Ambrosia-Dongha

Nobody in the government had gotten around to telling us we were poor or disadvantaged; that was to come in the future. We just thought we were broke, and we made do. Pig farms were plentiful in South Jersey at the time, and it was possible to get bacon fairly cheap. We had bacon and eggs for breakfast, because no one had told us about the cholesterol in eggs and PETA wasn't around yet to tell us that eating meat was some kind of a criminal enterprise. Sometimes, if there was too much week left at the end of a paycheck, we would have bacon and egg sandwiches for dinner. (Which Mom, for some unknown reason, called Horse Turd sandwiches) But we loved them, and the neighbors were probably confused if I was at a friend's house after dinner, and I mentioned what supper was.

I ate at the houses of friends frequently, as I was a skinny child. I grew up in a Sicilian neighborhood (Ľ Sicilian myself), and ate a lot of pasta as the mothers in the neighborhood vainly attempted to increase my weight. Funny thing is, I was a lot stronger than my frame would suggest. I worked summers at Andalora's Farm, working six days a week from sunup to sundown. The pay was great, I was making the Princely sum of $2.75 a day, and taking home $16.50 a week. The first summer I worked, I used my wages to buy my school clothes and supplies for the coming school year. Another advantage of working at Andalora's was cheap vegetables. Corn on the cob, onions, bell peppers, banana peppers, and one other. There was also cantaloupe and watermelon. As workers there, the hands could get them both fresh and deeply discounted. In a home where money was always more in demand than supply, that helped. I should mention that Mom and Dad refused to accept any help from me. They told me that I needed to learn to handle and manage my money.

Whenever Mom cooked bacon, she kept the bacon fat in an aluminum container. It had a lid, and, inside the lid, a cover with holes, used to drain the bacon fat. When she felt that she had sufficient fat, it would happen. Always on a Sunday, when I was home. And I knew when it was coming, because she'd always make the same request of me. "Dave, on Friday or Saturday, bring home a peach basket of tomatoes. Make sure the ones on top are big and green." She would give me the two dollars, and I'd tell John Andalora what I wanted. He always let me pick my own, and I was sure to pick the best on the vine. Sunday would come, and I'd head off to one of the local churches. There's a story there, too, but perhaps later. I'd spend time reading, or watching Dad in his workshop (He let me help him build a carbide cannon, once.) but soon it became time for Mom to start dinner. Did I say dinner? I meant

AMBROSIA!

Mom would carefully wash the tomatoes, then slice them to a thickness of about ˝ an inch. On the stove would go two large black iron skillets. Bacon fat would be added to both, and they would be heated. Mom would then carefully coat both sides of each tomato slice with flour and lower it onto the hot surface of the skillets. Each slice was fried to a golden brown on one side, then carefully turned to cook the other, as four children and her husband, enticed by the splendid odor, would wander in and out of the kitchen on numerous "errands", absorbing the odor through nose and skin, while eyes feasted on the cooking delicacies, ears were entranced by the sizzle, and salivation began, Pavlov could take lessons from Mom! As each slice was removed, it would be placed on paper to drain, and then placed on a platter in a warmed oven.

When she neared the end of the stack of sliced tomatoes, part two would begin. One pan, holding grease and small scraps of tomato, would have more bacon fat added. Then flour would be stirred in, to bubble and brown the grease, which would turn to a lovely light shade of brown. A dash of salt and pepper would be added, followed by milk, to create a gravy that was without parallel. Soft, thick, off-white, with bits of tomato and tomato seed floating in it. When the last tomatoes were cooked, the process was repeated in the second pan, as the first was being stirred and watched very carefully. Now Dad would slice a loaf of fresh Italian bread, and the cold butter and milk would be placed on the table. Four plates, four glasses, four knives and four forks were added, and then we sat while Mom brought the platter of tomatoes and gravy boats of white gravy to the table. The milk was poured, the bread was buttered, and the feast began! Hot slices of fried green tomato generously covered with Mom's gravy, quickly cut into bite-size chunks and eaten. Seconds, thirds, whatever it took, we were determined not to leave the table while a single slice of that fried green tomato still rested on that platter!

A nutritionist would have nightmares about the unbalanced nature of that meal, and the amount of fat and cholesterol that was consumed, but it mattered not to us. All that counted was eating your fill, and eating more until it became a physical effort to push away from the table and wander into another room to snatch a chair and rest.

I've eaten specialties in most of the States, and the native foods in every country I've lived in or visited. I've never, in any country, in any state, in any restaurant, no matter how high class, posh, and fancy, had a meal to equal Mom's fried green tomatoes. It was a meal born of necessity, in a time when money was short. A meal designed by a mother that vowed that, no matter how simple the meal, her children would never go to bed hungry. She succeeded beyond her wildest dreams, because she gave her children a love of cooking, of simple meals, and a willingness to "make do" without government interference or assistance.

Thanks, Mom.

By the way, Mom, I still cook tomatoes just the way you taught us, and they're very, very good. But, good as they are, they were best in that kitchen, when you cooked them.

NOTE: Copyright 03/02/04 by Dave Hoffman

Use granted to all who identify author.

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