Mom's Cookbook: A Retrospective

How many sculptures did Michaelangelo create? Answer: 31. How many songs has Dolly Parton claimed to have written? Answer: 5000. How many paintings did Picasso create? Answer: about 13,500.

Art -- whether it be painting, sculpture, music, architecture -- should be able to stand on its own. That is to say, a piece of art should be engaging all on its own, whether or not you know any details about the artist or when, how, or why it was created.

For example, I'm betting that we all first saw Van Gogh's "Starry Night" long ago, before we knew anything about Van Gogh, art theory, or post-impressionism. My first encounter with the piece was at my best friend's house. A reproduction was hanging in the living room, and I remember staring at it and having a visceral reaction to its dark, moody composition. Justin's mother told me that it was a famous painting by "Van Go" called "Starry, Starry Night," and I immediately declared it to be my favorite painting. I was eight years old.

"Starry Night" by Vincent Van Gogh


It wouldn't be until high school that I would learn more about art theory, and how different painters belonged to different art movements in history. Along with this new information, came a new and deeper appreciation of the work.

But it wasn't until my art survey classes at USC that I learned more about the life of Vincent Van Gogh, and how his art developed through the course of his life, all the way up until his death by suicide. To see the development of his use of color, and texture through the use of his brush strokes was to know the very story of his life. How was it that I had loved this painting my whole life and only now was I learning that he had painted it while he was in an asylum? How much more did I now love this painting knowing that it was part of a series of Starry Sky Paintings? (It was like discovering Starry Night had long lost cousins!)

"Starry Night Over The Rhone" by Vincent Van Gogh


Though Starry Night definitely stands on its own as Van Gogh's magnum opus, knowing all of the details of Van Gogh's life and development as an artist helps to bring the artwork into focus, and provides a lush depth to our understanding and appreciation.

If I took a poll of the general public and asked, "Which composer do you love more: Mozart or Beethoven?" I'd be willing to bet money that Mozart would win by a landslide. Both were geniuses -- of that, there's no doubt. Both were prolific composers, and both began composing before age 10, and both composed right up until their respective deaths.

Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart vs. Ludwig Van Beethoven


But if Mozart is the more popular (IE. "more pop"), it's precisely because his life was perhaps less extraordinary than Beethoven's. Sure, if you've seen the movie "Amadeus," then you know that he had some daddy issues and was buried in a pauper's mass grave... But compared side-by-side with Beethoven's life, on whole, Mozart led a pretty boring life. Similarly, if you compare their respective bodies of work side-by-side, you'll undoubtedly see development and (sometimes daring) innovation, but it's Beethoven's life/work that is filled with pathos and drama. Did you know that Beethoven's 9th symphony (known as "Ode To Joy") was composed when he was 54 years old, nearing the end of his life, and was at that point completely deaf?

The idea that art, in all its forms, stands alone and in the context of its history is not a new one. (I'm just not that original.) But you don't have to have a formal education to be able to observe this kind of evolution, as contemporary examples are all around us. If you're familiar with Michael Jackson singing "ABC," "Billy Jean," "Thriller," and "Man In The Mirror," then you've witnessed the evolution of this artist first hand.



Okay, so now let's talk about food.

I think that most people will agree that food and cooking can be elevated to the point of being "art." Indeed, my degree from The Culinary Institute of America was in "Culinary Arts."

You don't need to be a great "artist" to paint. And yet, we generally accept that if you (the everyday schlub) paint something, it's automatically "art." If we extend this idea to food and the culinary arts, then isn't it fair to say that you don't need to be a great chef to create "art" out of food? Furthermore, if every painting, great or not, is art, then isn't every dish we cook or create also art?

Stay with me on this...

If every dish you cook or create is art, then you should be able to examine everything you ever cooked in your life as part of a larger body of work -- just like the collected works of Beethoven or Van Gogh.

Surely, you would see that your tastes and food preferences change over the course of your life, along with your technical cooking skills. But it would also reflect where you lived at different times of your life, who your friends were, what the food trends were, and even the social politics of the day. If you grew up in Kansas, but then went to college in Los Angeles, did you learn to make tamales and California rolls? If you lived through the 1950s and 60s, did you have a go-to aspic/Jell-O mold that you made for parties? Or maybe at some point you found yourself living in the Napa Valley and jumping on the organic / sustainable / local bandwagon?

