Chef Joan

I often think of my grandmother Joan when I read pretentious food blogs. I spent many a formative year panicking when people spoke of frozen desserts, hoping they’d stick to “ice cream” if she was around.

My grandmother pronounced the Italian version of that “Gelatio.” With a long “a.”

She spoke with an ever-increasing British accent, having been born there a thousand years before. Since eloping with my grandfather sometime in the late 20s she’d lived only in Argentina and the United States, yet her accent strengthened from year to year. She’d say, “a-loo-MIN-ium wrap” in a way that indicated both her need for something to store the leftovers in and her vast disapproval of anyone daring to think of it as the lesser “tin foil.” To her, the Empire was not lost. It was just being poorly served.

Joan and I did not enjoy a close relationship. I’d been “accidentally” given the name of her despised sister Marjorie, and I spent much of my life running from her at family gatherings. Her pinching, poking, tormenting, criticizing and occasional forays into pure sadism taught me many things, paramount among them being the importance of a circular floor plan when buying a house, crucial in evading lunatic relatives bent on inflicting harm. But time is the great equalizer, and by the time I’d reached my 20s she’d slowed down to the point where she could barely hit me with her cane, as long as I moved fast enough. It was a working peace, and she called me one day to ask, “If you don’t mind dear, could you stop by and bring me some lime? I’d like to do some cooking.”

Joan’s peculiar kitchen skills were well known to me. When I was child my parents would stop at a local bakery on the way to dinners at her house. “Eat up!” my father would cheerfully command as he handed large chunks of bread to the kids in the backseat, “it’ll help soak up the toxins.” My cousin Marcus had made that discovery early on, as a five-year-old with a will to live, and the habit had been incorporated ever since as “a good idea” by the adults dutifully driving us to be poisoned the last Sunday of each month.

“Sure, “ I said to Joan that day, “How many limes?”

“Not limes, lime. You know, the kind they put on bodies. I need to make a chicken pie.”

Joan treasured a hand-typed copy of a cookbook given to her by Doña Magdalena, a lady of stature she had known while living in Argentina and written by her cook. Before coming to the U.S. my grandparents had hobnobbed in sophisticated Buenos Aires social circles. Raised in England and a world traveler, Joan considered herself very much a gourmet.

“I’m pretty sure that kind of lime is poisonous,” I said. “How about a couple of limes from the produce section?

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she said, as she frequently did in her never-fading accent, “It’s quite delicious. Doña Magdalena’s cook used to make it all the time. You can get me some at the hardware store.”

I had experienced other “quite delicious” dishes produced by Joan. Her chicken bone soup, served to us regularly, involved the use of a pressure cooker, the bones, necks and backs of chicken, salt, garlic, bay leaves and a blender. It did not involve the use of a strainer. Served with French bread (“Take two pieces kids!”), we had to agree it was remarkable indeed how many people one could feed with this recipe. It could have been argued, in fact, that an almost infinite number of people could be served from a single pot, and we children delighted in watching the faces of first-time guests as they brought spoon to and then from lips, mouth now full of the grainy, viscous beige preparation, faces showing polite, quiet panic as they realized their options at the moment.

The chicken bone soup was frequently followed by Guava and Cracker “pie” for dessert, a large tin of guava paste jelly emptied onto a platter and served on Carr’s Water Crackers, similar in taste and texture to thin strips of cardboard, now heaped with the dense, unmoving jelly and topped with a smear of cold cream cheese.

“I don’t think the stuff you put on bodies is the same stuff I can get you at the Home Depot,” I said. It was easy to find yourself down a rabbit hole in conversations with Joan.

“We’ll you’ll just have to get me some. The recipe needs it. And also I’ll need some phyllo dough and an onion.” 

Of her many recipes, Joan’s Spanish tortilla was legend at holiday gatherings. Family members would step in the path of unsuspecting newcomers to the buffet table, leveling eye contact and issuing a “Do not eat that” as they continued on by. Visitors choosing not to heed the warnings soon found themselves mid-bite into a raw potato and gelatinous, undercooked egg creation that always provided plenty of take-home leftovers to whoever had most annoyed the family that year. 

“Listen,” I said, “I can’t buy you that kind of lime. How about cornstarch? Would that do?”

Joan was exasperated. “Really, you’re being very difficult. The directions are quite clear. Cut the chicken breast into seven equal parts. Put the pieces in a glass jar, cover with lime and store it in the back, left-hand side of the refrigerator for one week. Then rinse the chicken, mix with the onion and bake in a phyllo crust cover for 1 hour. Of course I can’t use cornstarch. Don’t be ridiculous.”

It wasn’t the potential for a poisoning so much as the fear of an FBI investigation that kept me from ceding to her wishes. Quicklime wasn’t available in neighborhood stores, even before FBI watch lists. “Adolph’s Meat Tenderizer, Granny. That’s the best I can do.”

Joan was quite annoyed, as she usually was with me, but in an effort to be conciliatory she invited me to lunch.

“I’ve got some beef liver I’ve been meaning to cook – I got it on sale and it’s looking a little off. Pick up some brandy if you come.”

Because nothing finishes off a lunch of spoiled organ meat like brandy. And of course some gelatio.