ISO: Family Dinner
by Destiny Van Kooten
SWF hoping for dinner bliss |
| Female lacking fond family dinner memories seeking a “someone-special” to cook delicious meals with and create dinner traditions together. I’m creative, outgoing, and open-minded. I prefer Italian dishes but I’m willing to try any recipe! Would be willing to meet a chef, family psychologist, or carpenter specializing in dining room tables. So, if you like piña coladas…and a consistent dinner at the table with lively conversation, I’m your girl. |
July 18, 2009: The Proposal from a hotel in the Bronx
Dale dials & listens to phone ring.
His mom: Hello?
Dale: It’s Dale.
His mom: Well????
Dale: She said “yes!”
Champagne toast at Bourbon Street Inn
The proposal on one-knee occurred before we left the hotel to fill our reservation for dinner at Bourbon Street Inn, a delicious restaurant in New York City. Our Broadway tickets for The Little Mermaid were secured in my purse to end the evening.
After the whirlwind of that summer, another year of teaching, and seemingly endless planning, I have to pause.
“The Nuclear Family”
I was not raised in a nuclear family. My family was “nuked” after a nasty divorce and my mom burning her and my father’s mattress in the backyard. It was the new bra-burning.
I don’t have fond memories of dinner time.
Non-Fond Food Memory #1:
“At Least He Has a Name Before He Dies”
Eulogy for David
Although my dad and I share the same birthday,
we do not share the love of lobster.
This year, we say our farewell to David the Lobster,
who lived an extraordinary sea-life before
entering the magnified glass-case at the store.
David, your dark eyes looked at me lovingly
as I peered into the plastic container on our way home.
The party balloons, streamers, food, and cake,
didn’t seem as shimmering as I watched my father
hold you high over his head in triumph.
“David the Lobster!!!”
Today was our birthday,
Today was your deathday.
Non-Fond Food Memory #2:
Shanklish Cheese
“Shanklish is a cheese native to Syria, Lebanon and Turkey.” Well, it should stay there. I was only about nine or ten
Shanklish in its foul, rancid, nastiness
when my father brought the circular disc of cheese home prepared to attempt a unique dish. My curiosity kept me in the kitchen, staring nervously at the counter. As my father began to cook, a rancid odor attacked my nostrils and sent me into the panic. I covered my face in an effort to block the stench but it can hardly be described. I begged my father to cease his efforts and air out the house. As the cheese began to cook further the smell stung my eyes. I bolted to the other end of the house, slammed my bedroom door, and began shoving clothing and towels under the door to prevent any “Shanklish leakage” into my bedroom. After several minutes I realized my efforts were useless as the odor crept into my room and took over my life. I began to sob, uncontrollably. I had a temper tantrum that I will never forget. I was thrashing around on my bed, pounding the walls with my fists, and screaming until my throat was raw, “IT’S COMING THROUGH THE WALLS, DAD!!!” I was crying so strongly I was choking and gagging, screaming until the words would barely escape. It is said that, “Shanklish that is dried and aged for a period of time becomes progressively harder and begins to acquire an extremely pungent odour and flavor.” Who would be able to endure the smell long enough to even want to remotely consider INGESTING it?!?! I am baffled. “The actual method of making it is tedious and painstakingly long. Shanklish is an ancient cheese which used to be made and then buried in the hot desert sand for a year to mature and age.[ii]” Leave it under the dirt, for God’s sake, leave it under the dirt!!
Non-Fond Food Memory #3:
The Juxtaposition of the Two Cooks on Venture Court
Sitting at the kitchen table coloring, waiting anxiously to see if mom pulls out the Hamburger Helper box. She heads for the freezer, let it be the beef! But slapped on the counter, a rock-solid mass in pink Styrofoam, a coiled hell-meat: sausage. I begin scribbling furiously with the robin’s egg blue. I hate, I hate, I HATE mom’s sausage!!!!
It boils in the fry pan, with water—no spices. I stand on my tip-toes to watch it die (again) and the beads of water evaporate with bubbling hiss.
“Mom!!! The sausage is burning! [Under my breath] Again.”
“No, it’s fine, it needs to cook for a few more minutes.”
Few more minutes—smoke alarm
“Destiny, why didn’t you tell me it was burning?!?!”
The brick red crayon gets all the glory now—scribble, scribble, scribble.
