Page One Hundred-Eighteen.
I'm cooking for a memorial gathering this Friday. It won't be big, only about forty-five or so. But that's enough that it's still work. I'll be making three trays of Lasagne, two pans of chicken Paprikash with noodles, tons of three bean salad, two trays of fruit salad and a very elaborate green salad. The real complication in a situation like this isn't the work, the time, the purchasing of ingredients or so forth. The problem is storage. I only have a two bedroom apartment in an old, 1920's brownstone walk-up. My refrigerator is somewhat large for an apartment of that nature, but still it's nowhere large enough to store this amount of eats.
I'm cat-sitting right now and the home I'm living in has what might be referred to as a "gourmet" kitchen. (I cat-sit, dog-sit, elder-sit, child-sit, house-sit a lot. When the home-owner goes away for vacation, he or she hires me to move in, live there and take care of the being in question.) I'd been thinking "perfect timing". But upon closer inspection, I realize that the over-sized refrigerator in this home still won't be large enough. So, I think I've come up with the perfect solution.
Last March I put on a large, instructional, community Passover Seder in a grand, old, United Methodist church here in Cleveland Heights. (See page fifty-five of this blog for that story.) The congregation was delighted with it and have been quite warm toward me ever since. Actually, I've been friendly with the senior minister for about a decade. Our friendship is what led to my hosting the Seder in the first place. But with the Seder, the congregation and office staff have gotten to know me and welcome me. So, I phoned the church yesterday and asked if I might borrow their kitchen for a few days. They're thrilled to help me out. And brother, do they have a great kitchen. It's fantastic. This church has all the counter space, gas burners, ovens, deep sinks, refrigerator space and freezer space anybody could ever hope for. Martha Stewart would be impressed. Last spring, with much help from volunteers, I cooked a meal for 260 in this kitchen. I'm positive that I could cater a memorial gathering for 100 by myself in this thing. It's just that workable. (The only problem I'd have catering for 100 would be transporting the food. My car can handle carrying food for 45 this Friday. Much more and there'd be a problem. After a little while, you begin to think about ever single detail, such as car space.)
Well, I better go now. I'm doing the chicken today.
Showing posts with label Martha Stewart. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Martha Stewart. Show all posts
Wednesday, August 7, 2013
Friday, August 2, 2013
One Picky Child
Page One Hundred-Sixteen.
Many of my blogs are about my experiences feeding kids. Here's one about feeding me when I was little.
First of all, I was impossible to feed. After all my adult work experience, I would still describe myself as the pickiest kid I've ever encountered. To my advantage though, I was a polite child. If I was a guest in someone's home and they served me something disreputable, I would eat it anyhow and not say a word. My parents, somehow, managed to instill manners in me. (This trait came in handy many decades later while visiting my former roommate in Germany and having his mother serve me tenderloin of bunny; a food which was gourmet to them but that this Jewish, middle-class, urban, Ohioan was not prepared for. It wasn't bad, really. It's not the type of thing I crave today, but if it were served to me again, I'd eat it without any trepidation at all. Then again, I like escargot - separate story.) But anyhow, if it was my mother feeding me, forget it. I didn't like much of what she served.
Now, I'll readily admit that my mother wasn't a good cook... categorically. In fact, she stunk at it. I truly believe that's one reason I began cooking at age four when I would stand on the chair which I'd dragged to the stove, turn on the gas and make my own scrambled eggs, hamburgers, Chef Boyardee, etc. This is the truth. Imagine a four year old cooking like this. That was me. So perhaps my pickiness was a combination of two things: I truly do have weird taste buds and my mom couldn't make a decent meal. (By the way, today, I'm not at all disappointed over my mother's inability to cook when I was little. Nowadays, I know that everybody has strengths and weaknesses. Cooking was simply one of her weaknesses, nothing more, nothing less.) But the point is: both of these things were going on, so I was a child who didn't eat much.
