It was late afternoon on a Friday. Many of the women at the salon were ending a week of work, happy to finally have time to unwind and buy a modicum of self esteem. The casual conversation turned to food, comfort food to be exact. For several in the room, that meant pasta with plenty of red sauce. S unday at Mama’s was a tradition that many continued long after their mothers had passed away, a way to keep their families connected. “My mother’s Christmas Eve dinner, the feast of seven fishes, was phenomenal,” said one of the stylists. Her mother, she said, even when undergoing chemotherapy, would still be able to command a meal like no other. “I will never be able to duplicate that”, she said, sadly. “I feel like I am cheating my son.” But she swept us up in her reveries about Italian food with descriptions of bruschetta made with rich olive oil, garlic, fresh tomatoes and herbs. She drew gustatory pictures of penne pasta with fava beans and sage, of light-as-air gnocci and succulent pastries filled with ricotta cheese and chocolate all washed down with her father’s homemade wine. Another gal paid homage to her mother’s sauerbraten. “You can’t make sauerbraten fast,” she said. “My mother learned from her mother and I am still learning, not as well, but learning. My mother even makes her own bread. My god, it’s delicious, but I just don’t have the time.” The conversation circled the room, each talking about the power of the food of their youth, painting pictures of simple, inexpensive meals that were delicious not only because of the skill of their creators, but also because they were associated with the warmth of family and home. We all understood that power. There is a small bookcase in my kitchen stuffed with cookbooks and clippings of recipes from all over the world. Over the years I found the exploration of recipes from different cuisines to be exciting, a rewarding exercise in creativity and exploration. It became, for a while, the centerpiece of our social life. Thai, Chinese, Russian, French, etc., all of these cuisines produced fabulous meals, yet the food that remains my favorite, the cuisine that means comfort and home, is that which I experienced as a child. My grandmother was the Sunday cook in our house, producing simple Cornish meals based on root vegetables, a little meat and lots of pastry. My absolute favorite, one that I would travel miles to enjoy, is Cornish pasty (pronounced pass-tee). Basically a large meat and potato turnover, Cornish men took a freshly-baked pasty in muslin bags into the tin mines for their suppers. There are many recipes for pasty. Of course, my grandmother’s has to be the best. I share it with you today. Like so many grandmother recipes, there are no measurements to follow. The recipe is a list of ingredients and a method. Ingredients: a “short” pastry crust thinly sliced potatoes rutabagas (also called Swedes or turnips) onions round steak parsley flour salt pepper Method Make your favorite pie crust recipe but use less shortening – the resulting pastry should produce a crust hard enough to carry the filling. Roll out the dough to the thickness of a quarter of an inch into a circle the size of a dinner plate. Dust half of the dough with a small amount of flour. Place about a half an inch of sliced potatoes on the dusted half, salt and pepper the potatoes, add a bit more flour and then a similar sized layer of sliced rutabaga, salt and pepper, then a layer of sliced onion and a sprinkling of parsley. Repeat the layers and end with a single layer of thinly sliced round steak. Salt and pepper the steak, add a bit more flour and parsley. Fold the unfilled side of the pastry over the filling and crimp the edges. Cut three small holes in the top of the pasty (to let steam escape.) Brush the top of the pasty with milk or beaten egg. Place the finished pasty on a cookie sheet and bake in the oven at 450 degrees for 15n minutes. Turn the oven down to 350 degrees and bake until golden brown and the potatoes are cooked (about an hour.) Eating this Cornish delicacy had its own ritual in our house. The hand pie can be eaten hot or cold, but first you had to slice it in half. If it was hot, you would cut through the top crust of each half to allow the steam to escape, douse the innards with a modest amount of A-1 sauce and enjoy the pasty with a glass of cold milk. Nothing can take away from the memories of those times when we sat down as a family to partake of this version of English ethnic food. Even as I type, I can conjure up the sounds, the smells and the tastes of love associated with a simple meat and potato pie. Which may explain why, as I related my puzzlement to the gals at the salon, despite the fact that my children ate chicken with cashews, Pad Thai, osso buco, etc. at our table, their favorite meal, when asked, is meat loaf, mashed potatoes, baby peas and apple pie … a swiftly-produced, thrifty meal that was the staple Sunday meal in my Marcellus home for many years. I have yet to introduce them to pasty – next time, perhaps, when they come home…with their children.   ...read more read less