it to be very uncomfortable. I do think that this grandfather probably would have loved to have a son, but he loved his daughters and us. Very good point about apologies and their power. I don’t think it’s really possible to avoid situations in which you’d have to apologize. It’s part of being human.
Wow that would be so cool. Maybe we’ll be in Santiago at the same time! I have to plan it too.
As for the cake..it’s delicious. The side salad is a winner too. If you mix it with cumin and cinnamon it tastes really Moroccan too. I hope you’re well. So nice to hear from you. xo Big hug. Feel good.
I enjoyed reading the story. It’s written in a way that makes you travel in space and time, like all these full of meaning meals do.
Aww thanks so much for reading it! I’m touched. It’s so so sweet to see you here. Xo