So, of course, this got me thinking about my own life's cookbook as a reflection of my life story. What would be the first dish, the first thing I ever "cooked?" Well it wasn't really cooking, but my bet would be that the first page of my cookbook would be something like celery sticks with peanut butter from around the time that I was 7 years old.

But the one thing I'm pretty sure of, is that the first thing I really cooked (ie. using heat on the stove) on my own is Kraft Macaroni and Cheese out of the box. I was about 9 years old. The directions were pretty simple (to read and to follow), and all I needed was a chair to stand on at the stove. I remember following the directions to the letter, including "fill a saucepan with 8 cups cold water." It's funny to think that I measured out that water so carefully, as if a little bit more or a little bit less would ruin the dish!


I became pretty proud of my Kraft Macaroni and Cheese, and after awhile, I started to vary the directions a little. The directions said to boil for 7 1/2 minutes, so what would happen if I boiled it for 8 or 9 minutes? Ah! I see... the texture of the macaroni is too soft! Does it matter what order I add the milk, butter, and cheese sauce powder into the macaroni? (The answer is yes -- the cheese sauce powder tends to clump more if you add it first, and it's harder to stir it into a smooth consistency.)

In retrospect, I see that I was just like a little painter, painting the same landscape over and over again, perfecting it, and then experimenting with variations of it.

I wish I did have such a cookbook of my life. I'm curious to know what was the first thing I cooked in my first apartment? (I bet it was something like Cup-O-Noodles.) Or what I cooked after that devastating car accident that almost killed me and left me with a broken arm and barely able to walk. (I bet it was something like Cup-O-Noodles.) What did I cook after I got my first job that paid $1000 a week? (Probably something like Cup-O-Noodles and a rib-eye steak.)

My life's cookbook won't really be completed until I die (or become so invalid that I can't cook anymore). And because context is everything, I think now I'll be more cognizant of not just what I'm cooking, but also why I'm cooking it.

For instance, tonight, I'm cooking Chicken Kiev (using a grand cru butter called Celles Sur Belle), Joël Robuchon's pommes purée, and fennel braised in butter and orange juice. And the context? Well, it's because it's my turn to host ManDinner, and tonight's theme is "butter!"

Aside from my own life's cookbook, I wonder even more about what my mother's cookbook would look like. My mother is one of the greatest culinary influences of my life, and I know full well her greatest "compositions" ("Bravo! Bravo, Mom! Can I have some more, please!!") and her worst, barely edible art ("No, thanks, Mom... I'll just have some Cinnamon Toast Crunch cereal for dinner.").

Born in 1943, Mom grew up in the Philippines in the 1950s. In America, it was the setting for the TV series "Mad Men," and though it was quite different in the Philippines, somethings were definitely the same. Mom has told me about the Home Ec classes that she had in school, and they were definitely boot camps for the housewives of the 50s and 60s. Consequently, I recall being very young -- four or five years old -- and watching my mother make (from scratch) creme caramel custards, and angel food cakes iced with buttercream frosting. She would effortlessly decorate cakes with pink buttercream roses, complete with green leaves and stems.

Mom in Chicago, May 1968, at a baby shower thrown by her friends. She was six months pregnant with me. (And that's not one of her cakes -- it's too plain looking!)


Around the time I was 9 or 10 years old, Mom started exploring the culinary traditions of different cultures. If Pablo Picasso had his Blue Period and Rose Period, Mom had her American Period, Mexican Period, Italian Period, and Japanese Period.

Before the American Period, Mom and Lola (my grandmother who lived with us) cooked Filipino food almost exclusively. And so, when I was about 9 (I don't remember exactly), it was with great anticipation that Mom, all by herself and without anyone to show her the way, cooked her first Thanksgiving Dinner.

Yes, I can hear you chuckling -- and rightly so. Thanksgiving Dinner, as we all know, is a challenging endeavor. And let me just remind you that there are no turkeys in the Philippines. But Mom eventually became a pro, and after a few years, her Thanksgiving Dinner was indistinguishable from Mrs. Jones' of East Coast Joneses.

Well, except for that one year where she decided to experiment a little.

