Baltimore Blogger, Kathy, better known as The Minx, writes about food, dining, restaurants, and Top Chef at Minx Eats. She is also a gifted story teller who kindly shared the following Food Memory. She said, “Took me a while to think of a good recipe to send you. I realized that I really don’t have any family recipes – my grandmother never showed me how to cook, and my mother made stuff up as she went along. That’s the way I cook too. Instead, my piece is heavy on memory and short on recipe – hope that’s ok.” Absolutely, because really, it’s all about the memories.
What My Mother Ate
If my mother ate it, I ate it. No matter how weird it seemed, I trusted her taste – with the exception of two things: SPAM and Little Debbie Oatmeal Pies.
I grew up in a Polish-American household. My maternal grandparents emigrated from Russian-occupied Poland to the U.S. in the early 1900s. Here, as in their home land, their families were poor; they ate what they could get and passed the value of snout-to-tail eating on to their US-born children.
Sausages, ground-up oddments stuffed into intestines, are a big part of the Polish diet. In our house, every major holiday was celebrated with a grand meal of kapusta i kielbasy, or sauerkraut with fresh Polish sausage. The garlicky fresh kielbasa was delicious, but I especially loved the rare treat of kiszka, or blood sausage, that Grandma would tuck into the basket we took to Church for blessing on Easter Saturday. Kiszka has a livery flavor and granular texture (with the occasional bit of bone) that may not be appealing to most people, but my mother ate it, and so did I, from a young age.
Mom seemed proud that I wouldn’t hesitate to try anything if I saw her enjoying it first. She liked to tell a story about the first time I tried scrambled eggs. Until that point, my favorite way of eating eggs was either poached or over-easy, both methods resulting in a lovely dippable egg yolk. We called these “matsu eggs” because I couldn’t pronounce the Polish word for smear, which is “mazać.” One morning, when I was about two or three, Mom decided to switch things up and make scrambled eggs. In a perhaps not-so-rare fit of pique, I stalked off, refusing to touch them. Mom fixed herself a plate and began to eat, making “yum yum” noises but otherwise pretending to ignore me. Curiosity eventually got the cat and I was soon standing at her elbow, feigning nonchalance but secretly wanting a taste of whatever it was that made Mom so happy. After that taste, I was on her lap, finishing the rest of her scrambled eggs.
Most weekends, the smell of chicken soup, or rosół z kury, drifted from Grandma’s downstairs kitchen to our third-floor apartment. When I was very small, I remember her need to hand-pick her chicken, which she did at the “chicken choker” (I am not making that up) at the “Jewish Market,” a stretch of Lombard Street that housed a live poultry market as well as Attman’s, Jack’s, and various other purveyors of Jewish delicacies. I was never allowed to accompany her when she went on these trips with my Dad because: 1) the shock of seeing a chicken beheaded might be too much for me; 2) the area surrounding the market was known as a “bad neighborhood.” But I was definitely allowed to eat as much of the resulting soup as I wanted, which due to the frequency of its preparation usually wasn’t a whole lot. I’m still not a big fan of chicken soup, but I do love chicken, especially the weird bits. Mom and I would each try to be the first person to find and eat the stiff ridge of cartilage from the breast bone (chrząstka). Of course that was also Grandma’s favorite part, so we had to share with her if we were eating in her kitchen. Another chicken bit we loved was something we called the ogonek (little tail). It was probably an internal organ, but I have never found this particular part in a fowl of any sort since childhood. It had a slightly livery flavor and a somewhat “bouncy” texture. As you can probably tell from our name for it, we liked to imagine it was, um, an external organ.
Grandma also made beef soup fairly regularly. Although I liked it better than I liked rosół, the only part that excited me was the szpik, or marrow. Mom would smear a blob of szpik on a slice of buttered rye bread from Levin’s bakery and I would be in heaven. Sometimes all of the marrow escaped from the bones into the soup, which was a huge disappointment at suppertime. Often there was only a single bone still hanging onto its fatty filling so we split it four ways; szpik was one treat my younger brother also enjoyed.
My love for bone marrow was my dark little secret until I was in my late 20s, when I was astonished to read that it had been one of Queen Victoria’s favorite snacks. Even the rich ate what the middle class probably fed to the dogs! Now fancy restaurants serve the stuff as if it were the cow’s answer to caviar. Landmarc, in Manhattan, serves bone marrow with bread and onion marmalade for the princely sum of $14. You can make it at home yourself far less expensively – a package of marrow bones costs about $2 in most supermarkets.
Roasted Bone Marrow
Preheat oven to 450 degrees. Place marrow bones, cut side up, in a roasting pan or an oven-safe skillet. Cook for 15 minutes or until the marrow starts to separate from the bone – if the marrow starts to leak out, you’ve cooked it too long!
Spread marrow on crusty bread, sprinkle with salt, and enjoy!
15 thoughts on “Food Memories – What My Mother Ate”
That bone looks like a gaping maw. It’s probably saying, “please don’t eat me!” 🙂
Kathy, I hope I didn’t get it too wrong with that photo. I had some other bones that were more “petite” but they didn’t look as impressive in the photos. This thing makes a statement.
I am not sure that I could handle bone marrow. However, I do recall my father taking me downtown to get corned beef from Attman’s. across the street were the kosher butchers. As i was about 5 I had no idea at the time that the clucky chickens I was sticking my fingers at would be someone’s dinner that night.
By the time I finally figured it out, the buildings and the kosher gentlemen who presided over them were History.
Isn’t it funny the things we remember all these years later? For me, my Baltimore centric food memory was of my grandmother taking me to Lexington Market on the bus. Each one of the trips ended with a stop to get some fresh Utz.
My grandmother was fond of pork chops. She’d serve them several times a week, and I still love a friend pork chop. I remember that there was always a tiny bit of marrow still in the bone, and I’d always poke it out with my little finger and eat it first. Then the pork chop went on a slice of white bread torn in half diagonally. Thanks for evoking that memory for me, Kath!
Kate, thanks for stopping by and sharing your food memory.
What a wonderfully written post from The Minx!
I agree David. Can’t you just picture yourself there in her house with all those foods?
I love this post. The idea of everyone going for their favorites parts…I can’t almost see it!
Thanks for the introduction to The Minx! She’s a great writer! I can’t say I’ve eaten marrow, but hey, if it’s good enough for Queen Victoria…
She really has a way of making the food come alive, doesn’t she?
I loved this!! It captured my undivided attention and made me want to visit your childhood for a moment! I’m thinking the next time I see a package of bone marrow, I’ll pick it up and give it a go! I have a few kids here who will try most anything!
Lexington Market????? the smell of horseradish in the air!!!!!!Many an adventure I had there with grandmom. they all culminated in a visit to Rhebs candy on the side of the building.
Kay, I think the Utz were reward for behaving myself on the bus and at St. Alphonsus while my grandmother lit prayer candles.
We were definitely a Wockenfuss household. I’ve never tried Rhebs. What can I say, some habits endure.
OMG! My grandmother never went downtown without stopping at the Market OR St alphonsus. I remember as a LITTLE kid the church was dark and cool and full of women in black long dresses swishing thru the building.
Once, when we went. and I was very pre school, there were nuns from Africa begging at the door as we left.
Gramma gave them her offering and as we went town the steps I said, of course in a very loud voice, “Gramma, I didn’t know they had jungle bunny sisters.” My grandmother grabbed my arm and made what was probably the quickest stage right exit in history!