Scampi, “Grampi,” and a “Modern” Family

The other night I made scampi for dinner. 

When I make scampi, I tend to sip on the cookin’ wine. When I sip on the cookin’ wine, I tend to have deep thoughts…

Between mincing the garlic and salting the pasta water, that night’s deep thoughts turned to my Grampa Joe.  Why?  I haven’t a clue.  Was he famous for his scampi…nope.  Did he love seafood…not that I’m aware of.  Was he Italian…not even a little bit.  So what flipped the switch in my percolating noggin from scampi to Grampi?

Maybe it was chopping the garlic? I didn’t observe Grampa Joe in the kitchen very often, but when I did, he was always in the faithful company of his pristine Swiss Army knife, ready to slice a paper thin wafer of sharp cheese or cold sweet butter.

Perhaps it was that I've been spending a lot of time at Mom and Dad’s these past few weeks.  Over the years, their spare bedroom has become a storage bunker for all of the family artifacts including Joe’s walking stick and hiking boots, his box of handmade wooden carving tools and his Swiss record collection.  I’ve been helping sort the wheat from the chaff and we’ve been uncovering countless treasures in the process.

Whatever the reason, there I stood that night over the sizzling shrimp, sippin’ on that wine, sifting through memories of Joe in my mind and finding myself yearning to fill the gaps. Over the next few days, as Mom and I dug for gold in that spare bedroom, we spent a good amount of time reminiscing about that amazing rock of a man and together, we mended a quilt of memories that had long been tucked away.

To watch my mother remember Joe is really quite extraordinary.  Most girls love their Daddies.  But Mom’s story is special, and to see her carefully turn the pages of and old notebook of his or cradle one of his photographs in her hand reminds me of the unique relationship they shared, the power of choosing love, and the legacy his choices left for all of us. That legacy is my mama and without him, all of our stories would either be nonexistent or be quite different indeed.

You see, “Grandpa” Joe was actually never a father at all in the biological sense. On July 29, 1938 his fate would forever change as he watched his best friend Ambrose welcome the birth of his third daughter and on the same day mourn the loss of his beautiful wife.  In those days, it was unheard of for a single father to care for an infant child, not to mention two teenage girls and the family dairy business.

So, with great trepidation but even greater love, one of my grandmother’s sisters Josephine booked passage on the next ship from Switzerland.  In a matter of days, my sweet “Grandma” Finy was reluctantly transformed from a maiden living in a small Swiss mountain village to a single surrogate mom living in a San Francisco third floor walk-up.

Enter a knight in shining armor: the strapping Joseph Indergand, a dapper bachelor and business man who had emigrated from the old country to America years before to join his best friend Ambrose in pursuit of his American dream.

Fluent in five languages, a voracious self-taught learner, skilled mountaineer, fitness buff, and student of culture and music, my dapper, soon-to-be Grandpa Joe had no lack of female attention in his single days. 

As we opened several vintage cigar boxes he had meticulously stowed in his dresser of drawers, we unearthed tidy little bundles of post cards, letters and photographs he had carefully tied with brown twine and tucked away. Mom grinned as she recalled Grandma Finy coming across these from time to time, discreetly rolling her eyes about the ghosts Joe's groupies from many miles and many days gone by.

Alas, the fan club was to be disappointed when the chivalrous Joseph came to the rescue of his best friend Ambrose and offered to raise that baby girl alongside Josephine, providing the stable family unit my mother would have otherwise not had. Here they are on one of their summer trips to Kings Beach in Lake Tahoe where Grampa Ambrose (Grampa Cheese, to me) was building his lakeside pub and cottages (the current site of Caliente restaurant).

So, there they were, a “modern family” so to speak well before the concept of non-traditional arrangements became the norm.  But it worked; a shy young woman, in a somewhat arranged marriage, raising her niece alongside a man she barely knew, adding to it the fact that my Grandpa Ambrose was still in my mother’s life as he spent time with her over the summers and never allowed Joe to legally adopt (see a related blog entry dated September 2, 2011 “Grandpa Cheese”).

It’s funny, because to this day, none of us, my mother included, really know the intricacies of Joe and Finy's relationship. We know that Joe knew Finy and her four sisters back in the old country but we aren't certain to what extent. We know they were married in Reno about a year after my mom was born and a prior trip back and forth over the border to Mexico was involved as well (something to do with immigration we think). We know that they were devoted to each other for over 40 years and especially to their precious infant ward. We know that they loved each other deeply.  This is their wedding photo.

