My father, Edward W. Thompson

My father, on the far right, age 9, and his four siblings in 1943.

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A few notes:  I made this cake twice as I burned the first one while trying to brown the topping in my broiler.  I had barely put it under the broiler before it burned.  I don’t know if stoves have evolved and my broiler is more efficient than they were when the recipe first appeared on Bisquick boxes but with the second cake I had to watch it very closely during the browning stage.  Be careful.  On the second cake I also doubled the ingredient amounts for the topping as there was barely enough to cover the first cake.

Recommendation:  Let Me Cook For You ~ for my Marin County, and Bay Area readers.  My sister, Traci Thompson, has started a personal cooking service.  She’ll devise menus, do the shopping, come to your house, and cook for you and your family.  She’s an amazing cook and prepares ‘healthy homemade meals for everyone’.

Coming Up: International Food Bloggers Conference (IFBC), August 27 – 29, 2010, Seattle Washington.  So much fun last year that I’ll be attending again this year.  Are you? Upcoming Posts: Cochon 555 Napa, a write up of the amazing pork festival that I attended this spring. Cookbook Reviews: Steak and Friends: At Home with Rick Tramonto by Rick Tramonto, Spice Dreams by Sara Engram and Katie Luber, Cider Beans, Wild Greens, and Dandelion Jelly by Joan E. Aller.

I first appreciated this when I lived in France and worked for a French family.  My employment as an au pair, or ‘mother’s helper,’ involved caring for the family’s four children and helping in the kitchen.  Sitting at table in France is very important.  It especially was in rural France in the late ’70s when I was there.  Lunch, the main meal of the day, lasted two hours.  My employer, Mr. Zundel, drove across town from his office everyday to sit at table with the family.  One of my favorite memories of this experience is how we called the children to the table.  The French phrase à table literally means ‘to the table.’  So whenever the meal was ready that cry went out far and wide: à table, les enfants! Come to the table, children!  The house the family lived in was four stories and quite large.  The main living quarters including the kitchen and dining room were on the second floor.   To get the children to the table we’d have to call that out several times — up the stairs to the third and fourth floors, and over an intercom that went out to the street where the children often played.  The intercom was actually the door bell.  When someone rang you asked who it was before buzzing them in.  In the case of mealtimes we used it to summon the children.  À table, les enfants!

Our version of this when I was growing up was ‘dinnertime!’ yelled out the front door if my sister and I were outside playing.  If we were too far afield to hear the message was passed along by our friends.  ‘Your mom is calling you.’  That meant we better get home fast.  We spent half a school year living with my grandparents outside Sacramento, California in a fairly rural area.  My sister and I were often out running around in the fields when it was time for dinner.  My grandmother took to ringing a cowbell to call us in.  It worked every time.  It was hard not to hear it clanging  away.

Not every meal I eat out, or at home, is as fancy as it may seem from what I have written.  I do eat at inexpensive restaurants sitting at outdoor picnic tables eating off paper plates, or on the curb after grabbing something from a food truck, or worst of all before my computer screen at home but I will always enjoy sitting at a nicely set table whether at home or in a restaurant the most.  It’s the excitement of expectation: the drinks, the food, fellow table mates.  What’s on the menu?  Will it be good?  Will the other diners be fun and interesting?  Hopefully, yes.  If all goes well it’s one of the most glorious experiences life has to offer.  So on that note: bon appétit and please come to the table.  Dinner is served.

Coming Up: International Food Bloggers Conference (IFBC), August 27 – 29, 2010, Seattle Washington.  So much fun last year that I’ll be attending again this year.  Are you?

Upcoming Posts: Interview with Chefs John Stewart & Duskie Estes, owners of Zazu & Bovolo restaurants in Sonoma County. Cochon 555 Napa, a write up of the amazing pork festival that I attended this spring. Cookbook Reviews: Steak and Friends: At Home with Rick Tramonto by Rick Tramonto, Spice Dreams by Sara Engram and Katie Luber, Cider Beans, Wild Greens, and Dandelion Jelly by Joan E. Aller.

