Author: peters45_wp

My Hungarian Royalty

[My series on Hungarian food continues with a final main course…]

If there was a royal dish in our home it was Chicken Paprika. It was the most elevated, the most beloved dish. It possessed its own distinct pageantry. It was rich. We over-indulged in it.

The royalty of Chicken Paprika has a special earthiness to it. Plates were sometimes licked. Leftovers were retrieved from the refrigerator at all hours, for days. I think this earthiness has to do with its Central European origins, a place where high and low culture sometimes mix with an ease not found to the same degree in Western Europe. My father used to say that chicken was rare in Budapest, considered a kind of luxury. This might be one aspect of the highness of the dish. And yet the simplicity of Chicken Paprika gives it a kind populist accessibility. Anyone can make it, and at our house, everyone did.

Nokedli – Among The Most Beautiful of Foods

My mother’s specialties were the chicken and the gravy. After lightly browning the onions, my mother would add chicken to the pot – thighs, legs, breasts – and sear it on both sides. She would shake paprika all across the large, deep, oval pot, add a splash of water, and cover it. Later, if she were visiting at the time, my grandmother would be called in to gauge progress, sticking her face almost into the pot, inhaling the tomatoey peppery aroma deeply several times. “Ah, ya,” she might conclude with a nod, a serious expression on her face (this was serious business), and her approval would energize the foot-soldiers for the rest of the preparations.

But of course chicken paprika is not Chicken Paprika without Nokedli. This was my father’s province. I picture him in old khakis and a white undershirt (occasionally there would be a nice button-down, as in the picture below), holding a metal bowl tight against his belly while beating the dough vigorously with a wooden spoon, grunting occasionally from the effort. When the dough was ready, my father would spoon a large clump onto a cutting board. Now came the tricky part, the part that required both artfulness and technical skill. My father would take a large, sharp knife and restructure the clump of dough into a log. Then with the knife, he would separate a long slice from the log, maybe a half inch or so thick. And finally, holding the end of the cutting board over a big pot of boiling water, he would, in one motion, cut an inch or so from the slice, slide it gracefully into the pot, and dip the knife in the hot water (so the dough wouldn’t stick when he cut the next piece). He would repeat the motion quickly until the slice was gone, then begin the routine again.

In a few minutes, the dumplings would rise to the surface as if calling to be removed (though they still required 5 to 7 minutes more cooking). One of the happiest sights of my youth (and still to this day) was a casserole dish filling with Nokedli as they were removed from the pot.

Nokedli are one of the most beautiful foods. When they are properly made, that is. A beautiful Nokedli has an irregular silhouette and topography. Each one is similar, yet different – the result of the length cut from the log, the degree to which some may have rubbed off as the knife slid across the cutting board, the position it was in when it hit the scalding water. Too often, Nokedli are thin, small, and scraggly. Maybe these are traditional in someone’s eyes. But a proper Nokedli, in my view, has a certain heft to it, a kind of meatiness in your mouth. It is oblong, not missile shaped. It is from the dumpling family, not the rice or pasta family, so a Nokedli that has the diameter on its narrow dimension of spaghetti is not Nokedli. The diameter of a pencil? No. Should be a half-inch, even three-quarters. And at least an inch long. Now, not too big. We’re not talking pierogi-sized here. Two or three in your mouth at a time. Not a dozen. Not just one.

They Become One

Near the end of the cooking process, when the Nokedli were finished and the chicken was done, my mother would make the gravy. Though she was not Magyar (she was from Brooklyn), she was a genius with the gravy. She knew just how much sour cream to add, just how long to simmer it, and she always managed to produce the exquisite taste, which is as much in its texture as its flavor – small squares of onion, odd bits of chicken, tiny globules of sour cream. The gravy unifies the dish. You spoon it generously over the chicken and Nokedli, and they become one.

One last thing is essential to the royalty of Chicken Paprika: Uborka Saláta, Hungarian cucumber salad. Its name is like a primal chant – “OOOborkahSALAta” – so different from the refined notes it adds to the meal. Simplicity is part of its genius – cucumber sliced paper thin, a touch of sour cream, a little vinegar, some paprika. It is a side dish, not a centerpiece, served best quite literally to the side in a small bowl. Uborka Saláta is the light and fresh complement to the rich and exuberant Chicken Paprika. Alternating them every now and then substantially increases the flavors and pleasure of a Chicken Paprika meal.

