My mother is dead. But her spirit lives on—not in candle smoke or cold breezes, but in my kitchen.
She haunts the cupboards. The fridge. The cutting board. And most of all, my breakfast.
Every morning, as I reach for the eggs, her voice echoes in my mind. “Wreck ‘em, Brad. You know you don’t like runny yolks.” She always referred to scrambled eggs as wrecking them. What she did was wreak havoc and attempt to wreck my mind. She still refers to them as runny, as if I’m serving up a health hazard. Then I get lectured on wasting some of the egg. I was supposed to take my index finger and wipe out ALL the white. “I grew up learning not to waste anything!” Well, she’s right there. She even eats the white of an orange peel or grapefruit and makes a show of it. I found it disgusting! She still wants to make my choices for me and insists she knows what I like and what is best for me. Always has and always will. I prefer them over-medium, with white whites and no sign of a snotty white, and my yolks bright yellow and runny, a preference she would describe as over-managed.
I grab the sourdough. “That bread is too chewy. It doesn’t toast well, and besides, you live in Indianapolis and not San Francisco! You like white bread!”, Cherry butter? *”What’s wrong with grape jelly? We always had grape jelly.” I discovered cherry butter in Traverse City, Michigan. Cherries are healthy and delicious. * She hovers like a kitchen poltergeist with a wooden spoon and a permanent disapproval rating. As the old saying goes, it is supposed to be her way or the highway, and always right.
I sit down to enjoy my breakfast. She haunts again. “You didn’t put your cherry butter away, or the bread, and you didn’t even throw the coffee filter away!
Hey mom, I want to enjoy my eggs and toast while they’re still hot! I’ll put them away when I finish breakfast. I’m surprised she didn’t want me to leave the coffee filter in and brew another pot of coffee with the old grounds. It always goes back to being wasteful. I firmly believe Mom is stuck with frugality teetering on the edge of insanity.
I love French toast; it is often a weekend treat. Dad taught me how to make it, not Mom. But she loves to kibitz. I learned that using heavy cream makes for a nice batter with two eggs. Mom said I should use 2% milk. I add some robust Vietnamese cinnamon to the batter. Mom is appalled. What’s that you’re putting in there? Where did you get that cinnamon? King who? Uffda! She screeches. “King Arthur, Mom, it’s excellent!” I reply. She shakes her head in disgust. Finally, I pour 100% pure maple syrup over my French toast. Mom fumes in her haunting. I indulge in my weekend treat of French toast, bacon, and fresh blueberries, washed down with a fine cup of Coffee.
The older I get, the more I realize she doesn’t just haunt my breakfast. She comments on dinner, too.
The first time I cooked pasta properly—al dente, like a civilized adult—she took one bite and I heard her voice, sharp as a cheese grater. “This is undercooked. Pasta should be soft. Like a noodle, not a twig.” And then she saw my wedge of Parmesan cheese. “Why are you buying that? Fancy shmancy”, she shrieks, and then in a defensive posture, There is nothing wrong with Kraft cheese in the green can!” For the love of God, mother, get the hell out of my kitchen! If it doesn’t resemble canned spaghetti, it’s a threat to maternal tradition. But I’ve learned to embrace this Norwegian attack on properly prepared and tasty sustenance.
Cooking with wine is another crime. Once, while searing pot roast, I added a few splashes of red wine. From beyond, I swear I heard her gasp. “You’re cooking with alcohol? That’s the devil, Brad. The devil!” She never haunted me when I made chicken marsala or when I made Tyler Florence’s beef stew and poured in a whole bottle of wine. That’s because Mom never heard of them!
Yes, the “devil.” Like in Water Boy, except she pronounced it correctly, but in her Norwegian brogue. Instead of being tackled by a linebacker, I was being tackled by a Puritan pantry ghost. It’s like living in a sitcom, with my mother as the strict, disapproving character.
And God forbid I buy beef stock. “You know, I have bouillon cubes in the freezer from 1983. Still good. I only used half.”
That reminds me. The freezer! Mom never cooked anything fresh. Everything for dinner was a trip down to the basement to retrieve the dinner items. I’ve come to loathe the freezer. I use the freezer to store ice cubes, ice cream, popsicles, and frozen vegetables. I only have the freezer that comes with my refrigerator. I don’t need or want a giant freezer. I can go to the butcher shop or bakery and get fresh. The items NEVER find their way to the freezer.
But Mom and Dad, well, it was Mom’s freezer that was a huge fourteen-foot cubic freezer! She used to bake her bread, but we were never allowed to enjoy a warm slice of bread out of the oven, never. “This bread goes to the freezer!” she would shriek.
