The Back Story
I don't remember the first time I cooked. Or any time I cooked, growing up. We had a person for that purpose, called Cook. Nannies too. I've said we lived a charmed life. Briefly. Like fantasy's apple, gleaming and beautiful on the outside, poisened and rotten through and through.

I don't remember the first time I cooked. Or any time I cooked, growing up. Cook didn't want us in "her" kitchen. She tolerated my mother, who paid her salary after all.

My mother taught her how to make special Jewish dishes, brisket, matzo ball soup, kreplach (Wait! My grandmother taught her that). I guess along the way they all taught me too, because I can cook those and more now.

I don't remember the first time I cooked. I do remember eating. Too much. Every week night we ate dinner as a family around the dining room table, hands washed, hair brushed, backs straight, minding our P's and Q's. Finishing everything on our plates. Every. Last. Bite.

I don't remember the first time I cooked, but I remember the late 1950's mind set of Clean Your Plate. Being forced to sit at table until we choked down cold, slimy lima beans, crusted mashed potatoes, gelatinous scrambled eggs. No wonder we were chubby kids.

The Backside Story
There was a button under the dining room table by my mother's chair. It connected to a buzzer in the kitchen. She'd press it with her foot when she wanted dinner to be served or the next course brought in or the table cleared.

As kids, we never tired of tiptoeing into the empty dining room, sliding under the table and pressing that button over and over. No matter how many times Cook or other staff chased us away, chattering in Pennsylvania Dutch, swatting at our bottoms with long wooden spoons.

If they'd tattled on us, we'd have been swatted much harder by our father. With his belt. Or, his personal favorite, one of his leather bedroom slippers. The slip-on kind, they flapped, carried a size 10 wallop.

I don't remember the first time I cooked, but I remember that leather slipper. And the pain. Much worse than hunger. They knew. So even if we buzzed the devil out of them with that button, they never told. His wrath was the devil they feared for us.

The Waffles, Not Worth It
Saturday nights that devil wrath reached epic peaks. I don't want to remember any of those times. Sunday mornings were different. He often cooked, sometimes eggs but mostly, ah, mouth watering waffles and sausages.

I don't remember the first time I cooked, but I remember the heavenly aromas of waffles, syrup, sizzling meat. I remember the thick, hissing sound of the mix being poured into the big waffle iron, the light smoke, then the wait.

Somehow he knew exactly when to lift the heavy lid by its black wood handle, revealing perfectly browned waffles. In pajamas and robes we'd all slide into place around the red, padded breakfast nook in the kitchen.

We'd fight over who got the syrup bottle first. Maybe get a small smack and a loud shush. So I also remember the other smells, last night's stale scotch, dried sweat, cigarette smoke, black coffee. My mother's fear.

I don't remember the first time I cooked, but I have never made waffles and I never will. Pancakes. From a box. Delicious. Better, memory-free. You can buy your own mix, I prefer Bisquik.

I don't remember the first time I cooked but somehow I learned. From Cook, my mother, my grandmothers, my older sister, my friends.

The First Time
I'll never forget the first time I cooked for my future husband. We had just decided to marry, which is another story altogether. I planned a dinner for his best friend and wife, plus another couple.

We'd been living together for a while but either we ate out, ordered in or he cooked. His mother had made sure all three of her sons learned to cook and clean and do laundry and sew. Yeah, no kidding.

I'll never forget the first time I cooked for my future husband. A simple menu. My sister's famous "ass-kickin chicken." Green beans. My own famous "finger-lickin potatoes," served with a special twist. Best Friend's wife had her own baking business, she'd bring dessert.

Did I mention I had a cat?

Puff, a light grey Siamese mix. Ruler Of The House. The Universe even. Famous, in fact, in feline veterinary circles. The first male cat to have a sex change operation as the solution to the persistent UTI's that often kill male cats. Also another story.

Puff made certain I'll never forget the first time I cooked for my future husband. But let's back up. Recipes first.

Almost The Last Time
The brown bag shake is the special twist. It's done at the table so all can smell the delicious potatoes, see the oil transfer onto the bag. Then watch the roasted cubes cascade into the serving bowl.

I'll never forget the first time I cooked for my future husband. The chicken was crisp and juicy. The beans were steamed just right. A bottle of wine was opened and poured. The aromas blended perfectly. Mouths watered.

All were seated at the table expectantly as I emerged from the kitchen, shaking the bag with added flair as befitted the occasion. Future Husband beamed with pride.

Extra Added Secret Ingrediant
I moved the pre-heated bowl center stage, opened the bag and slid my best batch of potatoes ever into the bowl. I actually said, "Ta da!"

Dead. Silence. Future Husband's eyes widened. I looked down at the potatoes -- and literally shrieked with horror! My perfectly cooked potatoes were covered ... coated ... plastered ... with cat hair.

Puff the cat had jumped onto the kitchen counter unnoticed, crawled into the paper bag for a brief nap, then departed on little cat feet. 

I hadn't checked inside the bag before adding the potatoes, then shaking them vigorously. All the better to coat them completely with light grey cat hair.

Cat owners all, the table exploded in laughter. And thus, the legend of the 'Cat Hair Potatoes' was born. To this day, when people come to dinner, somebody inevitably asks, Are you serving 'Cat Hair Potatoes'?

They really want to know if I'm making my tasty, crispy roasted potatoes, which will forever bear that gagalicious name.

I'll never forget the first time I cooked for my future husband. You can relax, I am not going to show you a picture of the 'Cat Hair Potatoes.'

Just the Culinary Culprit.


Simple-minded humans, they think I'm asleep.
When they leave the room, the bag is MINE!