How Vincent Price Changed My Life

My sister and I survived interesting gastronomic times when we were young.  My mom was never much for cooking and was completely anorexic.  Her mother, my grandmother was grimly committed to feeding everyone but disliked eating as well.  When my father was alive, we ate take out from restaurants all the time, and on the weekends, grilled on the back porch.  That was a complete gas.  My parents got steak, and we kids got the "tube steak" or hot dogs, and we all got hot roasted potatoes and corn.  We loved it.  Dad would crank up Herb Albert and the Tijuana Brass.  The Texas stars and the night air, the wonderful smells wafting from the grill, everything sensory lent an air of the exotic to those meals.  Occasionally, Mom would prepare something in the kitchen, but her most successful meals were those that required very little preparer intervention; canned soup and slightly soggy but customizable sandwiches. 

But when my Dad passed suddenly, Mom lost interest in everything altogether.  It is to her credit that rather than self destructing altogether, she got a job and became very involved in it.  We continued to acquire many of our meals from restaurants.  But at this point in our lives, my grandparents held our little household together by bringing fresh produce from their farm, on a weekly basis.  My sister and I had so little experience with home cooked food, that at first, we hadn't a clue as to what to do with the bounty from the farm.  We had no concept of what incredibly good ingredients we had to work with.

My grandparents' farm was in Bastrop.  My sister and I were frequent visitors.  They kept a Jersey milk cow (named Jersey).  Annually,  we raised one or two calves to slaughter for beef.  Goats free ranged and gave us grief, creepy stares and delicious goat milk.  (For a short time, we had an aptly named pony named Dick; he was a foul tempered Shetland who tried to bite us when we approached him.  He resembled my ex in no small part, but I digress.)  There was a nice sized shed where the domestic chickens would lay eggs.  The Guinea fowls were prone to lay their eggs beneath a massive bush in the yard, and as kids, we were sent under the bush to retrieve those smaller speckled eggs.  

The gardens yielded corn, tomatoes, squash, onions, carrots, peppers, green beans, jalapenos, potatoes, melons, and berries.  Supply of these would vary, depending on the season, the weather, and whatever predatory animals were plaguing my Grandpa in his garden.  Several nights, I would help him put smudge pots among the rows of vegetable plants; we'd stay up late devising scarecrows to terrorize the raccoons and deer.

So, all this bounty and not a single freaking clue about what to do with it.  My grandmother had conceded to one of my more persistent demands and learned to soft scramble eggs (because I absolutely do not like hard cooked fried egg.)  After working it out, she taught me.  I began preparing scrambled eggs for my sister and I to eat at home, and after not too long, we were completely and totally sick of them.  I love them again; it wasn't a permanent surfeit.  But my sister and I still think of "Eeeegggs" as a meal way too frequently enjoyed.

Then I found the Vincent Price cookbook.  In the quest to cobble together the random items in the fridge into something my sister and I could eat after school, I thumbed through the very strangest of cookbooks.  Many of the dishes, I would never prepare, because I was never in possession of the ingredients; exotic meats and vegetables that only dedicated foodies seek out.  Some recipes I converted into monstrous but somewhat edible caricatures of the originals. 

Scrambled eggs morphed into frittata and omelettes, which was a distinct improvement.  Eventually, I became the first cook in our family.  (My dad's parents didn't cook either!)  My cooking still wasn't very good, as some of my college mates can attest, but I was enthusiastic, and more capable than your average Bear.

After my sons were born, I got crazy with food preparation.  Factors weighing into this were budgetary, taste for variety and sheer boredom.  Then I started learning the real basics of cooking from Food Network.  My MSTie friends turned me on to Iron Chef.  I started collecting nice quality cooking implements.  At long last, I became competent. 

Proud Mom note:  Both of my kids have always been very hands on in the kitchen.  My younger son attends Escoffier Culinary and has Serious Chef Chops.  

My Mom never really got on the same page with us about cooking, and disparages nearly everything having to do with eating.  My sister and I both were severely underweight for most of our lives;  I grapple with body image issues, and I presume she does as well.  When I broke 100 pounds in weight, Mom told me I was getting "hippy in the potamus."  (Granted, that was a while back, but mean spirited words have a perversely tenacious staying power.)  I recall with no small amount of shame that in my younger years, I had no sense of proportion as to weight and was an arrogant, conceited little bitch for much longer than necessary.  I desperately hope I can say I got better.  

My rather stained and work Vincent Price cookbook is next to me on the sofa.  I first learned to prepare food to help care for my little sister, then for my classmates, and eventually my kids.  The upshot of this is; good nourishment is nurturing, and everyone needs it.  We weren't meant to live on Soylent, or Hotpockets or fast food alone.  Food is love.

Happy Thanksgiving!