Non-Food Fun: ‘Secret Stairs: A Walking Guide to the Historic Staircases of Los Angeles’ by Charles Fleming.  Robert and I recently discovered this fascinating book about the hundreds of  ’secret stairs’ all over the Los Angeles area.  Fleming documents 42 stair walks centered around these secret staircases many of them built when streetcars were the norm and people needed access from their hillside homes, or for those who lived and still live on walk streets, and use(d) them to reach their homes.  ‘Secret’ because most of them are hard to see from the automobiles we all drive.  We have completed 8 walks to date, (3,688 stair steps!) and what an interesting side of L.A. we are seeing.  Robert has started his own blog, Climbing L.A., and is documenting our journey.   Please read along, or join us (details on Climbing L.A.)  Every walk does end with a meal at a local eatery.  Follow Robert on Twitter @ClimbingLA.

My great-grandparents, Ora and Rolla Goodman, Orcutt, California

One of my favorite family stories is about how my great-grandmother, Ora Goodman – the inspiration for this blog – fed the hobos on Sundays. Sunday was pancake day at my great-grandmother’s house. Every Sunday Gramma Ora made pancakes for the family, and always made extras for the local hobos. They’d come by the back door and she’d pass plates out to them. This isn’t something I experienced but my mother did. She has childhood memories of this happening. The town this took place in, Orcutt, California, was a small town back in those days, and it still is. It was a poor town as well. The time period was the early to mid 1940s. The Great Depression was still a recent memory. There were still a lot of people living in poverty. My great-grandparents didn’t have a lot but they did have a giving, generous spirit. When I first started reading about ‘gleaning’ – the act of collecting leftover crops from farmers’ fields – I thought of this story. I thought of what I knew about my great-grandparents, and how spreading around the little bit they did have was true to form. It was probably also a more giving time. My mother tells me that the hobos would mark the houses that gave them food. A mark on a fence post, a pile of rocks, who knows exactly how they let each other know that this was a house that gave handouts. I love how the message was spread. Any hobo passing through town could easily find a meal. My great-grandmother’s house wasn’t the only house in town that gave out free food. Apparently it was a common practice of the time — and I love that. That generosity of spirit. The helping hand.

Gleaning has been around for a very long time. Historically, going back to biblical times, farmers purposefully left the edges of their fields unpicked, and unharvested for the less fortunate. My mother currently lives in the area where my great-grandparents lived. It’s an agricultural area. A lot of produce is grown there. She tells me that after a field is picked any leftovers are taken to local food banks. A practice that has endured for centuries. Ancient cultures promoted gleaning as an early form of welfare. Some ancient Jewish communities required farmers to not reap all the way to the edges of a field so as to leave some for the poor. (Source: Wikipedia) There has actually been an uptick in the act of gleaning recently. Our current economic downturn seemingly a turning point. The desire to live simpler, to reach out to others. An urban gleaning movement has taken hold. Urban gleaners harvest public fruit: like picking from a neighbor’s over-burdened tree; an untended orange tree is picked free of ripe fruit; trees that bear fruit in public places, parks, libraries, government buildings are targets as well. A group in Los Angeles, Fallen Fruit, has made it their mission to collect as much public produce as possible and give it to the poor, hungry and needy. Fallen Fruit has a list of gleaning ‘Dos and Don’ts’:

Ask first, or leave a note with your contact information

Take only what you need

Be friendly

Share your food

Take a friend

Go by foot

Fallen Fruit creates maps to publicly available fruit. Some groups distribute unwanted food to shelters, and soup kitchens. Others collect food that isn’t sold at farmer’s markets. Volunteers go into farmers’ fields to harvest produce that can’t be sold. Home gardeners grow extra produce and give it to local food pantries and soup kitchens. One such group in Washington D.C. started a program called ‘Grow A Row’. Participants plant an extra row or two in their gardens and donate the vegetables to a local food bank. Neighborhood Fruit helps find public fruit local to where you live. Their homepage states “10,000 registered trees and more get added everyday.” Another site Veggie Trader is for those with excess produce in their gardens looking for other home gardeners to exchange with. Food Forward collects backyard produce to donate to local food banks, and has donated 30,000 pounds of citrus to food pantries this year. All of these groups, and there’s a whole lot more out there, have taken the Victory Garden concept and created a modern social movement.
Maybe all of this giving, this generosity of spirit, is something positive that has come out of our nation’s financial malaise. It reminds me of the story of Gramma Ora’s pancakes and feeding the hobos. Her act of ‘gleaning.’ It makes me think of simpler times when the act of giving was just a part of life. No forethought, no planning. If someone had less than you, you helped. If they were hungry, you gave them food. It’s nice to see that giving spirit returning. I thank my great-grandmother for setting the example for me. Those were some very lucky hobos.