A Slap Of The Table Top

When the words “home” and “special occasion” are mentioned together, an image comes to mind. In the center is a plate, one half is filled with chicken breast meat and maybe a whole thigh, the other half with a crowded herd of Nokedli. Everything is coated with the orange-brown gravy. At the top of the plate, which could just as easily be everyday china as Limoges china, to the left, is Uborka Saláta in a small glass bowl. To the right, a cup of water, or, when I was older, a glass of wine. Perhaps it is Hungarian wine. And perhaps at the end of his usual toast my father might have chosen to conclude, on this night, “Egészségedre!” Adding, in a stage whisper to us, “That means ‘to your health.’ But be careful not to pronounce it as ‘A seggedhez’!” punctuating the laugh that followed with a slap of the table top.

You can buy the book, Finding Maria (Chickadee Prince Books, 2017), now on Amazon

In Praise of Rakott Krumpli

This is part of a series on Hungarian foods – three main courses, three desserts. This is the second main dish, following stuffed cabbage.

Rakott Krumpli is not the name of a man in a folktale, it is a food. And if I were to predict, I would say that while stuffed cabbage won’t make it to the next generation of my family, Rakott Krumpli most certainly will. When I think of Rakott Krumpli, I think of sitting around the kitchen table with my parents and my sister, a tall, steaming casserole of the dish at the center. And I think of sitting around the kitchen table with my wife and my son and daughter, a tall, steaming casserole of Rakott Krumpli at the center. It is a dish for chilly fall and winter nights, when eating rich dishes in warm kitchens with family is a happy impulse, and then a pleasant habit, and then indelible upon the memory.

For sure, there are lots of potatoes in Rakott Krumpli, and they are layered, along with sliced hard-boiled egg, sour cream, and Hungarian sausage. But don’t call Rakott Krumpli layered potatoes. Call it Rakott Krumpli (RAH-cut CROOM-plea). Certain things are just certain things.

Mixing Like The Many Cultures Of The Greater Hungary Of Long Ago

It is an earthy dish of simple ingredients. But the beauty of Rakott Krumpli lies not in its simplicity, it is in its three dimensionality. The transition from mere layer to layering. gives the dish its drama, its creativity. Put some butter at the bottom, then sliced boiled potatoes, then sliced hard-boiled egg, then generous dollops of sour cream, then spicy Hungarian sausage, then salt and paprika. Then again: potato, egg, sour cream, sausage. And again: potato, egg, sour cream, sausage.

I have seen recipes that suggest using a low-sided baking dish. No! Definitely not. For layering, you’ll need a deep casserole. It might take a little longer time in the oven to get the sizzly simmering music that says it’s ready, but layering is a must. One of the great delights of Rakott Krumpli is plunging down through all the layers with a big, wide serving spoon. Moussaka? Lasagna? They give nothing like the pleasure of digging into Rakott Krumpli. They are too thin, too docile. Rakott Krumpli puts up a palpable resistance as you press the serving spoon through each layer of potato. You can feel the personality of the food, not simply see or taste it.

Another great delight is its disorder. When you make it, and when you have a hunk of Rakott Krumpli in the serving spoon, it is a rational set of layers, but then when you put it on your plate, it tips and sprawls. It is meant to sprawl and mix, that this is part of its inner nature. One might say the tipping is like the Hungarian impulse toward creativity, and that the mixing is representative of the many cultures of the greater Hungary of years ago.

Your Heart Leaps

A third pleasure is its addictive quality. As you finish a serving, you might see that you are down to your last sausage. And so you plunge the spoon back into the casserole to carve off a slice, and opportunistically scoop up few pieces of sausage that may lay about in the dish. And then a few minutes later, oh my, you may notice that you have only a little potato left, and wouldn’t it be nice to have a little more to go with the extra sausage on your plate? In goes the serving spoon again. It is a dish that somehow keeps replenishing itself on your plate, and it takes an extra exertion of reason, or a very full belly, to rein in this happy conspiracy of mind and stomach.

A final pleasure may come a day or two later. You may find that no one else is home that evening, and that you have no idea what to make yourself for dinner. And as you poke through the fridge your heart leaps as you discover the last Rakott Krumpli leftovers. You are happy not simply because you don’t have to cook something from scratch, but because you know what awaits. Over the last couple of days the flavors have marinated further, making the dish even more flavorful. And you know when you re-heat it in that cast iron pot the potatoes, and maybe the egg slices such as they may have held together, will get a little browned and crispy, and now there is a new texture that makes it even more of a treat.

As P.T. Barnum Said

And then the climactic tragedy as you stand there scraping the last crispy remnants from the pot with a spatula, wiping them onto your finger and into your mouth. And then it is gone. But I think the final delight of this carnival of flavor is that, as P.T. Barnum is reputed to have said of the goal of other entertainments, it always leaves you wanting more.

