Blog

When we moved to Vermont from hectic, overcrowded NJ over 30 years ago I knew there was going to be some big trade-offs. I kind of knew back then that food was going to be a big one.

On this blog journey, I’ve already written about some of my favorite food memories. But there are more, many, many more!

We still had the chance to go back to my hometown until 2002, when I suggested my mother move up here after my dad passed two years before to be closer to her family. Hindsite is 2020.

We didn’t have to go gluten-free until 2010, so whenever we went back we ate all of our favorites that you just can’t get in Vermont. It’s torture whenever we go back now because everything we loved has gluten in it.

One of my favorite food memories is a pickle. I am not talking about a dill pickle, or a bread and butter. I am also not talking about the garlic ones you can get in a real deli that are in a big barrel. I am talking about Reo Diner pickles.

The Reo Diner was and still is in Woodbridge, NJ, the next town over from where I lived. I went there a lot. I went with friends, my parents, and Marty. There were so many fantastic diners to go to, but this one was a sober, day time diner for real food.

We went to diners closer to where we lived when we went out at night, after drinking and dancing. We went to other stand-bys like White Castle, Stuff Your Face, The Steak Out, and our choice of a million other places. All good drunk food. Good during the day, but better when you were shit faced.

Drunk food at a diner for me was either was french fries with brown gravy or disco fries which is the same thing but with cheese. Or runny over-easy eggs with the all-important home fries to soak up all the booze so you wouldn’t have a hangover in the morning.

Going to the diner during the day meant a pizzaburger deluxe or a happy waitress special. An open-faced roast beef or turkey sandwich with mashed potatoes. During the day at the Reo Diner, I remember the pickles they had out on the table that you could munch on while you were looking at the massive ten-page menu. How they can offer those many choices is mind baffling!

The pickles…different from the ones I mentioned earlier. They were crunchy cucumbers with salt and garlic. That’s it. Not a hint of vinegar. The memory was rooted so deeply in my mind that I was able to duplicate them.

I’ve been wracking my brain trying to remember how I learned this pickle making technique. At first, I thought it may have been from Annie, but it wasn’t. I thought I saw it in an Amish cookbook my father had, but nope. I searched the internet and I could not find it.

I’ve been making these pickles for 20 years and have no recollection of how I learned, but it really doesn’t matter does it? The point is that I can tell you about them and show you how I make them. When you are knee-deep in cucumbers from your garden, I hope you will remember these pickles. I use smaller pickles or sometimes European pickles because I can’t digest the seeds of regular cucumbers. If all else falls I scrap some out before I put them into the garlic brine.

These are refrigerator, revolving door pickles. I say revolving door because they are fresh without any preservatives, not even vinegar. They are stored in the refrigerator in the briny garlic liquid they were made in. They last about 5 days so you really should only make as many as you think you will eat. In the summertime, oh hell now too whenever I open the refrigerator I get out the jar and have a couple of spears. As soon as one jar is gone, I make another batch, hench the revolving door pickles.

Refreshing and ice-cold describes these pickles in the summer. They don’t need a fantastic sandwich or burger to accompany them, they are just to be eaten. Just like on the table at the Reo Diner.

To start these pickles you should choose firm cucumbers that are all about the same size and ones that will fit length-wise in a mason jar or container that you can store them in. You will also need a large bowl, some fresh garlic cloves, kosher salt, and ice.

Cut the pickles into spears, cut cucs longways in half and then cut again to make the spears. Place the spears in a large bowl. My recipes are usually straightforward, pretty much like me, I don’t like to fool around with ridiculous measurements.

For each cucumber used, you will use the same amount of garlic cloves and tablespoons of kosher salt. This is the way that I like my pickles seasoned. If you get it wrong and think it’s too garlicky, too salty, or not enough garlic or salt, the beauty is, you can always correct it.

Next, you finely mince your garlic and sprinkle it on top of the cucumber spears. You cover the spears completely with ice, mounding it up. Finally, you sprinkle the kosher salt on the ice just like you do putting salt down on an icy driveway. Where I learned this from I will never know, I don’t think I dreamed it up.

