Lucinda Scala Quinn - Mad Hungry Family: 120 Essential Recipes to Feed the Whole Crew

Reflections are dubious and often inaccurate, so thankfully some version of this moms life has been told in recipes.

Some people scoffed when Mad Hungry: Feeding Men & Boysa cookbook of recipes, strategies, and survival techniques for bringing back the family mealwas published in 2009. What about girls? they said. Im the only sister of three brothers and mother to a trio of sons. All I knew about the general eating habits of girl children was that they rarely asked for thirds, did not want another meal as dinner was being cleared from the table, andmost mind-bendinglywould tolerate any crappy old salad put in front of them because girls were supposed to eat salads. No, that first book was a chronicle of nurturing young boys into existence, and feeding their emerging appetites with simple and satisfying foods. Its an edible roadmap for the first leg of the journey, which turned out to be the easiest part. Once my husband and I had our third son, life went crazy. If not for the anchor of mealtime, the thin chord that held our sanity and survival together might have snapped completely.

My next family cookbook, Mad Hungry Cravings, was a cry to my guys during their most vulnerable teenage years: Please stay connected to me! In it, I promised to cook at home the foods they craved in the outside world. They were New York City kids, and every single day, I prayed for their safe return to our apartment. Theyd begun to let go, just as planned, and although they were learning to be in the world, they werent quite ready to inhabit it independently. Until they figured that out, I had food cooked and a table for them and their friends to gather around. I was hoping to save them from their hormone-fogged selves for one more meal.

Much of the time this plan actually worked. It involved cooking lots of faux-Chinese takeout; deli-style bacon, egg, and cheese sandwiches; imitation fast-food fried chicken; hot dogcart hot dogs; burger-shack burgers; large bowls of pasta; and homemade potato skin/chicken wingtype foods. And, of course, there were always a couple of vegetables offered, too. I wanted them to recognize cooking as an expression of lovesomething worth coming home for. At times, that seemed like a foreign concept, especially during those moments when they acted like they hated me. But inside, they just wanted to eat.

This book completes my trilogy. Ive hooked my sons, our friends, and many strangers on the merits of home-cooked meals, and these pages reveal the method to my madnesswith the essential recipes and the often unexplained little tips that will lead you, your children, and even the most stove-adverse to success in the kitchen.

Carbonara (see )

When my oldest son, Calder, smells garlic cooking in oil or butter, he thinks of home. And when he smells garlic burning in butter or oil, he thinks of howto use his wordsI was always harping about never doing that. One by one, these recollections are strung together in childhood without us even knowing itlike a strand of pearls of priceless value. All of us have them.

If someone had told me thirty years ago at my shotgun wedding that my cooking would give my son a sense of comfort, that he would learn from me this most important life skill of feeding himself, I would have saved myself so much worrythere are so many things no one tells you about being a mom! Like, your heart will never again be unburdened in this lifetime. Like, in the lust for young babiesfor that sweet baby-musk smell, the warmth, the lightnessis lost the reality that someday those infants will grow into defiantly independent young men who walk this earth wearing your last name and possessing a will you can no longer alter. I had an inkling that no one might exasperate me more in my whole life, but I was surprised to discover the possibility of raising some of the best friends Ill ever have.

When Calder was born back in the 1980s, no one was telling me any of this. It was an era of shoulder pads and power careers for women my ageand I opted out of both. When I was a young mother, it was totally uncool to be in the kitchen cooking for your family. (Hadnt the whole point of the sexual revolution been to take a pass on cooking or kidsand preferably both?) When I was asked, What do you do? at dinner parties in New York City, nothing stopped the conversation like answering, Cooking food and raising my kids. Surely, thats what takeout and nannies were for! Nourishing my kids came naturally to me, so I chose that over working outside the home, for a while anyway. And yes, we were almost always broke: when I took the boys on our regular outing of hitting every playground along Central Park West between 110th Street and Columbus Circle, I brought along plenty of home-popped popcorn and waterthere were no luxuries like $1 hot dogs or pretzels from the street vendors. Lots of nights, as we waited for the next meager paycheck to turn up, we were fortified by Black Beans and Rice (see ).

Now, when I think back on it, its ironic that barely making any money set me up beautifully for what would becomewhen my youngest was seventhe next phase of my career. When our family was young, home cooking nourished our boys into this world. It nurtured and educated them, toomy home kitchen is too small and too crowded for them not to pick up the skills (and the smell of garlic) needed to cook. Being able to cook is an expression of independence, a clear execution of self-reliance. Even so, food will always be our connector, the lingua franca we learned together. When the boys were going through their difficult adolescence (miserably timed to coincide with my difficult perimenopauseanother tidbit no one bothered to tell me!), this food language was our one reliable connection. Now, our boy-men, set free to roam this life, at least have that kitchen rhythm to cling to. These twentysomethings will still eat a meal with us, prepare a meal with us, be taken out for a meal, and most important of all, cook for themselves and otherstheir mother included.

I still worry that they will turn out all right, find their own ways, survive their own mistakes (and mine, for Gods sake!). Worry whips up when least expected, and then swallows unhealthy amounts of time. But just as quickly as lightning strikes, the sun peers out of the cloudsone of my sons cooks me a plate of the carbonara from their childhood, and my mind is again at ease.

The best way to cook is to give yourself no choice but to buckle down and actually do it, for whatever reason is the most consistently motivatingbe it saving money, eating healthfully, or just feeding a family thats hungry multiple times each day. At first it will feel difficult. It might leave you sore. You will be shocked when, a couple of hours after finishing lunch, someone has the temerity to ask you whats for dinner.