William Penn Life, 2012 (47. évfolyam, 1-12. szám)
2012-05-01 / 5. szám
íhe R-ítch^D* with Főszakdcs Béla Lunchtime with Grandma FÁRADJON BE A MAGYAR KONYHÁBA! Did you think The Hungarian Kitchen was dosing? NO WAY! We will be "remodeling" all summer long and debuting a new look in September. Chef Vilmos and I will be cooking throughout the summer and sharing these experiences with you in the fall. In the meantime, the column will be shorter than usual and feature just a few recipes each month. Please excuse the temporary look as we work hard to provide more for you, our dedicated readers. 4| While we make improvements in our Kitchen, I suggest you check out all the upcoming WPA activities and make plans to enjoy as many as you can. Now back into the kitchen, and enjoy the recipes as they are still my favorites to make, serve and eat! This month, I want to share an experience I had growing up in the 7th Ward, which is the Hungarian section of New Brunswick, N.J. Mom and Dad both worked, so I spent most of the day in school or with my grandparents. Grandma and Grandpa lived on the first floor of our two-story house at 16 Hartwell St.; my family lived upstairs. Hungarians were the dominant ethnicity in the neighborhood. In 1959,1 was seven years old and in first grade. Miss Conover, my teacher, must have started her career when she was very young as my aunt, father and younger sister all had her. I liked my teacher and paid attention in class except when it was close to lunchtime. Lincoln School had a morning session, then everyone took a lunch break, and we returned to school until 3:15 pm. Since school was only three short blocks away, I could walk home and have lunch with Grandma. She was my father's mother and my favorite person to spend time with growing up. She and my grandfather took English lessons when they arrived from Budapest in the 1920's. Walking one block from school, turning the corner, I would spot her waiting for me. Grandma, being a small woman with graying auburn hair, made sure I would see her. She always wore a dress and, in chilly weather, her favorite dark blue sweater with white buttons. Whenever she left the house, a black handbag would dangle on her left arm. As we walked, she would ask what I learned that morning. Then it was my turn to guess what we would have for lunch. Most of the time I guessed wrong but had fun trying. Grandma was a superb cook. Some days we enjoyed stuffed cabbage rolls. The aroma would reach you entering the back door before you got to the kitchen. Her secret recipe of beef, pork and rice filling wrapped in a cabbage leaf tasted so good you could not have just one. She would simmer them for hours in a savory broth of tomato, sauerkraut and cabbage juice, then season with salt and black pepper. A slice of her crusted rye bread added to this perfect meal. Other times we had chicken pieces braised in paprika and stock, seasoned, then thickened with a dollop of sour cream. Her chicken paprikas went over dumplings, nokedli as she called them. On colder days her chicken rice soup (csirke leves) with potato biscuits warmed me for the walk back to school. Grandma always had a selection of dishes she could prepare for and finished with something for dessert. Whether it was sugar cookies or small filled pastries called kifli, you had to have something sweet to finish the meal. If there was any dessert leftover from Sunday dinner after church, like pie, we ate that on Monday. Her lemon meringue pie was so yellow I thought it could glow in the dark. It was so high I could not put the whole forkful in my mouth, so I ate the meringue first and then the lemon on the flaky crust. We had pear and peach trees in the backyard for Grandma's desserts. She even put up fruit for us to enjoy during the wintertime. Schoolmates were envious when I returned to class and told them what I had for lunch. Occasionally, my grandfather, who worked in a local supermarket, would come home to join us. I had lunch with Grandma for five years. By then, I had sampled all of her Magyar food. Roosevelt Intermediate School and the seventh grade were too far to walk home for lunch, so, sadly, my luncheon days with grandma ended. Mealtime can be a time of reflection, advice, compliments, laughter and many other ways of communication with the ones you love. Grandma was my great love, as I was hers, for it was she who shared her passion of Hungarian food with me that I still enjoy today. Whenever I smell the aroma of stuffed cabbage, I pause and think of lunchtime and Grandma with her handbag, waiting for me on the comer. (Jó ótv-á/flífüt J őszcl/Imz The Hungarian Kitchen is a trademark of William S. Vasvary. 8 0 May 2012 0 William Penn Life