I eat a roll, no sausage between, and a handful of chips.
Hours later, mom gets ready for night-shift, dad comes home (in his super-hero cape) and sees the covered pan on the stove (yes, it’s still sitting out) then he looks at me. I nod. He knows it was sausage night. He knows he has work ahead of him.
Sitting at the kitchen table working on homework I wait anxiously to watch dad in all his cooking glory. He heads for the spice cabinet and pulls out many bottles of things I can’t pronounce. Slapped on the counter is the cheese, sauce, and his wallet. I begin (pretending) I’m doing my homework. I love, I love, I LOVE dad’s version!!!!
It sizzles in the fry pan, with oils and spices. I stand on my tip-toes to watch it come alive and the tinge of color beginning to form on the coiled surface (mom’s chunk missing).
“Dad, it smells great!”
“It needed some doctor-ing, that’s all.”
Doctor-ing, is that a word? I’ll use it at school tomorrow.
“Why does yours taste different?”
“Sometimes people forget the best part of any recipe, grab my wallet.”
“Huh??”
He opens it wide and says,
“Pull the love out, Destiny. That’ s the secret ingredient.”
[Looking down into the black empty pit of his wallet, then back up at him] “Dad, it’s empty.”
“No it’s not! Look again! Pull the love out”
[A little hand reaches in, swirls around and around looking for it, then grabs it!]
“Now sprinkle it around the whole pan.”
I did.
Few more minutes—heaven in a roll
I eat a roll, chopped sausage between, and nothing else.
I attempt to take food preparation into my own childlike hands:
Beloved Beefaroni
My childhood food-affair with Mr. Chef Boyardee began with Beefaroni. My summer days were mostly spent “alone” in the house because that was mom’s bedtime after a long night shift and she was to be woken “only in emergencies.” The product line was a result of Ettore Boiadri’s successful restaurant in Cleveland where all the customers begged and pleaded for recipes and ingredients. While the canned line of Boiadri’s pastas were originally only produced for our military, they eventually made their way into American households and into my tummy (& heart)[iii].
Family Dinner Polls–Then & Now
Daily schedule of my mother when I was a teenager:
| 4:00 a.m. | Alarm clock blaring |
| 5:30 a.m. | Commute to job #1 |
| 6:00 a.m. to 2:00 p.m. | 8 hours of job #1 |
| 2:30 p.m. | Pick me up from school |
| 3:00 p.m. to 4:00 p.m. | Laundry or cleaning |
| 4:00 p.m. to 4:15 p.m. | Quick meal |
| 4:15 p.m. to 6:00 p.m. | Resting (hopefully a true nap) |
| 6:00 p.m. to 6:30 p.m. | Getting ready for job #2 |
| 7:00 p.m. to 11:00 p.m. | Job #2 |
| 11:30 p.m. to 4:00 a.m. | 4 and a half hours of “sleep” |
| 4:00 a.m. | Alarm block blaring |
| Repeat Monday through Friday | |
This woman was busy. Dinner took the back burner. It was only the two of us, anyway.
As a young adult, I wanted to help my mother and me in our adventure to live as independent women. This help came in the form of various jobs that left me with even more terrible food memories and a bad taste in my mouth.
PaPa’s Restaurant—HELP WANTED: Female servers, under 18, physique for tight black pants and tight white shirt, must endure bullshit from Greek owner with nothing better to do than sit at the pie bar staring, yelling, and deducting every accident from your (measly) pay. Inquire within.
Not yet sixteen, already nervous.
His dark eyes stare from the pie counter,
rubbing his olive-skinned face. He’d like desert.
My first tray out the double doors,
catch his glare from the corner of my eye,
the spaghetti smashes against the tile.
Deduct $7.95 from tips tonight and now my
tight white shirt is stained.
Behind the freezer his Greek tongue
lashes his submissive wife with insults
(I assume), and she yells with her eyes
to get out of the kitchen.
Endless, endless, endless Oldies music,
toothless gums chew tapioca,
gray salad in piss-poor lighting,
(other) servers flirt to get their way.
Dishwashers wink, display their
half-rotten teeth, missing the food-encrusted
knives.
Fill ranch cups and shakers,
scrub tables, fill coffees.
Run garbage out to
table 6 and wipe the beads of sweat.
