Comfort Food

I was looking over some of my older posts, and decided to revive Comfort Food, a post from Tuesday, September 13, 2016. It reminded me of all the comfort food from over the years, as well as family members, many of whom have passed away over the years. A few times have been updated for today. Example: the original post noted my Dad had died nine years ago; it's now fourteen years, which coesn't seem possible. I've also added a few photos. Enjoy.

I just finished off a bowl of butterscotch pudding. Actually, it was a double-serving of the stuff, but since two helpings were in one bowl, it only counts as one - at least, in my mind.

It was the kind of pudding that you cook, poured out in powder form into the milk, then stirred while it heats. I hate the instant stuff. My younger two love the instant chocolate pudding, and while I love chocolate, I can't handle the instant stuff. It never seems to set up exactly right. Plus, there's no film on top like the cooked pudding gets.

The butterscotch pudding was still warm, even though I'd let it cool for maybe ten minutes in the 'fridge, but it had gotten that film across the top. I know some people don't like the film (namely, the aforementioned younger two), but I do. It's part of what I liked about the stuff when I was growing up.

Why a post about butterscotch pudding? Why not? Especially when one is writing about comfort food.

Dad

Dad passed away nine years ago, in July, 2007. He'd known he was dying, and so did we. It was his fourth bout of cancer - first breast cancer (yes, men can and do get breast cancer), then prostate, then colon cancer, and finally, another round of prostate cancer. It was the second bout that took Dad. He'd beat it the first time - as well as the other two battles with cancer.

He and my step-mom Phyllis came to visit in April 2005. They'd planned to come in March, but ended up spending the month cleaning up a cellar after the water pipes had burst.

Dad and Phyllis

When they arrived, they spent close to a week, taking us out for dinner. We knew it would probably be the last time we saw Dad: the first night here, he told us that he'd gotten the prognosis that he had two years, at most. He lasted two years and change.

One afternoon while Dad and Phyl were here, they brought me to the nearby Publix for some shopping. Dad's never liked shopping; he'll decide what he wants or needs, hit the store, sprint around grabbing what stuff he'd planned to get, then head out. Left to my own devices, I'm the same way. In, sprint, get what I need, occasionally slow down to say hi to a friend or chat with one of the people fixing free food samples for shoppers ("Would you like some...today? The makings are on sale this week..."), dance around those taking their darn....sweet....time in front of whatever I'm trying to buy ("Excuse me...Excuse me...Excuse me..." Oh, heck, use the boarding house reach), then head on out.

But this time, Dad and Phyllis found their way to the pudding and gelatin aisle. I passed by as they were looking through the different flavors. I had a hunch Dad was looking for either butterscotch pudding (both of our favorite) or pistachio, his second favorite. I'll occasionally (read: once a year or so) eat pistachio pudding, mainly because it reminds me of Dad. I like it, too, but nowhere near as much as butterscotch. And yes, the pistachio has to be the cooked stuff, not instant.

I went past the other end of the pudding aisle a few minutes later, and saw that Dad and Phyl were still there. I found that a little odd (sprint, grab stuff, head for check-out), but let it slide. They were in a new store for them. Maybe they discovered some new flavor? Who knows, I thought.

But ten minutes later, when I was ready to leave and had been hunting for Dad and Phyllis, I found them still in the pudding aisle, checking out all the boxes.

"What's up?" I asked, coming up to them.

"Your dad's looking for butterscotch pudding," Phyllis informed me. "It has to be the cooked stuff."

"All they have is the instant kind," Dad added. "They have instant and cooked pudding in every other flavor, but none of the cooked butterscotch!"

A glance through the packages of both brands that Publix carried confirmed this. There was chocolate (instant and cooked), pistachio (instant and cooked), vanilla, tapioca, lemon - all instant and cooked. And butterscotch - which only came in instant.

"We haven't been able to find the cooked variety up in New York, either," Dad informed me.

Phyllis nodded. "It's true. We've tried getting it everywhere. No one seems to sell it anymore."

