The Catskill Chronicle

By Jude Waterston

Just shy of a decade ago, in the spring of 2003, I first wrote about my brother, Buzz. I then had a weekly column on food and cooking for an upstate newspaper. The Buzz on my Brother Buzz, as the piece was titled, dealt mainly with the fact that my brother and I, both avid cooks, were unable to work together in the kitchen. I wrote, “My brother Buzz and I cannot cook together, and that’s a shame. Buzz is the eldest and I am the baby in a family of three children. Janet, our sister, is the definitive middle child; the peacemaker who doesn’t impose her will on others. Buzz is controlling and I’m bossy. Perfect combo! So, unfortunately, when we have tried to cook together we butt heads. Neither defers to the other. We both think we’re right. What a shame that two people who share the same passion cannot compassionately share.”

I gave an example of the kind of conflicts we had over the years: “Once, when Janet and I were in Philly  visiting, in an effort to be conciliatory, I’m sure, Buzz asked if I would like to prepare a salad to accompany the dinner he was making for Janet, me, our sister-in-law, Wendy, and himself. I am known in the family as the salad maven, so I was pleased. Buzz opened the fridge and pointed out the various ingredients they had on hand. I asked for a bowl in which to prepare and serve the salad and he handed me a bowl that I would’ve used to make greens for one, maybe two people. Knowing my brother does elaborate woodworking as a hobby, I knew he had plenty of larger bowls, some of which he’d made with exotic woods brought back from trips to Latin America. “This isn’t big enough,” I said. “Yes it is,” my brother immediately replied. I felt my neck go stiff. “No it isn’t,” I countered. My brother turned from the cutting board he was using and said to me, “I know how much salad we all eat,” meaning his immediate family. “Well, this isn’t even big enough for the amount Janet and I always eat,” I said. Begrudgingly, pointing at a low cabinet, Buzz said, “Fine, there are bigger bowls in there.” I made a lovely salad and not a leaf was left. My brother’s response was, “See, there was enough salad.” Huh?

On the bright side, the story ended, “The good news is that Buzz and I are always able to discuss our love of food; to relay to each other, with a shared enthusiasm, what we have most recently cooked or eaten.”

In 2008 I wrote again about Buzz, in a piece called My Brother’s Larder. I offer it here:

“Years back my brother, Buzz, designed and built an impressive and ingenious kitchen table. The handsome, sturdy piece of furniture is made of Birdseye maple, the top inset with eight dark gray polished granite squares. The most creative aspect was the installation of two drawers, as in a Captain’s bed, that run the length and width of the structure but are hidden from view under an overhanging lip.

“The drawers were constructed to keep hidden my brother’s unbelievable collection of what he would describe as ‘controlled clutter.’ The old kitchen table was strewn, end to end, with a slowly and steadily amassed pile of papers, pamphlets, newsletters, leaflets, note pads, CDs, scraps of paper, and newspaper clippings. My brother swears the whole mess is really quite organized, and he knows exactly where to locate and retrieve each item.

“His wife, Wendy, was thrilled by the thought that the new table would no longer be in disorder, but somehow my brother was unable to bring himself to stuff the papers out of sight. And so, the right side of the table, which Wendy assigned to Buzz, is now completely covered with papers once again.

“While in Philadelphia on a recent visit, I planted myself in his seat at the table and flipped through the pile. There were many things of interest to me, such as a recipe, cut from the “Philadelphia Enquirer,” for beef with chimichurri sauce; a take-out menu from a Turkish restaurant; an article on a cheese shop in the historic Italian market on the south side of Philly; the latest issue of “Bon Appetite” magazine; and a copy of Mario Batali’s recipe for Trippa alla Romana, or Roman-Style Tripe.

“I stood up to go to the fridge to get a glass of cold water before settling in to flip through the cooking magazine, but when I opened the freezer door to get some ice I was stopped in my tracks by the sight of high-sided plastic trays, occupying two shelves, that were brimming with neatly labeled and dated zip-lock bags. I slid one tray toward me and began looking through the contents. They are listed below.