Leave the bowl out on a counter at room temperature. By the time the salt melts all the ice, the pickles are done. This is when you can taste your garlic brine. If it’s too salty you can drain some of it and add more cold water. No big deal. The same is true with garlic, if it’s too over the top take some out of the brine, drain some of the brine and add some cold water. Not enough salt or garlic, add more a little at a time. You do have to have the salt to preserve the pickles in the jar, just like fresh mozzarella or feta cheese.

That’s it. That is the recipe. I took step by step photos to demonstrate what in the hell I am talking about. You may have to tweak the recipe a few times to get it how you like it and don’t do like me, write it down! It takes the guesswork out the next time you make a batch.

I went online and looked at some of the Reo Diner food photos. I did see a couple of lame-ass jarred pickles on the plates. If anyone from NJ has been there recently, please report back to me about the pickle situation.

Yesterday morning I saw a recipe for eggplant rollatini which was perfect because I just bought an eggplant on Monday. 

I made the cheese filling and marinara sauce right after we finished work in the production kitchen. 

We are extremely blessed during this pandemic that we are in production almost every day trying to keep up filling our wholesale customer orders. 

After lunch, I started to make the rollatini. I peeled the eggplant and began slicing it longways and boom. The damn thing was all brown and rotten in the middle even though the outside seemed ok.  I HATE WASTING MONEY LIKE THAT!

Flashback to Monday in the grocery store with Marty “Those eggplants don’t look good.” He told me. “Look this one that’s wrapped up like a baby is fine,” I said confidently. One box had loose eggplant and a new box had them wrapped individually with paper. 

So when I cut into that brown eggplant I was like, “Oh shit he was right.”Grhhhh! I hate being wrong, especially about food. 

Yesterday was a planned day off from working out so I decided to make cheese manicotti instead since I already had the filling and sauce made.

I got out my pasta maker, made some pasta dough (gluten-free), and rolled out sheets. I parboiled them because gluten-free pasta becomes brittle if it dries. I’ve done this with my fettuccine and it works. 

I laid the cooked pasta squares on a sheet pan spraying the layers with pan spray, not olive oil like I do my pasta. You do know what’s going to happen right????? At this point, I didn’t. 

After I got done writing my anti-Valentine blog post I started making my manicotti. In NJ we pronounce it mon-a-gut. “You gotta problem wid dat?” Said in my Jersey accent.

I got out the sauce and cheese and set myself up a rolling and filling station. I uncovered the pasta squares and the MF things all stuck together. 

“Are you kidding me right now?” WTF! It was almost 6:30 pm. So now I had to do what good cooks do and think on their feet. 

I decided to carefully get the squares apart as best I could under warm running water. Plan C was to make lasagna. Why not? It’s been a couple of years since I made just regular cheese lasagna. 

I didn’t tell Marty who was sitting in the living room. I didn’t talk out loud to myself and continue to curse the stuck pasta sheets, I put my head down and got to work. 

I was pretty happy how I had just enough sauce, cheese, and pasta. I popped it into the oven and was pretty sure it was going to be good. 

While the lasagna was baking, I was thinking about how the entire day was a complete train wreck. 

First thing in the morning I walked over to my neighbor’s house to feed his cat that I was cat sitting. I took off my boots, which I am tired of putting on and off constantly. Next, I stepped in warm mushy cat puke with my clean socks I just put on. After I fed the cat I threw my socks in his garbage and walked home in my boots without socks. This was all before my morning cup of coffee.

Later on in the day, I knocked over the dog’s water bowl that was just refilled to the tippy top. All the water ran into the center of my kitchen since all the floors are slanted. The character of an 1832 house is not always charming.

The water quickly ran onto my kitchen runner rug in front of my sink and island. When I raced to get paper towels I got both my second pair of socks soaked. 🤦🏻‍♀️

The saving grace of the entire day was when I took that lasagna out of the oven. You could almost hear a choir of angels singing. It looked and smelled luscious. I let it cool a bit to let the cheese set up while I set the table. 

