tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9773158060727294952011-04-21T17:45:06.988-07:00Arties32http://www.blogger.com/profile/05118161374793973078noreply@blogger.comBlogger241100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-977315806072729495.post-58418419472242691822008-04-03T06:30:00.000-07:002008-04-03T08:41:22.877-07:00

Editor's Note: This post was written by my friend Suzanne a few months ago, and since it was about her family's beloved rabbit, I thought I would hold on to it for an appropriate occasion. Today I learned that Suzanne and her husband recently had to put Simon to sleep. This post is in memory of Simon the Rabbit.Okay, I know the blog is "people and food" and that technically I'm not a person. But

Arties32http://www.blogger.com/profile/05118161374793973078noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-977315806072729495.post-55656261509354225862008-03-20T19:15:00.000-07:002008-03-21T07:23:26.857-07:00

I can't read The Gingerbread Boy to my grandchildren without picturing Christmas of 1967. My husband would soon be home from Viet Nam, my grandparents were with us, and the family would soon be rid of me. What better way to celebrate than to make gingerbread boys. Tripling the recipe would be the order of the day and then the order of the night. We all began to hope they would jump out and run

Arties32http://www.blogger.com/profile/05118161374793973078noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-977315806072729495.post-88097975066591034262008-03-04T06:15:00.000-08:002008-03-04T12:04:04.457-08:00

Food story #1:Traveling in Yugoslavia and hungry for dinner- a narrow road in the country- we see a farmhouse with a food sign- EUREKA! We are delighted to find a really ethnic place- but no English is spoken there and the menu is in a foreign language. No way to communicate. Finally, after many frustrating exchanges, I raise my hands to my chest and flap my elbows up and down- cackling all the

Arties32http://www.blogger.com/profile/05118161374793973078noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-977315806072729495.post-40027921066203532622008-02-28T18:20:00.000-08:002008-02-29T15:30:00.085-08:00

World War II, Wales, British Islands, Food shortage, RationingI am a Jewish refugee from Germany, eighteen years old, working on a farm in Wales, since this is the only work I am allowed to do. Recently released from an internment camp as an enemy alien, just as the Japanese were dealt with here.Farm work entails getting up at about 4:30 a.m., milking the cows (no machines yet) mucking out stalls

Arties32http://www.blogger.com/profile/05118161374793973078noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-977315806072729495.post-74082011829913250652008-02-27T20:15:00.000-08:002008-02-27T13:08:22.110-08:00

Uh-Oh, SpaghettiOs. Such an aptly created slogan.When I was a little girl, my favorite thing to eat was my mom's spaghetti with meat sauce. In retrospect, it wasn't anything gourmet-- just hearty and comforting.imagine my enthusiasm when I saw a commercial for SpaghettiOs! My favorite food, redefined in a cute circular shape! And you could eat them with a spoon, for heavens sake. They had a

Arties32http://www.blogger.com/profile/05118161374793973078noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-977315806072729495.post-49651648640298072052008-02-22T06:00:00.000-08:002008-02-22T08:24:22.224-08:00

In 1980, Luciano Pavarotti performed for the Virginia Opera at a sold-out Chrysler Hall in Norfolk, Virginia. I was asked to cater a post-concert fundraiser at the the Chrysler Museum a few blocks away. It was quite an honor, as Pavarotti was in the prime of his career (and a great connoisseur of food). For the people who paid thousands per seat to charity for the concert, we set up two 60-foot

Arties32http://www.blogger.com/profile/05118161374793973078noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-977315806072729495.post-74021927328099196062008-02-07T06:10:00.000-08:002008-02-14T07:19:18.690-08:00

When I was growing up in Astoria, Queens, in the '40s and '50s, I thought everyone ate as well as we did. My dad had a backyard garden where he grew figs, zucchini, tomatoes, peppers, and basil -- his older brother, who lived in an apartment building, rented a space where he also grew veggies, fruit, and herbs. Their mother -- my paternal grandmother -- was a fabulous cook. (My mother learned to

Arties32http://www.blogger.com/profile/05118161374793973078noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-977315806072729495.post-86103734433908742502008-01-14T15:26:00.000-08:002008-01-14T15:37:53.323-08:00