Cherry sauce for roast duckling

Shrimp and oyster stock (1 cube = 8 ounces)

Vietnamese lamb patty meat spice mixture

Spicy plum sauce

Harissa (Spicy Tunisian sauce)

Flanken basting sauce

Shrimp shells

Chipotle peppers in adobe sauce

Extra strong shrimp stock

Masaman curry paste

Mint syrup

Korean basting sauce

Thai roasted red curry paste

Beef essence

Szechuan vegetables

Sauce for rack of lamb

Pesto sauce

Thai sauce Prik

Chicken croquette gravy

“Wendy walked in and found me standing at the door, my mouth hanging open. ‘This is unbelievable,’ I commented. ‘You should see the downstairs freezer,’ she said. ‘Do you mind if I do?’ I asked. ‘Go ahead,’ she invited. In the basement, I pulled open the door to the deep freeze and peered inside. Here I found fully prepared dishes; raw meats and poultry that would be used in conjunction with the myriad sauces stored upstairs; frozen fresh herbs; and a huge collection of various precooked grains in ½-inch thick blocks. When Buzz and Wendy want a healthy side dish, they break off a few chunks of whatever they’re in the mood for and heat the combo of grains in the microwave for a few minutes. In this freezer I found:

Chicken and duck sausage

Skirt steak in Mexican marinade

Turkey Polska kielbasa

Jumbo shrimp

Tripe alla Romana

Chicken and turkey andouille sausage

Quart bags of bright green basil, mint, and cilantro

Squid tentacles

Wild rice mix

Whole oats

Wheat berries

Spelt

Kamut

Whole rye

Quinua

“I have to say I was pretty amazed at my brother’s vast collection of foodstuff. I’d always known his method of cooking differed from mine. He prepares massive quantities of whatever he’s cooking to insure lots of leftovers or to freeze for future use. On a day off from work, he can be found grilling ten pounds of root vegetables or making a lamb stew designed to feed twelve, apportioning the results and storing them away. When he wants to eat, he likes the idea that the bulk of preparation has already taken place and he can have an interesting, full-flavored meal in minutes. In his way, he is quite organized, after all.

“That night for dinner Buzz offered us a choice of either the Roman-style tripe or marinated skirt steak. Having a fear of offal (innards), Janet and I opted for the skirt steak, which my brother grilled to perfection, serving it alongside a medley of grains, as well as a platter of sautéed Swiss chard. While Buzz chose an appropriate bottle of wine from his vast stash in the dining room, Wendy set the table in the kitchen. To my amazement, she placed Buzz’s dinner plate directly, and I might add, precariously, on top of the stack of papers on his side of the table. When I shot her a surprised glance she shrugged and said, ‘This is an every night occurrence.’ I assumed she was being facetious and that Buzz would address the issue before he sat down to eat. Instead, he plopped himself down in his seat, took a second to securely balance his plate in the center of the pile, and ate with gusto.”

Now, less than a month after his death, I find myself writing about Buzz for the third time. Seemingly out of the blue, a lesion connected with the multiple myeloma he was diagnosed with in late 2008, popped up this past November. After a stint of radiation, things looked bright. Then, in January, while on a trip to Spain with Wendy, he suffered excruciating pain and came home to find that the cancer had metastasized and he was immediately hospitalized. As the disease spread at an alarming rapid rate, Janet and I spent weekends in Philly with the family, crying, laughing, saying, “I love you,” and watching my brother’s life so quickly ebb away.

Wendy, left with a huge house in which Buzz’s presence is felt in every inch, has decided to move in with one of her two sons, Josh, his wife, Jen, and their seven-year-old son, Sammy, with whom Buzz and Wendy have had an extraordinary relationship since his birth.

Since Buzz’s death, Janet and I have gone to Philly to help Wendy clear out the house and go through what she will bring to her son’s house and what needed to be discarded or offered to family and friends. Recently, I found myself standing over the garbage disposal in the kitchen of their home, dumping the vast majority of condiments Buzz had acquired and whose dates had expired or were just clearly old and beyond use. There were 3 bags of dried Chinese shitake mushrooms; 2 of dried water lilies; four bottles of Chinese oyster sauce; 2 of Vietnamese fish sauce; half a dozen tins of various types of curry paste; preserved Szechuen shredded vegetables (from 2007); 2 bags of tapioca starch; 2 jars of hoisin sauce (from 2005); 3 bottles of liquid smoke; 2 of hot chili oil; apricot, sweet cherry and damson plum preserves (from 2006); 6 cans of coconut milk; and 8 little bottles of various hot sauces from habanero to chipotle Tabasco.

