When I was very young, my mother packed up me and my three siblings and took us to her childhood home in New England, for two weeks, each summer. My father drove us, and then returned to southern New Jersey. I don’t remember when two weeks stretched into whole-summer visits, but as a kid I thought it was wonderful. Entire summers of swimming, beach combing, rock climbing, and running the neighborhood with cousins and local kids. Looking back, and reading between the lines, there were adult reasons for these extended stays that weren’t meant to trouble a child, then. I have thousands of memories from these long, blissful summers. Many are bright and funny and joyful. Plenty are sad and shadowed, and I wonder if time’s perspective has deepened the darkness —when you know more, you know more.
My grandparents welcomed us happily enough. Can you imagine? They opened their home to their adult daughter, her 4 kids and dog, for whole summers! June, July and August! And they did this, summer after summer, until I was in 8th grade. My grandfather loved having people around, though he didn’t necessarily appreciate the work it meant for my grandmother. And mostly the summers were idyllic.
My grandmother ruled the kitchen. She baked and prepared meals, constantly, it seemed to my young self. Out of the oven, as if by magic, came delicious biscuits, muffins, bread, cornbread, pies, cakes, and cookies. She fixed meals. Chowders, steamers, burgers, hotdogs, beans, and more, came hot to the table. Simple meals meant to fill the bellies of growing children. There were fresh vegetables from the garden, and blueberries from the swamp —my grandfather picked them. It seemed that my grandmother never left the kitchen. With five extra people to feed and frequent drop-in visitors, she appeared to be able to create delicious meals at a moment’s notice. The dining room table was large and always full of people, who ate, talked, told stories, and laughed.
I remember that my grandmother frequently chased all of us out of the kitchen. She claimed she needed quiet, and time, and space, to think and cook. As a kid I thought this was peculiar and funny. How could one want/need quiet and space to think? To cook? Looking back I wonder how she put up with the noise and chaos created by four children, a dog, and assorted people from the neighborhood always at the back door asking if we could come out to play. Now, as a mother and wife, I appreciate this desire: a quiet kitchen with time and space to prepare thoughtful and tasty dishes —time to be wholly caught up in the preparation, and space to create a delicious outcome. And frankly, just time to be alone.
I thought about my grandmother today as I prepared a porchetta-style turkey breast. The process included de-boning a turkey breast and carefully removing the skin to be used later as a wrap around the roast. I also made a savory and aromatic paste of garlic, kosher salt, pepper, thyme, rosemary, sage, and fennel —the house smelled amazing! I was grateful for time, space, and quiet to prepare a tasty and eye-catching dish. As for how it tastes, I’ll have to let you know. Part of the recipe calls for letting the prepared turkey roast rest for at least 8 hours and not more than 48 hours. This lets the salt and herbs work to tenderize the meat. I’ll be roasting it for tomorrow’s dinner.
