Share food memories?

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Kayelle

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My Jewish husband and I were talking about food memories and his stories were just too good not to share. We share nothing in common as far as food memories are concerned. The word Smaltz came up here at DC recently, and I asked him about it. He has a way with words and is quite the character so I asked him to write the memories down for me.........enjoy.

The Atkinstein Diet according to Steve

If you read this and you are not Jewish, I cannot even begin to explain it to you!

This goes back 2 generations, 3 if you are over 50. It also explains why many Jewish men died in their early 60's with a non-functional cardiovascular system and looked like today's men at 89.

Before we start, there are some variations in ingredients because of the various types of Jewish taste (Polack, Litvack, Dutch and Gallicianer).

Just as we Jews have six seasons of the year (winter, spring, summer, autumn, the slack season, and the busy season), we all focus on a main ingredient which, unfortunately and undeservedly, has disappeared from our diet. I'm talking, of course, about SCHMALTZ (chicken fat). SCHMALTZ has, for centuries, been the prime ingredient in almost every Jewish dish, and I feel it's time to revive it to its rightful place in our homes. (I have plans to distribute it in a green glass Gucci bottle with a label clearly saying: "low fat, no cholesterol, Newman's Choice, extra virgin SCHMALTZ." (It can't miss!) Then there are grebenes - pieces of chicken skin, deep fried in SCHMALTZ, onions and salt until crispy brown (Jewish bacon). This makes a great appetizer for the next cardiologist's convention.

There's also a nice chicken fricassee (stew) using the heart, gorgle (neck), pipick (a great delicacy, given to the favorite child, usually me), a fleegle (wing) or two, some ayelech (little premature eggs) and other various chicken innards, in a broth of SCHMALTZ, water, paprika, etc. We also have knishes (filled dough) and the eternal question, "Will that be liver, beef or potatoes, or all three?"
Other time-tested favorites are kishkeh, and its poor cousin, helzel (chicken or goose neck). Kishkeh is the gut of the cow, bought by the foot at the Kosher butcher. It is turned inside out, scalded and scraped. One end is sewn up and a mixture of flour, SCHMALTZ, onions, eggs, salt, pepper, etc., is spooned into the open end and squished down until it is full. The other end is sewn and the whole thing is boiled. Yummy!

My personal all-time favorite is watching my Zaida (grandpa) munch on boiled chicken feet.
For our next course we always had chicken soup with pieces of yellow-white, rubbery chicken skin floating in a greasy sea of lokshen (noodles), farfel (broken bits of matzah), tzibbeles (onions), mondlech (soup nuts), kneidlach (dumplings), kasha (groats), kliskelech and marech (marrow bones) . The main course, as I recall, was either boiled chicken, flanken, kackletten, hockfleish (chopped meat), and sometimes rib steaks, which were served either well done, burned or cremated. Occasionally we had barbecued liver done to a burned and hardened perfection in our own coal furnace.

:ROFLMAO::ROFLMAO::ROFLMAO:

Care to share some food memories?
 
My grandparents eating lutefisk at midnight. None of us would, but they'd sit at the kitchen table and eat lutefisk...only in the winter.
 
For those who've been with me for awhile, pardon when I repeat.

One of my favorites is a funny. Daddy still hates it when I tell it, but the rest of us enjoy a laugh. We were stationed in Germany, and Mom was not one to stay on the military base and restrict herself to the Commissary and BX. She found a great ring sausage she wanted to try, but really had no idea how to cook it. She boiled it, and put it in front of Daddy to slice and serve. He stuck a fork in it and it exploded. It hit the ceiling of our quarters, and fell back down. Dad's always had thick eyebrows, and I'll never forget those juices and fat dripping from his brows onto his nose, into his eyes, and back onto his shirt and plate. Mom was hushing my sisters and me, "don't laugh, don't laugh, whatever you do, don't laugh!" Of course the more we tried to stifle it, the worse it got. To this day I don't know why Mom didn't pierce it, she always did that with hot dogs. Or maybe that was just dumb luck (by their own admission, Mom had no idea how to cook when they married, and neither of their mothers could cook).
 
