The Catskill Chronicle

By Jude Waterston

Working in a retail food shop specializing in homemade pasta, I am often   floored by the lengths to which parents go to involve their children in decisions  regarding the fare for dinner. “Lucy, do you want ravioli or tortellini tonight?” a mother asks, bending down to look into the face of her five year old. Lucy is busy knocking plastic canisters of dried spices onto the floor and then kicking them, skittering across the room, with the rubber tips of her sparkly pink sneakers. “Honey,” mama coos, as she picks up the basil, parsley, and chili flakes and returns them haphazardly to the shelf, “Do you feel like pumpkin, mushroom, or cheese ravioli?”

Red-headed Luke is being indulged a few feet away. His dad is holding out  various sauces, one at a time, for his son’s perusal. “You liked the pesto last time,” he coaxes. “I don’t like pesto,” the seven year old insists. “You do, Luke. We had it with whole wheat linguine last Tuesday.” “I hate linguine,” retorts his offspring. “What about tomato and basil sauce, honey?” the dad inquires to his son’s retreating back. Luke busies himself mauling the fresh mozzarella balls in a wicker basket. “Marinara, Luke? Luke?”

Meanwhile, mind-boggled, I’m standing behind the serving counter thinking back to when I was growing up in the 1960s. My sister, Janet, and I each went  through a few short-lived food phases. For awhile I would eat only French toast for breakfast. I doubt this went on longer than a month. The only cheese that passed Janet’s lips was melted mozzarella on a slice of pizza. That was for a longer period of time, but I’m sure my mother felt a child could live without cheese in her diet, as long as a glass or two of milk was consumed each day. And on a family vacation to Maine, while the family members all donned paper bibs, wielded nut crackers and tiny metal forks, and dug into lobsters, Janet ordered a hamburger each day for lunch and again for dinner. Apparently, on the final day of the trip my mother even allowed her to have a burger for breakfast.

When we were kids, we were not coddled or asked our opinion on what mom should cook for the three meals she diligently prepared daily. This is not to say that my mother didn’t go out of her way to make dishes we adored, but in general, we were expected to eat whatever my parents were having for dinner, and it was certainly expected that we would, at the very least, taste everything put on the table. If it looked particularly nasty, as did lima beans, cow’s tongue, or beets, we were allowed a “no thank-you” portion, a diminutive serving, and we were not expected to try it again in future. Interestingly, this policy of having to give a fair try to any food put before us eventually produced grown children with inquisitive palettes who enjoy foods of every ethnicity and love trying new dishes.

The thing I remember most about our meals was this: Janet and I could not bear it if one food touched another on our plates. If only our dishware was compartmentalized like the aluminum T.V. dinner trays so popular in those days. “It’s all ending up in the same place, my dad stated impatiently, the serving spoon in his hand hovering over our plates as we negotiated space. “Not there,” I’d rant as he tried to lower a few glazed carrots onto my dish. “Too close!” Janet warned as a couple of roasted potatoes came dangerously near a puddle of creamed spinach. We were grateful when the dinner menu consisted of baked chicken and roasted acorn squash. At least the squash half we were each served was a container unto itself. Next day found us immersed in the same scenario. “Over here,” I’d say, pointing to a clearing where I was willing to have my dad spoon some string beans topped with slivered toasted almonds. This went on until my father irritably dumped whatever was nestled in the spoon onto our plates with a plop. “You would think you were being tortured, my mother philosophically noted. “There are people starving in Africa who would be grateful for the food you’re eating tonight,” she added. “They can have my baked ham,” Janet offered under her breath. I laughed so hard that I was sent to my room for the rest of the night.

Spiced Oven-Roasted Acorn Squash

Serves 4 as a side dish

This would make a terrific side dish for Thanksgiving. You could even buy smaller squash and give each person an individual half-squash. Just adjust the cooking time if using smaller squash. Check for doneness after 40 or so minutes.

1 large acorn squash

¼ cup blanched, sliced almonds (toasted in a dry non-stick skillet until golden)

1 ½ tablespoons softened sweet butter

1 teaspoon dark brown sugar

Salt and freshly ground black pepper

½ teaspoon curry powder

2 teaspoons mango chutney, preferably Patak’s brand

Preheat oven to 425 degrees. Cut a small slice off the rounded ends of the squash and discard. Lay the squash on its side and slice in half. Scoop out seeds and discard. Place the squash halves, cut side up, in a shallow baking dish or jelly roll pan. Prick the rim and cavities of the squash with the tines of a fork. With your fingers, rub the rims and cavieties of the squash with the softened butter. Sprinkle ½ teaspoon of dark brown sugar on rims and inside each squash. Salt and pepper lightly. Sprinkle ¼ teaspoon curry powder on rims and inside each squash. Gently spoon 1 teaspoon mango chutney on rim and inside cavities of each squash. Place the squash in the oven and roast, basting with juices in cavities once, until golden and tender, about 1 hour. Remove from oven and slice each squash half in half again. Place the quarters on a serving plate and sprinkle with the toasted almonds. Serve at once.