On Learning the Grilling of Swordfish

By Karen Walsh

Many mothers seem to enjoy teaching their daughters to cook. They give their girls tiny aprons and earnestly teach the difference between whipping, beating and folding. Eyes shine as the Joy of Cooking is passed to a new generation, tears of pride forming as little Suzy frosts her first layer cake or successfully bakes a hamburger lasagna. It’s a bonding experience—a coveted encyclopedia of recipes and techniques handed down into family lore, ensuring that generations of McCarthys or Jeffersons eat their foremothers’ exact tuna casserole.

This was not the case at our house. There, my mother defended her kitchen like a female grizzly with cubs playing near the oven.

There was never any consideration of my mother working after the babies started coming. She would not be coming home to discuss the massive real estate deal closed, or the ominous appendix vanquished. The fragrant roast with the barest crusty edge done medium rare, hand-whipped potatoes covered in perfect brown gravy and apple pie with whisper-tender crust would be her triumphs.

The kitchen was the one place where she, and she alone, could shine.

I was allowed to assist with certain strictly defined aspects of meal preparation. For instance, I particularly excelled at peeling potatoes. Or tearing up iceberg lettuce into small wooden bowls, preparing it to give its life by being drowned in cheap French dressing. I was also quite skilled at scraping plates into the garbage (“Don’t forget that paper goes into the wastebasket and scraps into the pan for the dogs.”) And no one could pour Cap’n Crunch into a cereal bowl quite like me.
Yes, by the age of 12, I had developed some real culinary skills. Unfortunately, none of them involved actually cooking food.

I don’t think it’s that my mother didn’t want me to learn. She just didn’t want to cede the limelight. After all, one of her few moments of glory was placing a lovingly prepared, searing-hot meal on the table for the six of us and watching everyone tie into it. Praise flowed freely—everyone assured her that she was a chef like no other. We would regularly whine for certain favored menu items like Swiss steak or poor-man’s lobster. But she alone determined what would be on the table. Let’s face it--there’s real power in deciding whether one will make chili or pork chops, knowing some will cheer and others will leave the table pouting. Or if she was feeling particularly peeved, presenting a plate of fried liver and onions must have been sweet revenge.

It wasn’t until much later in my life—once I began regularly eating in restaurants and peeking at cooking magazines—that I faced a horrible truth: My mother was not a particularly good cook. She came from the Depression School of Cuisine which demanded cooking everything within an inch of its life, battering it with heat to make it safe. I mean, back then, you never could tell what germs might lurk on a green bean, and one had better cook it to the consistency of pudding rather than risk harming a child. And the cook’s best friend? The salt shaker. That’ll kill off anything that aggressive boiling or frying won’t. And canned vegetables were deemed superior to fresh—so modern and all, now that everyone wasn’t gardening out of financial necessity. (In fact, I didn’t know there was such a thing as fresh mushrooms until I got into college and saw them on a pizza. I had to ask a friend what they were, thinking the only way to get mushrooms was from a can labeled “Stems and Pieces.”)
TO BE CONTINUED…