Some of my fondest memories revolve around food.
Our parents took me and my sisters to a restaurant called Patricia Murphy’s most every Thanksgiving. The waiters would carry baskets full of homemade popovers that were still warm from the oven. I loved poking a hole in the beautiful brown outer crust to let out the air and reveal the fluffy dough inside. We’d slather on butter, which would melt the moment it hit the popover. The warmth of the restaurant; the scrumptious, steamy popovers; the chill of a November day and being with my family made me feel secure.
I was determined to be a good cook when I got married, at 21. Douglas and I would have Saturday night dinner parties at least twice a month and I’d serve dishes like Chicken Kiev, Beef Wellington, creme brulee and poached salmon with hollandaise sauce that I prepared from scratch. I’ll never forget the time the sauce curdled twice on the last step and I poured it down the drain and started over.
I always loved when our friends enjoyed my dinners. We had many funsy evenings. The twenty somethings I know today don’t have dinner parties.
Edgar and I enjoyed big salads for lunch on Saturdays, followed by bags of fresh popcorn from a place called Stew Leonard’s. We’d wash it all down with way too much wine. Then we’d cuddle and nap. It was romantic, sexy and reassuring at the time, even if Edgar turned out to be a world class creep, cheat, and pathological liar.
Mary Ann and I adored bigorneaux (tiny, tiny snails) the first time we tried them in Paris. You use straight pins to coax them out of their shells. Sometimes, they refuse to budge, no matter how much poking you do. Mary Ann and I enjoyed them again when we went to Paris in mid November.
When FOF sister, Shelley, arrives at work in the morning, she makes coffee for both of us. Even though coffee is not exactly as delectable as warm popovers, fresh popcorn, poached salmon, and bigorneaux (in Paris), being with Shell is what makes it taste extra good.