Let me tell you what! It was the best damn lasagna I ever made and I’ve been making lasagna for 40 years! The crazy thing is, the filling was almost like the ravioli from Spiritos I’ve been trying to duplicate for decades!

I said the best lasagna that I ever made, not ate.  I will leave that honor up to Marty’s best friend Paulie’s mother Mrs. Moramarco. Her lasagne was another food memory that will go down in history. Marty and I don’t think it will ever be topped. It was pure perfection! 🙌🏼

So the title of this blog post could have been “Third time’s a charm, but after we finished eating, I announced, “That was a delicious mistake!”

Ten or fifteen years ago the old me would have gotten so pissed off when the pasta sheets stuck together I would have thrown everything away. I guess I am either getting more patient as I get older, or I just know how to fix a kitchen disaster. I think a little of both.

Today I wanted to start a recipe series titled, “Bringing Back Old School Favorites.” I know the title suggests different things to different people. The old school favorites I am referring to are dishes that have been labeled as outdated according to the fine-dining world. Not extinct, but hard to find, that is until recently.

Back in 2013, I watched Chef Emeril Lagasse make a dish called Steak Diane. As he talked about it he explained that this was a dish served tableside in fine dining restaurants in the 50s & 60s. I watched him prepare it. It looked intimidating. You had to set the sauce on fire!

I went to a few fine dining restaurants growing up, for my sixteenth & eighteenth birthdays in NJ. I never got to go to one in “the city,” New York City that is. My father hated the city. I did get to go to a famous one in New Orleans. I was with my parents on a family vacation, we were headed back to NJ from my Aunt’s in TX and stopped in NOLA for a couple days. I was eighteen and could drink legally there! 🍹🍹🍹 That’s another blog post story!

Let me set the stage of “old school” fine dining…these restaurants were called “white tablecloth” restaurants that required men to wear a shirt, tie, and jacket. They offered valet parking. People loved this because they just drove up to the door, put the car in park, and headed straight into the restaurant. The valet driver would give you a tag that matched with your car so it will be easy for them to retrieve after dinner. The valet driver would then park your car and keep an eye on it while you dined, or took it for a spin I am sure if it was a fast car. When he returned your car, you tipped him.

There was a coat check girl when you entered. You gave her your coat and she gave you a tag matching with the one on the hanger of your coat. One of the other duties of the coat check girl was to dig out a tie or jacket to loan a diner who came underdressed. After dinner, when you retrieved your coat, you tipped her. There was no such thing as coats thrown over the back of a chair or an empty chair.

Waiters usually wore black suits or tuxedos. There were waiters and a Maitre d’ or Captain. The waiters were all part of a magical experience for their diners, to treat them to the lap of luxury. The waiters held the chair out for ladies to sit down. They took the orders, made recommendations, and provided table-side service to their tables.

Other waiters served the food, brushed the crumbs away from the table in between courses, and refolded your napkin when you came back from the restroom.

There were water boys who also doubled as busy boys. Their job was you make sure your water glass was never empty and to take away the dirty dishes.

Now the Maitre d’ or the Captain was the head honcho. He took reservations, sat people, opened and poured the wine, oversaw the waitstaff. He also went around and checked in with diners making sure everything was to their liking. He was the guy in charge.

Fine dining restaurants today still have all of those things, but old school dining had tableside service.

Tableside service refers to dishes that were prepared right at your table. Waiters became part of dinner theater, chefs loved it because it took off pressure in the kitchen.

The waiters would wheel up their carts and amaze and dazzle diners with all sorts of magic. They could make an emulsion appear right before their very eyes! They were masters of the art of flambéing and made it look spectacular and dangerous.

Each waiter in a restaurant was given the exact same ingredients on their carts for each of the dishes, but each had their own special way of preparing the dishes. These dishes came together quickly and made with precision.

