Mike and Ikes Mega Sours

Sour Patch Kids Watermelon Gummies

Sour Peach Gummies

Trolli Sour Bite Crawlers

…to name just a few. However, according to AI…Eating sour candy can temporarily interrupt acute anxiety and panic by acting as an intense sensory grounding tool. A sweet way to regulate your emotions and calm your stress.

I didn’t connect the two until after he passed and my sister told me she was eating a lot of sour candy. And now I am too.

Then, over a bag of Sour Skittles, I began thinking about the candy we shared as a family, from the strange Divinity my Grandma made at the holidays, along with the Spritz cookies and fudge, to the Zotz and Pop Rocks we giddily consumed as kids.

So I began to mentally catalog the many sweet memories I have with my family. What follows is just a start.

Walking into Shanes Candy Store on Front and Market Streets in Philadelphia reminds me of Jim Gaffigan's bit about strolling past a Cinnabon in the food court and getting a cavity. But at Shanes, where the all-women crew masterfully makes the best dark chocolate-dipped orange jellies and dark chocolate raisin clusters on the planet, it’s worth the toothache. These were a special treat around the holidays, which included Flag Day and Secretaries Day.

Speaking of chocolates, Russell Stover’s and Whitman’s Sampler were around, too. Being left alone as a youth with a box of these meant only one thing - the chance to strategically uncover the filling by poking into the bottom of the unknown chocolate morsel with the surgical precision only a thumb can manage. Upon discovering anything “weird”, like coconut creme or nutty nougat, the piece would be carefully replaced into its pleated paper nest. Sometimes I discovered I wasn’t the only one attempting this methodology.

A Whitman’s Sampler also caused one frantic Christmas Day visit to the Veterinary Emergency Room while we were on holiday at my in-laws in Charlotte. My dog, Billie, has a sweet tooth. Once, devouring a small plate of still-warm brownies, nonchalantly placed on the table’s edge while we politely thanked the neighbor for the friendly gesture. He also had a hankering for the box of “treats” in the faux-embroidered box. Luckily, a quick dose of activated charcoal halted the caffeine and theobromine from entering his bloodstream and causing serious side effects.

York Peppermint Patties, a family favorite for “dessert” after a belly-filling meal of Chillitos, Cheese Coneys and Oyster crackers drizzled with hot sauce at Cincinnati’s Skyline Chili, are also a Billie favorite. Normally kept in the freezer for obvious reasons, we absentmindedly left a half-eaten bag on the counter when we went out to dinner. We returned home to an empty bag on the floor and a wide-eyed, wired puppy. A panicked call to the 1-800-Pup-Poison hotline reassured us that he would be okay, as the amount he ingested compared to his body weight was not significant enough to do any damage. The “sugar high” would subside, but we should keep him hydrated. Looking back now at a scary moment, we can only laugh as we recall the sun reflecting off the shiny foil wrappers dotting the backyard where Billie did his daily duty each morning.

Circus peanuts, love them or hate them, have existed, often as a running joke, sometimes inspiring a yicky face, but always the epitome of artificial banana flavor, with Banana Laffy Taffy being a close second. Back in the day, when available as a seasonal treat, my Dad and I would hunt down the freshest bag of giant, orange, peanut-shaped treats at the Amish Candy Store in the Reading Terminal Market. My first foray into seasonal foraging.

Cinnamon red hots, another limited-time-only product or so it seemed, endorsed by the whims of Valentine seekers, became a key ingredient in my Dad’s Homemade Applesauce. He often complained he couldn’t find them except during the first couple of weeks in February. Turns out the heart-shaped hard candy by Brach’s was well stocked on the candy aisle end-cap leading up to February 14th, but the standard shape was living year-round next to the rainbow sprinkles and nonpareils (snocaps!)

RED HOT APPLESAUCE
5-6 large apples, peeled, cored, and rough diced

1/4 c water or cider if you have it

1/4c to 1/3c sugar to taste

Pinch of kosher salt

1/3c to 1/2c cinnamon red hots

-Combine all ingredients in a saucepan and bring to a boil

-Reduce heat to a simmer and cook until apples are tender and red hots are softened

-Using a hand-blender, pulse until coarse puree is achieved.

-Taste for seasoning

-Eat warm or refrigerate until ready to eat chilled

My Dad’s dad had a sweet tooth, too. He purposely splashed Wink Citrus soda into his whiskey. Maybe he thought the 2% of real apple, grapefruit, and orange juices made it healthy, but the 45g of sugar definitely took the edge off the Seagrams. He also made his own frozen Vanilla Ice Milk with an old-fashioned crank-style Ice cream maker. Served it with saltines. Best. Ice. Cream. Ever. Especially if you got a little rock-salt saltiness from the process. And you could always count on him for his secret stash of jellied orange slices and a random stick of Clove or Beeman chewing gum. The mystery of what seemed like a never-ending pocket of Butterscotch Hard Candies, the ones in the transparent yellow-amber wrappers, was never solved.

On seemingly special occasions, like any given Sunday, my Grandpa would kindly take us all out to dinner at Jere Ann’s Cafeteria and Bakery. For decades after the Depression, it opened for early dinner, with a hot buffet line served up by hair-netted women with spoodles and spatulas. Think griddled ham steaks and slabs of meatloaf. Smothered green beans, mashed potatoes, and brown gravy. Jell-O salads, too. And some of the best pies made outside my extended family. I was fond of the cherry a la mode. However, clearing your plate meant more than just dessert. It meant getting a spoonful of the ButterMints at the checkout. The way they melted into creamy goodness on your tongue was the sweetest ending to a decadent dinner out.

Sweetness is definitely genetic.

If you’ve made it this far, hopefully you have been regaled with my recollections of candies and such. But after 300 days, I miss my Dad more and more as I slowly get used to him no longer being a physical part of my day. More now than ever, he occupies a near-constant space in my mind, a piece of my heart and a good chunk of my stomach. For me, it’s sharing these moments, like the time we laughed as my Dad bit into his first grape Zotz, that has started to nudge a smile rather than well up a tear.

Working next to Chef Gerard Maras. Watching him control the expo while managing the live fire of a wood-burning grill. Plating endless filets of beef with Sauce Béarnaise AND Sauce Bordelaise. Calling orders to Back Saute and quietly yelling for food runners in the open kitchen of Mr B’s Bistro on Royal Street in the French Quarter in New Orleans, LA. All the while, I fried Eggplant Sticks, fired G-bread, and tried to drop the breaded soft-shell crabs into the fryer just right so they would march across the plate, with the buttered-parsleyed new potatoes nestled underneath, swimming in the lemon beurre blanc.

I had never worked so hard, with such focus and passion, toward a common goal shared with the other cooks and servers - to put out the best food, every order, every plate. No matter how far in the weeds you might be, never stop cooking. You stop, and you are beyond help. When you keep getting pans hot and plating and prepping, another cook can come to help. Chef Gerard made sure we never went down. He never let on that we were about to get slammed, giving us the confidence that we could handle whatever was coming.

After that first service, he asked me, with that little smile he always had, “Well, what do you think?” I said it was like sports (a dream I had given up on after car-accident injuries that led me to pursue cooking): adrenaline, teamwork, and pushing yourself beyond what you thought possible. And it was fun, and I couldn’t wait for tomorrow. He laughed, handed me an iced cold Budweiser, and said he was glad I was here and that he’d see me tomorrow.

At that moment, he didn’t realize how important he would become to me, and I had no idea I would learn to chill a 12-pack of beer to a slushy consistency in less than 15 minutes, or that my coworkers and restaurant friends would affectionately call me Corbanzo.

After leaving Mr. B’s Bistro and New Orleans to return to the Culinary Institute of America in Hyde Park, NY, I stayed in touch with Gerard through my Charcuterie Block (he was highly skilled in all the terrines, ballotines, farces and forcemeats), Bakeshop Block (He was also a super proficient pastry/baking chef and was proud of my attempt at a three-tiered wedding cake with Royal Icing), and through my final practical exam - The dreaded Mystery Basket.

I passed, and he provided me with a reference for my interview at THE An American Place in New York City. Somehow I got hired, and I always wondered what he owed Chef Larry Forgione for that favor! Gerard and Tommie visited NYC and took me out to dinner at BUDS, an offshoot of JAMS where Jonathan Waxman was cooking, and where a chef with NOLa connections was running the kitchen. Gerard loved classic French cuisine and was inspired/influenced by Nouvelle Cuisine and chefs like Michel Guérard. JAMS was ahead of its time with the combination of Waxman’s Chez Panisse experience and California Cuisine and the lighter, seasonal direction “farm to table” cooking was having in the late 1980’s. BUDS was amazing.

After a great kitchen experience on Lexington Ave. and an amazing summer baking bread at Tom Cat Bakery, I headed off for a Stage at Restaurant Jacques Cagna in Paris, France. I wrote to Gerard, pre-email, with the prep lists I had to finish if I ever wanted a break between lunch and dinner service and the menus I knew he would appreciate for the simple, beautiful plates of classic dishes prepared by the international misfits in the 2-star kitchen, who tolerated my Americanness and broken kitchen French-speak. Over the next 10 years, I kept him apprised of my successes and failures. I worked for many amazingly talented and well-known people, but the influence and encouragement Chef Gerard had on my culinary upbringing and accomplishments truly made me the chef I became. He is, and always will be, my chef.