If the butter or jelly wasn't spread all the way to the edges of the toast: problem. If the scrambled eggs were at all wet: problem. If the greens in the salad were anything other than iceberg: problem. If the cheese in the toasted cheese sandwich wasn't melted all the way: problem. If the noodle soup was anything other than Lipton's: problem. If we went out to get Chinese and they didn't also serve hamburgers and fries: problem. If the hot dog was anything other than Hebrew National: problem. If it was seafood, other than tuna or Mrs. Paul's fish sticks: BIG problem. You know what? I was a little asshole with a big obsessive-compulsive disorder. I probably wouldn't have been satisfied even if Martha Stewart were my personal chef.
With me it went way past corn and meatloaf not being allowed to touch on the plate. But I was a child, so there you go. Children eat for taste and texture. They don't eat for nutrition, or experience. An eight year old boy isn't going to say, "golly gosh mater, shan't we hurry with great vigor to experience some vegemite? It might be quite educational to eat the way those exotic citizens from down under do." With me it was fear of the unknown. I was extremely suspect the first time I was ever served pepperoni pizza. I still remember the day (separate story). Also, I ate (or not) to exhibit my control issues. Nothing new or unusual under the sun there either. I still remember the day my mother was determined to get me to try some crab (separate story). My mother couldn't win. But clearly I ate something when I was a kid or I wouldn't be here right now.
Do you remember the fifteen year old kid I cooked for last month? In my initial conversations with his guardian she told me how worried she was that he wasn't eating at all . I responded, "oh, yes he is eating. You just don't know about it. Fifteen year old boys, unless they're Anorexic, don't ever neglect to eat. They DO NOT go on hunger strikes. EVER!!! Trust me on this one." And, in fact, he was eating. As I must've been during my earliest years. I wasn't eating a healthy diet, Lord knows. But I was, in fact, eating. And, I grew into an adult who would gradually become a more adventurous eater. I'm still suspect about new foods, and I still prefer the tried and true. But look, I ate bunny tenderloin and didn't make any type of a scene. And I like escargot. So there!
Many of my blogs are about my experiences feeding kids. Here's one about feeding me when I was little.
First of all, I was impossible to feed. After all my adult work experience, I would still describe myself as the pickiest kid I've ever encountered. To my advantage though, I was a polite child. If I was a guest in someone's home and they served me something disreputable, I would eat it anyhow and not say a word. My parents, somehow, managed to instill manners in me. (This trait came in handy many decades later while visiting my former roommate in Germany and having his mother serve me tenderloin of bunny; a food which was gourmet to them but that this Jewish, middle-class, urban, Ohioan was not prepared for. It wasn't bad, really. It's not the type of thing I crave today, but if it were served to me again, I'd eat it without any trepidation at all. Then again, I like escargot - separate story.) But anyhow, if it was my mother feeding me, forget it. I didn't like much of what she served.
Now, I'll readily admit that my mother wasn't a good cook... categorically. In fact, she stunk at it. I truly believe that's one reason I began cooking at age four when I would stand on the chair which I'd dragged to the stove, turn on the gas and make my own scrambled eggs, hamburgers, Chef Boyardee, etc. This is the truth. Imagine a four year old cooking like this. That was me. So perhaps my pickiness was a combination of two things: I truly do have weird taste buds and my mom couldn't make a decent meal. (By the way, today, I'm not at all disappointed over my mother's inability to cook when I was little. Nowadays, I know that everybody has strengths and weaknesses. Cooking was simply one of her weaknesses, nothing more, nothing less.) But the point is: both of these things were going on, so I was a child who didn't eat much.
If the butter or jelly wasn't spread all the way to the edges of the toast: problem. If the scrambled eggs were at all wet: problem. If the greens in the salad were anything other than iceberg: problem. If the cheese in the toasted cheese sandwich wasn't melted all the way: problem. If the noodle soup was anything other than Lipton's: problem. If we went out to get Chinese and they didn't also serve hamburgers and fries: problem. If the hot dog was anything other than Hebrew National: problem. If it was seafood, other than tuna or Mrs. Paul's fish sticks: BIG problem. You know what? I was a little asshole with a big obsessive-compulsive disorder. I probably wouldn't have been satisfied even if Martha Stewart were my personal chef.