Follow: twitter.com/fallenfruit; twitter.com/backyardfruit; twitter.com/veggietrader; twitter.com/foodforwardla; twitter.com/snailwrangler.

My Status: Settling into late fall, happily. New cookbooks to try, some to review; new kitchen equipment to try out. More cooking, eating, writing, blogging coming soon.

Upcoming Posts: my personal, childhood food history as told by my mother, Dawn Goodman. Reviews: Cooking Light, a review of the redesign of the Time Inc. magazine. Bread Matters, a review of the new bread book by Andrew Whitley.

Family food history. A slice of Americana. Useful cooking tips. The Berghoff Café Cookbook has it all — and more. Chef, owner, and author Carlyn Berghoff had me at ‘Deviled Eggs with Three Fillings’ (page 3). The three fillings: Caper Deviled Eggs, Smoked Salmon Deviled Eggs, and Horseradish Deviled Eggs. These are deviled eggs redux.

This cookbook is full of recipes for things we all know well; food we have eaten with our families as children and as adults. Dishes that bring comfort and are ’simple and satisfying’ like the cover promises. Ms. Berghoff starts off telling the reader how her great-grandfather came over from Germany in the late 1800s eventually opening the Berghoff Café in Chicago in 1898; and how it ended up in her hands several decades later. As she wends her way through the family history she throws in interesting historical tid bits about food, eating and dining from the early days. Like the story of a ’shot and a wash,’ a riff on a boilermaker. A stein of favorite Berghoff beer with a shot of their seven-year old Berghoff bourbon thrown in. It started in previous centuries when water was impure giving whiskey a bad taste. The solution? Drop a shot glass of whiskey into a mug of beer; when drinking it the drinker caught the shot glass with their teeth, the beer masking the taste of the whiskey. The drink is still on the menu albeit updated.

When I first picked up the book I was a little unsure; I guess I am more of a food snob than I want to admit. The design, and the food and recipes inside are more traditional, more down home than where my tastes usually run in cookbooks. I’ve recently seen too many flashy books by well-known chefs. However, after reading through it, and trying several recipes — the Potato Soup being a favorite — I changed my tune. This books embodies the Midwestern lifestyle. It evokes what a downtown, local Chicago restaurant can be. It is warm and homey. Ms. Carlyn’s maxim of ‘reuse, recycle and reinvent’ that she applies in the restaurant works perfectly in the home kitchen.

The Berghoff Café Cookbook offers recipes across the food gamut from bar snacks to paninis and pizzas to yummy desserts. Dishes like Alsatian Onion Soup, Apple Pie Squares with Cheddar Crust, and Westpahlian Ham Panini with Granny Smith Apple and Applesauce are a few of the standouts. Ms. Carlyn has updated the restaurant menu since her great-grandfather’s day while also keeping his spirit and food very much alive. She calls it ‘tradition with a twist,’ and I’d say that is quite apt.

I’d recommend this book to anyone looking for straightforward, comfort food pure and simple. It’s all there. Nothing fancy; nothing pretentious. The next meal I want to prepare is from the Daily Specials section: Classic Salisbury Steak with Mushroom Jus Lié and Spaetzle. Salisbury steak is a dish my Nebraska born grandmother made often when I was growing up. Comfort food.

My Status: Settling into fall, happily. New cookbooks to try, some to review; new kitchen equipment to try out. More cooking, eating, writing, blogging coming soon.

Upcoming Posts: ‘gleaning,’ or the act of gathering public produce, or leftover farmer’s market produce, and giving it to the poor, needy and hungry. A history of the movement, and those that are involved with it. Reviews: Cooking Light, a review of the redesign of the Time Inc. magazine.