Collect tips change at the
end of another night, count it
while he watches every move.
His large hands with the
uncut fingernails steal from
the pile to compensate for
our mistakes.
Clock out, mom asks,
“Are you hungry?”
Hell no.
Hooters Air Criticized for Not Serving Famous Hot Wings
The families and business passengers file down the runway toward us.
“So, you servin’ wings on these flights or what?”
No, I’m sorry. [Smile]
“Hey! We’re getting some Hooters wings on the flight, right?”
No, I’m sorry. [Smile]
“Ohhhh yeah! I can’t wait to get my hands on some wings on this flight. Hope they have bibs! You got bibs?”
No, I’m sorry. [Smile]
Good morning, I’m Destiny and this is Vanessa. We will be your Hooters Air girls today on flight 323 with service to Myrtle Beach. If there is anything we can do to make your flight more comfortable, please don’t hesitate to…–rudely interrupted–SERVE US WINGS!!—[plaster on the smile again]…please don’t hesitate to ask one of us. Sit back. Relax. And enjoy your flight.
Pilot: “Hi Folks, welcome aboard flight 323 today with service to Myrtle Beach. We have b-e-a–utiful flying conditions today so we should have a smooth ride. We have reached altitude of 10,000 feet so you are free to move about the cabin. Ding.
Vanessa and I begin lunch service. On an airplane. A chicken wrap or roast beef sandwich, bag of chips, choice of macaroni or potato salad, juice, coffee, or soda. On an airplane.
“Where are the wings? What the hell is this? A wrap?”
“You ain’t serving wings on this flight? This isn’t Hooters.”
“Aw man, I was sure I was going to have wings on this flight. I told all my buddies you’d serve wings.”
“You girls are good for two things—wings and wings—where are they??”
YOU’RE NOT GETTING WINGS ON AN AIRPLANE!!
Have it [Poor] Way!
A Tuesday: “Would you like to try a value meal today?” I ask, knowing her answer. In her wrinkle-free blue polo, khakis, curled hair, and yellow, Best Buy name tag: Destiny. I know she’ll get the #4, with ranch.
A Thursday: “Would you like to try…oh, a #4?” She nods with a smile.
A Saturday: “Would you like try a value meal today?” She enters with several co-workers, looking more optimistic. She only orders a Hershey pie today and sits in a booth with the other blue-shirts, laughing.
Another Tuesday: “Hi, would you like to try a value meal today?” For the first time she looks directly at me and says, “I have to start packing my lunches.”
The equation I have to face:
Five and a half years at Best Buy eating Burger King (at least) twice a week:
$5.29 (#4)
+ $5.29 (#4)
+ $.99 (the pie)
= $11.57
x 52 weeks
= $601.64
x5.5 years
=$3,309.02!!!!!!!!!
Talk about flushing my money away. They should change the slogan to: Home of the Hopper
While punching in and punching out at these seemingly endless jobs, one of my college roommates gave me my first real taste (literally) of what family dinner might be like. As roomies, we turned in our food dining plans and opted to cook together (aka, watch our most talented chef Sarah cook). We would share unforgettable memories, agree, disagree, laugh, cry, and somewhere in between–eat.
Blue Lake Cut
Ingredients:
3 roommates 1 Bathroom full of makeup
4 closets of clothes to share 100 dollars combined
4 place settings 1 Sarah Iresabel to cook a pre-party meal
1 dozen pre-game beers 1 bottle of wine (mine, only mine)
4 Shorty’s hand-stamps Endless nights to remember
Directions: Sarah will cook up a delicious meal of chicken, potatoes, and Blue Lake Cut green beans, while the roommates watch curiously. All roommates will run back and forth between bedrooms half-dressed, searching for the perfect top. Twist off beer caps and enjoy. Use cork-screw to open wine just for Destiny, she’ll enjoy. Apply too much makeup because Shorty’s lighting makes that acceptable. Dump all contents of our purses onto the couch and swap glosses and gum. Check for the third time that I.D.’s are inside. Hear Sarah call for the second time, “Dinner is ready, sexy bitches!” Click, click, click our way to the dinner table and seat ourselves at our place settings. Clink, clink, clink of our bottles (and glass)—a toast to another delicious meal and sustenance for a long night ahead. Repeat as necessary.
