Wizenberg - A Homemade Life: Stories and Recipes from My Kitchen Table

W henever this book gave me trouble, I worked instead on the acknowledgments. It was the easiest part to write. Without the following people, this book would be a shadow of itselfor nothing at all. I owe them an enormous, sung-from-the-rooftops Thank You .

To Gigi Lamm, for cheering from the beginning.

To my former colleagues at the University of Washington Press, for encouraging me to write.

To Ashley and Chris Saleeba, for being willing eaters, recipe testers, and good neighbors.

To Luisa Weiss, for inspiring me with her effortless prose.

To Hannah Huffman, for sending me vanilla beans, hand-sewn potholders, and constant inspiration, and for testing recipes.

To Maria A. Vettese, or mav, for showing me that everyday life is art.

To Bill Farrell, for being my A+ #1 recipe tester, even though we have never met.

To Aria Baker, whom I have also never met, but who had the incredible kindness to offer her skills as a recipe tester; she is a gem.

To Rachael Mann, for her help in testing recipes.

To Kirsten Anderson and her family, for cheerfully eating everything I sent.

To David Lebovitz, for making very fine ice cream.

To Austin Walters, who doesnt complain when I talk for hours, and who offered priceless feedback on the manuscript in its early stages.

To Tara Austen Weaver, for her wise counsel and many delicious dinners.

To Anne Buchanan, whose sharp eye and fine palate made her a valuable tester.

To Amy Leo, for being my first blog friend, and for cheers, squeals, and recipe testing.

To Andrea Akita, a fantastic cook and recipe tester.

To Matthew Amster-Burton, for his keen ear and dry humor.

To Laurie Amster-Burton, for her thoughtful comments.

To Carla Leonardi, for her belief in me, and for her abundant skills at cooking and photography.

To Elizabeth Reeds and Doron Beeri, for the summer of 2004.

To Rebecca Leone and Jimmy Chorley, for Sunday breakfasts and so much love.

To Lucas Oswalt, for having a huge heart.

To Jessica and Mataio Gillis and Doug Doolittle of Cia Thyme Catering, genius cooks and lovely human beings.

To Susan Kaplan and Renee Erickson of Boat Street Caf and Kitchen, for pickles and precious encouragement.

To Keaton Hubbert, for a decade of friendship, quiet grace, and good food.

To Kate Knight, for countless nights at the table, planning cocktail parties and our entire lives.

To the late Dr. Stephen M. Gens, my high school history teacher and friend, who made me work harder than anyone else, who gave me my first C, and whom I miss terribly.

To Michael Davilman, one of my fathers dearest friends, an effortless cook and a brilliant mind, for believing in me from day one.

To Ben Smith and Bonnie Whiting-Smith, for many happy evenings of beer, steak, and ice cream.

To Olaiya Land, a gifted cook and invaluable recipe tester, for friendship and cauliflower.

To Chris Oakes and Martine Curtis-Oakes, for suggesting that I start Orangette in the first place.

To Camilla Engman, artist, illustrator, and all-around sensation, who took my words and brought them to life.

To Michael Bourret, my agent, for his smarts, his patience, and his tireless support.

To Stacey Glick, who introduced me to Michael.

To Sydny Miner, my editor, for her belief in this project, her trust, her confidence, and her uncanny understanding of my voice.

To Shauna James Ahern, for being a friend and mentor, sister and champion, in every single step of this process.

To Sam T. Schick, also known as Our Man Sam, for friendship, fierce intelligence, and all those summer nights around our little white table.

To Arnold Weisenberg, my uncle, for being so generous with his recipe collection.

To Lisa Chalif, my sister, for her companionship in the kitchen, her fine-tuned palate, and love.

To my family members and friends not named here, every one of whom helped to see me through.

To the readers of Orangette, for cheering and believing.

To Burg, for reading to me from When the Sky Is Like Lace , for believing in the magic of words and poems, and for everything he was, down to the last second.

To Mom, the strongest woman I know, my guide in this life.

To Brandon, the man who whistles wherever he goes, my first reader, my husband, my love. He is my partner, in every sense of the word. He was with me all the way.

I t started when I was a freshman in high school. Wed be sitting at the kitchen table, the three of us, eating dinner, when my father would lift his head from his plate and say it: You know, we eat better at home than most people do in restaurants. Sometimes, for good measure, hed slap the table and let loose a long ooooh of contentment. It didnt seem to matter what we were eating. It could have been some sliced tomatoes, or a bowl of mashed potatoes, or some fish that hed fried in a pat of butter. At least every couple of weeks, he said it. To me, it sounded like tacky bragging, the kind of proud exaggeration that fathers specialize in. Its the suburban mans equivalent of ripping open his shirt and beating his chest with his fists. I would shrink into my chair, blushing hotly, the moment it crossed the threshold of his lips. I was mortified by the weird pleasure he took in our family meal. After a while, I could even sense it coming. Id mouth the words before he could say them: You know, we eat better at home than most people do in restaurants!

But now Im old enough to admit that he was right. Its not that we knew how to cook especially well, or that we always ate food that was particularly good. There were hot dogs sometimes, and cans of baked beans. Our garlic came in a jar, minced and ready, and our butter was known to go rancid. What was so satisfying, I think, was something else. It was the steady rhythm of meeting in the kitchen every night, sitting down at the table, and sharing a meal. Dinner didnt come through a swinging door, balanced on the arm of an anonymous waiter: it was something that we made together. We built our family that wayin the kitchen, seven nights a week. We built a life for ourselves, together around that table. And although I couldnt admit it then, my father was showing me, in his pleasure and in his pride, how to live it: wholly, hungrily, loudly.