Me, age 2 1/2, helping water Grampa Rollie’s garden, Arroyo Grande, California, March 1962.

Gardening

Gardens were a big part of my childhood. As long as they were alive my great-grandparents, Rolla and Ora Goodman, had a bountiful garden. Lucky for me they both lived until I was in my teens. The garden I remember the most, and spent the most time in, and ate the most food from, was the one they had at their modest little home in Orcutt, California, along the Central Coast of California. Each visit my sister, Traci, and I would spend hours down in the garden; eating strawberries right off the vine, pulling up carrots for the mid-day meal, helping Grampa Rollie water or weed. I learned a tremendous amount about gardening from them, and from helping out in their garden.

When I was around eleven or twelve my mother let me plant a few rows of vegetables in our backyard. We were living in San Luis Obispo, also on the Central California Coast, not far from my great-grandparents, and I wanted to apply what I had learned from them. I think I planted some zucchini, Swiss chard and tomatoes, maybe a few other things. And I believe I was able to get a small harvest from it. Our neighbors, across Pismo Street, were Mr. and Mrs. Tanner, and he was quite the gardener. I spent a lot of time with him in his garden. He had the touch; his plants were healthy and very productive. He sent me home with zucchini, tomatoes and any other surplus he had each time I crossed the street to visit him. He also came over and offered his advice about my fledgling few rows. After my first few successes, and after eating my own home grown vegetables, gardening really got under my skin.

Then I grew up. I went to live in Europe, then San Francisco, New York and Los Angeles. Gardening quickly took a back seat to living life in the big city. To work, school, and a busy social life. I lived in apartments not in houses with yards; there was no real property to plant a garden. I currently live in a condo with little available outdoor space. A poor excuse, I know that many people find ways to plant vegetables in very small areas but it’s my excuse nonetheless. I replaced ‘garden fresh’ with ‘farmer’s market fresh’ and at least I had that. Enter Auntie Em’s Kitchen in Eagle Rock, California — a mere 4.2 miles, 12 minute drive from my home in Atwater Village.

Auntie Em’s Organic Produce and Dinner Delivery

Auntie Em’s is quite the food enterprise. Located on Eagle Rock Boulevard, there’s a cafe and bakery that serves fresh, healthy food using ’seasonally available fruit, vegetables, meats, poultry and fish’. The cafe menu and bakery items offered change according to what is seasonally available. My kind of place! They also have a marketplace that offers cheeses, condiments, sweets, Auntie Em’s frozen dishes, tableware and gift baskets; and they offer full catering services. Their newest venture is a farmer’s market produce delivery service: ‘Auntie Em’s Organic Produce and Dinner Delivery’. The service brings ‘locally grown, organic, seasonal produce and heatable meals and baked goods to your doorstep’. I am in my third week. And I love it.

They go around to local farmer’s markets, gather whatever is fresh, seasonal and wonderful, and deliver it to my doorstep once a week. The produce they have chosen has been top notch: fresh and full of flavor. It lasts longer than anything I buy in a grocery store. Some of the local farms that the produce comes from are Wieser Farms, South Central Organic Farms, McGrath Family Farms, K and K Farms, Jiminez Farms, Tutti Frutti Farms and Finley Farms. My delivery arrives on Monday afternoons but on Sunday an e-mail arrives with a list of the items to expect; often there are notations about a specific item, a way to prepare it, or store it. Usually there’s a suggested recipe for one or two of the items. Have I said I love this? It’s almost like having my own garden — okay, okay, I did say ‘almost.’ Another reason I like it is I had been finding it difficult to get to my local farmer’s market on a regular basis depending on what else was going on in my life. It has been a perfect solution. I have yet to try the reheat-able meals and baked goods as the produce is more than enough to feed me for a week but I will try them soon.

Last week’s e-mail had an additional touch: a story written by Auntie Em’s owner, Terri Wahl, about her gardening trials and tribulations over the years. I found it so interesting and charming that I asked her if I could re-post it, and she agreed. As you will see gardening is not always easy but as both Teri and I know it is immensely satisfying. When the carrot you put in your dinner salad comes out of the garden your hands planted, there’s no feeling, or taste, quite like it.