Butterscotch pudding - the cooked kind - was our favorite! It held memories for us. Like the time Mom flew to Florida for a week and Dad picked up enough butterscotch pudding to sink a battleship. There might have been a package or two left when Mom got back, but not much more.

I went in search of someone who worked at the store, and asked him about it. "Let me get the manager," he said.

A minute later, a manager arrived, only to inform us that they hadn't been able to get the stuff, but that he would personally try to find some somewhere for us. "But it might take a few weeks," he said.

This became a challenge for me. Dad was dying, darn it, and if he wanted the cooked version of butterscotch pudding, by God, I was going to find some!

Maybe two months after Dad and Phyl got back to New York, I found six lonely boxes of the cooked version on the shelves and bought all six, then shipped them up to Dad. A week later, I was in another store (not Publix, but another chain) and discovered that they had boxes and boxes of butterscotch pudding - the kinds you cook! I loaded up, then shipped these out the next day.

After that, once a month or so, I'd pick up a few more boxes at the store I'd located them at...until one day, more than a year after Dad and Phyllis had been here, less than a year before he died, Publix started carrying the stuff.

There are other foods that I've considered comfort food for years most of which have stories that go with them. (These stories I'll try to keep short.)

My grandmother - Mom's Mom - made a fantastic Oven Pot Roast, which I have posted in my original cooking blog, Confessions of a Foodie; the post was from January 19, 2013. Everyone in our family loved it.

One Sunday when my older three kids were young, I used Grandma's recipe to bake up her Oven Pot Roast. It smelled fantastic; by dinner time, everyone was definitely ready to eat.

I had figured, since I'd used a 4-pound chuck roast, that we'd have half of it that night, and the rest the next day for sandwiches and, finally, hash for dinner. Great idea - except that my oldest, who had two hollow legs, finished it off during the night.

Years later, when my ex- and I had split up, I was helping him find an apartment. At one complex (one that had an efficiency for rent), we stopped by the office manager's apartment so we could go to the nearby efficiency. Darned if his wife wasn't cooking a pot roast, the scent of which reminded my ex- and me of Grandma's pot roast. That clinched the deal on the efficiency! (Yes, he rented it.)

Grandma also specialized in her homemade oatmeal and peanut butter cookies, which she always seemed to have on hand, and which, when I was growing up, she'd always bring to our house when she visited, regaling my brother, sister and me of her childhood.

My other grandma had a recipe for her quick Mac and Cheese that she used to fix for my dad and his brother Don when they were kids. It is incredibly simple (macaroni and Cheese Whiz), and kid-friendly.

Then there's the Chocolate Cream Pie.

Greg, at 10

I had a boyfriend, Tom, who loved Chocolate Cream Pie; it was his all time favorite. Shortly after my family moved from Connecticut back to New York, Tom came for a weekend visit. He was planning to fly back Sunday night. But before he left, Mom insisted on fixing a large Sunday dinner in the early afternoon. Of course, I had to fix the chocolate cream pie, right? I mean, it was my boyfriend's favorite! And how difficult could it be? Pie crust (I'd use my great grandmother's recipe), chocolate pudding, and whipped cream. Easy enough, right?

Wrong! Somehow, I managed to get the pie crust to taste like undercooked pizza crust (while burning the outer edges of it!), I burned the chocolate pudding, and the whipped cream got whipped half-way to butter!!! Yeah, it was memorable!

When it came time to serve dessert, the pie was cut into six slices, and everyone got one. But one bite...I couldn't finish my piece. Neither could Tom, nor my sister, Mom, Dad...the only one who could eat it was my kid brother. At 10, he would eat anything that didn't eat him first.

"If anyone doesn't want their pie, I'll eat it!" he announced. Immediately, five plates got pushed toward him.

About this time, the phone rang; it was one of my sister's friends. Dad - who'd answered the phone - was laughing so hard about the pie - yes, it was that bad! - that he couldn't talk, and handed the phone to me. I was laughing hard, and handed the phone to my sister. The phone made the rounds, until it was finally handed to my brother.