One of the dishes prepared table side was Steak Diane. What exactly is it beside delicious?

Steak Diane is a tableside flambéed dish. The steak is pounded thin and often brandy, cognac or Madeira is poured over it, as well as a sauce of such ingredients as butter, mushrooms, mustard, shallots, cream, Worchester sauce, and meat stock.

Flambé is a cooking procedure where alcohol is added to a hot pan to create a burst of flames. The word means “flamed” in French. Wikipedia

According to a 1948 citation, the dish was invented at the Drake Room, at 56th Street and Park Avenue in Manhattan’s Drake Hotel, and was named after chef Beniamino Schiavon’s small daughter.

Others say it was supposedly named after the Roman goddess, Diana or Diane.  Diana was the Goddess of the Hunt and also the Goddess of the Moon.  Steak Diane was originally a way of serving venison.

So why did Steak Diane become an outdated dish and taken off menus? Diners began eating healthier fare and demonizing the saturated fats found in butter and beef.

Restaurants were mandated to install expensive sprinkler systems. Tableside cooking in the dining rooms scared owners they would soak their guests if the sprinkler system went off. Steak Diane’s star began to fade and died a peaceful death around 1979.

The first time I made Steak Diane was in 2014. I was intimated as hell. I looked in all my cookbooks and read how each of them made the dish. They were all similar, but also different from each other. They all flambéed in the recipes. I noticed that recipes I found on the internet didn’t use thinly pounded steak anymore. Steak cuts like flank steak, filet, skirt steak, sirloin, and flat iron steak could be made medium-rare or medium how people like their steaks done now and not well done.

My first try and the recipe went off without a hitch. I put my big girl pants on and pulled off my first flambé! It was as delicious as I imagined Emeril’s was! I shared the dish on my Facebook page and people didn’t know what Steak Diane was, especially the younger generations. Now they did and I thought it was pretty exciting to share this long lost dish.

Since then I’ve made Steak Diane dozens and dozens of times. I actually taught my cooking class how to make it. When I pan seared the steak in my cast iron pan, I thought the fire department would be pulling up any second because the room filled with smoke.

We quickly opened the doors to vent the smoke out. I am sure the place smelled like steak for days! I made the on the spot decision to not ignite the cognac. I showed my class that if they are afraid to set the alcohol on fire, turn off the flame, add the alcohol and turn the flame back on low to cook out the alcohol. It does taste the same, but having it burst into flames is way more fun!

I usually cook alone in my kitchen, but one night Marty walked in just as I ignited the pan. “Holy shit what are you doing? You are going to burn the house down.” I told him, “Settle down there sparky I have this under control.”

I looked online today and found a shit load of Steak Diane recipes. It seems since 2017 the dish is making a comeback. Gordon Ramsey’s recipe uses small sirloin steaks. Guy Fieri uses filet mignon. Emeril uses pounded filet mignon. I just saw that the Cheesecake Factory has Steak Diane on their menu.

I hope you will try my recipe, please don’t flambé if you don’t want to. Don’t be intimidated, it’s only a steak. I like to serve mine with lots of different potato side dishes and a salad.

Steak Diane

1 lb steak of your choice: flat iron, skirt, tenderloin, filets, rib eye etc.
Kosher salt and freshly grated black pepper
4 Tbsp butter divided
4 Tbsp finely minced shallots
3 Tbsp cognac
1 cup beef broth divided
2 tsp dijon mustard
2 tsp Worchestershire sauce

Serves 2

It is important to have everything ready for the sauce before you cook the steaks.

Take the steak out 30 minutes before cooking trimming off any excess fat. After the steak has come to room temp season with kosher salt and pepper on both sides.Preheat a large skillet or cast iron pan. Add 2 Tbsp butter and let melt. Once the butter is bubbling, add seasoned steaks and cook. The amount of cook time will be based on the thickness of your steak and how you like it cooked. For example I use flat iron or skirt which are thinner cuts, I cook 3-4 minutes on each side for a perfect medium rare then let rest on a plate. Turn off pan. Thicker cuts may take 7-8 minutes per side again depending on how you like your steak. 