We know that they called my mom Schatzi (pronounced Shot-zee) which translated means darling, and managed to dote on their sweetheart while providing a traditional, staunch and austere Swiss household at the same time. And we know, more than anything, that their purpose in life was to provide a warm, loving and safe, albeit simple, life for their little girl. This is a sweet little paper box we found filled with buttons and bows of my mom's...labeled by Joe "Schatzi."

Unlike my Grandpa Henry who wouldn’t hesitate to give Grandma Anna a little love pat on the fanny as she walked by, Grandpa Joe was forever the staunch gentleman. 

I’m not sure if I ever even saw Joe and Finy hold hands, but I am sure that I never once saw them apart from each other’s company.

To see the four of my grandparents together, which was most weekends by the way, was a hoot. Talk about worlds colliding! But it all worked out and we grand kids have the gift of those precious memories for it…summers at the ballpark, car trips crammed in the wood paneled station wagon and family holidays rotating from house to house.

Speaking of family holidays, I remember Grampa Joe making a traditional Swiss pastry and sharing it with us on special occasions.  I’ve thought of it from time to time but until now have not made the effort to unearth the recipe. Well, easier said than done! 

After placing calls to relatives both here and in Switzerland, digging through piles of tattered old recipes and searching the internet for hours, Mom and I have come up with only a smattering of possible options.

What makes it even harder is that we don’t seem to completely remember what it tasted like to begin with…or if we even really liked it!  What we do know is that it reminds us of Joe and when we make it, we will think of him, honor him and maybe even remember a few more stories about a breed of man that might be extinct in today’s modern world.  I’d like to think that these simple values of loyalty and commitment are still alive and well today as, clearly, Joe is proof that miracles happen when human beings choose love and duty over self.  My amazing mother and the person she became as a result of his choices is evidence of that.

Follow us as we attempt this version of Pastete (it is spelled several different ways but this seems to be the most common) that we found in a local cookbook from my Swiss cousin, translated by mom.

Surprisingly, it was close to how we both remember it.  The dough is firm and flavorful...not a tender pastry by any means, but kind of addictive and quite tasty.  The filling is delicious, if you like raisins, and the kirsch and Magenträes* add just a bit of je ne sais quoi that I think is fun. I imagine Joe enjoying a hearty slice with a cup of coffee in the morning, maybe as an afternoon snack with tea or with a strong shot of Schnapps as a rare after dinner treat.

Ürner Paschtetä

Dough

• 3 eggs
• 250 grams sugar (a little over a cup)
• 1 1/2 tsp salt
• 200 ml milk (about 7/8 cup)
• 200 ml apple juice or cider (about 7/8 cup)
• 250 grams unsalted butter (a little over two cubes)
• 1300 grams flour (about 2.9 pounds or 5 1/2 cups)
• 5 tsp baking powder**

Filling

• 600 grams raisins, half regular/half golden (about 1.3 pounds)
• 2 Tbs sugar
• 1/2 Tbs cinnamon
• 1 Tbs Magenträs*
• 1 Tbs Kirsch
• 150 ml apple juice or cider

* this is a popular Swiss sugar and spice mix. If Magenträes is unavailable, use 1 Tbs of this mix:

• 1 cup granulated sugar
• 1 1/2 tsp red sandalwood powder (found on Amazon)
• 1 1/2 tsp cinnamon
• 1/2 tsp nutmeg
• 1/2 tsp ginger
• pinch of cloves
• 1/8 tsp ground anise seeds

** my research showed that German baking powder is different than ours so I made my own mix to best mimic their formula. To do the same, mix 2 parts cream of tartar with one part baking soda.

Save one egg yolk for brushing. Put the remaining eggs in a bowl. Whisk in sugar and salt then milk and apple juice.

Melt butter in a pan at low heat then add to the bowl.
Stir in flour and baking powder until it starts to pull away from the side of the bowl.

Let stand at room temperature while you make the filling.

In saucepan, mix raisins, sugar, cinnamon, Magenträes, kirsch, and cider and simmer for 2-6 minutes. 

Knead dough again on a floured surface just until it is smooth and workable and cut in half.

Roll out on half and place on a sheet pan measuring approximately 30-40 cm leaving a rim about 3/4 “ high.

Distribute still warm raisin mixture on the dough.

Roll out the second half of the dough and place on top of the raisin mixture. Seal edges with water, kirsch or egg.

Use the dough scraps to make a decorative raised border if you like. This was not in the recipe but Mom remembers Joe doing this.

Brush top with the reaming egg yolk which has been thinned with a little bit of water.