"Yeah, I'll tell her to call you," he told our sister's friend. "But I don't know what they're all laughing about. Robin made a pie for her boyfriend - and it's great! And you know the best part? I get to eat the whole thing!"

For years afterward, whenever Dad would come to visit, he'd inform me, "I don't care what you cook, just don't make that Chocolate Cream Pie!"

I guess we all have comfort foods, and stories about food. Yes, I've got more food stories, but they can wait for another time.

In the meantime, anyone up for a good Chocolate Cream Pie?

Note: Check out my e-cookbook, Off the Wall Cooking.

Comfort Food

I just finished off a bowl of butterscotch pudding. Actually, it was a double-serving of the stuff, but since two helpings were in one bowl, it only counts as one - at least, in my mind.

It was the kind of pudding that you cook, poured out in powder form into the milk, then stirred while it heats. I hate the instant stuff. My younger two love the instant chocolate pudding, and while I love chocolate, I can't handle the instant stuff. It never seems to set up exactly right. Plus, there's no film on top like the cooked pudding gets.

The butterscotch pudding was still warm, even though I'd let it cool for maybe ten minutes in the 'fridge, but it had gotten that film across the top. I know some people don't like the film (namely, the aforementioned younger two), but I do. It's part of what I liked about the stuff when I was growing up.

Why a post about butterscotch pudding? Why not? Especially when one is writing about comfort food.

Dad passed away nine years ago, in July, 2007. He'd known he was dying, and so did we. It was his fourth bout of cancer - first breast cancer (yes, men can and do get breast cancer), then prostate, then colon cancer, and finally, another round of prostate cancer. It was the second bout that took Dad. He'd beat it the first time - as well as the other two battles with cancer.

He and my step-mom Phyllis came to visit in April 2005. They'd planned to come in March, but ended up spending the month cleaning up a cellar after the water pipes had burst.

When they arrived, they spent close to a week, taking us out for dinner. We knew it would probably be the last time we saw Dad: the first night here, he told us that he'd gotten the prognosis that he had two years, at most. He lasted two years and change.

One afternoon while Dad and Phyl were here, they brought me to the nearby Publix for some shopping. Dad's never liked shopping; he'll decide what he wants or needs, hit the store, sprint around grabbing what stuff he'd planned to get, then head out. Left to my own devices, I'm the same way. In, sprint, get what I need, occasionally slow down to say hi to a friend or chat with one of the people fixing free food samples for shoppers ("Would you like some...today? The makings are on sale this week..."), dance around those taking their darn....sweet....time in front of whatever I'm trying to buy ("Excuse me...Excuse me...Excuse me..." Oh, heck, use the boarding house reach), then head on out.

But this time, Dad and Phyllis found their way to the pudding and gelatin aisle. I passed by as they were looking through the different flavors. I had a hunch Dad was looking for either butterscotch pudding (both of our favorite) or pistachio, his second favorite. I'll occasionally (read: once a year or so) eat pistachio pudding, mainly because it reminds me of Dad. I like it, too, but nowhere near as much as butterscotch. And yes, the pistachio has to be the cooked stuff, not instant.

I went past the other end of the pudding aisle a few minutes later, and saw that Dad and Phyl were still there. I found that a little odd (sprint, grab stuff, head for check-out), but let it slide. They were in a new store for them. Maybe they discovered some new flavor? Who knows, I thought.

But ten minutes later, when I was ready to leave and had been hunting for Dad and Phyllis, I found them still in the pudding aisle, checking out all the boxes.

"What's up?" I asked, coming up to them.

"Your dad's looking for butterscotch pudding," Phyllis informed me. "It has to be the cooked stuff."

"All they have is the instant kind," Dad added. "They have instant and cooked pudding in every other flavor, but none of the cooked butterscotch!"

A glance through the packages of both brands that Publix carried confirmed this. There was chocolate (instant and cooked), pistachio (instant and cooked), vanilla, tapioca, lemon - all instant and cooked. And butterscotch - which only came in instant.