I worked for him again at Gerard’s Downtown after a random visit to New Orleans while traveling with my sister’s AAU Basketball team. He had been open for a few months, and after an incredible lunch where he served us two courses my Dad and stepmom have recalled fondly for years, sautéed calves’ liver with bacon-mashed potatoes followed by Therabroma, warm dark chocolate soup with raspberries. This was all I needed to pick up and move back to New Orleans, where I was part of a kitchen staff that included a Who’s Who of some of the best chefs to cook in NOLa over the last 25 years, including Aaron Burgau, Anton Schulte, John Harris, Allison Vines-Rushing, Alex Harrell, and more. We all knew what it meant to work there. We all knew what Chef Gerard was offering by putting together such a talented crew.

When it was time for Cynthia and me to plan our wedding, my only question was: Could Gerard cook the food for our reception? And, to an invitee, our wedding provided the best wedding food they had ever tasted. I would go one step further and say it was some of the best food anywhere ever. Whole roasted suckling pig, 500 shucked Gulf oysters, 500 grilled oysters (guests still mention them when they have the chance), smoked duck ragu with gnudi, and so much more. He was so generous and happy to be doing this for us. We were so happy and proud to have him for our special day. His staff included several of his sons. All the more meaningful, as I had watched them grow up to be the best sous chefs he could ask for.

I could tell stories all day about Shrimp Chippewa, Pasta Jambalaya, and Chef Jimmy, who smoked a cigarette in the back kitchen while making the best Gumbo YaYa ever. But I want to tell just one more. One day, about midway through my externship, I was prepping for service and making staff meal, a responsibility I’d only recently been given, when Chef Gerard came up and handed me a sizzle platter holding 2 perfectly shaped crabcakes. He said some food writers were coming in for dinner, and he wanted to send them this “off-the-menu” appetizer when they were seated. At some point, while we were getting crushed and I had a bunch of orders working, Keenan, the senior food runner, came up to tell us they had been seated. Chef said to go ahead and drop them, but to place another fry basket on top so they wouldn’t float. 90 seconds passed, and he asked if they were ready. I hurriedly pulled up the basket, and all that was in there were some peppers and a couple of fried chunks of jumbo lump crab meat. I was too busy to figure out what happened, but I assumed the breading fell apart and dropped through the basket. I said, “I am sorry, chef. I don’t know what happened.” And went on working all the apps I needed to get out. I heard him tell Keenan that he couldn’t send the special crab cakes to the writers and that we’d comp their dessert or something. He didn’t look at me or speak to me the rest of the night, and he didn’t ask me to chill the beers. I was off the next day and was in a panic - like, did I really mess something up for him? Finally, when I saw him the following day, I went over to apologize again, and he and Keenan just started laughing. Turns out the crab cakes were made with lard, bits of peppers, and a little crabmeat. They melted right into the fryer oil. Never to be seen again. I was fooled, but the other cooks who had been there much longer told me that was his way of letting you know you belonged and he accepted you into his kitchen. And next time we had a new cook, guess who got to make the “special crab cakes”?

I miss you already. Our thoughts and our hearts are with Gerard’s extended family and everyone whose lives were touched and bellies fed by such a special man.

GoFundMe to assist his family with unexpected expenses

Photo Credit: Dorka Hegedus

Then I decided on becoming a postman, when that was what they were called, because you got to wear shorts to work. The unofficial motto intrigued me too…“Neither snow nor rain nor heat nor gloom of night stays these couriers from the swift completion of their appointed rounds”. (Professional Cooking has a similar credo, but that’s for another Substack). I suppose the challenge appealed to me at the time. Also driving a jeep with the steering wheel on the wrong side. Seriously.

My Dad always encouraged us to be whatever we wanted as long as we worked hard to be the best at it. I have missed his helpful words of encouragement these last 200 days as I struggle to be the best griever I can be. With never-ending input from social media, kind support from those who have been through something similar, and some professional assistance from a therapist, you might think that after just over 6 months I would be managing his passing with some level of expertise. Then I ate a peach and couldn’t stop sobbing.

I had been fine buying the Majestic Peach, a freestone variety, from a local grower at our Tuesday Farmers Market. I was okay walking by the kitchen counter where the stone fruit sat, refreshing the air with the sweet smell of its juicy ripeness. I was even good as I gently rinsed the fuzzy fella and dried it off with a napkin to take with me on a drive. It wasn’t until I finished eating this star ingredient of countless cobblers, crisps, pies, and even a fancy stab at a Classic Peach Melba, and set the odd pit down that I burst into tears.

What was I supposed to do? I couldn’t call him to share its perfection as I had many summers before. I could only do my best to imagine his enjoyment of the season’s first fruit as he had for many Julys before. Gradually, a smile squeezed itself out through my quivering mouth as I wiped away the salty wetness on my cheeks, and I laughed out loud.

I knew what he would say…”I miss you too. I am proud of you and how you have handled this. Don’t let it slow you down. Keep moving. Take care of yourself. And Good Grief, it’s just a peach.”

Apparently (IYKYK), it’s just a peach.

I have been doing better. Mostly. Sometimes. My family has been incredible as they also practice living without our Dad/Husband/Brother/friend. We check in on each other and maintain the Family Zoom, started back during Covid, as a way to see firsthand what we are all going through. Initially awkward, and with hit-or-miss attendance, the weekly 45-minute window of small talk and catch-up has been both reassuring and, at times, troubling, as we hesitantly talk about him and his continuous presence in our lives.

We did put the Daily Wordle text thread on standby, not officially but by nature, as it seemed the frivolous puzzle banter was less necessary. Not being able to check in on my Dad made the game seem pointless at first. However, the connectivity and humor, which the thread was originally created to nourish, returned as we slowly started, one by one, to come around. Challenging, competing, and winning have always been ideals my family happily strived for. The bonus was we could keep track of each other and make sure that we were all on the mental mend as we each meandered through the process of grieving the best we could.

Not checking in seemed to be the opposite of what he would have wanted us to do. Laughing, joking, praising, and surprising ourselves made the void smaller as we took his absence into consideration, and we began to move forward, doing our best to be good griefers.

We have been so fortunate to have each other to lean on and hold up as needed. I have tried to stay busy and not allow my mind to wander. I often imagine calling him when I have a lull in my day, just as before. Nothing profound. Maybe a recipe to share or some gossip to ponder or politics to agree on. Just a simple, but meaningful connection.

I feel like I have been practicing for this, and the losses still to come, by making these moments. That way the thought of being without their presence and unable to physically touch or communicate doesn’t mean the end.

I asked someone if they thought it possible to be good at grieving. Mind you, this was prompted by them asking me if I had any questions for their therapist. They responded, “That’s a whopper! Do you think you are good at it?”

I replied, “I don’t think there are good or bad grievers. I think it can be different for everyone and for every day. I think all good intentions can be quashed by the slightest thing. What I hope to become better at is remembering that it’s okay to miss the things we shared without being overwhelmed”.

“I feel the pain of everyone. Then I feel nothing.”

- Dinosaur Jr.

I may have subconsciously reset my Instagram algorithm to cats, alpaca socks, and grief. I understand the cat videos, not so new to my feed. The socks were, not surprisingly, a direct result of googling ways to keep feet warm during Winter Storm FERN. And, well, grief just sort of happened. Sort of like how you say something in a random conversation, and then you are immediately inundated with ads about the very same thing. Grief happened, and I clicked on it. Mostly, to see what others on IG do with theirs, so cue up the tear-jerking multi-slide anecdotal meanderings of loss and longing. Water seems to be a common theme. Gentle, rolling waves, kind of slo-mo crashing, along a seashell-adorned winter beach or pastoral jungle rain showers meant to ease the feelings brought on by the sudden death of a loved one, only dampened my spirit at first.

But then my mind was whisked away to hiking the Appalachian Trail, shouldering a backpack-and-a-half, through an unannounced thunderstorm with my Dad and Carm. With soggy tents finally set up, and the rain long forgotten, we each settled into a warm, satisfying bag of Rehydrated Turkey Tetrazzini. The following morning, my Dad whipped up the Best. Pancake. Breakfast. Ever. in a cast-iron pan that seemed oddly heavy for hiking. An unexpected injury led us to hike out early, only to discover a roadside fruit stand with the best cherries we had /have ever eaten.

That memory spills into us idling down the “city” streets of Cozumel during an evening storm that saw the lukewarm precipitation rise above the gutterless curbs and midway up the doors of the VW rental car my Dad drove as we searched out Asadero El Pollo. The goal was to get there before they ran out of, as they often did, the best wood-grilled skinny chicken on the island. Served in old-school Styrofoam take-out containers with foil-wrapped, buttery baked potatoes, red rice, tortillas, and little hand-tied baggies of roasted habanero salsa, creamy salsa verde, and sour cream. We made it just in time, and it was perfectly delicious.

Not having children myself has been tough at times. But relishing in the pride and love my Dad showered on my siblings and me has more than made up for not having a catch with my mini-me. Sharing my culinary lessons with him in his kitchen was a time of mutual enthusiasm as we discovered a new dish or technique (i.e., The Potato Chain!) together. I vividly recall, with taste and smell intact, coming home for a long weekend from CIA after learning how to make puff pastry in my Baking Block. We worked until nearly midnight on the dough and the first turn. I stayed up nearly all night for the second and third turns, cat napping just enough before getting up to fill, shape, and bake classic Apple Turnovers. The whole house woke up early to the aromatic goodness of those semi-professional cinnamon-scented Golden Delicious apple hand pies as I removed them from the oven. Barely cooled enough to drizzle on the icing, we all ate without talking, just proud smiles all around.