Bake in the middle of the oven for 30 minutes at  400° F.

Pretty isn't it...so golden brown!


Disclaimer: OK, so I never once called Grandpa Joe “Grampi”…it just rhymes with scampi. And, if you were hoping for a recipe for scampi...sorry!  Just sauté shrimp in butter and olive oil, add in some chopped garlic, a few splashes of dry white wine, a big squeeze of lemon juice, more butter, salt, pepper and a little parsley and you're good to go!

Grandpa "Cheese"

I've been thinking a lot about my grandpa lately...which is a little odd since we really never met.

Maybe it's that we were just in Tahoe and I think of him every time we drive by the old King's Beach bar he built with his own hands in the 30's. That's him chopping down the trees...


And here is the finished product! Over the last 80 years it's lived through many incarnations and today, us young folk know the spot as Caliente.






Maybe it's that my Mom just had a birthday and each year I am reminded that, that day many years ago, he welcomed his third baby girl into this world while, sadly, he watched his wife leave it forever.

Here is my beautiful Grandma Alice with her first two girls, my aunts. When Grandma Alice passed in childbirth, her sister Josephine (we called her Grandma Finy) would leave all she knew back home, come to America and raise Mom as her own (and that, my friends, is another story)...

Maybe it's that I heard on the news that the old building in Alameda that housed their dairy and soda fountain in the 20's and 30's is being restored and, under layers of siding and stucco, they found a faded sign touting their State Fair-award-winning cream.

Maybe it's that everyone in the family called the old Swiss dairyman "Grandpa Cheese" and sometimes the thought of that just makes me smile.

Growing up in my family, you probably wouldn’t have found it odd to have a Grandpa named “Cheese.”

Every morning, his daughter (we called her Mom) served our toast with a slab of butter as thick as a deck of cards. "Special" occasions, from Arbor Day to Hanukkah, were frequent, and always warranted a free pass to top anything with a Matterhorn of whipped cream.

The freezer was always jammed with at least four flavors of ice cream and when we’d unwrap the mystery square of waxed paper in our lunchboxes, we’d often find a hunk of Swiss cheese partially covered by an afterthought of two thin slices of Roman Meal wheat bread posing as a sandwich.


French Brie, Danish Blue, Irish Cheddar, Greek Feta…Mom did not discriminate. A United Nations of cheese products always filled our fridge, hurriedly wrapped in a waif-like sheet of Saran and crammed into one of three dedicated drawers like dairy delegates waiting their turn to represent the motherland.


Why would we not have a Grandpa named “Cheese?” He was a huge part of our lives.  He had everything to do with who we are today. But, the funny thing is, us kids never really knew him. We were just babies when he died...


Grandpa Cheese was born in 1889 in the Kanton of Uri Switzerland. His given name was Ambros Furrer and he thrived as a young man along with his brothers and sisters in his mountain home along with the other real-life mountain-dwelling, cow-herding, lederhosen wearing dairymen. Here is the mountaintop village where he was raised, complete with cow.

Here's the way up...

And here are my cousins who operate the lift...to this day...yikes! That's Mom in the black jacket visiting them a few years back.

This is where they live. Come on...does it get more Swiss?

There he met the beautiful and adventuresome Elisabetha (she came to be known as Alice in the new country). They married in 1922, set out to America on their honeymoon...and never looked back.

Doesn't this photo taken on the deck of their honeymoon cruise ship remind you of a scene from The Titanic? A little spooky, I think, until you peer through the mist and notice the sweet smile on my grandmother's face and the proud posture of her loving groom. 

Two little girls soon made a family of four.Together, they settled in Alameda and opened a creamery on Webster Street. Along with making and delivering milk, cream and cheese, word has it that their soda fountain was the place to meet! Grandma ran the business, Grandpa worked the dairy and my aunts were the coolest cats in town.

Even though my mom was never a part of their lives together, I like to think about those days and imagine that somehow they are a part of ours.


So, by now, you've probably figured out that my thoughts and feelings usually manifest themselves eventually into something edible. I've been wanting to experiment with making cheese for a long time, and given my recent need to get in touch with my milkmaid roots, I thought it would be fun to finally make it happen. I got my hands on the ingredients, dug up a recipe on the Internet, and dove in without a whole lot of forethought. Mom stopped by so I handed her the Flip camera and we documented our journey through curds and whey.





I'm pretty sure that the laughs we had along the way were more delicious than the actual end result but, for our first try, I'd have to say that the cheese wasn't half bad. We're looking forward to our next go at it, with modifications, but know that "Grandpa Cheese" would have been proud to see two generations up to their elbows in the family business.


