Appreciation As Well

Every now and then I need to be reminded.

Nothing is all bad; nor is everything all good.

I realize that again as Covid seems to be slowly ebbing, or at least I would like to believe so.

During the long days, nights, and fearful hours when it took precedence over every living moment of my life, a few realities also took root.

Despite living in a residence that offers wonderful meals prepared by a talented chef, there is absolutely no reason I can’t indulge my own pleasure in cooking.

Hence, Friday has become my day to cook, and I must admit I totally enjoy rediscovering that pleasure.

However, today as I prepared to begin browning the pork chops before adding the sauerkraut, onion and apple to the pyrex baking dish, I suddenly remembered my Aunt Helen.

Helen King was my Mother’s younger sister and in the language of yesterday, she was kept home to “take care of the house.”

Hard to contemplate in today’s world, but that was a reality readily accepted by most Irish families in yesterday’s world. Many families living in Hells Kitchen had a spinster sister who without complaint cooked, cleaned and maintained a household for elderly parents and bachelor brothers.

This was my Aunt’s universe, but as a child, I neglected to see it from her viewpoint. Helen learned to love cooking. Despite the rigidity of her life, she also taught me the joy of international cuisine and possibly a great deal more than that.

Every Friday we trudged down to Paddy’s Market on 9th Avenue. Now, of course, the street lined stalls are merely a memory of a vastly different NYC.

Sometimes we stopped to buy homemade ravioli from the Italian butcher. Because it was Friday, we never sampled their interesting display of meat filled pasta. However, we never bought fresh sausage in any other store.

Each unique stall held a fascinating display of another nationality’s preferences. Because of my Aunt I quickly learned not only to taste but to savor them. I tried everything we carried home with the exception of the horseradish root Aunt Helen grated with tears rolling down her cheeks.

Early on Friday morning we traveled on the 9th Avenue El (now also a memory) to Orchard Street where our Orthodox neighbors displayed their wares. We bought sliced rye bread and I believe, one lb of sturgeon before returning home. I vaguely recall a kosher butcher shop where I was always given a slice of garlic beef bologna as a treat. Perhaps we also bought our poultry there, but I am not certain about that.

Until the lonely isolation induced by Covid, I had forgotten the hidden memories of the pleasures my Aunt Helen had in cooking and shopping.

Prejudice was a word unknown to her. Despite the restrictions her role in the family presented, she chose to enjoy life..

In later years when the Patriarch had departed, Helen King became an accomplished cook of oriental cuisine and her holiday meals were memorable.

During the season her brothers anticipated succotash, I watched her slice fresh corn from the cob with the skill of a surgeon. Another culinary achievement I have never been able to master.

It was decades later before I realized that despite the gloom, my Aunt had discovered the sunlight.

Today As I put two pork chops into the oven, I also remember other things.

Helen Maud King quietly taught me not by words, but example, not only to respect other people but also value their traditions.