Pumpkin Pie and Potica

Last Sunday evening was melancholy, but this Sunday evening is all about focusing on positive thoughts. I don't mean to go all Jack Handey on you, readers, but sometimes it just has to be done. And as I sit sipping a nice earthy, spicy Carmenere from Chile, I'm thinking about all the love and comfort that can be conveyed with food, not necessarily through taste, but through intention.

When I was growing up, my mom prepared dinner every night for our family (three kids, my dad and herself). The only exception was Saturday night when we went to evening mass and picked up takeout on the way home. Often, my father would call in the order before we went to church so the chicken dinners or Italian beef sandwiches would be waiting or us on the way home. At a stop along the way, we might get gas, pick up a gallon of milk, the Sunday paper or a small box or two of ice cream at Walgreen's.

It wasn't until I grew up that I understood having someone prepare food for you with thought and intention is a gift. And it's funny how some of those meals, or dishes, or holidays linger in your thoughts and bubble up to the surface occasionally creating a wash of gratitude or warmth or some other positive emotion.

Pumpkin pie makes me smile. I think about the time my mom forgot to put sugar in a homemade pumpkin pie and it reminds of my own flightiness. In fact, I left my suitcase on the step outside my apartment last night after returning home from the airport. Oops.

This savory/sweet dessert also reminds me of Kitty, the white feline who was 'my cat' and close confidant. Kitty left his nose (or paw) print in the center of one holiday pie or other, causing mom to make sure fresh pies were far from cat paws moving forward.

For some reason, popcorn balls make me remember the neighbor down the street who made them every year for Halloween and the Thanksgiving when my aunt, my mom and my grandmother got a little tipsy. That was an unusual happening.

Poached eggs remind me of the time my mom made a poached egg in the center of a piece of toast for me when I was recovering from some childhood illness. I always thought I didn't like poached eggs, but I think it was only that I was still feeling sick. They tie over-easy eggs now as my favorite. And over-easy reminds me of my grandmother who had a knack for keeping the centers perfectly runny. She served them with Pepperidge Farms toast and real butter (a true treat when margarine was the standard).

Fried chicken - I've had different versions, but moms is the best. She crushes up saltines in a plastic bag with a rolling pin for the crust. The pieces are dredged, crusted and browned in a saute pan before being baked. The standard side used to be instant mashed potatoes (do they still make those?) and frozen peas or corn.

Potica (poe-TEEZ-a) is a Slovenian specialty. Much of my moms family was Slovenian, and you can see the Eastern European features in the old black-and-white photos. They were hard workers. My mother's great grandmother had a house in Joliet, Illinois with a small farm. They would smoke meats and preserve vegetables and keep things like onions in the attic of the old house. The house is still there, but the farm is gone.

Every year before Christmas, my mom gets out the old school, hand-cranked meat grinder, not to grind meat but walnuts. She attaches it to a stair on the basement steps or the counter lip or whatever seems convenient and puts a bowl underneath it. The walnuts go in whole and come out minced.

Potica is a type of semi-sweet bread. The walnuts are mixed with other good things and spread over a huge piece of dough that is rolled and baked. The same filling is also used to make nut rolls, small cookie-type goodies where a square piece of dough is folded from two corners to the middle over the filling.

A lot of love and tradition goes into that potica every year. Food has history and provenance, and I am one fortunate gastronomer to come from folks who were not necessarily foodies, but hospitable and giving. You couldn't walk into my grandmother's house without being offered a beverage or a snack. My great grandmother, although a bit crazy, served ham sandwiches at every visit (whether you were hungry or not, so you better be hungry). My mom always makes sure guests are offered something and makes them feel at home to help themselves thereafter.

When one year, I requested the potica recipe from my mom, she said, I thought you would never ask. I suppose I assumed she would always make it for us. That was the year in my mid-twenties I didn't go back to Illinois for Christmas. I have that recipe filed away, but I much prefer to have her make it for me with love and intention than to make it myself all these miles away.

My mom was young once too, of course, and she asked her grandmother for the recipe for potica. Her grandmother purposely left out an ingredient so it wouldn't be the same as hers. Fortunately for me, I received the full recipe.

Stay tuned, ladies and g's. And send some positive thoughts to Illinois where they are needed and welcome.

Comments

  1. positive thoughts and prayers to you and your family. Food and meals are such a gift- one we take for granted, especially when prepared by our mothers who give it so generously with love. It's nice to reflect as we get older and share with our family and friends. Much love to your mother. ~V

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