Summer Platters and all That Matters

In the peak of summer my mother set the stage for my lifetime response of "I will follow you." 

She did this unwittingly, just trying to get through hot stretches of preparing meals for ten, seven days a week. Her tried-and-true favorites were as simple as the apple pie she never made, although she did excel at lemon meringue. Except for one, summer meals were downright ordinary--common foods all. But it was her trademark "platter" effect that took each thing up to a definite next level.

Whatever Mom made, she assembled things onto platters with colorful, artistic flair. If it was burgers, a big plate was assembled to flatter common grilled patties into something remarkable. Fresh lettuce leaves (no wimps allowed), thick and crunchy red onion rings, wavy dill pickle rounds, cheese slices and the most vibrant of California tomatoes, thick sliced.

The routine was to mosey our way food-line fashion to build our own burgers and dress the buns with mayo, mustard and ketchup. I remember the fresh garnishes as snappy-crisp with so little "give" all of our sandwiches were a mile high and completely problematic to eating gracefully.

Mom had a curious tradition when it came to corn on the cob in season. It's one that I never dared try with my own family, but it sailed true for my mom, and if I could get away with it in these times I would surely want to!

From a field farmstand nearby, this involved a simple plunging of just-picked ears, about two dozen in a huge stockpot. A deep immersion and quick boil, then a lifting of the cobs onto a platter for a generous buttering and salting. A dinner plate next-to offered chunky sticks of longhorn cheddar, as many as we could manage between our gobbling attacks at the corn. That was it--supper. Maybe a glass of milk. We ate our fill and enjoyed every bite.

Another silk purse Mom could make out of a sow's ear was in her easy-way-out meal of a "cold-cut" platter, and yes, you would be right if you guessed this to be a glorified lunch meat supper. But Mom cut and arranged meats we liked, sometimes adding smoked fish my dad often picked up, oceanside. She dotted the artwork with other things we loved, like sour pickles and olives and cheeses and vegetable sticks and salty seasoned crackers. With a tall glass of icy lemonade or iced tea, we never minded this meal.

 

I think that meal today, on a slab of wood, fits today's description of "charcuterie," no?  Mom knew charcuterie, before charcuterie was this cool!!

When Mom made cold sandwiches like tuna, chicken or egg salad she cut soft bread diagonally and arranged the halves into a pyramid of loveliness on--you guessed it again--a big platter. Her seasonings and added crunch were never sweet, her dressing creamy and decidedly flavorsome. Her recipes for her cold sandwiches were so simple but so good I ran a lunchroom café for nearly fourteen years on almost their appeal alone.

A more adventurous favorite of Mom's was not even a variation of a mainstream recipe, especially for her time. Acting on her creative side, she conjured up a wonderful summer salad that fast became her signature dish. I still marvel at her imagination in mixing up spicy pickled vegetables, lettuces and sea-salty abalone chunks. When most salads of the day involved iceberg lettuce and tomato, or maybe Jello and marshmallows, Mom's salad ingenuity seems amazing. I'd LOVE to make that salad today, but where in Wisconsin could I ever find abalone chunks?

Probably my mom's greatest cooking achievements did not center on the overly simple of the warm-weather meals mindset. She was a renowned good cook of her Mexican heritage; she excelled at many dishes of a more complicated nature. She enjoyed cooking and like a lot of mothers it was at times her best way to express her nurturing side.

I remember watching Gordon Ramsay once doing his "insult" routine to a bevy of aspiring chefs; in the episode the ONE person he was favorably impressed by (and complimentary toward) could have been my mom. She was self-taught, an older Mexican woman who knew her stuff and who Ramsay himself couldn't have imitated if he tried. 

In Mom's later years it wasn't at all easy to get her animated or enthusiastic about anything. I discovered my best shot at getting Mom to talk was to extract from her the talent she still owned about nurturing through food. I asked her questions, I nourished her with thankfulness and by expressing I had been trying to match her skill, and just couldn't.

I told her:

I remember all the good food you made, Mom. I know what went into all those good meals because I do the same now, and it's about so much more than the food. It's about love. It's about joy, even when the dishes have to be washed. And strangely enough, most of what I still prepare is all the good dishes you didn't even try to teach me.

You didn't have to. You were the example, I watched. You answered the questions, and you encouraged. Lessons were more imparted, hardly spoken.

And to more than one child, therefore more than one family. Waves of lessons, waves of carrying on,

(With a little Door Dash or pick-up thrown in!)

Immeasurable. Thank you.