For me, these thoughts often lead to a brutal, hard-to-hold-back, tearful guffaw, aka, “craughter.” I am happy I have these sensory reminders, but it’s unreal I can’t call or text to remind him of the “remember that time we…?!”

These days, I struggle with what to do with myself when I want to talk to him, instinctively nearly calling him before remembering he won’t answer. Instead, I talk to him in my head and my heart on the long drives back from New Orleans, and with good and not-so good news after doctors’ appointments, and as I leave the farmers’ market on Tuesdays with my seasonal bounty to compare to his, and as I watched March Madness.

No longer able to practice the physical fitness that he relied on all his life, and that we shared on the court and on the trails, his NTM diagnosis took half his energy and most of his waking hours with appointments, tests (eye, blood, and hearing - he had lost most of it recently, a permanent side effect of the strong antibiotics), and twice daily nebulizer treatments. He reluctantly stopped practicing the classical guitar he was mastering because of his shaking hands, also a side effect of one of his morning meds.

So he spent his free time trying to figure out what he was hungry for and making daily contact with all his kids and grandkids, too. He didn’t always have the energy to talk as much as he used to, but he made sure there was a genuine connection. He was so good at finding the little things he had in common with each and every one of us. For him and me, that meant food. As it always had.

We would first talk through his nutritional needs. Then, depending on what sounded good on Friday, he would shop for the ingredients on Saturday and prepare it on Sunday, hoping it would taste as good as it had seemed just a couple of days before. I would mention shortcuts for vegetable prep for soups and how to batch-cook if he found something he really enjoyed that could be frozen for later. He was always lean, but he needed to keep his weight up, so a variety of snacking cakes, Black & White milkshakes (iykyk), and Vanilla Oatmilk Ice Cream with saltines became nightly staples. I could always tell when he was tired because he would just have a fried egg sandwich before bed. He still craved the foods he had eaten for years. Pho on Fridays. Hot Turkey sandwiches from The Amish Diner at the Reading Terminal Market on Saturdays, and anything he cooked from his folder of recipes collected for Vol. II of Dad’s Diner, but at some point, they didn’t taste right anymore.

That being said, we all ate great this past Thanksgiving at my sister’s house. The usual stuff: Heavenly Hash (Double recipe!), Stuffing, Green Beans, Mashed Potatoes, and Turkey Gravy, etc. He kept apologizing for not being more helpful in the kitchen. But he had cooked countless holiday meals for us all in his kitchen in Philly, and it was just so great to have him there, feeling 100% better than the year before. And boy did he clean his plate with plenty of room left for pie(s) and freshly whipped cream, too.

My Dad’s cat, Lila, a three-legged rescue who often shared some crusty nibbles off a midnight Pop-tart with my Dad, is struggling to find him again, too. A cat most comfortable at the foot of the bed, thrust into the panic and chaos of my Dad’s last night at home. No more sliced turkey and cream cheese snacks. No more pets on her warm, trusting belly. She has barely eaten these last few months. Her soft grey hair is matted and patchy as she wails for him at the door. She sits in the sunbeam on the chair by the window, in the same spot he would sit as he self-administered his thrice-weekly IV antibiotic infusions. I wish she could understand that he isn’t coming back, but that he loved her, and that he misses her and the Pop-Tarts, too.

If you made it this far, maybe you understand the concept of grief or have experienced it in some way. I would love to talk about my Dad with anyone who knew him or anyone who wished they had. Please don’t hesitate to reach out to me and ask me about him. It will be okay.

I had put my sourdough starter in the fridge before FERN, but without power, I brought it out, fed it, and used the discard to make some sandwich bread, then some focaccia. Best batches ever. Or at least it seemed like they were, as I toasted slices in my skillet before cooking my anytime omelet.

I have been in storms before. Nor’easters, Bomb Cyclones, Atmospheric Rivers, Tornadoes, and even Hurricanes. Those are expertly predicted well ahead of impact for the most part, well, maybe not Tornadoes. I was prepared. I had two 5-gallon Cambro buckets filled with fresh water. The headlamp and flashlight were working, and I had backup batteries on hand.

So slow-roasting a couple of fillets of wild Salmon and searing off two ribeye steaks made sense going into the ice storm, where losing electricity was inevitable. They came in handy for the next 48 hours after FERN hit around 2 am that Sunday morning. Somehow, I ate steamed rice and smothered kale with turkey bacon (it was in the freezer) and fell asleep before midnight.

I’m not certain what woke me up first. It could have been the freezing rain that was pelting the roof and windows. Or maybe it was the rumble of the wind against the frozen hedges outside the bedroom window. And don’t forget the Snow Lighting and subsequent Thunder. But it was probably the never-ending sounds of the frightening crack of the trees as they seemingly exploded under the tremendous weight of ice, followed by the sudden, abrupt crash of falling tree limbs colliding with the earth all around. Well, whatever it was, I didn’t sleep again for hours

.

When daylight finally woke me, it was to the continuous din of cracking branches and ground-shaking thuds. not the beeping of my iPhone alarm. My cat, Owen, who would normally have already come and gotten me out of bed so I could fill his bowl with special kibble, a spoonful of canned food, and a chicken-flavored pill popper with his Feline Lasix hidden inside, was nowhere to be found.

So I had myself an untoasted Maple and Brown Sugar Poptart and finally looked outside. The slap of cold warned me to the unimaginable winter wonderland of destruction and ice capade of frozen chaos. No movement other than random falling limbs out of the corner of my eye and the flashing flight of redbirds frantically flying around the shrubs that held their homes just hours earlier. It was calm and scary. And Owen was right to stay in hiding

.

By Monday afternoon, our friends and neighbors had sent out an SOS…come have a bowl of chili and sit in front of our gas fireplace. I showed up overly layered with a bag of tortilla chips and my headlamp. Others arrived with this and that from their still-chilled refrigerators, along with an assortment of sodas and beers. The chili was delicious, and camaraderie was even better. It reminded me of a small-scale version of the De-vacuation Parties we hosted at The Savvy Gourmet back in the fall of 2005, post-Katrina.

Everyone had been cold to the bone for the past 24-36 hours, and the collective body heat made us all warm to the thought of sharing our predicament. And then just as suddenly as it was gone, the brightness of the street lamp shone through the front window, the hum of the furnace cranking up, and the light of the stove flicked on - We had power!

I looked out their back door and saw the bathroom light, always on, shining through the downed trees in my backyard. Our headlamps were switched off as we all hugged and quickly finished our chili, then scurried off to check on our houses. The sudden relief we all felt as this portion of FERN could be over was emotional and hopeful. I had a tear well up as I nervously smiled and thanked our hosts, before slip-sliding the 1/2 block back to our house.

As we soon discovered, not all of us returned to the same results. Intermittent electricity, low water pressure or none at all, and the uncertainty of what could still fall from the sky were on all of our minds as we began the week. I offered to do what I do and opened my warm, well-lit table to those who could make it. It would be a dinner made from what I had in the pantry and what was still frozen in the outside freezer. Cincinnati Chili, 5-way option, was eaten and enjoyed by all, and no one really wanted to leave when it was gone. It made me happy and useful to play a small part in something we were all sharing, but that was bigger than any one of us.

I hope he has room for warm waffles and coffee ice cream drizzled with hot fudge from Lambert’s, too.

With his NTM diagnosis, my dad’s appetite waned and his taste buds could be tricked by something that sounded so good just days before. We worked hard to find things that were readily shopped for, easily prepared, and shared, and hopefully fulfilled his nutritional needs.

We shared a love/hate relationship with food magazines, especially SAVEUR, and an excitement for Chopped Cheese, Italian water ice, and Vietnamese Iced Coffee that, despite his insistence that he couldn’t handle the caffeine, he would often get a quart container to-go from his friends at Pho 75, followed by a warning from them “DO NOT DRINK ALL THAT AT ONCE.”

When I first nervously walked into the MICU where he was being monitored after a sudden cardiac event the night before, I didn’t see the wires that were attached to his head searching for spontaneous activity, even though there wasn’t any. I ignored the adobe-hued crust of dried blood in the nooks of his neck and his gaping mouth, an awkwardly open hole now stuffed with a too-wide, too-hard clear plastic bundle of tubes, helping his chest rise and fall. I looked past the monitors rhythmically burping his vitals and slowly graphing a picture of a new reality.

Instead, I saw my Dad the way I had seen him thousands of times before, smiling.

I saw him slowly running the trails of the Wissahickon with purpose and effort.

I saw him grilling Cajun Chicken, his apron covering suit trousers and a dress shirt, as I bounced the ball on the back steps and chatted with him about the day.

I saw him literally “lean”(IYKYK) into the second half of the 2006 Philadelphia Marathon. A few hours later, we would be enjoying Marathon double cheeseburgers, named for the obvious, layered with fried eggs and slathered in mayonnaise.

As I checked on him throughout the night, he seemed too asleep to snore. I hope not too sedated to dream about all the things he loved to do and all the people who loved everything about him, even his way of driving.