Buy the book, Finding Maria (Bloomingdale Press – 2nd edition November 25, 2019), on Amazon

Recipe

Author peters45_wpPosted on Categories Findings, HungaryTags ,

Stuffed Cabbage Should Have Vanished From My Life

[This is the first in a series of posts on Hungarian foods.]

Stuffed cabbage was a dish I picked at as a child, and over time it sank into the deepest recesses of my mind. I’d surely never eat it again. But one evening in my early thirties it rose to the surface, bringing with it something of the past.

He Kept A Shotgun In The Corner

I was living and working in central Connecticut. I changed apartments after the first year, looking to save on rent. The new building was small, old and more than a little run-down. The building had a name, Hy-up, written in concrete on the side of the structure. The ground floor was occupied by a young couple who fought late into the night. One day they were evicted by force. The owner lived on the top floor. He had a glass eye, the result of a bad motorcycle accident, was often a little drunk, and kept a shotgun in the corner of the main room of his place. He was gruff, but he took a liking to me, and sometimes, to break up a long, quiet weekend, I stopped up to say hello.

The wattage was low, the floors creaky, and the wooden staircase that led from the outside to my third-floor entrance groaned from the effort of holding me up. But the view offered a measure of relief. The building was set into a hillside, and I spent many evenings in a chair in my bedroom, looking out over athletic fields, past the juvenile detention center, at the forest in the distance.

I Had No Idea How To Get Cabbage Leaves Soft

One winter, the snow seemed to obscure everything but long days at work and evenings in that chair meditating on the purple-white view. I had been thinking about becoming a vegetarian, and one day, while toying with that idea, I thought, for no apartment reason, I’d make stuffed cabbage for dinner. I loved to cook from intuition, to invent things in the moment. So, I went out and bought some vegetarian sausage (Apologies. I know I’ve just caused heart attacks across Hungary!), a cabbage, canned plum tomatoes, and a few other ingredients. I had no idea how to get the cabbage leaves soft enough to roll. What I did was boil a big pot of water, dunk a whole cabbage in it for a few minutes, take it out, and peel off a few of the softened leaves.

Well, it worked anyway. I took a small handful of the “meat”-and-rice mixture I’d made, compressed it into a sort of football shape (American football), rolled it up in a leaf, tucked in the edges, and placed it in a glass baking dish. Then I boiled the cabbage some more. When I had filled the dish, I covered the whole thing in a sauce of broth and chopped tomatoes, and put it in the oven.

While the dish cooked, I returned to my window seat. I thought about work and the friends I would see that weekend in New York. I thought about my grandmother, who I had begun to meet-up with occasionally on trips into the city. I had found her to be a warm, interesting, even comforting presence, and had unexpectedly begun to look forward to our visits. My mind wandered to the story she had told me last time about a ride she’d once taken in the side-car of her favorite cousin’s motorcycle. She must have been an adolescent or young teen, and I thought about how hard she had laughed as she recalled how her cousin had sped up near the end of the ride, and how the motorcycle had run off the road at a curve it couldn’t handle, how it had rolled over numerous times. “I was in bed for two weeks!” she had said, her shoulders shaking with laughter, her face turning bright red. “Jaj, it was terrible!”

Tang And Moisture

When I was young, my grandmother felt distant to me, with her odd formality, strange accent, and opera-tinted view of the world. Stuffed cabbage embodied the feelings of those early years. It was strange and never grew on me. The sauce, if it could be called that, was runny and weak. Cabbage? Does any food have less flavor and personality than cabbage leaves? And the ground meat and rice combination wrapped inside? It was uninteresting to a young boy. Why not just alter it a little and turn it into meatballs for spaghetti and meatballs?

Stuffed cabbage should have vanished from my life. But food forges powerful memories, not only of smells, but of people, relationships, and feelings, and of ourselves at a moment in life. Looking back on that evening now, the connection between the start of those visits with my grandmother and the seemingly spontaneous impulse to cook stuffed cabbage seems pretty clear.

The timer went off and I pulled the baking dish out of the oven, served myself, and took a seat at my small round dining table. The stuffed cabbage was delicious. No, really. The spice of the (vegetarian) sausage-rice center, balanced by the soft texture and gentle flavor of the cabbage leaves, together with the tang and moisture of the cooked tomatoes. I froze the leftovers and enjoyed them for weeks.

