If it’s a bread product, the Smela women are eating it

Damn it’s been a long time since I’ve posted on this blog. I hope none of you were worried. I hope none of you felt a crushing anxiety as you pondered just how well I was in fact being fed. I haven’t been in hiding; I’ve just been baking a whole lot of bread. It’s my new obsession. And yes, I do channel Nicholas Cage’s tortured and brooding Italian baker from Moonstruck as I prepare it (my neighbors are starting to wonder why I keep yelling, “I lost my hand! I lost my bride!”) For the past month or so many of my meals have consisted of bread, goat cheese, and wine. And while that can make a truly exceptional meal, it doesn’t make a very interesting blog post. So I’m going to reach back into April and present you with a fabulous, homemade culinary experience.

I was reminded over Easter that I come from an incredible cooking pedigree. My Czech grandma would cook amazing slavic specialties, as well as standard American fare. And once you told her you liked something, you had to be prepared to eat vast quantities of it. Take, for example, my grandma’s roast chicken. You might be thinking to yourself, roast chicken is nice, but how transcendent can it truly be? If you’re thinking this, you’ve clearly never had my grandmother’s roast chicken. It’s succulent. And moist. It should go without saying that the skin is crisped to a crackling perfection. But it’s really the flavor of the meat that amazes me. Chicken has a reputation for being dry and tasteless, but when my Grandmother makes it the meat is rich and satisfying. It’s so good, that for awhile I was convinced that the only way to achieve these results was by using four sticks of butter. But apparently there’s some sort of alchemy involving garlic going on (I’m still not exactly sure of the specifics. I think it requires grandma-magic, in addition to the garlic).

My best memory of this chicken dates from my college years. I was taking Amtrak up to visit her on one of my breaks. This was back in the Stone Age when I didn’t have a cell phone (and, for that matter, was in college). Of course, Amtrak being Amtrak, my 3 hour trip was lengthened to 6 hours all because the conductor forgot to make the ritual sacrifice to his pagan god. So here I am, arriving at Schenectady at 11pm, when my grandma had been expecting me at 8pm. I have not called her, because of the aforementioned lack of cell phone. I get to her apartment, and while she’s mainly relieved that I’m not dead in a ditch somewhere, she’s also upset because she made me dinner and it got cold. What did she make, you may ask? A whole roast chicken. Because I love her roast chicken, and my grandma loves me. But who can eat whole roast chicken at 11pm after fighting the battle that is Amtrak? I most likely had two gluttonous servings, but there was still an embarrassment of chicken left. And my poor grandma. She gave a pained expression and said, “Is that all? Aren’t you going to finish it?” It’s not easy to break your grandmother’s heart, but a girl can only eat so much chicken. Luckily she forgot this episode when I returned for my next trip: I had rhapsodized about her Mazanec (a Czech Easter bread) at one point, and so naturally my subsequent trip ended with her thrusting a freshly made, sugared loaf into my willing little hands.

While I certainly have inherited my grandmother’s love of food, I think the actual cooking skills transferred directly down to her daughter Jane. A visit to my aunt’s house starts with dessert, and only gets better from there. This Easter she started us out with her signature brownies (I believe the secret ingredient is fudge? Whatever it is, it produces the most decadent brownie known to man). Also on hand were apricot strudel squares, a brilliant combination of tart fruit and buttery, crumbly topping. As an added treat for breakfast she had also made apple-bran muffins. Mind you, these were just the treats on hand for the weekend. The actual Easter feast was … well … it was a thing of beauty. Jane made so much food we couldn’t fit it into the dining room, and had to split it up into three separate events – the Easter Brunch, followed by the Easter Lunch, finally followed by the Easter Dessert.

Easter Brunch: naturally my aunt provided some finger food for the table. And by finger food I mean trays of lox, cream cheese, bagels, tomatoes, and onions. You know, as a light starter. Next we moved onto the casseroles – one comprised of layers of potatoes, eggs, cheddar cheese and bacon, the other a Challah French toast with a praline topping. I mean really, we were probably all exploding after that. It was just a world of butter and bacon and goodness. But we bravely moved on to Easter Lunch: Baked spiral ham. Roasted carrots and red potatoes. Asparagus with just the right hint of parmesan. This classic holiday fare was the perfect contrast to lush comfort foods that preceded it. And oh that ham. The external sugary glaze was in precise balance with the saltiness of the meat.

So, yeah, we ate all of that. At this point everyone was in need a short nap (which shall henceforth be referred to by its Czech name, which sounds like shlufficheck. I’m fairly certain that’s not how you spell it. But try saying it out loud – doesn’t it just completely capture the essence of a post-gorge catnap?) Blankets were gathered, couches were claimed. I think I neglected to mention that all this food was accompanied by mimosas and wine, so you can imagine the stupor we were all in. As we sprawled and contemplated the upcoming desserts, my Uncle wisely said, “You know what we need right now? The final episode of Twin Peaks”. And so our shlufficheck dreams were filled with creepy, backwards-talking dwarves and Laura Palmer’s screams of rage.

We awoke from our slumbers to a smorgasbord of sugar: chocolate cake with whipped cream filling. Pound cake, fresh strawberries, and more whipped cream. And finally some of the cutest carrot-cake cupcakes known to man, courtesy of my cousin Lauren – she actually designed each one to look like an individual Easter basket.

After this, the food was officially done. As were we. You see, this is what happens when my family gets together to eat. We can’t do things halfway. We need to eat EVERYTHING. But we can be surprisingly satisfied by simple pleasures as well. For example: after the foodapolooza ended my aunt Jane, my grandma, my cousin Lauren and I sat around the kitchen table and discussed the joys of good bread and butter. My Grandma reminisced about her own mother slipping her pieces of this treat when she obstinately refused to finish her dinner. And I contemplated a culinary coup - perhaps it was time that I donned the mantle of family carb-pusher. Crusty loaves of freshly made bread danced through my head. I could use my Nicholas Cage impression for good, not evil. I would be the one staring at relatives in bewilderment, wondering why they had only eaten half a loaf of bread in one sitting, when I had provided them with 3 loaves a piece. I’m sure my grandma will glow with pride. And then she’ll probably whip out a roast duck just to show that she remains the master.