I recalled his enthusiastic yelp of triumph as he watched me clear 6’10.5” at the City Track meet. His fist-pumping cheer as my brother scored a much-needed late goal on the ice at The Skatium. His gleeful pride erupted as my youngest sister scored a go-ahead basket in an AAU basketball tournament. And the kind encouragement he shared with my sister, the florist, each day, sending her a photo of a flower he encountered on his morning runs around the city of brotherly love.

I hoped he was remembering the many variations of Willie’s Crisp, his Mixed-Summer Berry Pudding, and the seasonal search for Italian prune plums to make the original plum torte recipe from the NYT.

I trusted his mind was full of the many steaming bowls of congee, pho, and potato chowder he savored and conjured up later in his kitchen, and not the blurry bags of fluids meant to sustain his body. The meals he shared with so many of us. The places he discovered. The dishes he made with and without a recipe. The discussions at breakfast about lunch, at lunch about dinner. Dessert?

He ruled the world of fruitcakes, no matter how hard I tried. And I tried.

NOLa BBQ Shrimp, which I learned to make when I was an intern at Mr. B’s Bistro in New Orleans, became his go-to potluck dish once we had made it together. He would always say, “These people don’t really care if I’m there as long as I bring the shrimp!”

He always undervalued his presence. The truth was that his wry smile, his inquisitiveness, and his thoughtfulness always created a moment that stood out with the people he encountered. His subtle way will be missed, as will his eyes-squinted-shut laugh that could create chaos if you told him a joke while he was behind the wheel.

His life was so much more than what we ate, what we cooked, or what we thought of what others cooked for us. But it is that connection I will miss the most. Never had we shared a phone call that didn’t start with or evolve into a new recipe he came across, a technique he questioned, a random food recall, or spoilage guidance. The things we had in common that brought us both joy and inspiration.

He was my best friend, and I will miss him always.

Please consider donating to the NTM organization for continued research in his name…

Kenneth Evans Jr

I could go on. These are just some of the memories I recall when this holiday rolls around each year in an ever more humid July.

Celebrating Independence Day over the years has meant varying things to me.

When I was a young midwestern boy, being allowed to tag along with my teenage uncles to buy the big brown bags of Fireworks, I felt included, if only in proximity. We wandered among the long folding tables piled high with Black Cats and Bottle Rockets, Cherry Bombs and Roman Candles, and, my personal favorite, The Whizzers.

At my Grandpa’s insistence, I was properly frightened of the launching of these loud fireballs spewing colorful sparks, but super intrigued by the packaging, the smell, and the connection it always inspired.

The way it brought us all together once a year, mingled with beer and laughter and danger. It was different than the other holidays. The ones celebrated inside with fancy roast meats, lazy susans, and naps in front of the Lions, whooping the Bears.

When I was a young Midwesterner, no longer in the Midwest, I became an onlooker. I stayed true to my Grandpa’s rule and left the lighting of the colossal showers of fire and noise to the experts. Big cities had, through the wonder of modern technology, managed to synchronize the timed blasts with grand symphonies played over Giant speakers in parks and country clubs. Pre-game was less about the weirdly morphing flame flickering snakes on the concrete and more about the social celebration of America.

The older I have become, and having worked in restaurants on many Fourth of Julys, where I sacrificed my love of The Grand Finale for the green of the Benjamin, I am no longer much of a fan.

Don’t get me wrong, I am excited to see what the pyrotechnicians have conjured up in their gunpowder dreams, but I am sad to say that the effect it once had on my Midwestern self has been replaced with a lackluster effort to feign allegiance to something that isn’t as genuine as my selective memory serves me.

Granted, I can muster up some pretty tasty Nathan’s 100% Beef Hot Dogs on my Weber, and a big bowl of my Grandma’s Potato-Egg Salad to go along with my new favorite Jalapeno Kettle chips. Still, my enthusiasm wanes as we discuss whether we should drive to the fireworks at the local high school or walk up our road a bit and watch from the Waffle House parking lot.

I suppose what I'm saying is that I long for the days of riding in the back of our station wagon, heading to the lake in Oklahoma, where I shared a one-bedroom cabin with my Grandma and Grandpa, my various aunts and uncles, my siblings, cousins, and my parents.

Often, I slept on a blowup raft on the screened-in porch, drifting off to the sounds of the water splashing against the dock. I would wake up only when the warming beams of the early morning sun hit just right. Suddenly, the breeze would change on the porch. I would be hit in the face with the aroma of bacon sizzling away in the pan—where the fish my Dad and his brothers had caught before sunrise with lures that Bob, the one-legged GOAT of a fisherman, told them to use—would be dipped in egg wash, dredged in fine cornmeal, and fried to golden, crispy perfection in rendered bacon fat by my Grandma who never seemed to sleep.

The smell of strong coffee would waft throughout the cluttered open kitchen, dining room, and family room (all one room!), while cousins still slumbered on the L-shaped, black pleatherette sofa, which you would always stick to if you were sweaty.

Right outside the forest green, swinging screen door, that slammed loudly every time someone came in or out, plans were being made on the picnic table for the day ahead. We would probably just have tuna fish salad on white bread for lunch so we would be hungry for dinner before the Red, White and Blue celebration began.

If I was lucky, my Grandpa would sneak me away to go to town and pick up his Mother-in-Law, my great-grandmother Lula, and her sister, Aunt Elma. By lucky I mean we would make a stop at Beauchamps Pharmacy for a Cherry Iced Cream Soda from the counter of their OG fountain.

My recollection of this country’s birthdays is hopeful and full of deliciousness. It meant our big family would share food and fun. It meant something more than who has the best fireworks or the biggest grill - it gave us a reason to celebrate our togetherness while bickering about real issues - like who has the best deviled eggs or why would anyone put celery in their tuna salad?

Happy Belated Birthday, America.

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Italian Prune Plum Torte: Is it <, =, or > a TastyKake Jelly Krimpet?

A good friend just asked if I would share the fruit snacking cake recipe we made at The Oxford Canteen. She had some peaches that needed to be used “yesterday” and was hoping they would work in the super ripe shape they were in.

It is quite literally a Perfect Recipe that has been called “Cory Cake” by my late 20-ish nieces who grew up eating it and assumed only I knew how to make it.

(Cory was my nickname growing up, and most of my family still calls me that now and again.)

As they grew up and realized what a newspaper was, I consciously avoided telling them the recipe I used was based on the plum torte recipe found in The NY Times food section. I have made tweaks to it over the years and adjusted this and that depending on what fruit is used, but the OG version with seasonal Italian Prune plums, also known as Fellenberg plums, is a classic, proven by the number of times the recipe has been shared and reviewed.

We substituted a variety of fruits - Fresh and sometimes dried - everything from cherries, blueberries, apricots, strawberries, nectarines, and even figs. Sometimes, combining fruits was more a lesson in frugality than in purposefulness, but pear and dried cherry was a good coincidence.

TastyKake Jelly Krimpets are a regional snack. I first had one in Philadelphia, PA, and I grab one every chance I get when I am back in the area. They make a few other dessert treats that I keep an eye out for, including a Chocolate Peanut Butter Kandy Kake and Oatmeal Raisin Cookie Bars.

An unpopular rumor, based on reviews posted on the tastykake.com website, suggests that the company has discontinued the Jelly Krimpet, or at least supplies are pretty limited. All the more reason to learn and replicate the recipe for the NYT’s Plum Torte recipe, using the Italian Prune Plum, known for their dark purple skin, and sweet, firm, yellow-green flesh, if you can find it in the mid-summer, incorporating some of the alternative techniques we have developed over the years.

I'm just wondering if the plum torte is better than, equal to, or not as good as the processed sweet raspberry jelly-filled vanilla sponge cake? Side by side, the torte is more appealing on several levels, including eye appeal and a fresh-out-of-the-oven aroma; however, a blind tasting may yield different conclusions. I promise you the cooked-down plums in the baked cake will be just as gooey sweet as the jelly in the processed cake.

It is up to you to decide.

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On our Foodie Family group chat, populated by my extended family, we post and share all things food-related. I am known to send pics of new products I find in our Kroger. Others post recipes they want to try, and still others post recipes they have tried. Always encouraging. Always opinionated. Almost always helpful, but definitely always fun.

In fact, I am going to rename the group Funny Foodie Family.

As I write this, my phone dinged the ding associated with the group. It was from my oldest, younger sister, who has become obsessed with anything pickle. It was a picture of a new Trader Joe’s product - Dill Pickle Mini Falafel. I was the first to respond with a THUMBS UP. I am sure there will be more responses throughout the day. I will most likely try it the next time I get to The Trader Joe's.

Below is a typical post reaction to a recipe or an IG story.

One of my nieces will post a photo of all the items she bought for her meal prep. Laid out nicely on her kitchen table. She will often include the cost, which can be eye-opening these days. She is also the first to send a photo of what she has “harvested” at her Saturday morning Farmers Market, including her CSA Share, which is always worth comments from the group.

“Lots of greens this week!”

“What are you going to do with all that zucchini?”

“Look at that eggplant!?”

You get the idea.

So my response to my sister's post was “Just used what I had on hand. Made 3 qt containers!”

She replied, “Love that - you are the most resourceful!”. I waited a beat, expecting the usual “Bless your heart!”, but she meant it, and I guess in some ways she was right.

Not on purpose, but by default. Instincts, born through decades in professional kitchens - impregnated by the constant challenge to create a vinaigrette out of leftovers or an appetizer out of last night's fish special, or, as one chef called it, COW soup. Clear Out the Walk-in.