There were maybe 4 different times when Dad told us kids we didn't have to eat what Mom had just served. This pronouncement was made when something was absolutely inedible.

Eggplant Mush...that's what we called it and it only showed up once. Mom got tired of fried eggplant and decided to try a new recipe. It was a casserole type thing with crackers and eggplant. It was icky and the texture was even worse. Everything after that was gauged on eggplant mush.
 
My Jewish husband and I were talking about food memories and his stories were just too good not to share. We share nothing in common as far as food memories are concerned. The word Smaltz came up here at DC recently, and I asked him about it. He has a way with words and is quite the character so I asked him to write the memories down for me.........enjoy.

The Atkinstein Diet according to Steve

If you read this and you are not Jewish, I cannot even begin to explain it to you!

This goes back 2 generations, 3 if you are over 50. It also explains why many Jewish men died in their early 60's with a non-functional cardiovascular system and looked like today's men at 89.

Before we start, there are some variations in ingredients because of the various types of Jewish taste (Polack, Litvack, Dutch and Gallicianer).

Just as we Jews have six seasons of the year (winter, spring, summer, autumn, the slack season, and the busy season), we all focus on a main ingredient which, unfortunately and undeservedly, has disappeared from our diet. I'm talking, of course, about SCHMALTZ (chicken fat). SCHMALTZ has, for centuries, been the prime ingredient in almost every Jewish dish, and I feel it's time to revive it to its rightful place in our homes. (I have plans to distribute it in a green glass Gucci bottle with a label clearly saying: "low fat, no cholesterol, Newman's Choice, extra virgin SCHMALTZ." (It can't miss!) Then there are grebenes - pieces of chicken skin, deep fried in SCHMALTZ, onions and salt until crispy brown (Jewish bacon). This makes a great appetizer for the next cardiologist's convention.

There's also a nice chicken fricassee (stew) using the heart, gorgle (neck), pipick (a great delicacy, given to the favorite child, usually me), a fleegle (wing) or two, some ayelech (little premature eggs) and other various chicken innards, in a broth of SCHMALTZ, water, paprika, etc. We also have knishes (filled dough) and the eternal question, "Will that be liver, beef or potatoes, or all three?"
Other time-tested favorites are kishkeh, and its poor cousin, helzel (chicken or goose neck). Kishkeh is the gut of the cow, bought by the foot at the Kosher butcher. It is turned inside out, scalded and scraped. One end is sewn up and a mixture of flour, SCHMALTZ, onions, eggs, salt, pepper, etc., is spooned into the open end and squished down until it is full. The other end is sewn and the whole thing is boiled. Yummy!

My personal all-time favorite is watching my Zaida (grandpa) munch on boiled chicken feet.
For our next course we always had chicken soup with pieces of yellow-white, rubbery chicken skin floating in a greasy sea of lokshen (noodles), farfel (broken bits of matzah), tzibbeles (onions), mondlech (soup nuts), kneidlach (dumplings), kasha (groats), kliskelech and marech (marrow bones) . The main course, as I recall, was either boiled chicken, flanken, kackletten, hockfleish (chopped meat), and sometimes rib steaks, which were served either well done, burned or cremated. Occasionally we had barbecued liver done to a burned and hardened perfection in our own coal furnace.

:ROFLMAO::ROFLMAO::ROFLMAO:

Care to share some food memories?
I think your husband and I would have fun.

Moishe Pipick took his bear to the synagogue. The Rebbi stops him, "Moishe you cant take the bear into synagogue what are you thinking"

"Rebbi he sings better than the chazzan"

"let me be the judge of that let him sing here"

The bear sings so sweetly everyone is in tears

"Moishe you are right the bear could be a chazzan"

"Rebbi I know, I keep telling him but all he wants to do is become a Taxi driver"
 
There were maybe 4 different times when Dad told us kids we didn't have to eat what Mom had just served. This pronouncement was made when something was absolutely inedible.
Okay TSB, at our house that was lutefisk. You got off easy with "eggplant mush."
 