After the steak rests a minimum of  5-7 minutes slice thinly according to the cut of your steak. For example my flat iron or skirt steaks are sliced against the grain. Filet mignons should be kept whole. Rib eyes may be kept whole if each person is getting one whole steak or thinly slice if the steak is larger.  Arrange on a serving plate.

Turn the skillet back on to low and add the remaining 2 Tbsp butter and shallots. Saute until just translucent, about 1 minute. Increase the heat to high and add cognac carefully and let cook for 30 seconds. If your pan does ignite don’t panic the flame will go away as soon as the alcohol is burned off. If you are really afraid relax. Turn the heat off, add the cognac, then turn to high and cook for 30 seconds. Add ½ beef broth and use a wooden spoon to scrape up any brown bits stuck to the pan. Sir in mustard and Worcestershire sauce. Cook stirring often until the liquid is reduced about 2-3 minutes. Add the remaining ½ cup of broth and continue to boil, stirring often until the sauce thickens about 3-4 minutes more. Adjust the seasoning according to your taste. 

To serve spoon the sauce over the steak. Serve any leftover sauce tableside. 

*If you want to be a hotshot tip the pan to flambé like the old school waiters but be careful!

When we sat down for our morning coffee, Marty said, ” I have something I have to tell you.” My quick response was, “Oh God what did you buy?” 

He said that he didn’t buy anything, but he’s been thinking about something since last night. He had to be honest with me. Now I really didn’t know what he was going to say.

He said, “It’s about your dinner last night. I just don’t think that it was good and I didn’t enjoy it.” The meal he was talking about was chicken and dumplings.

Let me stop right there and for the record tell you guys that we are not food snobs. If I wasn’t gluten-free, I would still be eating Kraft macaroni and cheese, ramen noodles, Doritios, pizza bites, ding dong‘s, devil dogs, Twinkies, ho hos, and White Castle hamburgers.

We have some gluten-free versions of things that we love and are always on the lookout for it. Pringles and pop tarts are at the top of the list. Marty hit the jackpot today at the dented food store!

We have frozen food like everyone. We have things like frozen cauliflower pizza crusts and gluten-free breaded chicken tenders. My pantry always includes gluten-free Bisquick, canned beans, corn, Bob’s red mill muffin mix, and a gluten-free box cake mix for a last-minute dessert.

Ready to eat and quick to prepare food is necessary for busy families. Often if I’m using something like the breaded chicken tenders I will try to serve it with something that I’ve made. But sometimes those tenders are served with frozen french fries or tater tot‘s.

Ok, back to Marty telling me why he didn’t care for our dinner last night. Before I got defensive I stopped and listened. “You’re a much better cook than what you made last night.” He continued, “Now I know why kids don’t like their vegetables.” I knew exactly what he was talking about.

The cheapskate in me wanted to use up a bag of frozen 4-way. 4-way is known in the professional kitchen world as a mixture of peas, carrots, string beans, and corn. I had a bunch of 4-way on hand. I used to add it to the homemade dog food I made for Klaus. When we found out he was allergic to corn, that was the end of the homemade food and we started him on zero-grain dry food.

Marty continued by saying, “The four-way didn’t have any flavor at all, and everything was the same texture.” Not a good one at that. “It would’ve been better with just some fresh carrots along with the fresh onions and celery.” True.

OMG, he was right! I started making up the excuse about wanting to use up the 4-way and stopped. I agreed with him 100%. I am much a better cook than that.  It was kind of embarrassing.

A million things started running around in my head.  I just wrote about seasonal eating and did the opposite. I totally didn’t practice what I preached. I’m such a hypocrite!

My chicken and dumplings would’ve been so much better if I would’ve only put whatever fresh veggies I had on hand, along with the onions and celery. The fact of the matter is that I didn’t. It was a mediocre meal, totally edible, but I made the wrong decision going against everything I believe in for a $3 bag of 4-way.

