My first realization of the power of food was at around five years old. Mom was in the kitchen making spaghetti and meatballs, and I asked to watch. This meant I would be quiet and relatively still, standing on the garage-made white footstool, watchfully hungry.
She rolled each perfectly formed ball by hand. (A few years later I learned from her that if you handle the meat mixture too much it will become tough). Those balls were carefully placed in sizzling golden olive oil (to use green oil in frying would be an expensive waste), then drained on paper towels. I can think of few temptations greater than biting into one of those meatballs, but we didn't taste. We waited for the meal.
Although the components are all delicious, of course it's the combination -- pasta and sauce and meatballs and cheese and then maybe a crispy green salad with a toothsome and cool red radish, perhaps a hunk of garlic bread and something delicious to drink -- that makes a meal.
The meal was important. It welcomed my dad home, as a kind of culinary tribute to his hard work. It was all set out and ready and hot at the right time, orchestrated to suit his preferences. Most of all, our evening meal was designed to be a pleasant comfort; us girls told funny stories from school and mom listened and refilled Dad's plate. It was his time to rest and our time to shine.
My mom is a farmer's daughter (she actually picked cotton) with a healthy respect for both quality and economy. She abhors waste. We ate out seldom, at inexpensive, family-style places.
Throughout my teens, as part of her Christian service, Mom fed a church member family and the occasional visiting stranger, once a month after services. To be fair with the invitations, she went through the entire church directory and then started at the beginning again.
In winter, this company lunch was either roast beef, carrots and spectacularly waxy caramelized potatoes with a salad and iced tea, finished with a mind-blowingly rich layered dessert mu dad named "Chocolate Goo" and coffee. In summer it was brisket in the most decadent and tangy homemade barbecue sauce (just writing here makes me ache for it), a mustard potato salad with lots of sliced boiled egg, and bacon-shrouded baked beans, plus peach cobbler.
For me, the flavors and aromas of these meals define hospitality. They were made with the intention to serve, indulge and impress. I get a little rush of nervous energy, remembering how she buzzed about the kitchen before church on those days, fretting over the oven timer and exactly when the bread would go in.
After church, on Roast days, reentry to the house was a CLOUD of garlic, and my dad would say, every time, "Smells like we're having garlic with a pinch of roast." We'd speed around, changing out of our dresses into "play clothes" so as to better help with company, set the table, represent.
Now I understand why she made those same rote meals, each six times a year. There was little worry over how things would taste, whether or not her guests would approve, and no timing debacles. But then I just wished for something different. Something surprising and new.
As the cliche goes, I didn't understand much about anything until I had to do it for myself. I so clearly remember calling Mom when my new in-laws were scheduled for their first visit, crying out, "What will I COOK?
"Well, you'll make my lasagna," she replied with quick authority. "There's no way to ruin it. It's easy and everyone likes it."
That was that. I followed her recipe exactly, calling multiple times for additional direction and she'd say, "For heaven's sake, just do what it says and you'll be fine!" And it was. I'm telling you, from that very first meal, my in-laws proclaimed me "a Gourmet Cook." And then again I was reminded of the power of good food served in a pleasant atmosphere.
I've cooked a lot of meals for a lot of people since that fateful lasagna. Here is what I've learned so far. I hope some of it might help you navigate the oncoming season of hospitality, both as giver and guest.
1. "You don't have to tell everything you know."
This is a direct quote from my mother, and perhaps her best. It means 'if all else fails, shut your mouth.' When the meat is not quite done, you were pre-cooking for a final touch on the grill. When the vegetables are too salty, they are a garnish for the goat cheese salad. (Send your teenager for some goat cheese.) When the brownies slump, they're Molten Lava Chocolate Cake. If you don't run around squawking about your mistakes, no one will notice. Just serve with a warm confidence.
2. A little advertising goes a long way
People nowadays are afraid to cook and even more shy to serve food to guests. This is the wrong way to go. When I invite others over to eat, I like to do it in writing. Presumably this is to check for allergies or the errant non-meat eater, but really it's to whet their appetite and expectations of something wonderful. So an email might say, "Do you want to come over for next Saturday? I'm making my special All-Red Dinner and it is:
Rare Roasted Beef Tenderloin with Shallot-Port Reduction
Red-Skinned Garlic Potatoes, Browned in their Jackets
Cherry Tomato, Kalamata Olive and
Purple Onion Salad in Red Wine Vinaigrette
You Bring the Cabernet
Fresh watermelon, cherries and strawberries
Homemade Red Velvet Cake
Hot coffee and Tea
Aside from the cake which I make ahead of time, none of this is difficult to make, but people freak out at an invitation to such sensual luxury. They walk in the door practically frantic to taste that cake. Wouldn't you?
3. Let them bring something. (Or "Fruit is always beautiful.")
If you knew how few of the components I actually make at my famous Thanksgiving Dinner for 15, you would. . . think I'm pretty smart. When guests have some skin in the game, they WANT to play along, they want the meal to be a success and therefore it is. Be sure to highlight their contribution. In the above meal, I usually ask guests to bring some of the fruit, then display it on a gorgeous green platter in the very center of the table. And look! They brought the prettiest part of the meal. We all win.
4. White dishes, heated please
You've heard and seen this a hundred times and that's because it's true. Pay attention to how you plate the food and it will look more delicious, as though it's deserving of your pride. A well-plated (heat the plates, I tell you!) nest of pasta (plain old spaghetti), topped with red sauce (from a jar) and a few shrimp, then a shower of fresh herbs (practically free) and good parmesan -- are you already dying to eat this? Me too! So easy, so pretty and inviting on a hot, white plate.
5. Always hot bread
If you want men to walk away from the table satisfied, make certain there is hot bread, as fresh as you can make or buy -- biscuits, cornbread, baguette, homestyle sourdough, crescents from a can -- and room temperature salted butter. Unsalted does not work unless you have your own churn. I cannot explain the whys, only tell the truth as I know it to be.
6. Keep it simple and irresistible
Save the delicate soufflés for Experiment Night (another story) and stick to what you know. Guests can feel your anxiety and your satisfaction, so make it easy on everyone including yourself. One of the best ways to accomplish this is to serve something you love to eat. If you aren't excited about the menu, change it until you are.
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Although I love the holidays, I also understand dreading them (and have been there myself). If you're having trouble feeling the obligatory November gratitude, I hope you'll come out to my next free workshop (see sidebar).
We always have fun, you don't have to talk, and you'll come away with a deeper appreciation for what's really going right in your life, right now.