Everybody has their vices. Women, wine, gambling. For my entire 36 years, I've been a slave to the green stuff. No, not money. Lemon-lime Gatorade.When I was born with a milk allergy, our doctor in Miami suggested my parents feed me a new sports drink on the market, a sweet substance loaded with carbohydrates and sodium. Invented in 1965 by Dr. Robert Cade at the University of Florida for the

Arties32http://www.blogger.com/profile/05118161374793973078noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-977315806072729495.post-33552329619117817122008-01-13T06:51:00.001-08:002008-01-13T07:17:17.417-08:00

When I was in junior high school, my family lived on Merchantile Street in McKeesport, outside of Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. One Friday night, my friend Myrna slept at my house. The next morning, my parents, Ethel and Bill, made us breakfast. My mother made six dippy eggs- one for each of us and I guess two for my father. My father made bacon and toast. When we were ready to eat, my mother passed

Arties32http://www.blogger.com/profile/05118161374793973078noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-977315806072729495.post-18364496468761868532008-01-11T06:00:00.000-08:002008-01-11T04:59:49.634-08:00

As anyone who has been around for a few years, I have so many great food memories that I’ll just have to choose among hundreds to share with you now. I hope to supply you with many more as time goes by.Among my earliest of such memories is one that my maternal grand-mother used to prepare. She lived in our family home in Baltimore and, on occasion, would take over kitchen duties from my mom.She

Arties32http://www.blogger.com/profile/05118161374793973078noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-977315806072729495.post-83013950789079079062008-01-10T06:00:00.000-08:002008-01-10T08:06:48.060-08:00

We just returned from a trip to NYC & NJ where we ate pizza for dinner 3 out of 4 nights we were there. (Arturo's, La Bottega, Krispy's) The pizza was so good! This reminded me of the first time I ever ate pizza. I must have been about 9 years old. My older sister was babysitting for us younger sibs that night and had a friend over. They ordered pizza and closed themselves into the kitchen with

Arties32http://www.blogger.com/profile/05118161374793973078noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-977315806072729495.post-34189576358539947582008-01-09T06:00:00.000-08:002008-01-09T07:39:02.028-08:00

There are so many great food stories in my memory. My family was lucky enough to have many, many meals together while I was growing up. And while I have fond family memories and recipes, I have also been lucky to learn different recipes from other close families. It is no secret to anyone who knows me that, fortunately or UN, I have had my share of boyfriends. Some say I like variety - like a

Arties32http://www.blogger.com/profile/05118161374793973078noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-977315806072729495.post-71429257650297034442007-12-30T11:30:00.000-08:002008-01-04T05:49:51.748-08:00

When I was a child, my family made the trek from Ft. Wayne, Indiana to Cincinnati, Ohio at least once a month. The high point of the trip was eating at a tea room which was located at the halfway point in Eaton, Ohio. It was called Mrs. Wagner's. They were known far and wide for their corn fritters, which were served with hot syrup. Everyone in my family looked forward to eating in Mrs. Wagner's

Arties32http://www.blogger.com/profile/05118161374793973078noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-977315806072729495.post-78502302655863773002007-12-14T05:32:00.000-08:002007-12-14T05:54:42.264-08:00

My food memories are almost always tied to my family. Those big Italian affairs with lots of food, people and hugs. Loud voices speaking over loud voices and hands waving with intention and enthusiasm, knocking over glasses and punctuating sentences. Most of what I know about food and cooking has come from this family too. I am not the only Leftover Queen in my family, either. This much has been

Arties32http://www.blogger.com/profile/05118161374793973078noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-977315806072729495.post-22740342041707566772007-12-12T06:00:00.000-08:002007-12-12T09:42:14.771-08:00

Home for the HolidaysI have so may food memories growing up with my grandmother and mother in the kitchen that it was hard to pick just one. Both were great cooks and even better bakers. During the December break of my freshman year in college, I came home to not so much to do. My mother and I decided to put her baking skills to the test … a gingerbread house from scratch. This was in the days

Arties32http://www.blogger.com/profile/05118161374793973078noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-977315806072729495.post-8125682487169971302007-12-11T05:36:00.000-08:002007-12-11T05:45:19.627-08:00

My Italian mother did not teach me how to cook. She was too busy raising three wild kids and going part-time to night school in order to obtain her master's degree in Social Work. Actually, even if she did have the time, I am not really sure that she even knew how to cook. The most creative she got was pizza muffins. So I entered adulthood not even knowing how long it takes to boil an egg. I did