I don’t so much plan a meal with a recipe. Still, I look at what’s available in the pantry, in the fridge/freezer, and on the counter, and adapt to what seems like it would go together, wouldn’t be too much trouble to prepare, and would satisfy our hunger for a more than just palatable meal.

As I was finishing up this post, I received another ding. This time, a notification of a salad eaten twice in less than 24 hours - it must be worth looking at…

“lunch yesterday and today:

Kale, lettuce, radish, cucumber, green onion, tofu

dr braggs ACV and sesame dressing

was going to add edamame but too lazy to microwave and pop the pods open”.

It checks the boxes, but I would definitely add the edamame or maybe frozen peas, and a good sprinkle of Nutritional Yeast, too, if keeping it Vegan.

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I know it’s Father's Day, so I give the card - I don’t get one. Some years, that is sad.

But I have been incredibly fortunate to have some amazing “dads” in my life.

Watching both my brothers-in-law father their daughters over the years has been a lesson in patience and compromise. Seeing my Chef Friends, as Dads, struggle with the work-life balance as they raise their children in and out of the restaurant business has been challenging too.

All the while, I have happily been the somewhat weird “uncle” whose Dad Jokes are occasionally cringy, but whose quick breads, snacking cakes, and willingness to adjust the menu to their diets du jour are memorable. I only wish I had more time with them as they grow and discover the foods and flavors I shared with their Dads as they meal-prep their way into the weeks ahead.

As a young chef, I was also lucky enough to accompany good friends and their fathers on meals at Galatoires, The Original Ruth's Chris Steak House, and Brennan's, for Sunday brunch, in celebration of the less hectic parental holiday. It was special not only for the occasion but for the spectacular shared food experience.

I think food, specifically my fruit cake, was the greatest common denominator for me and my father-in-law, Don. He loved food and was happy to share a plate, a grill, a table, but never allowed us to share a bill, as he would mysteriously mind-meld with the server to drop the check quietly within his grasp only. His generosity was legendary, as was his fancy for a cookie or three. Traditional holiday dinners, well-dressed reservations at the country club, and even an occasional Bojangles Chicken Biscuit all meant we could share a moment satisfying our appetites and relishing in the togetherness that good food provided.

One of the by-products of divorced parents was my interest and aptitude for food and cooking. As I posted before, I had grandmothers who basically brought me up in the kitchen. But my greatest encouragement came from my Dad. If my selective memory serves me correctly, it paints a fuzzy picture of a mostly complete set of the Time-Life series of cookbooks and a weathered knife block, poked full of Sabatier knives, mingling with the personal belongings in his trunk on an early visit to see him in Philadelphia, his new home.

Philadelphia has also been my home away from home for most of my life. It was also where my younger siblings and I were treated, a couple of times a year, to soft pretzels with yellow mustard, chocolate water ice, and Jim’s Cheesesteaks with Whiz and fried onions. Gourmet ice cream at Hillary’s and “fancy” meals at The Commissary after a Saturday afternoon movie were always a perk of these visits.

This is the same Commissary I mentioned in my last post, that, nearly 10 years later, would springboard me onto the culinary course my life has taken.

My newly divorced Dad had cooked in the past - paella, baked Alaska, grilled steaks. But now that he was on his own, his interest in food and eating seemed to bloom brightly. He followed recipes, shopped for ingredients to make new dishes, and seemed genuinely to love cooking.

Naturally, I did too.

Getting myself situated at The CIA in Hyde Park, NY, was challenging on many levels, but without fail, his timely phone calls and letters in my student mailbox kept my chin up. I regurgitated my daily lessons back to him as if he had missed class and I was giving him my notes. I could hardly wait to visit and show him how to cut an onion or make a potato chain.

On one visit, after learning about puff pastry in a bakery block, I stayed up all night, laminating the dough, making and cooling the filling, and timing the baking so that everyone would wake up to the smell of cinnamon-scented, still-warm apple turnovers, freshly glazed and ready to be eaten.

Sharing my journey with him has created a bond that I am reminded of each time I taste something new or smell something familiar. Whether it is the discovery of a Birria Ramen shop in a hidden neighborhood in Cozumel, cooking for him at my restaurants, bouncing the ball against the back steps while he grilled Cajun Chicken, or just talking on Zoom about a recipe we want to try, he will always be my Dad.

His pride in my accomplishments goes both ways; He self-published a cookbook called Dad’s Diner, a compilation of recipes, footnotes, and memories of the foods we all cook for each other. He has enough for Volume 2.

And his vision for edible success is found in BBQ Shrimp, pints of Alberta Peach Häagen-Dazs, Pizza Fish at Smitty’s, and even a Wawa hot dog after a trail race.

Happy Father’s Day to all the Dads, but especially to mine. Thanks for sharing.

Ps. His fruitcake is better than mine every year.

One of my favorite recipes from my Dad’s Cookbook…

I am going to wrap up my “series” on Mentee-ing with a round-up of important people in my food life that have directly impacted my actual life. If I don’t mention you personally, it doesn’t mean you haven’t been impactful. I may just be saving you for a later past.

Upon arriving in Paris, only to discover that the small sublet apartment I had arranged weeks prior was no longer available, I trudged my way to a quaint little (cheap) hotel for the evening. My plan to get my bearings to and from the restaurant, which was closed on most Sundays, was a pre-cell phone challenge. I somehow found 14 rue Grands Augustins and the well-lit menu board next to the entrance. My plan was to copy as much of the menu as I could, then head back to translate it, using the knowledge that a three-week Culinary French block at the CIA would provide. I got the gist of the menu.

The next morning when I arrived @ 8 am with the letter from the Owner and Chef, Jacques Cagna, in hand and little more than a “Good Morning, Chef”, with my best French accent, of course, I quickly learned that Chef Cagna was out of town and he had not told the Chef de Cuisine that I would be arriving to begin my stage that morning. Some nodding and handshakes ensued, and I was finally ushered in and down to the employee area/basement/wine cellar. I had my knives and was ready to work, and assumed, as any American would, that someone would be able to communicate with me. Not the case.

The time spent in Paris is worth a whole post at some point. Still, I will say that being part of that restaurant and kitchen, under the leadership and guidance of Chef Cagna and his staff, was truly inspiring, as my quest to create delicious food, thoughtfully prepared with local, seasonal, and accessible food stuffs continued. Allowing me to be a part of his world, even for six short months, gave me the confidence and fine-tuned skills that I had only read about to pursue the goal of becoming a chef.

Although I was offered to stay in Paris and continue cooking for the unbelievable wage of $250/month, I realized I missed America, Cheesesteaks, and my family. I returned to Philadelphia, adjusted my attitude accordingly, and was hired on at ECCO by Chef Michael McNally and Sous Chef David Wurth.

It was the perfect landing spot. Michael was quietly one of the best chefs I have worked for. And I was there to learn and find my way in this tiny 28-seat gem with an open kitchen and a staff of 10 total. Everything was made in-house using local/seasonal products, and everyone was serious about work. All of the other cooks went on to run amazing kitchens, including David, whose quirky handwriting was used to pen the Daily Menus and all the recipe cards. He eventually opened Cross Roads Food Shop in the Hudson Valley. We took somewhat similar paths to get where we got.

A few years later, after eating Black Eyed Pea and Smoked Hog Jowl Soup at a new spot called Jack’s Firehouse Grill, I went to work for Jack. He was a crazy country boy who just happened to have been trained by some of the country’s best French chefs of the day. He was the most resourceful, efficient, and intense chef I had worked for to that point. Not a lot of recipes, and nothing went to waste; we all worked really hard for Jack. He was Food Network TV-famous. Along with City Chef Bobby Flay they were Grillin’ and Chillin’. We had the opportunity to host a VP Debate at the restaurant, and we also cooked for President Bill Clinton at his second inauguration in Washington, D.C. He taught me the importance of preparedness, communication and speed, but not always by example.

We also got up to a good bit of hijinks, often involving habanero peppers, alleged moonshine, and bear runs. Although he fired me, I cooked at his wedding and we are still friends.

One of the most important chefs I ever worked for was William Quigley at The Commissary in Philadelphia. He was the Executive Chef, and yet didn’t teach me how to saute or make a sauce; he taught me to never be late, no matter what. I was 20 and had to be at work at 7:30 am. I overslept, rushed to get there, but was still 15 minutes late. He was waiting at the time clock, and he proceeded to tell me how much I let him and my coworkers down by being late. How selfish and inconsiderate I must be to think that my tardiness didn’t affect others. He was angry, disappointed, and worst of all, he was right. It meant more to me coming from him than from one of the other managers because he had seen something in me while I was working the Piano Bar cafe lunch shift. Not a particularly busy shift, but I managed it. He had asked if I could help with some other prep for the take-out Market. I made giant batches of Spinach Pesto, Potato Salad, and Cole Slaw. All along, I was honing my skills on the 10” Wusthof-Trident Chef’s Knife he suggested I invest in as I was learning to slice, dice, and chop. And he was the chef who recommended I consider attending the Culinary Institute of America. He even wrote a reference letter that somehow moved me up on the waitlist, knowing that would mean I would be quitting sooner than promised.

I couldn’t let him down. I couldn’t let myself down. And IFYKYK, I can’t stand tardiness.