Graduating college meant one thing: independence. My first apartment on my own and the realization that I didn’t own one pot, pan, or piece of Tupperware. I’m not the cooking type. I moved out of my college apartment and watched everything kitchen related move out in boxes that weren’t going in my U Haul. I didn’t mind. The freezer section of the grocery store, the local Chinese restaurant, and frequent visits to households with real food would get me by…right?
Craigslist: Catasauqua 1 BR, Victorian home, stained glass windows, HW floors—charm, charm, charm
Landlord: We pay cable, hot water, sewer, garbage, and trash—let’s go up and take a look. But, uh, I’m going to warn you about the kitchen first. It’s…different.
Me: Oh, I bet it’s fine. Thinking: my apartment now has avocado appliances from the 50’s—what could be worse?
Landlord: [beckoning me in first] So here’s the living room, that way is the bedroom, and…well, here’s what we call the, “One-ass kitchen”. [Looks embarrassed]
Me: [beaming] I love it! I don’t cook anyway!
My 3' x 6' kitchen
I begin daydreaming of Sex in the City, role tape:
BIG I can build you a better closet. Carrie looks at him; aghast. He smiles. BIG (CONT'D) Welcome home, baby. CARRIE Can we afford this? BIG I got it. Carrie screams with joy and shock. He laughs, thrilled 17 EXT. NYC STREET/CHRISTIE'S AUCTION HOUSE -- DAY -- SUMMER 17 Carrie, Miranda and Charlotte walk down the street.
CARRIE "I got it." Just like that. "I got it" -- like he was picking up the check for coffee or something. CHARLOTTE It sounds perfect. CARRIE Except for the closet which Big says he can redo -- also he says the kitchen needs work but I don't know about that `cause I keep sweaters in my stove. Carrie and Charlotte laugh.[iv]
Me: So, Cliff, how many closets did you say there were in this apartment?
Landlord: [rubs the back of his neck] Only one.
Me: [eyes-up the little stove] I’ll take it!
[They shake]
From One-Ass to Walk-in—it’s all in the eye of the beholder.
So, I don’t cook. Big deal. As I transitioned from free-spirited college student to fatigued public school teacher, I begin to realize something may be missing in my students’ lives. Something big. Who killed family dinner?
The Reason for Deteriorating Classrooms Across America
Period 5/6—42 minutes of Hell
*Warning*: Nothing you are about to read has actually transpired with the exception of inside my fatigued, frustrated, and ready-to-throw-in-the-towel, mind.
Miss Van Kooten: Why is your child so mean?!?! To me, to everyone?!
Parent: He isn’t mean, he is misunderstood.
Miss Van Kooten: He doesn’t follow directions, he disrupts the class every 16 seconds (I have timed this) and he does not care about anyone or anything and blatantly tells me so!
Parent: He cares about being heard.
Miss Van Kooten: OH! I hear him, alright. And his pen-tapping, fart noises, chirps, noises that imitate the word “Jew” to insult (student who-shall-not-be-named), scribbles across my desks, shoe scraping, snickering, and while we’re at it, BREATHING!
Parent: Well, you have to get creative.
Miss Van Kooten fire-breathing: I AM MISS CREATIVE! While I was running a Renaissance Faire this year since we couldn’t go on the field trip, your son glued masquerade mask decorations TO HIS FACE! He doesn’t give a &!*% about creative.
Parent: He doesn’t get along with many of the kids at school.
Miss Van Kooten: That’s because he bullies them, pushes them around, spits on them, humiliates them, pushes their last buttons, and disrupts the one class the students actually ENJOY coming to: MINE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Parent: What have you tried with my son?
Miss Van Kooten: Let me be clear, I have abandoned—yes, abandoned—teaching your son English this year and I’m trying to teach him to be a civilized, empathetic, and half-decent person. He needs instruction in manners and kindness—not his core subjects right now. WHY?!?!?!?! WHY ISN’T HE LEARNING THIS AT HOME?!?!?!
Parent: We’re having problems at home.
Miss Van Kooten: I’m having problems at home. Try me.
Parent: We don’t have family dinner anymore.
In my mind I exaggerate the notion that many of my students are bullies of the worst kind simply because they don’t have family dinner.
Miss Van Kooten’s “Frequently Asked Questions”:
Who killed family dinner?
Are most of my students so cruel because they don’t sit down to family dinner?
