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!

Dicey ladies...

I met Charlie’s mother on a spring afternoon. Home from college on semester break, Charlie and I decided that it was time I visited the family homestead and make an official appearance as the “new girlfriend.” Perched high atop San Rafael hill, the custom-built mid-century home with sweeping views of Mt. Tamalpais and a large open living room with high-beamed ceilings had been built by Charlie’s locally prominent grandparents as an entertainer’s paradise.

Recently passed down to Charlie’s parents, the pristine home bore no battle scars that would hint to the fact that these same parents raised four now-grown children…no tattered basketball hoop in the driveway, no rusty swing set in the yard, not a hint of crayon on the wall or faded Kool-aid stain on the sofa.

A campaign publicity photo from the 50's...that's Alice on the right of the hearth.

As I passed across the manicured front walk, through the big double doors, I was struck by a sense of meticulous order that was bracingly unfamiliar to me.  The white sculptured area rug was immaculate, a glistening sterling silver tea set sat perched atop the dining room sideboard, and beams of sunlight shone through a huge, smudge-free picture wall of glass, highlighting a polished wooden floor oddly free of dust bunnies or crushed Cheerios.

Yes, there we are...the happy young couple, and that's me carrying not only the freshman fifteen, but an enormous hunk of cake to-go.

Back at my family’s suburban split level, evidence of an “active” family life was in full swing. Piles of laundry from two visiting college-aged kids littered the worn sectional couch and muddy cleats, half-completed science projects covering the breakfast table and a fridge plastered with magnets, Little League schedules and homework served as countless clues that a young boy still lived at home.

Yes, walking into Charlie’s family home was like nothing I had ever seen but I think the thing that struck me the most was that it appeared to be “bridge day.” Poised between the cream colored sofa, the marble fireplace and the long maple hi-fi were three card tables, each strategically positioned and neatly covered with a starched, hand-stitched little table cloth created distinctly for this purpose. A white notepad, a sharpened pencil and a crystal dish filled with chocolate-covered mixed nuts completed each vignette.

Was Alice having a bridal shower? What was up with the paper and the pencils? I had only heard of bridge on repeats of the Dick Van Dyke show. Did people really play this game…and in the middle of the day?

At our house, a deck of cards came out only after the big ravioli platter and our mismatched service station juice glasses had been cleared from the kitchen table, and enough red wine had flowed to turn dinner with the neighbors into a late-night Pinochle party. Bridge? Ladies? Tidy white linens? I was intrigued…

Fast forward 25 years and it was time for Charlie’s folks to bid farewell to the family home. Choosing to downsize, they decided to hold an “estate sale” of sorts -- all items free and the only customers, their four children and spouses. With our color-coded Post-its in-hand, each “child” circulated from table to table sticking tags to the items we hoped to bring into our homes to cherish and care-take for future generations.

As the only sister-in-law, I was prepared and willing to take the back seat and scoop up the remnants...a couple of pieces of Tupperware and maybe a Pyrex if I was lucky. To my delight, his sisters had little interest in so many of the treasures I coveted: Alice and Ole’s sliver baby porridge bowls, mini monogrammed sterling ashtrays, tiny enameled jam spoons and yes, those starched card table cloths, hanging over an arm chair, still in their dry-cleaning bags, calling to come home to me.

I gathered my treasures and tucked them away, pulling them out every so often to admire while pondering what life would have been like as one of those “bridge” ladies. But, somehow, when I’d catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror as I’d trudge between the home office and the washing machine only to see the familiar reflection of a bedraggled woman in a flannel nightie and worn out Uggs, it occurred to me that perhaps my beautiful little linens would never again feel the tippy tap of manicured nails on their starched little selves.

That is, until I discovered a little game called Bunko.

After all, Charlie had his golf buddies, and this girl was starving for some sister-love. It had been years since nights out with “all the single ladies” had given way to nights up with the "all the cranky babies." Now that the kids were a little older, old enough to boot out of the house with Daddy for one evening a year, it seemed time to gather some girls for some good old fashion fun.

I hit the Internet looking for a reason to lure a bunch of gals around a few card tables on a regular basis. A book club…hum, no time to read. A dinner club…yikes, I do that every night. Bridge...I heard you actually need to think.

No, there really was only one option: Bunko… 12 women, 12 bottles of wine, 12 five dollar bills, 9 dice, and one Friday night a month.  No thinking is required. In fact, it’s discouraged.

Three card tables, each set with three dice, hold four women who roll for maximum points while each respective group counts out in unison as points are accumulated. “One…two…three!” we shout out in chorus like twelve ESL students on their first day of Junior College. The counting and rolling proceeds until someone bursts out “Bunko” signifying a lucky roll of three like dice. At that point, everyone grabs their glass of wine and their score card and marches on to roll again at the next table over.