"We haven't been able to find the cooked variety up in New York, either," Dad informed me.

Phyllis nodded. "It's true. We've tried getting it everywhere. No one seems to sell it anymore."

Butterscotch pudding - the cooked kind - was our favorite! It held memories for us. Like the time Mom flew to Florida for a week and Dad picked up enough butterscotch pudding to sink a battleship. There might have been a package or two left when Mom got back, but not much more.

I went in search of someone who worked at the store, and asked him about it. "Let me get the manager," he said.

A minute later, a manager arrived, only to inform us that they hadn't been able to get the stuff, but that he would personally try to find some somewhere for us. "But it might take a few weeks," he said.

This became a challenge for me. Dad was dying, darn it, and if he wanted the cooked version of butterscotch pudding, by God, I was going to find some!

Maybe two months after Dad and Phyl got back to New York, I found six lonely boxes of the cooked version on the shelves and bought all six, then shipped them up to Dad. A week later, I was in another store (not Publix, but another chain) and discovered that they had boxes and boxes of butterscotch pudding - the kinds you cook! I loaded up, then shipped these out the next day.

After that, once a month or so, I'd pick up a few more boxes at the store I'd located them at...until one day, more than a year after Dad and Phyllis had been here, less than a year before he died, Publix started carrying the stuff.

There are other foods that I've considered comfort food for years most of which have stories that go with them. (These stories I'll try to keep short.)

My grandmother - Mom's Mom - made a fantastic Oven Pot Roast, which I have posted in my original cooking blog, Confessions of a Foodie; the post was from January 19, 2013. Everyone in our family loved it.

One Sunday when my older three kids were young, I used Grandma's recipe to bake up her Oven Pot Roast. It smelled fantastic; by dinner time, everyone was definitely ready to eat.

I had figured, since I'd used a 4-pound chuck roast, that we'd have half of it that night, and the rest the next day for sandwiches and, finally, hash for dinner. Great idea - except that my oldest, who had two hollow legs, finished it off during the night.

Years later, when my ex- and I had split up, I was helping him find an apartment. At one complex (one that had an efficiency for rent), we stopped by the office manager's apartment so we could go to the nearby efficiency. Darned if his wife wasn't cooking a pot roast, the scent of which reminded my ex- and me of Grandma's pot roast. That clinched the deal on the efficiency! (Yes, he rented it.)

Grandma also specialized in her homemade oatmeal and peanut butter cookies, which she always seemed to have on hand, and which, when I was growing up, she'd always bring to our house when she visited, regaling my brother, sister and me of her childhood.

My other grandma had a recipe for her quick Mac and Cheese that she used to fix for my dad and his brother Don when they were kids. It is incredibly simple (macaroni and Cheese Whiz), and kid-friendly.

Then there's the Chocolate Cream Pie.

I had a boyfriend, Tom, who loved Chocolate Cream Pie; it was his all time favorite. Shortly after my family moved from Connecticut back to New York, Tom came for a weekend visit. He was planning to fly back Sunday night. But before he left, Mom insisted on fixing a large Sunday dinner in the early afternoon. Of course, I had to fix the chocolate cream pie, right? I mean, it was my boyfriend's favorite! And how difficult could it be? Pie crust (I'd use my great grandmother's recipe), chocolate pudding, and whipped cream. Easy enough, right?

Wrong! Somehow, I managed to get the pie crust to taste like undercooked pizza crust (while burning the outer edges of it!), I burned the chocolate pudding, and the whipped cream got whipped half-way to butter!!! Yeah, it was memorable!

When it came time to serve dessert, the pie was cut into six slices, and everyone got one. But one bite...I couldn't finish my piece. Neither could Tom, nor my sister, Mom, Dad...the only one who could eat it was my kid brother. At 10, he would eat anything that didn't eat him first.

"If anyone doesn't want their pie, I'll eat it!" he announced. Immediately, five plates got pushed toward him.