Again, I don't remember the exact year, but I think it was sometime in my late 20s. In a lot of Asian cultures, when roasting a pig, it's often stuffed with really aromatic ingredients like lemongrass and ginger. Well, Mom thought she'd try it in a Thanksgiving turkey one year. It wasn't bad, mind you, but it just wasn't Thanksgiving. I just remember my sister and I being able to smell the Turkey from five feet away, and just standing there and staring at it.

Equally, as disappointing was Mom's first attempt at Linguine with Clams (Italian Period, c. 1981). I recall the "sauce" to be more like salty water, and not being able to get the wet linguine to stay on my fork. The only way I could get traction on the damn noodles was to heap on tons of Kraft Parmesan Cheese from that green cardboard can. (And don't even try and pretend that your family didn't always have it on hand, too.)


Now, lest I give the impression that Mom was a bad cook, let me just tell you right now: she's not. She would eventually go on to perfect all the dishes she attempted, and she's one of the most versatile cooks I know. It doesn't matter if you're talking about Thai spring rolls, fire-roasted Mexican salsa, or Italian lasagna -- she can outcook everyone I know, including myself.

These are just a couple of examples of her growing, experimenting, and generally finding her own way. As a self-taught cook, keep in mind that she was a mother of four young children, with a full-time career. Honestly, I don't know where she found the time. But watching her grow as a cook helped to foster my passion for food and taught me to try different things without fear of failure.

If it were only possible to collect everything my mother ever cooked into one giant cookbook! Imagine, you'd be able to see the evolution of the failures into the defining dishes that they are today (as Mom's lasagna was not always so). And I wonder, what was the first thing she ever cooked for my Dad? Did she try to impress him with something fancy, or did she go for some sure-fire comfort dish? What was the first thing she cooked after her mother passed away? Was it one of her mother's dishes that reminded Mom of her?

Through the dishes that she cooked everyday, you'd be able to see the good days and the bad days. You'd see the Philippines, New York City, Chicago, and Los Angeles. You'd see every decade from the 1950s to the present. You'd see the lean days of an immigrant in a foreign land, as well as the prosperity of a successful American professional. You'd see her as a daughter, a sister, a friend, a girlfriend, a wife, a mother, and as a grandmother. In short... you would see her whole life.

Oh, and by the way, with respect to this blog post... Today is my mom's birthday. How's that for context?

The Signs Of A Woman

For years, I've kept a basket in my living room, and if you've ever left anything behind at my place, chances are you can find it in what has been affectionately named "The Ho's Lost-and-Found." If you know me well, you know that most of my friends are women. But even if you don't know me well, it shouldn't be a surprise to know that it's women, more so than men, that tend to forget and leave things behind. In The Ho's Lost-and-Found you'll find everything, including phone chargers, hair clips and ties, lipsticks and lip balms, sunglasses, wallets, watches and jewlery, and various articles of clothing. The articles of clothing are everything you can think of including skirts, shoes and gloves.


When I find something that has been left behind I always put it into the lost-and-found -- but, usually not for a day or two. Instead, I like to leave it right where it is for awhile.

If, in the morning, I find a pair of your earrings on the coffee table, I'm likely to leave it there for the rest of the day -- right next to the lipstick stained Champagne flute that you were sipping from the night before.

I love the sight of it as a reminder of our time together.


It might be your Gucci watch that you left on the bathroom counter, or it might be the fancy hair clip you put on the table behind my couch when you pulled your hair down. Seeing it the next day helps to evoke a stronger emotional memory, and for a few seconds, winds the clock back a few hours.

But sometimes, the things that I find in my apartment are from times that I'm not even around. These little tableaus are my most favorite!


I love seeing the signs of a woman -- the signs that let me know that she was there. But maybe even more so, I love the way it makes me wonder about what she might have been doing while she was alone. I think women are wonderful and mysterious creatures and for some reason I find even their most mundane to be fascinating.

Many years ago, I lived with my (now ex) girlfriend, Lisa. There were times that we had opposite work schedules, and as a restaurant manager, it wasn't uncommon for me to come home at 1am and Lisa would already be in bed, asleep. But in the couple of hours I needed to unwind before bed, I'd find all kinds of clues of Lisa's evening without me. I remember once that I found her red Dansko clogs (she was a pastry cook and red was her favorite color) in the middle of the hallway. That's odd, I thought. She didn't take them off at the door, or maybe in the bathroom while she was undressing... she took them off right in the middle of the hallway? And then I realized that I was standing in front of the heater in the hallway. She must have kicked them off seconds after she came home and, as she often did on cold nights, warmed herself in front of the heater. Thanks to her red clogs, I could see it even though I hadn't been there.