The rules tend to change to suit our needs and our murky memories but somehow, someone always walks off with some cash for “high score” or a bottle of wine as the consolation prize going to the biggest loser of the night.

I have a feeling that this is a little different than an afternoon of bridge with Alice and the ladies. For some reason, I envision their gatherings to have been more like a scene from “The Help”, complete with tidy coiffed hair-dos, snappy little purses and sandwiches served with the crusts cut off.  Our evenings tend to be a bit more colorful…

The group has evolved over the years and is motley by design: a hair stylist, a poet, a teacher, a dentist, a realtor, a couple of mortgage brokers, a few part-time stay-at-home moms, a wine distributor and several combinations thereof.

Gals with kids, some without, and a grandma to-boot…we’ve come together through school, through work, through family, through neighbors and through friends of friends of friends, but somehow we have gelled into a crew of unlikely comrades who share an addiction to belly laughing till we’re sore, a tolerance for loud music and off-color remarks, and an insatiable need to commune in the unique way we do.

The smokes are candy...by the way

We eat an un-dainty meal of pasta Bolognese or pozole, drink tons of wine, and snack on cake and cobbler and chocolates while we pretend to keep score.

Sometimes, so caught up in conversations ranging from night sweats and new shoes to varicose veins and Vegas, we don’t even get to the game. During our last get together, my mom, the adopted grandma of the crew, professed during a lively debate on cosmetic procedures (who’s had ‘em, who wants ‘em) “You girls are my Botox!” Well said, Mama, well said!

Last month was my turn to host and here's a little something my poet friend wrote on my chalkboard on her way out the door. It's still on my wall even though it makes William crazy, "Mom, I don't get it!" Son, you never will...

A couple of days before the big night, the ceremonial preparation began as I trudged my card tables in from the garage, hoisted my buffet plates down from the high shelves, pulled out those beloved little cloths and began to drape them lovingly over each table.

I smoothed my hand over the laundered linens, smiling to myself as I noticed little grey ghosts of parties past. I closed my eyes and chuckled, remembering red wine flying from either Paula's signature expressive style of conversation or Lizzie's new twist on flinging the dice with flair. Hummm, I guess they drank club soda back in the bridge days because these cloths did not look like this when I got 'em.

As usual I used the girls as a testing ground for a recipe that was new to me but one chock full of my favorite and familiar Moroccan flavors: Chicken Tagine. I served it with a beet, orange and fennel salad, couscous with parsley, and for dessert, a polenta pound cake with wine-poached pears, dried cherries and whipped creme fraiche. Yes...yum.

So my friends, I urge you to grab some dice, gather up eleven feisty friends and simmer up this dish which I hope you find as sweet and spicy as the ones you hold dear. Why?

"Because there is night

Because there is wine

Because tangled female love nests

creep through song

Because stories are born on Friday dice

Because cake."

  Chicken Tagine with Apricots and Almonds

Note: Do not let the long list of ingredients scare you off. Basically this is just chicken stew using Moroccan spices. If you are out of cilantro, don't sweat it. If the preserved lemon is too much trouble, leave it out. Feel free to improvise!

Mix in a large bowl:

• 2.5 tsp ground cinnamon
• 2.5 tsp ground ginger
• 1.5 tsp turmeric
• 1.5 tsp black pepper
• 2 tsp salt
• 5 Tbs olive oil

Add and toss to coat:

• 6 pounds boneless chicken thighs, cleaned and dried

Heat in a large Dutch oven:

• 2 Tbs butter
• 2 Tbs olive oil

Brown chicken in batches on both sides, transfer to a plate.

Saute slowly until soft in the seasoned Dutch oven:

• 1 large red onion, thinly sliced
• 1/2 tsp salt
• 5 garlic cloves, minced

Add the browned chicken and reserved juices back to the pot and add:

• 5 fresh sprigs of fresh parsley and cilantro tied with kitchen twine
• 1 1/2 cups water or chicken stock (or enough to cover the meat about 1/3 of the way up)

Cover and simmer slowly for 30 minutes. While the chicken is simmering add to a separate small saucepan:

• 1/4 cup honey
• 1 1/2 cups water
• 1 cinnamon stick
• 1 cup Turkish dried apricots, separated into halves

Bring to a boil then simmer, uncovered until apricots are nicely softened. Remove apricots and simmer sauce until it is reduced to a thin syrup. Return apricots to the saucepan.

Heat in a skillet over moderate heat:

• 3 Tbs olive oil

Add and cook until golden then drain on a paper towel:

• 2/3 cup slivered or whole blanched almonds

Add the apricot mixture to the tagine, remove cinnamon stick and herb bundle.

Add to the tagine and warm:

• 1 preserved lemon*, rind only, quartered and sliced thin

Serve tagine over couscous, sprinkle with almonds and chopped fresh parsley.

Serves 12, generously with left overs

*http://www.myrecipes.com/recipe/preserved-lemons-10000000600612/