I have to thank Marty so much for bringing this up. He believes in me and knew this was not me or my cooking.

So this is my first imperfect situation after yesterday’s post about perfectionism. This was my chance to see if I could cut myself some slack or would I beat myself up for the rest of the day. 

My reaction to criticism was excuses. Clearly, a pattern when I do something wrong. However, when I am critiqued at dance, that’s different. I take the criticism like a champ. I’ve asked for it because I wanted to become a better dancer. I’m not saying it’s easy, I used to go home after dance and want to cry. Beat myself up. Well, suck it up buttercup, you want to get better right? Then knock it off and practice your ass off.

Today my first reaction to Marty’s criticism was to make an excuse. At dance, I try to never make up an excuse when my technique is sloppy or wrong. For example, “My arms are wrong because I was lifting heavy things yesterday.” “I wasn’t shimmying because I didn’t sleep well last night.” Save it, sister, if you want to get better you have to listen, make corrections, and practice. Hmmm? The same thing goes for cooking! An ah-ha moment!

I did cut myself some slack today. That meal was a complete cop-out. Did I learn something from it? Hell yes! Don’t use shitty ingredients just for the sake of using them. Cook with love. I should’ve thrown that 4-way out when I stopped making the dog food. It was freezer burned anyway.

The perfectionist in me actually accepted the fact that what I made wasn’t up to snuff. It wasn’t up to the caliber of cooking that I normally do, the kind of cooking that I enjoy. The real shame is that I took the time to roast the chicken, made a delicious gravy with the drippings from the pan, and ruined it by throwing in that damn 4-way.

Tonight I used the rest of the roasted chicken and made Singapore Street Noodles. Everything was fresh, crunchy and spicy! My lips are still tingling from it!😋

We moved from Elizabeth to Iselin when I was nine years old. My father’s family were shocked that we were moving to the “country.”  To them, it was the country because they all lived within a three-block radius. Most never left their neighborhoods.  

My parents put in an offer on a house in “the neighborhood.”  Houses didn’t come on the market that often since no one left, but their offer was rejected. I don’t know if that was true or the excuse they used to move away. 

Iselin back in the early 70s wasn’t actually the country, However, the spot where “Metro Park” is now was a farm.  Hard to believe! I remember my parents taking me to that farm for a pony ride. I’m not sure if it was a pony or a horse, but I did know his name was popcorn.

A year later the farmer, became a very rich farmer, maybe a millionaire when he sold his property.

Metro Park is one of the busiest train stops for NJ Transit & Amtrack. It was built up and became overcrowded overnight. Dozens of office buildings, hotels, and other businesses are located in Metro Park as well.

At our new house, we lived next door to a widow named Annie Farkas.  Our house was a cape cod style, and hers was a bungalow.

Annie was the first adult outside my parent’s circle that told me to stop calling her Mrs. Farkas! “Just call me Annie,” she told me. 

Annie became a special person in my life. I didn’t realize how important she really was until I was an adult. 

Annie was a Hungarian woman with dyed reddish-brown hair and a loud, almost piercing voice. She must have been hard of hearing, but it never bothered me. I could hear her call to me easily when I was outside playing.

Annie was a fantastic cook.  There was always delicious smells coming from her back door.  

When she called me in the yard, she would ask if I wanted to help her in the kitchen.  There was no gate to her yard, so I had to go through the house and out the front door. 

I would tell not really ask my mother that was going over to Annie’s to help her.  She never said no. If she knew how much I loved going over there it could have been used as something to take away when I was punished. I was a smart cookie and didn’t tell her that Annie was teaching me to how to cook. 

Annie had me pullover a kitchen chair so that I could see. I would watch everything she was doing and she let me help. 

I always wanted to help when my dad did projects around the house. I would ask him, “daddy can I help?” and he always replied, “nope this is a one-man job.” It really hurt my feelings and could never figure out why I wasn’t allowed to help.