“The truth is, one must be inspired to cook. For, You Know, we always learn from others and end up teaching ourselves.” - James Beard, on the menu at An American Place circa 1987.

To keep a long story short and to the point, I will simply say that I had made arrangements, before attending the CIA, to manage a French Fry franchise, Boardwalk Fries, in the food court at the King of Prussia Mall for the summer, before moving to Poughkeepsie, NY. In exchange, I would have the opportunity to stage in Paris, France, at a 2-Michelin-star restaurant.

So after completing a year at An American Place, I decided to call in the favor and make plans to head to Restaurant Jacques Cagna in the fall. This left me with a couple of months on a lease in Queens and some time to kill. The friend who had worked at The Quilted Giraffe mentioned that Noel had left and started a bread bakery called Tom Cat. He was looking for someone to work with him on the overnight bake.

I had gained a greater interest in baking (along with 10 pounds!), particularly bread and pizza, after six weeks in the bakeshop at school, so I figured, why not?

Turns out it was just the two of us, and it was awesome. 10 pm to 8 am-ish, 6 nights/mornings a week, turning out hundreds of baguettes, pain de’epis, and dozens of the best dinner rolls for top-notch spots like Union Square, Le Bernardin, and many more.

Luckily, my lack of experience was not a hindrance as Noel was a patient teacher and I was an eager learner. It helped that we had roughly the same taste in music and neither of us minded going stretches without small talk. Often, our “lunch” break was a still-warm baguette, split and slathered in creamy butter, and layered with good mortadella or bodega bologna, washed down with an icy-cold Mountain Dew or a cup of coffee, depending on the evening’s mood.

My time learning to cut and shape the rolls, with both hands, snipping the epis with precision and speed, and working the multi-level fancy European Deck oven was well spent. Noel was one of the hardest-working bosses I’ve ever had, and yet his instructions were precise, his expectations were realistic, and the ultimate goal was to understand the dough, the process, and the final product.

Those were some hot New York summer nights working in a warehouse bakery with no air conditioning, dressed in shorts, a white tank top, and a skullcap. I even went so far as to get a crewcut to avoid the dreaded hairnet.

Although I was accustomed to working nights in the restaurant, the overnight shift created a somewhat lonely existence. The end-of-day commute was full of subway seats, as I was going home while most were heading to their jobs. Getting off at the end of the R/N line in Astoria meant my favorite Greek diner for “brinner” and a good excuse for a fart walk home before calling it a night, drawing the curtains, and trying to get a good 7 hours.

My short stint working at Tom Cat Bakery, under the watchful but caring eye of a talented chef who chose to follow his passion, opened my eyes to the possibility that hard work, commitment, and a willingness not to settle can create an environment for success. His dedication to the craft of breadmaking set a tone for me.

The unbelievable amount of work involved in achieving the goals we strive for isn’t always measured in dollars or awards but in the impact we have on others. Noel may not realize. I am sure Larry has long forgotten my little NOLa-inspired tuna appetizer. Other chefs I have had the good fortune to work for/with have surely lost count of all the young cooks whose paths they shared for a shift, a stage, a season. But it matters, and I haven’t forgotten.

Because of my very positive experience at Mr. B’s Bistro in New Orleans, I later learned, through the urging of my chef, Gerard Maras, that the position at An American Place in New York had become available to me. I luckily found myself under the tutelage of Chef Larry Forgione.

If James Beard was the grandfather of American Cooking, Larry was the godfather. The Farm-to-Table movement, sparked by Alice Waters in California, was being played out on the East Coast by a band of cooks, foragers, fishermen, and farmers. Larry was the leader, and his hands were in all things local and seasonal. Rumor has it that he hunted morels and foraged lamb’s quarter and purslane in Central Park. The OG Chef.

He, unlike Gerard, rarely worked the line, but would pop into the kitchen at just the right time to instruct, question, and ponder what each of us was working on. It was a great first job right out of Culinary School. Everyone was eager to pick his and Executive Sous Chef Richard D’Orazio’s brains. The kitchen was competitive and occasionally a bit cut-throat, but the food was inspiring.

Larry was a culinary wizard whom I had admired for his passion and devotion to cooking the best ingredients, using the best techniques, and plating amazingly delicious food. I had been working there for about a week, and a butter-poached lobster salad with asparagus salad was on the menu. It was a struggle for me to get the salad to “stand up” with the weight of the lobster claws and knuckle meat, plus the long, tender asparagus spears. He would suddenly appear right behind me and pluck, pose, and position each lettuce leaf to build an invisible foundation upon which the other ingredients could rest and shine.

He had offered all his cooks the chance to create a special. The catch was that we had to meticulously describe the components and techniques involved, as well as draw an accurately colored picture of the presentation. I grabbed some colored pencils and focused on what I had learned in New Orleans, tempered by the words of wisdom from Chef Gerard, and on the ingredients that were at their best during the early spring season.

I submitted an idea for an appetizer that I could turn out from the pantry, utilizing products on hand, and then I waited. Larry came back to me a week later and asked me to make it for him.

Blackened Tuna Medallions with Cucumber Noodles and Cilantro Beurre Blanc was a special the next night. It was even mentioned as a highlight in a restaurant review of An American Place by Seymour Britchky. I was proud of my creation, but what I remember most was how proud and pleased he was with the effort I put in. He instilled in me the critical thinking required to push my creativity to a reality AND a profit. It has stuck with me ever since.

BBQ SHRIMP to go with last week’s post. Recipe for Paid Subscribers only.

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I was to begin my internship, a requirement for graduation from the Culinary Institute of America and I picked New Orleans because I had a crush on the idea of American Cuisine - The melting pots of cooking, divided by geographical regions, with the belief that Cajun/Creole cooking was really the only true cuisine of the USA.

I didn’t even know what I didn’t know.

I had applied at nearly a dozen well-known restaurants in Louisiana, pinning all my hopes on one of them offering me a 6-month, paid position in their kitchen. Mr. B’s Bistro picked me. And as I write this, it occurs to me that had they not, I probably wouldn’t be writing this Substack in the voice I write in, sharing my experiences and thoughts about cooking and food.

I arrived in New Orleans the day before my first shift. I had arranged to stay with one of the head waiters for a couple of days while awaiting the opening of a small studio apartment around the corner on 2nd Street. Two other cooks, with whom I would be working, already lived there. It was perfectly convenient.

I arrived early on my first day in a real-live commercial kitchen, hoping to get a tour, maybe fill out some paperwork, only to discover that someone had not shown up for their shift, so the cook who was scheduled to train me had to work a station. I had heard from one of the food runners that it was going to be a busy night for a Tuesday.

Let’s just say that 9 hours and 375 covers later I knew that this is what I wanted to do. 100%

50% of why I wanted to cook was hard to explain at the moment. However, the other 50% was directly related to the Head Chef, Gerard Maras. My chef. He made me learn how to cook, by setting an example, by working hard, by giving me ample time to talk about food and ask questions. He never once made me regret my decision to want to be a cook.

Sometimes we rarely spoke, too busy to talk, but communicating nonetheless with a glance or a nod to let me know to hurry up that order of Eggplant sticks or slow down on the Shrimp and Angel Hair appetizer.

Othertimes, he would yell “Corbino, it’s time!”, as we neared the end of a frantically busy Friday night. That meant I was to get a 12-pack of Budweiser cans from the beer room and proceed to get them as icy cold as science would allow in the shortest time possible. With a combination of Crushed ice and Kosher salt I could get them slushy in 15 minutes.

He ensured that I was given the opportunity to work all the stations (except the Grill, which was his station!), create specials, cook family meal, and participate in events outside of the restaurant. He made sure I would go back to Hyde Park, NY, a true reflection of what I had accomplished while working the back sauté station, sweating through my uniform and wringing out my socks at the end of a shift.

He mentored me and made me believe I could do it - Every shift, no matter how far in the weeds I was. Every soft-shell crab or Pasta Jambalaya I sent out had a little bit of me in it. I didn’t realize it at the time, but part of being mentored is allowing yourself to be exposed. Open to the idea of not knowing.

The period of time and the amount of space between knowing and not knowing can be a frustrating chunk of misplaced curiosity, anxiety, and self-doubt. Yet, the inspiration and growth that occur carry on well past the point of understanding. It is where your creativity and style emerge. It is where self-confidence fills the void created by ego.

It is also where the mentee becomes the mentor. The point at which you realize you have been tutored along by everything you’ve done and everyone you’ve worked for AND with. You become the thing you always looked up to, the person who had the answers to questions you had not yet thought to ask.

It is a thing. And he is still My Chef.

One of the things I will always remember him saying is, “Have fun, never take yourself too seriously, and never stop cooking.”

If you were around in the early 2000s and fond of the Food Network’s programming, you may recall a show called Cook Once, Eat Twice. The premise was how one cooks a meal and has the ingredients leftover to cook another meal.

At the time, I was teaching evening cooking classes at my little spot, LuLu’s, in the French Quarter, and later at The Savvy Gourmet, once it got up and running post-hurricane Katrina. I think it might have started as a joke, but we offered a class called Cook Once, Eat Three Times.

Our premise was to provide a cooking demonstration for mostly adult students in a traditional setup. I would prepare a recipe using a main ingredient. The class would sit around the kitchen island, sometimes several rows deep, with access to what I was creating by way of a mirror above the cooking surface. From this main ingredient, we would prepare three dishes.