Buy the book, Finding Maria (Bloomingdale Press – 2nd edition November 25, 2019), on Amazon

Memoir and the Problem of Memory

If there is a major gift in memoir, it is the close exposure it gives a reader to a particular character, or small set of characters, and the ability to watch up close what happens to the author and the other characters in a particular period of time. Yet if there is a major problem in memoir, particularly from the writer’s perspective, it is precisely that in shaping and shaving down the characters to recreate, to produce with vividness, interactions that spark the transformation of those involved, and that give the gift to the reader, the characters must be simplified.

In writing memoir, we draw upon only the set of events and relationships within which the story is set. We may say little about what comes before or after or around the story in the lives of our characters.

Bass Clef, Treble Clef

My father plays a prominent supporting role in Finding Maria, the memoir I wrote about my relationship with his mother. An important sub-plot in the book is the story of cleaning out my grandmother’s apartment with my father and my aunt. The primary story of my grandmother and me is enriched by the old sibling tensions that emerge as photos and objects in the apartment trigger my father’s and my aunt’s childhood memories. The idea of the flows of wartime and Holocaust trauma through generations adds further dimension, and is brought to life by my father’s struggles to reach his memories, and by my frustration with the paucity of contact with his past he afforded me growing up. His melancholy at its mention paints a deep picture of his mother’s troubled relationship with her second husband, deeper even than the few memories of it he was willing to share.

The clean-out is the bass clef to the treble clef of the grandmother-grandson story. It adds breadth and nuance to Maria. But including the clean-out story comes with a cost. It is, after all, only two days. And within those two days, the actions recorded revolve around stress and sorrow, they focus on the distant past, on the family. The cost is that the reader is left with only a very narrow picture of my father.

I Sat With Him On Our Covered Front Porch During A Thunderstorm

My father laughed frequently, filling the house often with his shouts of joy, or a boisterous slap on the dining table. He had a voracious curiosity and read widely. While he loved ideas, and sat reading for hours, he was also a man of action. He’d wanted to be an engineer, a dream from which he was diverted by a math education disrupted by wartime. Still, the impulse to use his hands, to solve technical problems of whatever sort, played out in his prolific vegetable garden, the result of careful study of soil conditioning and plant cultivation. It played out in the sculptures he and I made together. We’d take scraps of wood, paint them black, hammer in irregular but carefully laid out patterns of nails, and then run old telephone wire of varying solid and striped colors from nail to nail, producing delightful geometric creations. It played out in the way he mastered subjects like sailing and nautical navigation (which did make it into the book) and weather. I remember how as a young boy I sat with him on our covered front porch during a thunder storm and he taught me how the timing of lightning and thunder told the story of a storm’s course. I did not fear thunderstorms after that, and would often join him on the bench on the porch and watch the green-gray Maryland sky as it emptied water on the yard in torrents, waiting for the flash, then counting up to the explosion of thunder, and then repeating with the next. I never felt safer. Yet the man in the memoir is not this man – boisterous, curious, confident. The man who loved to take photographs, the brilliant if sometimes cynical political analyst, the dedicated friend. The full man.

Truth and Justice

I do believe that, at its best, memoir has greater power to represent people or circumstances than any other art form. This is what people mean when they refer to the “emotional truth” of memoir. Emotional truth sounds like a weasel-word, a way of wriggling out of actual truth-truth. What I think it means is the truth that is seen by the light that emotion casts on people and events. This meaning holds up in practice again and again.

While I do believe that Finding Maria succeeds, that it tells emotional truth, and as a writer I feel good about that, I am left troubled out here in the real world. People who knew my father may be as much confounded by the mere slice of him that is in the book as they are fascinated by it. People who did not know him, people in the future, his great grandchildren perhaps, may think in gross error that this slice of man was the whole man.

To those who knew him, I hope you can see the man in the book as a character, and try to enjoy the story. To those who did not, I guess I would say that I wish you could have known my father. Take from the book, at least, the experience of his bear hugs. They will tell you much of what you need to know. Imagine how those hugs might wrap you completely and squeeze you just tightly enough to feel uninhibited warmth and love – how the scratch of his whiskers, prickly by late-afternoon, add to the feeling. Sometimes the hugs end with a sighed “Oh, God,” as if he lives the moment in parallel to experiencing it, appreciating, savoring its meaning and beauty. That was my father.

I think the book tells a powerful emotional truth. Yet, in making use of only a small part of a man to help build this truth, I did not fully serve another great end, the cause of justice. As a writer, I am content. As a son, this is the ultimate truth with which I still wrestle.

Buy the book, Finding Maria (Bloomingdale Press – 2nd edition November 25, 2019), on Amazon