My father’s favorite cookie: the Mallomar.
Because I apparently have a lot of readers who live across various oceans and seas (who knew?) I must be specific: the iconic cookie in the picture above is called a Mallomar. Somewhat mysterious because of its seasonality (it’s only sold from October through April), it lurks subversively in the bowels of pantries and cupboards everywhere, and those of us with a particular ethnic affiliation seem to have a pronounced affinity for it for reasons I don’t quite get. Even Harry Burns, the Billy Crystal character in Nora Ephron‘s When Harry Met Sally, mentions it, while he’s home alone watching television on New Years’ Eve. He calls the Mallomar “the greatest cookie ever invented.”
My father agreed, and I have vivid memories of him watching television and eating an entire sleeve of them in one sitting. I’m sure he thought that because of their limited availability, one had to eat them when one could. So, he did.
I always think a lot about my Dad because, for one thing, he was my best friend, for years; when he and my mother were divorcing, we stuck together like glue, healing our various wounds by taking off on weekends to visit places like Boston and Maine and Vermont, and always eating very, very well. Except for one unfortunate incident involving lunch at the Belmore Cafeteria and a strange lady who threw a glass of water at the person sitting on the other side of us, and actually hit us instead. Ah well, it was the 70s.
Anyway, my father has been on my mind a lot today–he always is, but today it was actually kind of distracting–and I couldn’t figure out why until I went outside at lunch. I was hit with a hot humid blast of warm, damp air that immediately left beads of sweat on my forehead, and my hair looking like I’d stuck my toe in an electric socket. And in less than a second, I was transported to the day in early August, 2002 when I’d gotten a phone call about my father. It was August 4th, exactly.
Susan and I had been in the garden all morning, and I was up to my knees, literally, in compost and manure (we had a huge garden in those days). We went into the house to get some water, the phone rang, and when I answered, I knew. “Come quick. There’s been an accident.” We ran out, leaving the dog in the care of Susan’s mother, who came over to get her. We drove down to New York–over 2 hours–at top speed, and arrived at the hospital to find my father in the emergency room, unconscious. He and his partner/girlfriend/quasi-wife of 20 years had been in a horrible car accident, and he was taken to one hospital, and she, to another. She, mercifully, survived. My father never regained consciousness and lingered for a week with us and his sister, and my cousins at his bedside, until I removed him from life support. And my life has never been the same, and never will be.
I don’t mean for this to be a downer–my father was anything but a downer–but I’m writing about him today because someone recently asked me who or what it was that first got me interested in food, and my automatic reaction was “well, it certainly wasn’t my mother.” This is true: my mother simply doesn’t like or get food on any level. When I invited her to the opening party of the then-new Dean & Deluca back in the late 80s and I saw Craig Claiborne, all nice and neat and pressed in his Chesterfield coat, link arms with her and say “Come my dear, let’s go have a look at the lamb chops–“I thought, “dear god, some people have all the luck.” She had no idea who he was.
It was my father who was the culinary force in my life, and so this list of his favorite foods, places, and people is for him–along with a box of Mallomars: where he is, it’s always in season.
The Cattleman
Shrimp in Lobster Sauce
Spam
Cremated bacon
Salami and Eggs
Sammy’s Roumanian
Stuffed Derma
Chicken-Fried Steak
Baked Stuffed Lobster
Bearskin Neck, Gloucester
Chateaubriand
Soft Boiled Eggs with Soldiers
Apple Strudel
Mallomars.
I miss you, Dad.