With me it went way past corn and meatloaf not being allowed to touch on the plate. But I was a child, so there you go. Children eat for taste and texture. They don't eat for nutrition, or experience. An eight year old boy isn't going to say, "golly gosh mater, shan't we hurry with great vigor to experience some vegemite? It might be quite educational to eat the way those exotic citizens from down under do." With me it was fear of the unknown. I was extremely suspect the first time I was ever served pepperoni pizza. I still remember the day (separate story). Also, I ate (or not) to exhibit my control issues. Nothing new or unusual under the sun there either. I still remember the day my mother was determined to get me to try some crab (separate story). My mother couldn't win. But clearly I ate something when I was a kid or I wouldn't be here right now.
Do you remember the fifteen year old kid I cooked for last month? In my initial conversations with his guardian she told me how worried she was that he wasn't eating at all . I responded, "oh, yes he is eating. You just don't know about it. Fifteen year old boys, unless they're Anorexic, don't ever neglect to eat. They DO NOT go on hunger strikes. EVER!!! Trust me on this one." And, in fact, he was eating. As I must've been during my earliest years. I wasn't eating a healthy diet, Lord knows. But I was, in fact, eating. And, I grew into an adult who would gradually become a more adventurous eater. I'm still suspect about new foods, and I still prefer the tried and true. But look, I ate bunny tenderloin and didn't make any type of a scene. And I like escargot. So there!
Friday, February 8, 2013
High Tea
Page Thirty-Four.
On page thirty-three, I spoke of the fashion shows at Fancy-Shmancy Nursing Home. Today, I'll talk of the High Teas.
They started simply enough. I began realizing relatively early on in my employ there that nursing home residents don't get to eat "special food" very often, if at all. By special food I mean: party food, exotic food, unhealthy but scrumptious food, food they've never tried before, food you'd have at a new restaurant... anything out of the ordinary. This was in no way a judgement call on the dietary department, it's simply not possible to realistically give the residents mini quiches, spinach-filled phylo dough or tiramisu on their lunch trays. It cannot be done.
So sometime in my first year there, I asked my boss to approve a plan whereby I'd go out and by lots of frozen exotica (read: large budget) and then on one of my scheduled Sundays, the afternoon activity would be High Tea. I'd make all the food myself, brew up the tea and serve it. We'd then just enjoy good food together. This activity would be for the highest functioning residents of the home. She approved it and I did it.
Well, the residents LOVED it. And I did again a few months later and this time a few family members attended. It was more work than you can imagine but everybody, all three dozen attendees, had such a good time it was worth my poor fingers dripping off my bones. Front office had some problems though. They felt it was too exclusive and that I was segregating the residents. If I wanted to do a whole house affair, then fine - do one. But to have an affair such as this but limited to only the highest functioning in the house, well they felt it just reeked of red velvet rope.
Soooooo, I opened it up to the whole house, all one hundred and fifty residents. Have you ever made heavy hors d'oeuvres for one fifty? I still get nightmares. Actually, I never saw more than about half the house come, but many brought loved ones with them. So, again, back to about one fifty or so. The problem here is that I've never catered in my life. I simply didn't know how to cook for those numbers. I'm sure Martha could do it with both arms tied behind her back and blindfolded. In my case, it was nothing short of miraculous that I got the thing on at all.
People did help. I didn't know that I was allowed to delegate, but people absolutely helped. Co-workers, residents' family members and volunteers all helped out. Also, I eventually learned that dietary was more than happy to aid. In fact, I ended up putting a certain amount of the food ordering through dietary because they were able to rationalize the budget better than activities. They really surprised me with the diversity they were able to provide.They couldn't necessarily illustrate their capabilities on a daily basis, but on occasions like this they supplemented what I did beautifully. They also would always cook a lighter dinner that night knowing full well that half the house would be full.
Once these things really reached their peak I hired musicians to play nice music and often there would be themes. I always covered Mother's Day; my co-workers in activities appreciated that. (It's nice to have big Mother's Day extravaganzas in any nursing home. With me doing high tea it freed my boss up from having to come up with something.) I always decorated the community room and put out the fine linen for the events. I used the nice silver trays and the ladies eventually got into the habit of dressing up a little. The ten or so that I did were sort of a fancy affairs. Our own little Ascot Races, if you will.
