Dotti's recipes

My mother was the best cook in the world. I'm not just saying that because she was my mom. She really was. Perhaps she was influenced early on in her marriage to my dad when the following occurred [one of my favorite childhood stories, which actually is now of concern to me].

My mother, a fledging new wife and chef and on an extremely tight food budget, cooked my father a tuna fish casserole. Asking him if he liked it, he said no. Please don't ever make this again.
Some weeks went by.
For some reason - I never asked if it was due to memory or perhaps they had a fight that day and this was her revenge - she made some sort of tuna dish again.
Upon tasting his dinner, my father walked over the window of their second-floor Roger's Park window and without saying a word, dropped the casserole dish out the window.
She never made it again.

In fact, I don't think she ever made anything remotely mundane again in her life.
Despite her very successful career as a chartered financial analyst with a very intense work schedule, she made a homemade dinner every night. Until I was in college, we never went out to dinner. Ever.

While her specialty was pie ~ a gift that was mentioned more than once during the eulogies at her devestatingly premature funeral - she was also amazing at virtually every other dish. Sunday breakfasts rotated between pancakes, waffles and french toast and dinner required at least two hours of baking, roasting, simmering, or sauteing. Spices were plentiful and the only frozen food in our household was ice-cream.

When we were going through her things, I asked for her recipe box. She had a habit of cutting out newspaper recipes - first from the Chicago Tribune and later the L.A. Times when we moved to Newport Beach. Each clip was carefully stapled onto a 3X5 card and organized by either its main ingredient - veal went behind the V tab - or meal - kahlua brownies were behind D for dessert. And, almost every card had a notation in pencil as to my father's response. David said ok. or David loved. Make again. I never picked up these cooking skills. Or maybe I did and have been too numbed by my schedule to allow myself those two hours to do it right. No matter, even these ten years later, I can instantly be surrounded by my mother when I think about being with her in the kitchen.

This morning, I walked into the kitchen of our weekend away hosts: John and Leslie Falls. Finding them was a bit of magic. Leslie's mother, Gee Cunningham, is the dog lady of the Northshore. She really is. If you have a dog and it has been trained, nine times out of ten, Gee was your trainer. When she learned we were coming to New Zealand, she gave us Leslie's contact info. Leslie married a kiwi and they live on - and own -an apple orchard in an idyllic town called Havelock North. We are staying with them this weekend as we attend a two-day wine festival.

Their home is surrounded by six varietals of apples and it is as charming as you might imagine. Their library has all of the books I've read and the CD player serenades me with Spanish guitar.

I walk into the kitchen this morning, and there are on the shelf, is one of my mother's recipe books. A well worn, somewhat stained copy of Soupcon. It is the EXACT book, perched the EXACT place she had it above her little desk in the kitchen.

For a few precious moments, I am in her kitchen. I can almost turn and see her stirring the huge orange soup pot which is now in my basement. She's got on her Mexican dress that serves as a sort of house coat. She's wearing her berkenstocks and her glasses and has a glass of wine next to the sink. Cradling the memory, I gaze back at this replica - Soupcon - and feel an immense sense of wholeness. And longing.

People often ask me if I miss "home." I was home today.