The students would be given an appetizer or first course to snack on while watching me prepare an entrée, which would be served at the completion of my instruction. We would then send them home with a prepared take-home kit of another recipe made from the same base ingredient as the other two dishes. They received all the recipes, and we had a great time preparing and discussing the use of the main ingredient utilizing three different methods to create two to three meals.

Pre-Meal Prep Era: Meal prepping. It was fun working through these recipes with consideration of a basic pantry and a shopping list for the necessary components. The discussions were often focused on the “what if I” and “but could I” alterations to the recipes. My answer was always the same: “Do what works for you.”

Giving someone who wants to learn more about food and how to prepare it in interesting ways the freedom to roam about in their comfort zone - of seasonings, favorite vegetables, level of heat, and optional add-ons - makes for some confident students and many satisfied cooks.

It was always a highlight for me when these classes popped up on the calendar. They took a bit more behind-the-scenes work from the staff to get all the food plated ahead and then served as we finished up. Plus, the additional goodie bag of that 3rd recipe that they were all going to eat the next day for lunch was extra, but so worth it as they handed them out to the well-fed, appreciative “students”.

THESE WERE SOME OF THE CLASSES…

Salmon - Slow Roasted, Bowl, Salad

Sweet Potato - Baked, Smashed, Tacos with Quinoa and Spinach

Roast Chicken - Sheet Pan Chicken Thighs, Roast Chicken Market Bowl, Chicken Salad with Green Apples

Black Beans - Hummus, Chile, Underneath Habanero Honey Glazed Salmon

The thought process is simple, if you are gonna make something, make extra, but not to go to waste.

-Cooking a couple of sweet potatoes to go with dinner - cook a few more.

-Making beans for Chile, make 2x as much and have the leftovers for another meal or 2.

-Roasting a whole chicken is great, but instead, cook off a dozen skin-on, bone-in thighs and have three meals + bones for a quick stock to use or freeze.

It's less challenging than cooking three different recipes, and the result is three different dishes spread out over the beginning of the week, when take-out is often the expensive alternative to being unprepared for cooking.

I will include a couple of recipes for paid subscribers, but here is one for those who are timid about cooking fresh fish at home. I learned the hard way, and one that my brother-in-law has rarely reminded me of even after 20 years, that trying to pan-saute a nice fillet of salmon in a home kitchen without a good ventilation system is something you will regret no matter how much you think a smell dissipates over time!

First, remove the fish from the refrigerator about 10-15 minutes before you plan to cook it. Secondly, season it as you wish. I like Creole seasoning, but kosher salt and fresh ground pepper are great, too. Heat a non-stick pan, sized according to the number of fillets you are cooking, over medium-high heat with a generous drizzle of olive oil.

When the oil is just shimmering, carefully place the fillet into the pan and cook for 1-2 minutes or until a good crust has formed. Flip the fillets over, turn on your oven to 350°F, and place the pan in the oven. When the Buzzer goes off, letting you know the oven is preheated, remove the pan from the oven, and the fillet will be perfectly cooked through. Let it rest a minute or so, then eat up.

(This will work 99% of the time as long as the fish is approximately 1” thick.)

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I like to go to the grocery store.

I like to take pictures of new products and send them to my family. They think I have the best grocery store. The Truth is I really enjoy perusing the aisles at our local Kroger. It is a hobby of sorts, and uncovering as yet unknown items like Spicy Dill Pickle Goldfish Crisps or Dr Pepper Float Ice Cream makes it fun.

You might think that after 40 years in the food and beverage business, the last thing I would want to do is wander up and down the aisles with a shopping list in hand. It’s actually the opposite.

Now that I’m not running a restaurant and scrambling to the store for something that was shorted on the produce order or that we ran out of at lunch, I can meander the freezer section, taking in all the products that “my generation” always made from scratch. I can scan the endless shelves of chips & puffs and the ever-expanding sections of “International” foods, imagining the thought behind and the processes for which all this “new” food came to be.

I think about cooking most of the time, but I think about food all the time. It is part of who I am, and it bleeds into almost everything I do.

By now, you must be wondering why I called this Substack post - Meal Prep—Part 2. It occurred to me that a major goal of traditional meal prepping is not having any food left. But what if part of meal prepping was using leftovers as an ingredient?

On a recent excursion to The Store, having heard about Shelf-Stable Gnocchi from my sister, I came upon these shrink-wrapped potato dumplings nestled on the edge of the pasta aisle, right after the newfangled red lentil pastas but before the parade of jarred tomato sauces (subject of a Substack to come!).

They seemed safe, harmless even, and surprisingly inexpensive considering what I knew went into making a batch of these in a restaurant kitchen. I grabbed a pack each of plain and parm.

I asked my sister what she did to them, looked up a recipe, and thought about what they were similar to and how I wanted them to come out. They were hard and seemingly inedible in the package, but if they were going to be the featured ingredient of the dish, I wanted them crispy, golden, and creamy.

Kitchen Sink Sheet Pan Crispy Gnocchi was born.

Cooking the Gnocchi as described in the recipe at the end of the post(Sorry, for paid subscribers only) will work with almost anything you add to the sheet pan.

Here are some things to consider when pulling this together…

-An opened can of beans from another recipe is perfect, but drain them first so the added liquid won’t inhibit the crisping of the gnocchi.

-Adding a handful of cherry tomatoes is a good idea, but dicing a tomato will leak too much juice.

-Not all green vegetables roast equally. Green Beans, Broccoli, and Zucchini are great. But Peas…?

Fresh-off-the-cob corn is excellent for roasting; frozen corn, not so much. Try Micro-Steaming the corn, then draining it before adding it to the sheet pan.

You get the idea.

Any leftover protein, off the bone, diced or shredded, works well, too.

Pick the meat from a leftover rotisserie chicken, saving the naked carcass for stock or congee.

Toss with any kind of pepper (red bell, poblano, jalapeno) and add some large diced onion (red, white, yellow, or the long, white part of some scallions). Slice a few garlic cloves, medium dice a sweet potato, and season it all up with some ground or whole Cumin seeds, Mexican oregano, and kosher salt. Roast the gnocchi with the vegetables until everything is tender and charred. Maybe add some kind of good melting cheese about halfway through. Sprinkle with fresh cilantro, stems and all, and some fresh-squeezed lime juice when it comes out of the oven. Sheetpan fiesta!

Think Tuna “Noodle” casserole or Tuna Nicoise with little, halved fingerling potatoes, haricot vert, grape tomatoes, red onion, and canned tuna in olive oil—not water. When it all comes out of the oven, sprinkle with a cut-up hard-boiled egg, capers, chopped parsley/torn basil, and a squeeze of lemon.

The possibilities are as endless as your crisper is deep and your pantry is stocked.

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According to Reddit, Meal prep is any kind of cooking action that reduces or eliminates cooking that needs to be done later.

This is basically what every restaurant does daily to make service flow more efficiently and for food to come out of the Kitchen as quickly as possible. Some things you can’t cook ahead, while others are ideal cooked off or batched before they become part of a dish.

I guess that’s why the concept of Meal Prepping, a Sunday ritual for people preparing for the week ahead, seemed sort of obvious to me when my nieces started doing it a few years back. It made perfect sense for them and their friends to spend their Sunday afternoons making roasted vegetables and assorted proteins to assemble with microgreens and grains. They also built yogurt parfaits with chia seeds, granola, and frozen fruit chunks that thaw in the fridge.

I assumed it saved them from overpaying for whatever options were available near their work, and it allowed them to eat healthy and with portion size in mind, but it meant that they would eat the exact same thing three or four days in a row.

Both are good cooks and adventurous eaters, and they have an above-average understanding of the nutrients their bodies need to sustain themselves.

And one says, “The key to good meal prep is having enough containers like the Tupperware glass or those Rubbermaid stacking or Brilliance ones are nice “.

So, I have been rethinking the idea of meal-prepping to encompass some of their goals and also to lighten the burden that making three squares a day, seven days a week, minus a handful of takeout, can have on someone with adequate means but not necessarily the disposable energy.

First things first - Sauce matters.

It can elevate any ingredient to a more edible level of goodness, and it can be applied to almost anything. Whether it’s a simple homemade vinaigrette or a store-bought jar of creamy ranch dressing, it can be the foundation with which to build on for both meal prepping and for refreshing leftovers.

This example, Magic Green Sauce No. 4 from Bon Appetit, is one that my family discovered before COVID-19 and has been added to our Go-To list of recipes.

Another one that requires just two ingredients and a hand blender or Ninja Bullet goes great on breakfast tacos or chilaquiles. This recipe can also be used as a braising base for chicken thighs or chunks of fish or shrimp.

Seasonality matters.

Cooler months mean soups and stews for days. A hearty pot of Lentil soup, chocked full of carrots, onions, a jalapeno, and even some potatoes, plus a big handful or 2 of fresh spinach, becomes lentils and brown rice the next day, and fried hot dogs with lentils topped with a fried egg the next.

Warmer months are defined by grilling and salads. Don’t just heat up the BBQ for 2 steaks, but throw on bell peppers, red onions, summer squash, mushrooms, asparagus, all marinated beforehand in a little olive oil and balsamic vinegar or some of that dressing. Don’t just cook a couple of chicken breasts - grill 5 or 6 plus some thighs and use them for topping lettuce bowls and adding to a plate of grilled vegetables with some feta and the Magic green sauce. Grill or toast some good bread to go with all that.