Buzz had brought home bottles of liquor from just about every trip they had made together and had amassed an impressive collection of wine, which Wendy, pretty much a teetotaler, begged us to pick from. Besides taking quite a bit of vino, there were numerous bottles of rum (with and without coconut); Brazilian sugar cane-based cachaca (used to make potent caipirinhas); tequila, and ouzo.

Down in the basement, we found nearly 20 boxes of trottole, tightly wound, squat corkscrew pasta that Buzz had discovered a couple of years before. When the store at which he’d found them was going out of business, Buzz bought as many boxes as he could. He had introduced us to the macaroni and we loved it, so in the trunk of the car went every box.

In the den, Wendy indicated their collection of cookbooks and asked if I’d choose from those she did not intend to take with her. I took “Foods of Vietnam” by Nicole Routheir, “Brazilian Cookery” by Margarette De Andrade, “The Complete Middle East Cookbook” by Tess Mallos, “400 Thai and Chinese [Delicious Recipes for Healthy Living]” by various authors, and “Cuisine A Latina” by Michelle Bernstein. The latter had no less than 10 bright orange post-its affixed to as many pages and the others also held slips of paper indicating dishes Buzz had hoped to make or had already cooked. I was thrilled to find his handwritten notations next to some recipes, such as “good but not great,” for the cold rice noodles with shrimp in the Vietnamese cookbook and “easy and authentic. Long live Phil’s mom!” for South-East Asian pickled vegetables in another. I have no idea who Phil is, but I could envision Buzz excitedly jotting down his impressions.

Finally, Wendy brought me into the solar greenhouse they had built next to the kitchen. On shelves, under fluorescent lights, were pots of basil and little tomato plants Buzz had planted from seed with Sammy. Knowing she was leaving the house and garden behind, she asked if I wanted them. I felt a great wave of emotion at the idea of putting into the ground, in my own garden, the plants that Buzz had so lovingly nurtured. A good friend is tending to them until I can plant them after the last threat of frost. I hope they will grow tall and bear fruit. “Take some of the seeds from the tomatoes,” Wendy advised, “and dry and freeze them, so you can plant Buzz’s tomatoes in the years to come.”

Lemony Pasta with Oven-Roasted Fennel

Serves 4

12 ounces dried trottole, spirals, or fusilli pasta

4 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil

¾ cup (firmly packed) freshly grated Parmigiano-Reggiano cheese, plus more for passing at the table

1 teaspoon finely grated lemon rind

¼ cup freshly squeezed lemon juice

3 tablespoons unsalted butter

3 tablespoons chopped fresh chives (or Italian parsley)

Salt and freshly ground black pepper

Preheat oven to 425 degrees. Cut off and discard stalks of the fennel. Cut off a slice from the bottom of the fennel bulb and peel off and discard outer, blemished layer. You should have about 1 ½ pounds fennel. Cover a jelly roll pan or cookie sheet with foil and drizzle with 1 tablespoon of the oil. Cut the fennel into strips and place on the tray. Drizzle with the remaining 3 tablespoons oil and season generously with freshly ground black pepper and salt, (preferably sea or kosher). Place the fennel in the oven and roast, tossing mid-way, for about 20 minutes, until tender and lightly colored. Set aside. Meanwhile, cook the pasta in plenty of boiling salted water for about 7 or 8 minutes. It should not yet be al dente, as it will cook further. Drain pasta. Return the pot to the stove-top, add the butter, and melt over very low heat. Add the pasta and lemon juice and cook, stirring, for about 1 minute. Add the lemon zest and the cooked fennel. Cook for an additional minute. Turn the heat off and add the grated Parmigiano-Reggiano. Stir to combine and check for seasoning. Place the pasta in a large, shallow serving bowl and toss in the herbs. Serve immediately.