The Catskill Chronicle

By Jude Waterston

I was in kindergarten. I suppose there were stuffed animals, trucks, dolls, puzzles, crayons and such to play with, but I recall having an interest in just two things. One was the nearly life-size kitchen set, including stove, sink, and refrigerator made entirely of pale, polished wood, and the other was being the boss of it. The kitchen set was lovely to behold. The oven door opened on a hinge, enabling me to pop in a make-believe cake, noodle casserole, or pot roast, and on the stovetop I often heated up an imaginary can of Campbell’s cream of tomato soup just as my mother did at home.

From the moment I laid eyes on it, I felt the kitchen, tucked into a corner of the large, well-lit room, was my domain. In my family, we were urged to use our imagination, and here was a world in which I could set the table, cook an entire meal, and enjoy the repast with any one of my friends, or better yet, with the young “husband” of my choice. Thus, one morning I stood at the open refrigerator door with a hand on my hip, trying to decide what I would prepare for breakfast. “Today I’m cooking for Richie, and only Richie,” I announced purposefully. My teacher, Mrs. Kagen, strode quickly across the room. “You know, Jude, it’s important that we share with everybody,” she advised in a gentle yet persistent manner. She knelt by my side, and looking into my eyes, smiled encouragingly. “I’m the boss,” I responded dryly. “Well, no, Jude, you’re not,” she said, refraining from informing me that she, indeed, was the boss. “What do you think of everyone in the class getting a little taste of whatever you’re making? It smells delicious,” she said, lifting the lid of a tiny tin pot on the stove-top and peering inside. “There’s nothing in there,” I told her. She then looked at me so pointedly that my father’s face flashed before my eyes. During my occasional bouts of pigheadedness he would give me that very same look, often followed by the suggestion that I spend awhile alone in my bedroom. Naturally, that time was to be spent contemplating my behavior. “Okay, everyone can have some,” I said begrudgingly.

Though I was the baby of the family, I was by no means a spoiled child. How I came to think of myself as the boss (of pretty much everyone) is a mystery. I have been told that when, as a child of three, I did not want to do what my mother asked of me, I would simply pass out. This was achieved by holding my breath. The first time it occurred I was playing by myself under the weeping willow tree in our backyard. “Come on in for lunch, Juju,” my mother called pleasantly. When I ignored her request, her voice took on a slight edge. Next thing she knew I had keeled over. Mortified, she ran into the house and called Dr. Adler, our pediatrician. “Ignore her,” he instructed. “What did you say?” my mother exclaimed, alarmed at such a suggestion. “A classic form of tantrum,” Dr. Adler calmly explained. “Ignore it,” he repeated firmly. As he predicted, I quickly outgrew this practice when left laying splayed out wherever I chose to faint, and it drew no reaction.

My early years were spent in a modest house on Long Island, and all of the kids on the block spent the evenings together. We played Tag, Red Light-Green Light, Simon Says, and a frenetic game called Spud. As soon as I finished my homework, I would head out to see who was in the street. One early evening I saw Jimmy Koretsky, who lived directly across from us, coming out of his house at the same time as I. I motioned him over and we met in the middle of the block. “I’m taller than you,” I told him, though I was not. “No you’re not,” he said without much conviction. “Yes I am,” I insisted. “Okay,” he said with a shrug of his skinny shoulders. I could see he was pretty easy to boss around. “You can kiss me if you want,” I suggested. We went to his garage for some privacy, and I had my first kiss. “You’re my boyfriend,” I informed him. “Alright, but I have to go in and eat dinner now,” was his terrifically romantic response.

My predilection to be bossy continued unabated. I recently found a copy of a newspaper my friends and I produced in the seventh grade of junior high school. We ran off copies on the Xerox machine in the library and distributed it to our classmates. It contained drawings; news of current school events; and a great deal of insipid gossip. On the second page is the list of contributors. I appointed myself publisher, editor, a writer, and head artist. I have a vague recollection of a couple of my friends protesting this list of credits, but I was articulate and self-assured, and I explained in detail why and how it all made perfect sense. Naturally, I also insisted that there be a recipe included in the issue. In no time, I would have my classmates learning the cooking skills I’d developed since I was seven years old. Here’s the recipe I chose. Now, get in the kitchen and get cooking!

Baked Noodles with Mushrooms and Peas

Serves 4

This dish can be stretched into a full meal with the addition of cooked cubed ham, chicken, or turkey.

1 cup fresh shelled peas (or thawed frozen)

½ pound cremini (mini portobella) mushrooms, thickly sliced

4 tablespoons butter

1 tablespoon olive oil

3 tablespoons flour

1 ½ cups half-and-half (or cream)

½ pound broad egg noodles

1/8 teaspoon ground nutmeg

1/8 teaspoon cayenne pepper

¼ teaspoon salt

Freshly ground black pepper

2 tablespoons sherry cooking wine or Madeira

1/3 cup grated Parmesan cheese

½ pound grated sharp white cheddar cheese

Bring a small pot of salted water to the boil. Add the peas and boil for 5 minutes. Drain and rinse with cold water to stop the cooking process. Set aside. Heat the olive oil and one tablespoon of the butter in a skillet. Add the sliced mushrooms and sauté over medium-high heat for 5 – 7 minutes, until any liquid they exude has evaporated and mushrooms are slightly browned. Set aside. Cook the noodles in plenty of boiling salted water for six minutes. Drain and set aside. Preheat the oven to 400 degrees. In a saucepan, melt the remaining three tablespoons of butter over low heat. Add the flour and stir or whisk the roux for two or three minutes. Whisk in the half-and-half and raise the heat to high. When the mixture thickens remove it from the heat and add the cheddar cheese, nutmeg, cayenne, salt, and black pepper. Stir to incorporate the cheese. Return the noodles to the pot in which they were cooked. Add the mushrooms and peas. Pour the sauce over all and stir gently but thoroughly to combine. Pour the mixture into a large ovenproof baking or gratin dish. Sprinkle the Parmesan cheese evenly over the top of the casserole and bake in the oven until bubbly and crispy, about fifteen minutes. Serve immediately.