Let me tell you something, putting on events like this requires the cooperation of every single department. I worked so closely with everybody, it was just ridiculous. Making sure the community room is properly cleaned and prepped; making sure the tables and chairs are set out; getting the linens, plates and flatware in place, consulting dietary/menu planning/ordering food; decorating; PR/advertising; arranging transport for the residents; not one single department is exempt. (And I'm doing all these while simultaneously doing my regular job coordinating activities on the two dementia units.) But those residents loved it. They got to be fifty years old again and going to fancy evening affairs. I was so exhausted I wanted to collapse. But it was worth it.
On page thirty-three, I spoke of the fashion shows at Fancy-Shmancy Nursing Home. Today, I'll talk of the High Teas.
They started simply enough. I began realizing relatively early on in my employ there that nursing home residents don't get to eat "special food" very often, if at all. By special food I mean: party food, exotic food, unhealthy but scrumptious food, food they've never tried before, food you'd have at a new restaurant... anything out of the ordinary. This was in no way a judgement call on the dietary department, it's simply not possible to realistically give the residents mini quiches, spinach-filled phylo dough or tiramisu on their lunch trays. It cannot be done.
So sometime in my first year there, I asked my boss to approve a plan whereby I'd go out and by lots of frozen exotica (read: large budget) and then on one of my scheduled Sundays, the afternoon activity would be High Tea. I'd make all the food myself, brew up the tea and serve it. We'd then just enjoy good food together. This activity would be for the highest functioning residents of the home. She approved it and I did it.
Well, the residents LOVED it. And I did again a few months later and this time a few family members attended. It was more work than you can imagine but everybody, all three dozen attendees, had such a good time it was worth my poor fingers dripping off my bones. Front office had some problems though. They felt it was too exclusive and that I was segregating the residents. If I wanted to do a whole house affair, then fine - do one. But to have an affair such as this but limited to only the highest functioning in the house, well they felt it just reeked of red velvet rope.
Soooooo, I opened it up to the whole house, all one hundred and fifty residents. Have you ever made heavy hors d'oeuvres for one fifty? I still get nightmares. Actually, I never saw more than about half the house come, but many brought loved ones with them. So, again, back to about one fifty or so. The problem here is that I've never catered in my life. I simply didn't know how to cook for those numbers. I'm sure Martha could do it with both arms tied behind her back and blindfolded. In my case, it was nothing short of miraculous that I got the thing on at all.
People did help. I didn't know that I was allowed to delegate, but people absolutely helped. Co-workers, residents' family members and volunteers all helped out. Also, I eventually learned that dietary was more than happy to aid. In fact, I ended up putting a certain amount of the food ordering through dietary because they were able to rationalize the budget better than activities. They really surprised me with the diversity they were able to provide.They couldn't necessarily illustrate their capabilities on a daily basis, but on occasions like this they supplemented what I did beautifully. They also would always cook a lighter dinner that night knowing full well that half the house would be full.
Once these things really reached their peak I hired musicians to play nice music and often there would be themes. I always covered Mother's Day; my co-workers in activities appreciated that. (It's nice to have big Mother's Day extravaganzas in any nursing home. With me doing high tea it freed my boss up from having to come up with something.) I always decorated the community room and put out the fine linen for the events. I used the nice silver trays and the ladies eventually got into the habit of dressing up a little. The ten or so that I did were sort of a fancy affairs. Our own little Ascot Races, if you will.
Let me tell you something, putting on events like this requires the cooperation of every single department. I worked so closely with everybody, it was just ridiculous. Making sure the community room is properly cleaned and prepped; making sure the tables and chairs are set out; getting the linens, plates and flatware in place, consulting dietary/menu planning/ordering food; decorating; PR/advertising; arranging transport for the residents; not one single department is exempt. (And I'm doing all these while simultaneously doing my regular job coordinating activities on the two dementia units.) But those residents loved it. They got to be fifty years old again and going to fancy evening affairs. I was so exhausted I wanted to collapse. But it was worth it.
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