Last edited by a moderator:
For those who've been with me for awhile, pardon when I repeat.

One of my favorites is a funny. Daddy still hates it when I tell it, but the rest of us enjoy a laugh. We were stationed in Germany, and Mom was not one to stay on the military base and restrict herself to the Commissary and BX. She found a great ring sausage she wanted to try, but really had no idea how to cook it. She boiled it, and put it in front of Daddy to slice and serve. He stuck a fork in it and it exploded. It hit the ceiling of our quarters, and fell back down. Dad's always had thick eyebrows, and I'll never forget those juices and fat dripping from his brows onto his nose, into his eyes, and back onto his shirt and plate. Mom was hushing my sisters and me, "don't laugh, don't laugh, whatever you do, don't laugh!" Of course the more we tried to stifle it, the worse it got. To this day I don't know why Mom didn't pierce it, she always did that with hot dogs. Or maybe that was just dumb luck (by their own admission, Mom had no idea how to cook when they married, and neither of their mothers could cook).

:ROFLMAO::LOL::ROFLMAO:

I'll bet you kids already knew to try not to laugh. Your mum kept saying "don't laugh" to help keep herself from laughing. Oh, your poor dad.
 
Okay TSB, at our house that was lutefisk. You got off easy with "eggplant mush."

I'm going to have to ask Dad if he ever tried lutefisk, there are some foods he absolutely would not allow in the house, even if one of us liked it. Cottage Cheese and Sour Cream come to mind.
 
Oh, yeah. Daddy pretended to dignity, but with four daughters stern didn't get him far. Worse than this was the camp toilet thing. I know it is the opposite of a food memory, but we were camping, and had a camp toilet that was just a cross bars with a toilet seat and a bag underneath. One late night/early morning Daddy used it and it colapsed. Picture me and three sisters and Mom inside the tent, Mom saying, don't laugh, don't laugh, don't laugh. Daddy still doesn't really know how to cuss (neither in French nor in English) and it was "you G-D-S-O-B" -- initials only! "Don't laugh, girls, just don't laugh!"
 
Tourtiere after the adults went to midnight mass Christmas Eve. Mom & Dad, Aunts & Uncles would bring out all the presents from Santa (presents from each other and parents were already under the tree), then grab a set of bells (I still have the bells) and start jingling them and go, "You just missed him! Santa just left!" We'd then open gifts and all would repose to a tourtiere and beets meal at 3 or so a.m. Daddy would pick up his accordion and we'd nosh while he played Christmas carols and we'd all sing. Bed time came around 5 a.m., and very few actually saw the light of Christmas morning.
 
Thanks Claire! Your camping story brought one back for me. One that started a family "tradition."

We used to go on camping trips that lasted two to three weeks. No toilets, tubs or showers, just the creek, river or lake where we parked the car.

Dad had finally picked our spot and we had been gathering firewood while he dug the firepit. He was hot, sweaty and had a nice film of dirt covering him when he asked Mom to open a can of root beer for him.

Now, the root beer had been in a box in the back of the car, absorbing every bump and dip in the road, it was also warm...

Mom got within one foot of Dad before she opened the can, aimed directly at him. Dad got a root beer shower on our first day out. He swears he was still cleaning off root beer when we got home. Three squealing girls laughing and Mom running around with paper towels saying, "I'm so (LMAO) SORRY!" To this day I'm not sure Mom didn't add a couple of shakes to that can before she opened it.

Since then, when Dad asks for a root beer we ask him if he wants it "shaken, not strirred." We also tend to aim soda cans towards him when opening them...dang, hasn't happened since.
 
An odd one. I remember, when I was about 11 or 12, being taken to a Chinese restaurant in the Wiesbaden area. I remember walking around to a back area, up stairs, and really having a great meal.