Beans matter.

So, as where it would be more economical to buy a bag of dried beans and follow the routine of soaking them overnight and cutting the mire poix to slow cook them on the stove for some time, the result would be roughly the same as buying 3-4 cans of assorted beans to have on hand or “prepped” for any recipe.

Also, I am not too old to remember the infamous “beans, beans, the magical fruit…” song, but I will admit that adding beans to every meal makes a difference for several healthy reasons. They also extend the recipe for extra leftovers.

Flexability matters.

Lately, I have been working into the evenings on a new project, so I often miss dinner. I solve this by blackening some chicken thighs, adding onions and garlic, maybe some chopped kale or spinach, and then a can of beans. Any kind, casually drained through the can-opened lid. Here is where the “creativity” comes into play. Sometimes I add the half jar of tomato salsa hiding in the fridge, or maybe I add some of the Salsa verde I mentioned above, a recipe for which can be found in an earlier Substack - Breakfast Tacos. Simmer for 10-15 minutes and taste for seasoning. Eat as is, over rice, with chips, or as a pasta.

This is also super easy with almost any fish, including tinned.

Meal Prep, Meal Planning, and cooking, with consideration of what’s on hand, are all ways of looking at better preparing for the task of eating on a daily basis. I find that the willingness to combine the foods you generally like to fix with the options on hand or with minimal preparation of a protein or added beans means you will eat better, and you will be happier to eat the leftovers. You may even save a little money in the process because you tend not to waste as much as you might on ingredients that don’t all fit into a recipe.

Eating more deviled eggs than anyone should ever be allowed to is never the plan going in, but they are so good and basically the best one-bite appetizer ever imagined.

My appreciation for asparagus has grown from an acquired taste to becoming one of my favorite seasonal vegetables because of its versatility and ease of preparation. Whether roasted, grilled, or steamed, it screams the end of April showers and the hope for May flowers.

As much as I love a good spiral-cut, sticky-sweet smoked ham, having a new neighbor toss one of her still warm, just-off-the-smoker, Oxford-Famous, black pepper, clove, and brown sugar-brined and smoked, bone-in pork butts over the fence on our way out of town ranks right up there in friendly gestures and taste memories.

And, of all the “Eating” Holidays, I think Easter provides the best leftovers that last. Unlike Thanksgiving, where the bird is picked clean in a day or two, slices of ham for days means grilled cheese and Denver omelets. Any and all remaining hard-boiled eggs provide the base for egg salad - I love using it like a condiment on ham sandwiches or dolloped into a bowl of Gumbo z’Herbes - another traditional treat typically prepared in New Orleans on Holy Thursday.

If you read my post on Passover, you know I am not a churchgoer. Nor do I observe the 40 days of fasting—formally known as Lent. I understand the meaning behind it, and I applaud those willing to sacrifice for what they believe in—it’s just not something for me.

However, some of my friends and family commit to giving up foods they normally rely on for “sustenance”, including candy, donuts, and fried foods. So, No French Fries, No Fried Chicken Wings, No Potato Chips—yet on Fridays for nearly six weeks, they are treated to a Fish Fry. I believe this has more to do with not eating meat than getting a crispy piece of deep-fried catfish, but it makes me wonder.

As I was putting together a list of options I might prepare for a Potluck Easter Luncheon this Sunday, it occurred to me: Why aren’t there any traditional recipes utilizing the standard flour, egg wash, and breadcrumb breading?

A few things sprung to mind, using ingredients we have all come to associate with the annual Bunny Brunch or Brinner, depending on your family's timeline of church and egg hunts…

Pea, Parmesan, and Mint Arancini

Ham and Scalloped Potato Croquettes

Cornmeal Fried Asparagus with Creole Mustard Aioli

(Recipe included below for Paid Subscribers)

Any of these would go really well with Rosemary, Garlic, and Dijon-roasted leg of Lamb served with homemade Mint Pepper Jelly and a crispy-edged, cheesy casserole of scalloped potatoes.

But for me, My Grandma’s Pea Salad really brings the meal together. Looking at the recipe instantly makes me consider options for nearly every ingredient listed, but it is these precise ingredients that make it what it is—simple, accessible, and familiar.

And delicious, if not a wee bit soggy, as a leftover, too.

Grandma’s Pea Salad

1 head of iceberg lettuce

1 can of peas, drained

4-6 hard-cooked eggs, peeled and roughly chopped

1 small onion, diced

4-6 oz cheddar, sharp or Colby

Mayonnaise to taste

Kosher salt and fresh black pepper to taste

-Cut or tear the lettuce into smaller pieces in a salad bowl

-Add remaining ingredients and toss gently to mix

-Adjust seasoning

-Refrigerate until ready to serve

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Beef Brisket.

Low and slow. Braised to a juicy tenderness.

When I opened Oxford Canteen in the Alley, I wanted a signature sandwich—something I hadn’t seen before but familiar at the same time. I brainstormed and researched and came up with something that, although somewhat prep-intensive, was an easy-griddled sandwich made to order.

Over eleven years ago, when brisket was reasonably priced, we created a recipe that I have made thousands of times. It’s easy if you keep the temperature low and cook it long and slow.

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One thing I didn’t think about was what to do with all the leftover braising liquid and scraps of brisket that inevitably fall off into the gravy after slicing. I mean you can only make so much Beef and Barley Soup.

Beef Brisket Debris Breakfast Bowl was born, and, honestly, it is my favorite brunch-y item we sold at The OC.

It's made with creamy, buttery Two Brooks Farm Rice Grits, a good ladle of beef debris, shredded cheese, and a fried Faulkner Farms egg delivered fresh by good friend Reed. Add a couple dashes of hot sauce, and suddenly, Sunday isn’t scary anymore.

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According to Tik Tok, “Glimmers are anything that sparks a sense of joy, awe, or belongingness. It can be noticing the warmth of the sun, something beautiful around you, or seeing a kind face,” but for me, it is also a taste or a flavor combination or a new ingredient. It is also the place, the people, and the time.

Warm, malted Waffles and coffee ice cream with hot fudge on a sticky, hot August night at Lamberts in Ventnor, NJ.

The Roast Chicken + Bread Salad, meant for two, and a dozen oysters at Zuni Cafe. By myself.

The Winter Market duck confit sandwich in Copenhagen was so good I had it twice in 3 days.

Smitty’s Dijon Baked Fish was famous, but the “Pizza” Fish and the fried clams are the glimmer.

A brain sandwich as big as my head shared with my Grandpa at Miller’s Grill.

Chicken Annie’s on the long drive to the lake in Oklahoma. Crispy deep-fried chicken livers, hearts, and gizzards served in a paper cone.

Eggs Benedict a la Don.

Chad’s bread.

Crabcakes at the Baltimore Farmers Market.

Baked Alaska in Baltimore too.

Making a Ham and butter baguette last the whole train ride while traveling in France.

Pizza around the corner from the Vatican and in Cozumel at Guido's, which was operated by a Swiss couple.

Fluffernutter sandwich on Wonder bread with sliced bananas.

Cooking Gumbo z’Herbes with Chef Leah Chase right after Hurricane Katrina in my kitchen.

Skillet mussels at Meme.

Steamed Mussels and pizza at the Triangle Tavern.

Willie’s crisp.

Mr. B’s BBQ shrimp.

Acme Oyster House for Red Beans and Rice, deep-fried andouille sausage, and an iced cold bottle of Barq’s on my way into work at Mr. B’s.

Rodney Scott’s BBQ with my Dad. Driving miles out of our way to taste the best BBQ ever.

Dimitri’s grilled octopus and creamy rice pudding. It pushed me to cook better.

Sometimes, a glimmer is just paying attention to things we love, but we don’t know how to express that…

Walking with my Grandma to where the wild blackberries grew, just across the cow trestle, we picked as many as we could carry. Still warm from the morning sun, splashed with cool heavy cream and sprinkled with a little sugar.

Fixing a soft shell crab for Cynthia. The one I made for her is why she married me. Seriously.

I make a tomato sandwich first of every season. It is all the better if I grow the tomato.

Sometimes, a glimmer for me is more than the food or the taste memory - Often, it is the place or the people I was with…

A shared bag of Apple Cider donuts at the Frank S. Farley rest stop on the NJ Parkway.

A Dad’s root beer poured into a frozen glass mug at Cool Crest after a round of miniature golf with my Uncle Kelly.

A tuna hoagie from the Grotto.

Skyline with the Kappers.

Meat pies with all the Joyce’s.

Chad’s bread.

The first time I had a cheese steak at Jim’s with my Dad. The first time I had a cheese steak at Hip, City, Veg with my Dad. Deciding which one was better.

Fall-off-the-bone Amish Rotisserie Chicken and a just-baked soft pretzel lovingly painted with melted butter or the best roast pork sandwich and Carrot-Apple-Ginger juice. The Reading Terminal Market in Downtown Philadelphia is a lifelong glimmer for me - awesome and unforgettable for 50 years. The many layers of inspiration and the connections it holds for me reflect the solid foundation that food and foodways have been in my life.

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Last week would have been my grandma's 104th birthday. I miss her. I miss her in different ways from different times in my life. I was more sad when she was stuck in the assisted living facility than when she wasn’t.

Thinking of her is always a glimmer. I hope I was a glimmer for her sometimes too.