That was about seven years ago.

Most recently, my friend, Hadley, came to live with me for the month of March while she attended the Wine Immersion program at the CIA Greystone campus. More than a decade earlier, Hadley’s oldest sister, Bijou, was my classmate in culinary school at the CIA in Hyde Park, New York – so that’s how I know Hadley. She comes from a family of foodies and wine lovers (and her family owns a winery in Idaho), so it’s no surprise that we got along famously.

But before Hadley arrived, I have to admit that I was a little worried. I hadn’t lived with anyone in such a long time… my gut was that this was either going to work out great, or it was going to be a disaster.

Thankfully, it wasn’t a disaster.

Hadley ended up being exactly what I needed in my life at the moment to break the monotony of my routine. She’s active and upbeat. She got me brushing up on my wine knowledge with her afterschool questions. Her smile never failed to brighten my day, and it was nice to hear the sound of a woman singing while she studied. And while it might seem odd to some (but not so odd if you know me), I really loved doing the housekeeping for someone else. I also loved having to take someone else into consideration on a day-to-day basis… Like I said, it had been a long time.

But I digress…

Living with Hadley was great, and I liked seeing evidence of her around the apartment: Greek yogurt in the fridge, her Macbook on the dining table, her Specialized bike chained to the post next to my parking space. But my favorite reminders that she was living with me were the personal things that were symbolic, not just of her presence, but of her femininity: her shoes in the living room, her hair ties or the corkscrew shaped bobby pins, her rings on the bathroom counter.

Again, sometimes it’s about finding things and picturing the moment they were set there.

One day I came home to find Hadley’s earrings on the kitchen counter, right in front of the basket where we kept different loaves of bread. It was about 5:30pm and she wasn’t home. I knew that she got off school about 4pm, usually got home about 4:30pm, and then would often go to a yoga class or ride her bike to the Oxbow market to sit and study over coffee or a snack. But sometime between getting home and leaving for wherever she had gone, she had taken her earrings off and put them on the kitchen counter.

Maybe she had taken them off in another part of the house, gotten distracted doing something else, and set them down as she walked through the kitchen? Or maybe she was nibbling on a piece of bread from Tartine Bakery, when her mobile rang, and she took the earrings off because of the way they rub when she’s on the phone? It didn’t really matter – I just loved the sign Hadley had left behind that she had been there.

Another time, I woke up on the weekend in the early afternoon. Hadley had gone off to Point Reyes to ride with some friends. I found a rinsed off plate and coffee mug in the sink, one of the dining chairs pulled out, and this months’s Elle magazine sitting askew on the table. I imagined Hadley sitting there with the morning sun at her back, nibbling on toast and flipping the pages of the fashion magazine. The thought of it made me smile.


Hadley left on April the 5th, back to her life at the family winery in Idaho. The month had flown by, and she had taken her final wine exam. I was sad to see her go. But even as we said our goodbyes in the parking lot, I anticipated (and was even comforted by the idea) that she had probably left something behind.

When I went upstairs, I started looking around. Would it be her shampoo and razor in the shower? Nope. Would it be a hair tie on the nightstand? Nope. Maybe one of her rings in the pocket of the bathrobe I had lent her? Nope.

Hadley was an experienced traveler, and as such, I realized, she was too conscientious to leave anything behind. Indeed, there wasn’t even any cleaning up left for me to do -- she had even laundered her sheets and taken out the trash from her wastebasket. She hadn’t left anything behind, and there was hardly a trace that she’d been there at all.

I was kinda sad the rest of the day, and I missed the sound of Hadley’s voice, her smell, her stuff in the bathroom. I missed her presence.

And then, at about 10pm that night, I went to the bathroom to brush my teeth. And as I brushed away, I looked down, and in the sink I saw two long strands of ginger colored hair. My heart warmed, and I was careful as I spit and rinsed. I didn’t splash her hair with water, I didn’t wash it down the sink. I left it just as was it was for a day or two.