In Terri Wahl’s own words…

I have such a giant respect for farmers — especially organic farmers after the trials and tribulations with my own garden. I have had a garden every year, in every apartment, duplex and now the house that I live in. When I was eighteen, I moved out of my parent’s house, into a 4-plex. I was on the second story. I started a little garden in pots on the balcony. Herbs, cherry tomatoes and carrots. The carrots didn’t do too well, the herbs did pretty well, and the cherry tomatoes grew like weeds. My mother was always an avid gardener. She had compost piles before it was the cool thing to do. She explained to me that the things that I planted in pots would do much better if they were in the ground. More nutrients, more water, more sunlight. I dug up parts of yards in rented apartments to plant my little gardens (boy were the landlords pissed). I tore out the ugly perennials the gardeners planted in front of another apartment I lived in and planted away (not enough sun there). But I never gave up.

There were successes along the way, even great veggies that I grew. Back then if you saw mold on the leaves of a zucchini plant or motes on the underside of the leaves of a tomato plant, it was fine to blast them with some crazy toxic anti bug spray. Back then it was also fine to sprinkle everything with some kind of powder that would make everything grow huge. But over the years we have all learned that these pesticides and sprays were harmful, and not the proper way to garden or eat. In the house my husband and I live in now I have had an organic garden plot in four or five different places on our hillside backyard. One place was too shady, one place smack in the way. THEN three years ago, the attack of the gophers. I really thought I’d found the absolute perfect spot. My pastry chef, Michael, and I dug it over, added organic Amend and compost, measured out the perfect rows, and planted every row from seed: heirloom carrots, heirloom beets, Easter egg radishes, leeks, Little Gem lettuces, and rows of different herbs.

I really thought that this was going to be the best and most prolific garden yet. We did everything right. I had plans to use all the produce at the restaurant, and to eat from the garden at home and not buy produce for months, and then we would turn the soil and rotate the crops! Oh yeah, I had it down. I thought I was such a pro. The garden was growing beautifully. Giant green carrot fronds; the beet greens above ground looked so tender and tasty. Then all of a sudden there were two or three carrots, or radishes gone from the end of the rows. The next morning more were gone. I thought my dogs might be digging them up but there were no digging holes. I picked some of the other carrots to see what was up, and all that came out were the green fronds — no carrots attached. Same with the beets and radishes. SOMETHING was eating them from underneath. My mom came over and saw the little gopher hole about five feet away right away. I got a hose and filled up every hole with water. Flood them out! To no avail. I went online and looked up ‘humane’ ways to trap them. Not one thing worked. I was so pissed that I stormed down to Home Depot and bought six packs of these crazy big fire cracker-looking things that you’re supposed to light and shove down the holes to smoke them out. I would stop at nothing to get them. I paid some ‘gopher guy’ hundreds of dollars to trap them. Nope! Nothing worked. It was definitely a ‘Caddy Shack’ situation in my yard. I sadly let my garden die from no water. They were not going to have my lovely garden.

Two sad years went by, and I refused to plant a vegetable garden. This year my husband suggested a new location up and away from all the gopher activity. So I planted another garden. Skeptical at first, but I took the precautions just in case they decided to come up hill to have a nibble on my new garden. I wrapped roots in wire mesh, and the garden started to grow. I had the humane trap guy come back (I negotiated a lower price) and set kill free traps. SO far so good. The score is even though. They ate a zucchini plant and eggplant plant. They literally sucked the whole thing underground, top leaves and all. Gone! But when they started to nibble on two tomato plants, I caught them. I covered their holes, and ruined their tunnel. So I saved those. Everything looks like it is thriving. I check daily (sometimes two or three times). So a tip of the hat to the organic farmers that do this for a livelihood. They battle this problem a hundred fold and have to use non-commercial, humane and organic ways to deal with all pests. It’s hard and frustrating. They always seem so positive and upbeat, and I am always so excited to taste and see their bounty.

Reprinted courtesy of Terri Wahl, Auntie Em’s Kitchen, Eagle Rock, California

My Status: it’s still hot in Los Angeles – upper 90s, summer is really here; enjoying all the summer produce; writing, cooking, blogging and eating!

