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It's Where Everybody Hangs Out . . .

What's food without mentioning mom's cooking. I don't quite know what I was doing here with my mom, but I had a sweater on, so it looks like it may have been winter. Or maybe it was chilly in the apartment. And on the shelf what looks like a Christmas card may be a clue to the season.

This site is for anyone who likes food, especially the things food reminds us of--like Sunday afternoons, waiting for "the sauce" to turn into a topping for spaghetti. I'm Greek, so there was no "sauce" on Sunday afternoons, just my mom cooking up some dandelions she just picked at Astoria Park (boil or steam them, top them with more than a drizzle of olive oil, add salt and eat)or mix the yogurt she just made with some plain white rice. She also mixed rice with spinach, or spanakorizo, as Greeks know it.

Mom was quite the cook. And when we had guests over? Well, it was something resembling a Fellini film. The spread went on forever. It also took us that long to get rid of the leftovers. And mom made all of the pastries from scratch. No store-bought stuff for me and my brother, Jimmy. The only thing she didn't make was the wine for my father. A seamstress, she also made all of our clothes.

If you're like me, your brain is filled with small boxes of food memories, each one tucked away with its associated smell. That "sauce" for the spaghetti? I can smell it now. That turkey cooking in the oven all day? Can't wait to tear into it. That leg of lamb with potatoes? I'm all over it. The only thing I could not stand, and still tucked away in the deepest recesses of my brain kitchen, is liver. I hated when mom sauteed liver and onions. Yecch.

And a nickel ice? Well, there was always room for a little dessert. And a popsicle hit the sweet spot all the time--as long as I snuck it in. Mom didn't approve of ices. "No goot" she would say in her broken English, which was always followed by a swat across the back of my head.

Be well ....

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