Yesterday was the first ever Kugel Contest judging competition at the JA. Readers were asked to send in their favorite kugel recipes (kugel is a Jewish term for a noodle or potato casserole side dish. Usually noodle ones are sweet and potato is savory)
Somehow I got wrangled in to making 2 kugels. Fortunately, I got to pick, so I took the one potato and a squash one. Id never heard of a squash kugel and was curious to try it. As for the potato kugel recipe--this was definitely your Bubbe's kugel but without the schmaltz. I grated the potatoes and onion in my Cuisinart food processor (sorry Grandma no hand grater here!) I looked again at the potato kugel recipe and careful re-read the personal comments below the recipe. It was his mother's recipe from the '40s. He explained how he remembered his parents used to grate the potatoes and onion with a hand-crank meatgrinder. The mix was then put in a bowl of water to keep them from turning brown, then drained. As I read this, I could see a young boy kneeling on a chair gathered around his mom at the kitchen table as she cranked the bulky metal beast and he held a big bowl tightly as the shreads of potato magically appeared through small holes at the bottom.
Memories of my own childhood cooking with my mom for the holidays quickly replaced that of the young boy. I stood right here in this very kitchen 30 years ago kneeling on a chair helping my mom and wearing our fashionable aprons. (I always choose the frilly pink one.)
It struck me that even though this wasn't my mother's recipe, it didn't need to be to relive the experiences I had with my mom when I was growing up. That list of ingredients not only stirred up memories, but also smells and sounds; the whirr of the blender, the fine grit of flour on my cheek and the smooth bowl under my fingers. The directions reminded me of how much I loved the camaraderie of working beside my mother. I couldn't wait to serve our creation and to hear the "oohs" and "aahs" from family members.
As I finished reading his emailed recipe, at some point, he wrote, he and his mother switched from chicken fat to healthier oil. Somehow, I cant help wondering if maybe they should have left it in, if only for the memories.
Such a wonderful story! It makes me think of the 'little boys' I was particularly fond of visiting at the Jewish Home talking with their mother about her famous dishes, kugels and shmaltz were always a fond memory in these young '70 something' men who were grandparents themselves, but little boys at their mother's lap when talking about food, cooking, and memories of meals gone past. When they walked through the door you knew instinctively they were powerful, successful men, they walked with purpose, they dressed with distinction, and yet, once they were in the depth of a shared memory about a family favorite dish, you could see that she would be sitting a little taller than before the story started, and the boys would always be transfixed crouched down eyes gazing up at her as if literally children again. Ah, Food!
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