Upcoming Posts: The Wedge Salad: a recipe, the origins of the salad and of Iceberg lettuce. Review: ‘The Barcelona Cookbook’. Pimientos del Padrón: a recipe and pictures from a weekend pepper cooking session with my Galician friend, Júrgio.

There’s something about a good, fresh, ripe, right-from-the garden cucumber. Bright green, a sort of forest green, small prickly bumps like cucumber acne, firm to the touch if picked properly. When you slice into it with a sharp knife there’s a snap, and the unmistakable aroma that rises up quickly. The smell of a cucumber. I’m not sure how to describe it but it’s distinctive. To me it’s the smell of a garden. Actually the cucumber is a fairly simple fruit when it comes right down to it. One that always reminds me of summer and of my great-grandparent’s garden.

I have wanted to write about my cucumber memories for awhile now but needed to find the right cucumber. I knew those over-ripe, too big, coated-in-wax ones at Gelson’s would not be right. In fact they are all wrong. I looked at Whole Foods and nothing doing there either. I even checked several farmers’ markets and came up empty. Now I hope the lack of product at the farmers’ markets is due to the cucumbers normal May to August growing season but I doubt it — not in this day and age of hot houses, hydroponics and God knows what else. I kept my eyes open for the right cucumber. I knew it was out there somewhere.

When I was growing up we often ate the fresh fruits and vegetables that my great-grandparents grew in their garden. I realize now that I didn’t know any different. Going into the garden, pulling up a carrot, washing it off with the hose, and eating it on the spot was no big deal to my sister and I. The freshness and garden flavor we took for granted. It wasn’t until I was older that I became aware of how different a carrot bought at the local Safeway and a carrot pulled from my great-grandparent’s garden tasted. It was then that I fully appreciated their amazing garden.

Now back to my cucumber. At the family meals, usually midday on Sundays, when seven or eight of us all sat down together my great-grandmother quite often put a bowl of sliced cucumbers soaking in vinegar on the table. It always seemed to be there. We all helped ourselves. I guess it might be considered a side dish, or a condiment. What they were to me were little bites of garden freshness. Cucumbers picked that morning, sliced and put into a bowl with vinegar and salt. Simplicity at its best. A sort of faux-pickle: crunchy, greenly bitter, mouth puckering and refreshing. I loved them. And as simple as it is, the dish is a standout in my childhood food memories. I think in part because the simpleness of the dish is evocative of who my great-grandmother was; hardworking, self-sufficient and uncomplicated.

This past weekend Robert and I went to see the new farmers’ market at the Americana — a popular, outdoor shopping mall in Glendale, California. I’d heard they were starting a farmers’ market but I was also in no rush to go to one in a shopping mall. It turned out to be quite delightful. It’s called Gigi’s Farmers Market, happens every Saturday, and is easily on par with other local farmers’ markets. As we wandered through my cucumber radar was up. As we rounded a corner to the next produce stall, I saw them sitting there in a small stack. The right size, the right green, with cucumber acne. I picked one up, it smelled like a cucumber. It felt like a cucumber. It looked like I’d found my cucumber. I asked the growers where they were from: Oxnard — about fifty-nine miles away. Organic? Yes. Waxed? No. I bought six.

When I got home I made my great-grandmother’s faux pickles and Robert and I ate them with our lunch. As I peeled and cut into the first one that cucumber smell rose up to meet my nose, and memories of our long ago family meals came rushing back to me.

Herewith…

Print Recipe

My Status: International Food Blogger Conference: I leave for Seattle on Thursday, May 14 and return home on Monday, May 18. The conference is Friday, May 15 – Sunday, May 17.

Robert and I leave for Paris, the Languedoc, Barcelona and Madrid on Sunday, May 24, returning home on Saturday, June 6.

Upcoming Posts: The Wedge Salad: a recipe, the origins of the salad and of Iceberg lettuce. France and Spain: if all goes well technologically, and time allows, I’ll be posting blogs from Europe. ]]> http://www.100miles.com/cucumbers/feed/ 1