Another, still living in Wiesbaden, I remember going out into the country and going to the Casa Carioca. It was a dinner club with an ice show. There was a parquet wooden floor that rolled out over the ice for patrons to dance, then rolled back for the ice show. I remember this particularly because Daddy ordered a huge cheese platter for dinner. I think we were staying at a military hotel in Garmisch or thereabouts.

What made these memories even more fun is that many decades later I wound up working with a man who was also an Air Force brat. He told me the Casa Carioca burned down years ago, but that, at that time, that little Chinese restaurant was still there.

Small world.
 
For me it was opening a can of moms anchovies, it must have been an expensive one cause she got PISSED, she made me eat them till I ralphed, to this day I won't eat them, even for money:sick:
 
My favorite food memory is going into Grandma and Grandpa's basement to get blueberries out of the huge chest freezer filled with all kinds of fruits and veggies. There was another freezer just as big full of meat. I would bring the freezer bag full of berries up stairs and we would have frozen blueberries with milk. It would freeze the milk and then after a few minutes and a good stir it would turn the milk blue. Even when I grew up and came back to see my grandparents, Grandpa would say, "Go get us some blueberries!". I still eat them the same way, but sure do miss having Grandpa and Grandma around to share them with me.
 
I remember once, my sister and I wouldn't finish our oatmeal. I have no idea why, we liked oatmeal with brown sugar. My mother told us we would get it for lunch, fried, if we didn't finish it.

Fried oatmeal is not very nice.

Maybe kids just need to have a bit of control over their food sometimes.
 
Childhood bad food memories? My mom insisted one time that I mossie (?) up my soft egg yolks left on my plate with my toast. I got insistent and slammed my elbows on the table it a fit of pique. Broke the plate, elbow on fork, slice on elbow, emergency room stitches. I still have a scar on that elbow. I was 5 or so years old. The thing that makes it ironic is that I was the very least fussy eater in the house. Even when I didn't like something, I ate it. My sister was the fussy eater, she didn't like anything. Mom and I agree to this day that I was just tired of little sis getting all the attention at meal time.
 
Got to follow a bad with a good. On our birthdays, when affordable (a sergeant with 4 daughters, affordable is the name of the game) we got to name a meal. Mine was usually suki-yaki and jello cake. I do remember one sibling's was fondue. Don't remember if the two youngest had a specific love (although I think we always all chose jello-cake).
 
At one assignment my dad had to teach survival instruction. He'd be gone from Saturday through Thursday. He'd come home on Thursday, Mom had to hose him down. Thursday happened to be the day that my sis and I went to CCD classes and mass after. Daddy would show up for mass, and sit in the back of the chapel, along with the other men who were Catholic and had been out in the boonies from Saturday through Thursday. Often us children had to wake our exhausted daddies up to take us home. But dinner that Thursday was, for us, always New England Boiled Dinner. Made with beef marrow bones. I loved that. Neither of my parents had a sweet tooth, but Daddy would eat anything when he came back from the mountains, so Mom, who didn't much like baking, would have a cake, some cupcakes, cookies. Dad was ravenous and would eat anything. Then on Friday, parents would go out dancing, and our Friday meal if they did might be fish sticks or chicken pot pies and french fries. But we often got what would normally have been a Sunday meal on Friday or early dinner Saturday, because Dad was back off to the mountains again Saturday night. This was only a year or so, but I remember it vividly. One thing was funny. Whenhe'd go out for longer maneuvers, he had to take a box of food to eat in the truck on the way home. They were told it had to be smaller than a square foot. My dad was (and is) very thin and always hungry. He asked interior or exterior dimensions. All the other men just used a shoe box. Daddy made a little food square, interior, crate. Mom would really pack it with food. I remember Daddy saying that he'd be in the back of that deuce and a half, eating, when all the other men were finished with their shoe box and be looking longingly at his box of food. And, I might add, Daddy is a slow eater to this day. Lingers long over every delicious morsel. I can imagine it would drive the other men crazy. And I doubt he shared much!
 
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