She stored her baking in there for months. Of course, it was freezer-burned! The fresh flavor was vanquished by freon. Fresh meat, including beef, chicken, and pork, is losing its savory profile. And she kept that freezer full! She took pride in her freezer, proud that it was full. It was no wonder food items became freezer-burned and rancid.
I found it disgusting as I got older, but it was a battle I’d never win. Mom would lecture and scold me, “Brad, you need a freezer!” No, Mom, I don’t.
When I first came to Indianapolis and was enjoying my independence, looking forward to making meals for myself and not eating out all the time, I discovered Barbara Swain’s cookbook, Cookery for One or Two. I love that cookbook; over the years, it has shown its use.
Barbara describes how to make buttered carrots on page one hundred-twenty-six. Then you can vary your carrots by making carrots a l’orange by adding some Grand Marnier or anise carrots by pouring in a splash of anise-flavored liqueur. To top it off, I sprinkle some Italian parsley on top for garnish. I appreciate a well-presented dish and firmly believe that people eat with their eyes.
Oh, my poor mother, the day I made anise-flavored carrots for Thanksgiving. Mom went on an all-out attack. I had no green bean casserole. I poured some Grand Marnier into my cranberry relish. My mashed potatoes were too soupy. My wife made saffron dressing instead of sage. And the most tremendous desecration—I served no lefse!
When it came time to serve the Thanksgiving dinner, I had this funny, cheeky grin and then started laughing. “What’s so funny, Dad?” my son Drew asked. Oh, your grandmother is haunting me. I am being admonished for serving an overly devil-mastered meal of firewater, poisonous flower parts in the dressing, and the compound butter for the turkey. And I’m not serving lefse! I am poisoning all of you!
Oh, my mashed potatoes are an abomination to Norwegian boiled potatoes. I throw in my potatoes whatever leftover dairy I have in the fridge: butter, half ‘n half, heavy cream, milk, and always some sour cream. Mom and my brothers were appalled. But then my brothers ate them. Their taste buds were awakened, and they savored the flavor. Mom chimed in, “They’re not as good as mine!” You can’t fix stupid. And there was no changing her.
I never liked Mom’s mashed potatoes, which we seldom had; most of the time, it was just plain boiled potatoes. At Thanksgiving, Mom’s mashed potatoes became hard after they cooled. She didn’t put enough butter or milk in her potatoes. They were awful!
Yes, I am half Norwegian and half English in my ancestry pool. Mom was Norwegian. And forgive me if I offend you. Norwegians can’t cook! There is lutefisk, which is cod soaked in lye. It stinks, and when served on a plate, it looks like someone had relief from their sinus congestion. Then there is blood sausage, which the Norwegians call blodpolse; pickled herring, and torsk. Torsk, they proudly proclaim, is “poor man’s lobster.” Torsk is Norwegian for cod, typically cooked with a generous amount of butter, sugar, and water. No herbs. How can anyone like that?
To the best of my knowledge, Norwegians only use one herb, dill. That’s it, salt, pepper, and butter too, but they’re not herbs.
We have Italian, Mexican, Chinese, Thai, German, Indian, American grill, and Brazilian restaurants. Have you ever been to a Norwegian restaurant? So, how many Norwegian restaurants have you frequented? I already know the answer—none!
She visits the grocery store with me, too. “Fifteen dollars for maple syrup? There’s nothing wrong with Log Cabin or Mrs. Butterworths, you know? And why are you only buying a five-pound bag of flour? I always bought twenty-pound bags.” And that she did; she was a baker, too. I retaliated, Mom. I don’t bake; that’s why they have bakeries! Once, I lingered near the imported cheese case. Big mistake. Her disapproval fogged up my glasses.
I love her, and I miss her. But I also love cherry butter and al dente pasta. I love adding wine to a roast and using fresh herbs instead of dried parsley that’s been expired since the Reagan administration. I’ve learned to embrace my culinary preferences, even if they differ from hers.
Her culinary doctrine was one part thrift, two parts control, and a heavy sprinkle of guilt. Meals were less about flavor and more about obedience. Good food was predictable. Safe. Unambitious.
In my kitchen, I prefer fresh ingredients when I cook, and I want a bit of presentation. Meals are not just for nutrition, but also for sharing stories with friends and relatives. They should be a form of art, pleasant to the eye and flavorful to the palate. I buy fresh rosemary that isn’t fossilized. I toast sourdough. I top it with cherry butter, and if the yolks run a little, I mop them up with pride.
I still hear her voice. I probably always will. But these days, I’ve grown to embrace her influence in my cooking, I laugh to myself, and let Mom entertain me with wild and outdated ideas.
These days, I savor my glass of wine, I raise my fork, smile, and say, “Bon appétit, Mother.”
And then I savor my first bite.
