Patinkin Erin - Ovenly : sweet and salty recipes from New Yorks most creative bakery

CONTENTS

MY HISTORY, MY RECIPES

A Preface by Erin

During my childhood in suburban Chicago, I spent countless hours in the kitchen with my grandmother and motherGranny cooking from memory and Mom cooking mostly (and always exactly) from her massive collection of recipe clippings.

Mom wasnt one to purchase expensive hardcovers, but she did fill our home with a steady supply of cooking magazines. We had subscriptions to Country Living, Cooking Light and her favorite, Betty Crocker. Together, we were always trying out something new. There were a lot of successes (like the quintessentially Midwestern seven-layer cookie bar, which I remember making for the first time and still make today) and othersnot so much. (I can still recall the rubbery texture and cardboard taste of a fat-free cheese and frozen-spinach casserole Mom and I whipped up during one of my parents dieting phases.)

To my mothers credit, she also kept a trove of handwritten recipes in the drawer of a bright royal-blue kitchen wall cabinet. Each time she or my granny found success with a new dish, they would inscribe it (or, in my grandmas case, type it) twice on two separate ruled index cardsone for themselves and one for the other. The formulas came from everywherecooking shows, chef appearances on the local news, friends, the old country, library books and even those Betty Crocker magazines. Mom and Granny communicated with each other through these recipes, and as a little kid, I tried to insert myself into that special conversation. As my brothers, Seth and Dan, intensely sorted through their respective collections of coins and baseball cards, I pawed through those recipespicking out all the dishes I thought sounded interesting, narrowing them down into a small stack, and running to my mom when I found something particularly good. That small stuffed cabinet drawer was the treasure chest of my childhood, full of unexplored possibilities.

My mom continues this handwritten tradition: almost weekly I receive a magazine clipping or a neatly printed three-by-five card, reliably accompanied by brief messages in her perfect schoolteacher script. Theres dark chocolate in this recipe. You love that! or I made this last weekend. Delicious! Dad says you have to make it at Ovenly! or I ripped this out of a Bon Apptit sitting in the doctors office. Dont tell anyone! I add those recipes to my own kitchen cabinet drawer of culinary wonders.

When Granny passed away and I inherited her painstakingly organized recipes, I discovered that she was trading not only with her daughter, but also with her close circle of chatty and boisterous lady friends. There were article clippings from magazines and newspapers, including ones featuring Nancy Reagans Famous Brownies; banquet-size (and outdated dishes) like chicken la king for one hundred people; and instructions on how to make walnut kiffel, with additional notes written in some blend of English, Hungarian and German. Grannys cards were not just about the food of a certain time, but also about relationships, culture and tradition. They are a homemade slice of my grandmas rich history, and a way for me to keep her with me always.

One of Grannys recipe boxes sits next to me as I type this preface, the words Menu Maker pressed into the green plastic lid. As I rummage through her cards for the millionth time, I vividly recall the tang and crunchiness of the broiled pimento-olive toast that she (and Mom) made for every social gathering, the feeling of her pineapple cheesecake melting on my tonguefluffy and sweetand the buttery flakiness of her apricot kolacky, dusted with confectioners sugar. These cardsalong with my own collection of handwritten notes, cookbook scribbles and magazine clippings, and my Recipes to Try digital folder that I share with Agathaare more than a collection of weights and measurements and oven temperatures. They are a chronicle of the flavors of my youth. I can tie each of those delicious recollections to those sweet and savory moments of my own slices of historymy middle school graduation, a road trip to a Phish concert (yes, I was that teenager), the first time I made a boy dinner and the family gathering following my grannys funeral.

Unlike my inheritance of handwritten gems, the first cookbook I ever owned was, in appearance, unremarkable. It was a thin publication with four-color photos titled something like Oriental Cuisine, sold alongside woks and rice steamers in a now closed department store whose name I cant recall. When we were only seven or eight years old, my brother Dan (just a year and a half my senior) and I were totally obsessed with Martin Yans long-running PBS series, Yan Can Cook. During each beloved episode, I would imagine that I was Chef Yans sous-chefexpertly smashing make-believe garlic cloves into a gooey paste with my pretend Ginsu knife, and deftly chopping the tails off of phantom shrimp with a swiftness and dexterity that I have never actually possessed. (Im a total klutz. Ask Agatha about the time I spilled ten pounds of tiny flaxseeds all over her kitchen floor or when I burned my entire right hand with boiling sticky caramel.) My mother rewarded my enthusiasm for Mr. Yans Chinese dishes with both the Chinese cookbook and a shiny new wok. (Dan probably got a new Transformers or Walter Payton T-shirt.) I was pumped.

Properly equipped, I began my first independent culinary experiment: beef stir-fry. Though my mom supervisedcutting things when they needed to be cut, watching closely as I coated meat in corn starch for frying, and reminding me to be careful as I steamed the rice on the stove while standing on a stoolshe let me make the meal almost entirely on my own. When dinner was ready, I served it to my family and eagerly watched them clean their plates and then ask for seconds. Dan and Seth likely emitted some sort of gastric approval. They liked it! My confidence grew as I tinkered more and more, and as I did, I became more and more food obsessed. A wacky quality for a kid in the 1980s.

Those were the days when being a foodie wasnt a pop culture thing. While my brothers were playing T-ball down the street or practicing WWF-inspired wrestling moves on one another, and my girlfriends were making up dances to the newest New Kids on the Block videos (I thought Joey McIntyre was just the dreamiest, but second only to my inexplicable childhood crush on Rod Stewart), my idea of a good time was hovering around my friends kitchens. Across the tracks at Sarah Gorajskis house, I pestered her father for tips as he prepared deep-fried soft-shell crabs. A few more blocks away, at Dana Lords house, I taste tested her moms scharolea spicy, brothy and herby escarole soupand came home begging my mom to call Danas mother so we could make it on our own. And my favorite was going to Grannys to help bake yellow cake with chocolate icing, date cookies or Chocolate Cheesecake with Sour Cream Topping (