At Annie’s house, I learned how to make soups, casseroles, pierogies, stuffed cabbage, stuffed peppers, and all kinds of other things.

At Easter, Annie asked my parents if I could go to her Hungarian church in Perth Amboy and help the ladies prepare food. This was work to my mother, not fun, so of course, I was allowed to go.

I remember Annie’s little blue and white car stuffed with brown grocery bags and dozens of aluminum, disposable pans. 

When we got to the parish building I helped Annie bring in all the supplies.  I had no idea what we would be making, I was so excited! 

When we walked in,  all the old ladies stopped what they were doing and looked at me. They smiled and went back to work. 

In the mind of a 9-year-old girl, it seemed like there were 100 women all sitting down at long tables making stuffed cabbage and pierogies.  I wondered what I would be doing. 

Annie sat me down and got me set up.  First, she had me work in the stuffed cabbage section.  Everyone was speaking Hungarian while working, I was concentrating so it didn’t matter.

I felt shy at first, afraid to mess up. Ah, but then I started picking up speed.  A couple of ladies looked at me and called over to Annie. I didn’t know what they were saying. I started to panic. Then I saw Annie smile and wink at me. They told her I was a “ chip off the old block.”  they thought that I was her granddaughter.

Later, I helped at the pierogies section. My small fingers had no trouble filling and closing up my pierogies. At the end of the day, there were mountains of food placed in take-out style aluminum containers. I had no idea who would be eating it all.

It was a great day! It was at this point that not knowing my nationalities since I was adopted began to bother me. Sitting with all those Hungarian women made me feel like I was part of a nationality. (I am not Hungarian I found out since.)

When we got back Annie told me to wait a second before I went home. She went to her house and she came out with her small Hungarian cookbook from the church. She gave it to me so I could remember how to make the stuffed cabbage when I was older.

As we settled into our new town I begin making friends, joined the cheerleading squad, rode my bike everywhere. I wasn’t home as much anymore. During that point, Annie got older and wasn’t cooking as much anymore. Then I became a teenager and waved over the fence when I saw her. Every once in a while, I would stop by to say hi. 

I think she passed away when I was in my late teens or early 20s. I actually remember taking her death pretty hard but did not go to her wake or funeral…I found out about her death afterward. 

Yesterday in the production kitchen, I was trying to decide what I would make for dinner this weekend. It shocked the shit out of me that Marty said, “Why don’t you make stuffed cabbage?” What? I didn’t even think that he liked my stuffed cabbage. After making some deliveries, I stopped and picked up the ingredients and started making my stuffed cabbage early this morning.

You will see from the demo photos I’ve included steps that I have added over the years. Annie’s recipe is concise and sweet. I think they expect you to know already how to cook.

I got out Annie’s cookbook, stained from my use, and looked at the recipe. I noticed that the recipe had no quantities for any of the seasonings. It was just all to your taste. I even added more tomato sauce to my recipe because I liked a lot of sauce. I eyeballed the recipe just like she did and said a little prayer to her. Writing this blog post made me realized that Annie was the first person who not only taught me how to cook but let me!!!

Yes, this blog post made me cry.

Annie’s Stuffed Cabbage

1 lb chopped beef and pork
1 cup long grain rice soaked and drained
1 medium onion chopped and sautéed in 1 Tbsp butter or lard
1 14 oz can sauerkraut
1 28 oz can tomato sauce or puree
1 medium head of cabbage
Salt, pepper & paprika to taste

Core the head of cabbage and parboil it. Mix the first four ingredients in bowl. Take one cabbage leaf at a time, cut off heavy vein. Fill leaf with 2 Tbsp mixed ingredients and roll loosely. Fold one side of leaf as you roll and tuck in other with finger.

Put cabbage rolls in deep pot lined with sauerkraut. Place in pot folded side down. Pour on tomatoes and enough boiling water to cover. Cook for an hour or until rice is tender.

Some folks put sauerkraut on top also, or shred remaining cabbage and put on top cabbage rolls; others omit sauerkraut entirely.