About this time, the phone rang; it was one of my sister's friends. Dad - who'd answered the phone - was laughing so hard about the pie - yes, it was that bad! - that he couldn't talk, and handed the phone to me. I was laughing hard, and handed the phone to my sister. The phone made the rounds, until it was finally handed to my brother.

"Yeah, I'll tell her to call you," he told our sister's friend. "But I don't know what they're all laughing about. Robin made a pie for her boyfriend - and it's great! And you know the best part? I get to eat the whole thing!"

For years afterward, whenever Dad would come to visit, he'd inform me, "I don't care what you cook, just don't make that Chocolate Cream Pie!"

I guess we all have comfort foods, and stories about food. Yes, I've got more food stories, but they can wait for another time.

In the meantime, anyone up for a good Chocolate Cream Pie?

Note: Check out my e-cookbook, Off the Wall Cooking.

Cooking

I was in a baking mood this afternoon, so I whipped up a couple of pies, two pumpkin, the third, a cranberry raisin concoction.

This last one was from a recipe my dad had sent me years ago. If I remember correctly, it was somewhere in the middle of a long letter he'd written while stranded on a train out of New York City back home to White Plains during a huge blizzard in February, 1977. He was getting his Master's at Union Theological Seminary, part of Columbia University, and had gone in that morning, only to discover that the blizzard had caused classes to be canceled. The letter was ten or twelve pages long, describing the train ride home, the other passengers, and more. If I remember, it was also in this letter that he described his classes, and one professor who made an impression on him as being especially intelligent and thought-provoking - a man Dad predicted would most likely go far. (The professor was Cornel West; Dad was right in his assessment.)

Getting back to the pies: Dad was a good cook. I take after him when it comes to cooking. He loved cooking, as do I. Dad got his love of cooking from his dad, my grandfather. When my dad's parents came to visit for the weekend, Mom knew better than to get in the kitchen to do more than the occasional meal, as well as washing dishes. Dad and Grandpa would each try to out-do the other when it came to cooking.

Mom's side of the family was also known for their exploits in the kitchen - but not the way Dad and Grandpa were. Mom's mom was a really good cook. Grandma could whip up a really good full dinner without a second thought. It was the rest of the family whose cooking skills were a little sketchy.

Now, don't get me wrong. Mom could cook up a good spaghetti sauce, a really good marshmallow-fruit salad, and other basic meals. But in her book of essays, titled The Color Chartreuse Etc., Mom mentions that her side of the family had questionable cooking skills. In the essay "Cooking Runs in The Family - But Not Far Enough!", she describes her dad's attempts at making oatmeal for Mom and my uncle when Grandma was sick. (Hint: It deals with breadcrumbs being stored in an oatmeal box.) In Grandpa's defense, his vision was a little less than stellar.

Whenever I cook certain recipes, I'm reminded of family members no longer around. The cranberry pie, hot chili, and French onion soup remind me of Dad; scrambled eggs with sour cream in it, Dad's Dad; Dad's Mom's mac and cheese; chocolate cream pie (the first time I made it, my brother was the only one who could stomach it; G. was brave!). Then there's my ex's chili, Mom's marshmallow - fruit salad - which also brings memories of the time Mom had gone out after fixing a ham and marshmallow - fruit salad, leaving my sister and me as the only ones eating (if I remember right, there was almost no salad left when Mom and G. got back to the house; A. and I did enjoy it, though!), and more: a veggie dish my daughter made for her family's first Thanksgiving here in Florida, lasagna (my oldest son comes to mind, as well as when I fix his BBQ Gluten recipe), my second husband, P., loving my spinach quiche (as a Marine, he showed that real men can love quiche!), and many other foods.

Originally, I'd planned to make several homemade soup recipes so I could photograph them for my food blog.

(Another memory - Mom made homemade soup maybe twice a month, serving it out of a huge white soup tureen, a large white soup ladle resting in a notch on the side. Dang, I loved those soups, and dearly miss Mom whenever I make homemade soup.)

But having made the pies is fine, too. The soups can wait until tomorrow.

I love cooking, and the memories it brings.