Growing up in Canton
There’s a new movie out about Julia Child, the famous (and some would say the best-ever) TV cook. Julia Child graced the airwaves of PBS for decades without pretentiousness, famed for her wit and easygoing style, especially in the face of culinary errors. The movie, “Julie & Julia”, is half biography of Julia child, half the story of a woman who cooks every recipe in her most famous cookbook, “Mastering The Art of French Cooking”, in one year.
I have special memories from my youth of Julia Child. My mom worked outside the home when I was in high school and as a single mom of 5 kids she would struggle to come home from work and cook a meal for us all. So the cooking duties began to devolve upon us. We’d come home from school, find a package of defrosting chicken in the sink and a note of instructions. It was during this time that my TV watching habits began to turn from typical teenage boy fare to PBS and the specifically to Julia Child. In the days before the Food Network, PBS was the place for televised cooking instruction, from Julia to “Yan Can Cook” to the Frugal Gourmet. But Julia was queen of them all.
I didn’t learn all my cooking skills from Julia—working in an Italian restaurant kitchen helped as well—but she was instrumental as inspiration. My very first cookbook was not “Mastering the Art of French Cooking,” which I think I found too intimidating, but another cookbook, “From Julia Child’s Kitchen”. I can’t say I cooked many recipes from it; despite being French cooking for the average American housewife, I was a teenager and our pantry was somewhat more limited than even her simplified recipes called for.
Yet there is one recipe from the book that brings back pleasant memories because it was the first major holiday dish I ever cooked for my family. I can’t say exactly what year it was, but I’d guess it was toward the end of my high school years. I’d seen an episode of Julia’s show in she made it and I told my mom that I would like to try to make it for the family. It was a roast leg of lamb— gigot d’agneau roti—and I would cook it for Easter dinner. I was determined to follow every instruction to the letter and prepare every ingredient as instructed, right down to getting the proper “whole” leg, including hip bone, main leg bone, and shank bone. Most supermarkets only sold them without the shank bone, but my mom went to the effort to find a butcher who could provide the proper lamb.
Long story, short—mainly because I don’t really remember most of the details—the lamb and its sauce were delicious. I made it every year after that until I moved to Steubenville for college and then made it a few times there for friends, but I don’t think I’ve made it more than once or twice since then. I recently picked a new hardbound copy of “From Julia Child’s Kitchen” on Bookmooch, to replace my now falling-apart original copy so it may be time to bring back that old favorite and to try some of those recipes I never had a chance to try back then.
And when I do I will lift a glass of wine in tribute to the dear lady who launched a love of food and cooking in a teenage boy those decades ago.
I remember my first political thought. I was seven years old and it was 1976. We were on the school bus, presumably taking us to 2nd grade, and for some reason we were talking the presidential election. Of course, most children that age are influenced by their parents’ choices, as overheard at home, but we made them our own. Since this was Massachusetts, more kids voiced support for Jimmy Carter than for Gerald Ford, but not me.
No, I had a clear preference that was not the Democratic presidential candidate. It’s not that I was a big Gerry Ford fan. My reasons were much more personal. I warned my classmates that if Carter was elected they would feel the difference in their lunch bags.
I was convinced that, as a peanut farmer, Jimmy Carter would see to it that peanut prices would go up and we’d all see less peanut butter in our PB&J sandwiches in the future.
Okay, so I was a muckraking ideologue back then. I’m much more subtle now.
Photo credit: Richard B. Russel Library for Political Research and Studies, University of Georgia.
Wow, this brought back memories. The Boy Scout council where I grew up is renovating Camp Squanto, their summer camp in Plymouth, Massachusetts. They plan to spend about $3 million building a new dining hall, a welcome lodge, and other improvements.
I spent a couple of weeks over a few summers there in my youth in the early 80s. Usually, I would spend a week with my troop and then a second week with a couple of friends in the “provisional” troop, which was a catch-all group for scouts whose troop wasn’t at the camp.
I remember that my first time there, I had to take my swimming test at the beginning of the week so they would know my proficiency and where I could swim. Unfortunately, the tests took forever and I happened to be the last kid to go. Also unfortunately, they had a problem that year with eels living under the swim docks and a few boys got bit. Nothing serious, mind you, but somewhat painful. It added an air of … challenge to the swim tests. In fact, just before my turn, the boy before me was bit in the arm and had to be taken up to the aid station.
They had a problem that year with eels living under the swim docks. It added an air of … challenge to the swim tests.
The lifeguard who remained looked at me and said, “Well, you’re the last one, so you may as well try it.” Wait, what?! From his point of view, I was the last kid left so the worst that could happen is that I got nipped too. From my point of view … I could get nipped too!
As an accommodation, he allowed me to swim closer to shore and further from the dock. Gee, thanks. As a result it was the fastest swim test on record. I barely even got wet, I swam so fast. I jumped in and did the required manuevers as fast as possible: crawl, butterfly, hold my breath under water, tread water. Mark Spitz had nothing on me. And I did it the whole time with my eyes closed. I didn’t dare open them under water for fear of seeing the gaping maw of an eel coming at me. Did I mention the little buggers were just a couple of inches long? But in my imagination they were six-foot Moray eels.
Oh, I passed, by the way.
Fighting naval battles for glory and honor
When I was in high school, I held several different jobs, including working in the Canton (Mass.) Public Library as a book clerk. But I also worked as a dishwasher at an Italian restaurant called Capriccio’s, also in my hometown of Canton.
I didn’t earn a lot of money working as a dishwasher, but I did come away with a lot.
It was a nice place, but not too upscale. You can’t be too upscale in a local mall. And working there was kind of a family tradition. My sister Francesca had worked there as a waitress and my brother John worked there later, first as a waiter and then as a line cook. He was my connection to the job.
It was quite an education in having a work ethic for a 16-year-old kid. I usually worked the weekend evening shifts. I’d come about 4 or 6 pm (one dishwasher started earlier and the second would come later), and the night would start out slow. If I was lucky, they would have me doing some prep work, slicing cases of mushrooms or opening up can after can of tomatoes for sauce or, if I was unlucky, peeling a giant stockpot full of onions. (The trick is to hold the onion under running water.)
The rhythm of the kitchen
Technorati Tags: restaurant | kitchen | dishwasher | teen job | work ethic | Italian restaurant |