What percentage of parenting happens at the dinner table? How much good parenting are my students missing now?
Do I have to start having family dinner in my classroom?!?
I didn’t have family dinner & I’m not cold-hearted like some of them are…what happened?
What can I do?
How do I learn how to cook for family dinner?
Can I raise respectful children?
Can I raise children at the dinner table so they don’t end up driving their teachers crazy leading them to sobbing episodes at their desk?!?!?!?!?!
As I plan my wedding, I discover I’m not just planning for a day. I’m planning for a future. A future that will include, God help me, family dinner.
I Better Learn Somewhere
Earlier this summer I visited Fleur-de-Lys farm in Kutztown, PA to interview the owner, Laurie Lynch. I was seeking the reasons and benefits to buying locally. Somewhere between the asparagus patch and the hen house on her farm, I realized I needed a teacher and Laurie could cook! I’ve decided to seek out teachers in the kitchen to help me learn how to prepare meals so I can actually sit down to family dinner. Laurie writes a weekly newsletter and this is an excerpt from her most recent update:
| Fleur-de-Lessons There’s something going on in our neck of the woods. My guess is that the local foods movement has reaped a fascination with cooking for the 20-something generation…First came a request from my nephew Andre: Next time you come to State College, can you teach me how to make jam?… Next on the cooking lesson hotline was a call from my son, Richard…He wanted to double-check the directions and yield for couscous……Three is a charm, and my third cooking lesson request came from Destiny, the young woman who wrote about Fleur-de-Lys Farm Market for a Kutztown University writing project.She emailed to see if I would share my recipe for pesto or show her how to make it. With 20 years or so of pesto-making under my apron, I don’t follow an actual recipe … so I had to make it first to measure how much basil fills the salad spinner, find the actual measurement of a good handful of walnuts, and figure out how much olive oil makes the sauce moist but not runny. Then, I made a date with Destiny.I asked Destiny if she had a food processor. “No.” So, my first advice for the bride-to-be was to list a Cuisinart on her bridal registry. Then, we went through the following steps.1. Place 4 or more cloves of fresh garlic and a cup of walnuts in the Cuisinart fitted with a metal blade and pulse a few times. 2. Add four cups of washed and spun-dried, fresh basil leaves. Pulse until leaves are chopped. Sprinkle with salt and pepper to taste. 3. Process the mixture while slowly pouring in 2/3-cup olive oil. Scrape bowl, pulse again, and then fill about four 1-cup containers with the pesto and freeze. 4. To prepare, thaw pesto. Mix with one pound of cooked pasta. Toss in one cup of freshly grated Parmesan or Romano cheese, and a sprinkling of pine nuts, if you’d like. Serve hot and yummy. [A tip Laurie shared with me, that she read somewhere, is to take the freshly made Pesto and spoon it into an ice cube tray to freeze. When frozen, pop the cubes out of the tray and place into a large freezer bag. During the frigid winter months, one cube of the frozen Pesto added to a single serving of noodles makes for a aromatic meal that will remind you of the warmth of summer.] Love, be true to her. – Old English Toast to a Bride |
Carats & Carrots
I sparkle
I provide
I’m treasured
I’m savored
I’m expensive
I am priceless
I am strong
I offer strength
I am beautiful
I am beautiful
I represent love
I represent life
I am a diamond
I am a root
—————————————————————————————————————————–
[i] How, Angela. “YouTube – The Nuclear Family.” YouTube – Broadcast Yourself. Web. 24 July 2010.
[ii] Ahmed, Ayesha Sruti. “Shanklish, How to Make Shanklish Cheese?” Useful Articles from Indian Bloggers. Web. 01 Aug. 2010.
[iii] “Chef Boyardee.” Wikipedia, the Free Encyclopedia. 25 June 2010. Web. 28 July 2010.
[iv] King, Michael Patrick. “Sex and the City Script at IMSDb.” The Internet Movie Script Database (IMSDb). Web. 20 July 2010.
[v] Lynch, Laurie. “Fleur-de-Lessons.” Fleur-de-Lys Farm Newsletter (3 Aug. 2010). Print.
I never knew what went into pesto. I don’t have a food processor, either (I don’t think a blender counts), but that sounds sooooo easy to make! I want to try it. Good luck with your cooking adventures; trying new recipes is fun (when it goes well!).