Arties32http://www.blogger.com/profile/05118161374793973078noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-977315806072729495.post-16379233084822391482007-12-08T01:47:00.000-08:002007-12-08T01:58:18.434-08:00

Sometimes the thought crosses my mind that maybe I spend too much time thinking about food. When I am at work, I think about what I am going to have for lunch. After lunch, I think about what I am going to have for dinner and what I should snack on in the meantime. After dinner, I think about what I could eat for lunch the next day. Is this an obsession? An addiction? I suppose there are worse

Arties32http://www.blogger.com/profile/05118161374793973078noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-977315806072729495.post-77193777893946565782007-12-07T10:58:00.000-08:002007-12-07T11:10:31.870-08:00

My most vivid food memory growing up is getting to make French Toast on the electric griddle. I got the basic recipe from an old cook book, but spiced it up with help from Grandma Grace (extra vanilla extract and cinnamon). I got to make the French Toast on a weekend or some other special occasion, and everyone usually enjoyed it (and the best part is that no one died after eating it). Mom gave

Arties32http://www.blogger.com/profile/05118161374793973078noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-977315806072729495.post-67233002811503920382007-12-06T10:58:00.000-08:002007-12-06T13:03:18.865-08:00

I was excited when Jennifer told me about her new blog. I feel as if I’m constantly thinking about food and I love to talk about food with people. I have so many food memories and associations that stand out, I don’t think I can pick just one to share.The most impressive meal I’ve had? Without question it would have to be my first meal at Matsuhisa in Beverly Hills. I agreed to accompany a family

Arties32http://www.blogger.com/profile/05118161374793973078noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-977315806072729495.post-55716709138878937852007-12-05T10:28:00.000-08:002007-12-05T10:43:56.991-08:00

I'm Adam, Alex and Jonathan's big brother (see previous post). I have food allergies. When I was about 18 months old I ate some hummus, which was delicious, but it made me really sick. I got hives all over my face where the hummus touched my skin and I threw up A LOT. My mommy took me to the pediatric allergist and they pricked me all over my back and arms to see what I was allergic to. It

Arties32http://www.blogger.com/profile/05118161374793973078noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-977315806072729495.post-33753902582090900142007-12-05T07:08:00.000-08:002007-12-05T07:13:07.243-08:00

We turned eight months old yesterday and while we don't have a whole lot of experience with food, we do know what we like. Hands down our favorite food is milk. Not that disgusting formula stuff we see other kids get, but milk, the real stuff, and preferably straight from the source. Sometimes, after a long day at day care, it is hard for us to wait our turn to see mommy for a snack. We call her

Arties32http://www.blogger.com/profile/05118161374793973078noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-977315806072729495.post-76005973307888399752007-12-03T11:56:00.000-08:002007-12-03T12:00:43.138-08:00

I grew up in a small, somewhat rural area with a mother who didn't like to cook and who saw the making of dinner each day an utter chore (feelings I now, as a mother myself, share.) My brothers and I therefore grew up eating the most pedestrian of foods - hamburgers, hot dogs, chinese out of a can, spaghetti, tacos, and the like. While occasionally we didn't like what was being served (lima beans

Arties32http://www.blogger.com/profile/05118161374793973078noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-977315806072729495.post-61539060720771665452007-12-02T07:38:00.000-08:002007-12-04T06:47:52.112-08:00

Paula grew up in Kansas City, Missouri, and associates most of her food memories with her mother, Anna May, who died when Paula was 16. In the refrigerator, Anna May kept a jar containing a mixture of flour, salt and shortening. This way, when she went to make a pie crust, all she had to do was add water and roll out the dough. One of Anna May's specialties was pies. One evening, a month after

Arties32http://www.blogger.com/profile/05118161374793973078noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-977315806072729495.post-15041541850915247762007-12-01T12:47:00.001-08:002007-12-02T07:38:24.059-08:00

When Tom was 7 or 8 years old, his family lived in Westbrook Park, a Veteran's row house community outside of Philadelphia. For breakfast and lunch on Saturday (and sometimes Sunday, too), his parents made Trenton Cracker stew. Take Trenton Crackers, cover them with water and boil them until they start falling apart (1/2 hour or more). Then drain off the water and replace it with milk, butter,

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