Jewish Life In My 20s
You can't possibly cook or eat without input from a mother.
LYNNE MEREDITH COHN
Sta Writer
T
he other night, I was look-
ing for an easy appetizer
while my pasta was cook-
ing. I spotted a jar of pick-
les in the back of the refrigerator.
Salivating at the thought of a new
dill, I was perplexed when I
unscrewed the top: It smelled faintly
of vinegar.
Thinking pickles were supposed to
last forever, I began to wonder:
Could they spoil? I almost took a
bite, but hesitated at the thought of
the effects of food poisoning. So I
• picked up the phone, dialed
Mom.
"How do you know when pickles
are no longer good?" I asked.
"Smell them," Mom answered. "If
it doesn't smell right, then throw
out the jar."
Basic instructions, which I, in fact,
already knew. But of course, at only
26, I couldn't trust my cooking
instincts. Mom has been at it longer.
I call my mother at least once or
twice a week to ask cooking ques-
tions. Although I spend more time in
the kitchen cooking than my mother
does, the ability to analyze the edible
qualities of any food sort of comes
with the territory of motherhood.
Which makes me wonder: When I
become a mother one day, will I just
know about food spoilage? Does it
just hit you, like a water balloon?
There have been times when my
mother was not available — either
not home, or God forbid, out of
town. So I call my grandmother. And
if, worst case scenario, she's not avail-
able, I call an aunt. They're all moth-
ers. They just know. And sometimes,
I admit, I keep food a little longer
than I should.
When I lived at home
briefly, my sister became frus-
trated with me. Not that I
live slovenly. But I give
food the benefit of the
doubt longer than she
does. About once a week,
Jody would traipse down-
stairs, roll up her sleeves and stand
like a cartoon action figure, hands on
hips, in front of the open fridge.
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From there it was every person for
themselves, as Jody ruthlessly grabbed
packages of cottage cheese that were
approaching their eat-by date, cream
cheese that had turned pink or day-
old salad, and dumped each into the
disposal. You couldn't have a conver-
sation in the house for fear of com-
peting with the whirr of the sink.
Of course, the house was always
clean. And the refrigerator never
smelled.
Once, home for an hour or two, I
nabbed a piece of my mom's freshly
baked mandel bread. I poured a
glass of milk, finishing the
carton. So I placed the empty -<
carton on the counter, next to
the sink.
Jody came downstairs, took
a quick glance around the
times but still need to know the exact
moment when it is ready to eat. If
there's a trace of pink, is it OK? Is
that like steak tartare, which is alright
to eat raw? Or does pinkish chicken
teeter on the edge of poisonous?
Believe me, I've let it cook too long
just to be sure and then had to order
pizza to satisfy a grumbling stomach.
A few weeks ago, I baked fish. It
was late but not emergency enough
to call a parent or grandparent. So I
Mothers always
know.
turned to a pregnant friend, who
claimed the fish would be edible
when "it was no longer see-through."
When I lived in other states, I
called my mother or grandmother
long-distance, to ask the same ques-
tions. Geography has no boundaries
when it comes to eating and cooking
sensibly. Mothers always have to have
input, even when they don't want to.
Last week, I went to my parents'
house for lunch with my sister. After
I finished my salad, I carefully rinsed
out the plastic container, then stuffed
it into the garbage. I didn't leave a
speck of evidence that I had eaten
there. My sister beamed proudly.
And then she told me she had dis-
covered a jar of kosher-for-Passover
jam in the back of the refrigerator.
She pulled it out, opened it up, thor-
oughly checked it out. Then she
stuck a knife into the jar and spread
some jam on her toast. Quite tasty,
she admitted.
I bought that jar of jam last spring
— that's at least six months ago! —
for Passover. I'm surprised it didn't go
straight into the garbage when I
moved out. You see, I told her with
an assured smile, some foods have
longevity.
Of course, the next morning she
noticed mold growing around the rim
of the jar. So she threw it away.
kitchen, spotted the empty carton on
the counter, then peered at me know-
ingly. "You always have to leave your
mark, don't you?" she asked.
We laughed, I rinsed it out and
threw it away. Then I crept out of the
house sheepishly.
So she has a better instinct than I
do regarding when food goes bad. I
also wonder, quite frequently, when
perfectly fine food is cooked enough.
Chicken is one of my biggest con-
cerns: How do you know when it's
done? I've made chicken countless
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9/26
1997
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