Stolman Stacey - Confessions of a Serial Entertainer

Confessions of a Serial Entertainer

Steven Stolman

Photographs by Alissa Dragun

Food Styling by Stacey Stolman

Confessions of a Serial Entertainer

Digital Edition 1.0

Text 2015 Steven Stolman

Photographs 2015 Alissa Dragun except as noted otherwise

Illustrations 2015 by Sheryl Dickert

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced by any means whatsoever without written permission from the publisher, except brief portions quoted for purpose of review.

Gibbs Smith

P.O. Box 667

Layton, Utah 84041

Orders: 1.800.835.4993

www.gibbs-smith.com

ISBN: 978-1-4236-3716-5

To my late maternal grandparents, Sylvia and Jack Sloat, my Nana and Poppy, who early on showed me the importance of gracious hospitality in living a rich and fulfilling life. At their table, there was always room for one more.

Im really not a very good cook. I dont follow recipes and take all kinds of shortcuts.

I use a lot of stuff that comes out of bottles, jars, cans and boxes to create loose impressions of classical dishes that sometimes have absolutely no resemblance to the revered original. If you saw me in the kitchen, youd be horrified. Im not neatand I have a tendency to do something, screw it up and do it over. I have no knife skills. I burn thingsor undercook them. I serve hot foods cold and cold foods lukewarm. My sauces curdle, and I have been known to save things with a slurry of cornstarch and water. I overdress salads and use way too many utensils. When no one is looking, I will throw in a slurp of Gravy Master, as I dont have the patience to let things brown on their own. I have never made a proper stock. Yet I am known as a rather accomplished host and, more ironically, a chef.

Now dont get me wrong; I do love to cook. There is ample discussion in this book regarding my psychological need to entertain. And while I actually did take a class with Julia Child (something that I won in a recipe contest), most of what I know about cooking comes from public television and sitting at the counter at luncheonettes.

I love nothing more than watching a short order cook wield a spatula on a flattop. Many times, in front of my own stove, I fantasize about having an expanse of greased stainless steel before me and creating heaping plates of wonderfulness. I hear the clatter of those heavy Buffalo china dishes and the chatter of wisecracking waitresses. At least I can crack an egg with one hand and flip things in a skillet, and, courtesy of Julia Child, I can make a perfect omelet roll up on itself and deposit it onto the plate with the flick of my wrist. But it ends there.

So why on earth would I even think about writing a cookbook? Well, obviously because I can, but, in actuality, I feel like I have a story to tell and experiences to share. Just to look at me, its clear that I enjoy food. But I also enjoy talking about it and reading about it. My collection of vintage cookbooks, especially those put out by ladies charity groups or time-honored restaurants, continues to grow. Every Labor Day weekend in Fish Creek, Wisconsin, the local library does a book sale in a big white tent near the boat docks: $1 each, proclaim the signs next to piles of dog-eared paperbacks and old travel books. And while most people leave the tent with things like James Pattersons latest and greatest, I trill with delight over the likes of Favorite Congealed Salads of Episcopal Women.

Its late nights pouring over these spiral-bound compilations that seems to give me extraordinary comfort. The ladies who submitted these recipes cooked like I do, with ingredients like mayonnaise and Worcestershire sauce and the kind of packaged stuff one would expect to find in the pantry of a fallout shelter. So these are the recipes that I most enjoy sharingthe kind of concoctions that would make todays typical foodie cringe but are the first to disappear when they make an appearance on my table.

Im also sharing the recipes of relatives and friends, not so much for the tastesalthough many of these dishes are indeed deliciousbut for specific food memories. While my Aunt Trinas chicken is a crowd pleaser, I honestly dont think I ever had it cooked by my Aunt Trina. It was my mom who made it often, in a big blue Dansk Kobenstyle pan. It was the ultimate do-ahead dish, and I remember seeing it often in our West Hartford kitchen, defrosting atop an indoor gas grill that we never turned on because it made such a mess. But that big pan of sauted chicken breasts, with their eggy coating and fragrant topping of mushrooms and dry vermouth, meant so much more than something good to eat. It meant that company was coming, and that always made me very happy. It still does.

There are recipes in this book that many readers will recognize. Some are part of our popular culture, such as California Onion Dip, which is probably the first thing one learns to make beyond toast. Others make frequent appearances in the hundreds of spiral-bound charity cookbooks that are part of my prized collection. Regardless of what one calls the combination of Pillsbury crescent rolls and some kind of brown sugar and butter goo, its basically all the same stuff.

Of course I dont claim to have created any of these. In some cases, I have added my own little twists, but in others, there was simply no way to improve upon the original. I have seen recipes that encourage people to make their own homemade cream of chicken soup to add to recipes calling for cream of chicken soup, but to me, this borders on insanity. I have made my own mayonnaise and totally understand why its better, or at least better for you. But there is a very certain flavor sensation that can only be had with Dukes or Hellmanns. I suppose much of this has to do with flavor memory, and our minds can certainly play tricks on us.

My little niece dotes on Kraft Macaroni and Cheese. For her, its a safe haven in the world of suspicious foods that seven-year-olds inhabit. She gobbles it up with gusto at her own home, where it is prepared by a mother whom she trusts and served on a plate that she recognizes with a fork that she likes. Butwouldnt you know it?when I make it for her, following the directions on the box to the letter, using the same milk and butter that her mother buys, she refuses to eat it, saying its different. I swear, I dont sneak in a pinch of cayenne pepper or nutmeg or a few shreds of Gruyre like I want to.