So, here's my thought for the day...take a minute to think lovingly about the ones who came before us...the ones who came from so far away, some by choice, and some by need, to make a better life for themselves and their families. Dig out Auntie Nora's old Irish soda bread recipe or the closely guarded formula for Uncle Guido's famous Bolognese and fill your home with the tastes and smells that bind families across generations.


Bon Appetit, Buon Appetito and Guten Appetit!

I'm in the mood for love...

...and I love chocolate.

So, what's a Swiss miss like me going to lay on my lovies this Valentine's Day...I'm thinking we're gonna have a fondue freak out.

Not that Charlie and the kids are first-time fonduers.

In fact, Carly's last birthday party was a Swiss-themed extravaganza complete with cheese and chocolate fondues, a cake shaped like a dairy cow, Swiss flag decor everywhere(toothpicks, napkin rings, candles, balloons, t-shirts), Edelweiss confetti...and even paper napkins with Heidi's little face emblazoned on them...

Here's the famous cow cake. I tried to make her stand upright but she fall down...go boom. I think I like her this way better...

Why, you ask, would a fourteen-year-old girl yearn for such a celebration (other than her DNA-encoded obsession with cheese and chocolate)? Perhaps it has something to do with the GIANT box of Swiss tchotkes collecting dust on our junk closet shelf. Mind you, this is just the tip of the Matterhorn, so to speak.

We've got pillows, beach towels, calendars, books and fanny packs shoved into drawers all over the house and pounds and pounds of Swiss chocolate that is, let's just say, no longer with us. Check out those Heidi paper napkins in the middle of the box...awesome!

You see, about ten years ago, Mom got a letter from a long-lost Swiss cousin. She had just had a baby girl (my cousin, not my Mom!) and, as an English teacher, was anxious to connect her young family with some real-live American relatives. So, these cousins (we're talking the real deal here...peasant blouses, dirndl skirts, snow-capped mountains, shuttered chalets, yodel music, cows with bells...the works) made the connection and over the years we've gotten to know each other by trading trinkets via airmail.

By now, Mildred (the little Swiss girl) must have the most impressive collection of Barney, Brittany and Hannah Montana t-shirts, tote bags and pencil sharpeners of any girl her side of the Alps. For sure, more than any family that flies the Stars and Stripes, we must hold the record for most wacky items brandishing the Swiss flag. I bet you don't have egg cups like these. In fact, I bet you don't have egg cups, period.

Anyway...back to fondue.


Aside from being one of the most delicious desserts on the planet, it is also one of the fastest and easiest to prepare. And, since we're talking Valentine's Day, what could be more romantic than gazing through the flicker of the fondue flame into each other's eyes over a silken pot of molten chocolate. Or, in our case, what could be more fun than wrestling over that same pot with two sugar-crazed kids and big daddy over the last cube of pound cake (the more likely scenario at our Valentine's table). Whatever your scene...chocolate fondue never disappoints.

Let's get fonduing...

Chop 8 ounces of great-tasting chocolate (I like bittersweet). This is Ghirardelli 60% Cacao Bittersweet.

Pour 1/2 cup of cream into a heavy saucepan and heat until it begins to steam (don't let it boil). Remove the pot from the heat, add the chopped chocolate and let stand for a minute or so while the chocolate begins to melt.

Stir the mixture until it is smooth and glossy then stir in 1-3 tablespoons of Grand Marnier, or to taste. I think I'll stick with 1 tablespoon this time so flames don't shoot out of my kids' ears ...it's pretty potent stuff but I think it makes the fondue special. Try other liqueur flavors if you're not an orange fan or a little vanilla and grated orange zest if you choose to go booze-free.

Pour the mixture into your fondue pot and place over a low flame to keep warm. Or, if you don't have a fondue pot or are too lazy to get it out of the attic (that would be me), serve it out of the pot or spoon it into a pre-warmed bowl. Reheat it if necessary but it'll probably go so fast you won't need to.

Serve with your favorite dipping stuff. Here are some ideas: cubed firm pound cake, cubed Rice Krispy treats, pineapple, strawberries, bananas, sliced pears, sliced apples, marshmallows, pretzels, dried fruit...

Chocolate Fondue

Heat:

• 1/2 cup of cream

Stir in until smooth:

• 8 ounces of chopped chocolate (I use bittersweet).

Add in:

• 1-3 Tablespoons Grand Marnier

Spoon into fondue pot over low flame and serve with your favorite dipping treats.

Serves: 4-6