My aunt Patty was the first great home cook I ever knew. She would get up at 5am, run a few miles, come home, make a big pot of coffee, and start making the gooiest, butteriest challah french toast you've ever seen. (At holiday time, she made it with egg nog. And she always added a dash of vanilla, a tradition we've continued with our own kids.) She'd clean up breakfast, and start in on lunch: maybe a wild rice salad with cranberries, maybe some egg salad sandwiches with onion and celery, maybe some chicken Milanese (she dredged in corn flakes crumbs). She'd clean up lunch, and start in on dinner. She'd stuff roasts with egg and pancetta and marinate butterflied legs of lamb in great, plastic tubs; she'd make fresh ricotta cheesecakes and tiramisu with real lady fingers and freshly whipped cream; and she would always, always turn down any offers of help. "Cooking is my therapy," she'd say, tossing another pot onto the pile in the sink, and I remember not believing her.
"Pork in Milk"
"Pork in Milk"
"Pork in Milk"
My aunt Patty was the first great home cook I ever knew. She would get up at 5am, run a few miles, come home, make a big pot of coffee, and start making the gooiest, butteriest challah french toast you've ever seen. (At holiday time, she made it with egg nog. And she always added a dash of vanilla, a tradition we've continued with our own kids.) She'd clean up breakfast, and start in on lunch: maybe a wild rice salad with cranberries, maybe some egg salad sandwiches with onion and celery, maybe some chicken Milanese (she dredged in corn flakes crumbs). She'd clean up lunch, and start in on dinner. She'd stuff roasts with egg and pancetta and marinate butterflied legs of lamb in great, plastic tubs; she'd make fresh ricotta cheesecakes and tiramisu with real lady fingers and freshly whipped cream; and she would always, always turn down any offers of help. "Cooking is my therapy," she'd say, tossing another pot onto the pile in the sink, and I remember not believing her.