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Naomi Gingerich, author of the blog "The Cooks in the Kitchen." |
I am honored to be featured in the June 2017 issue of Where Women Cook magazine. Following is a reprint of the article:
I
learned about the importance of tradition while rumbling across gravel roads in
a 1972 Chevy station wagon with my father. Every week we made the trip to a
stark, white farmhouse nestled between tall pines in Holmes County, Ohio for a
pan of freshly baked cinnamon rolls. The smell of kerosene lanterns and wood
smoke met us at the kitchen door as Mary, the Amish widow who operated the
bustling bakery in her home, came to greet us, a smile stretched across rosy
cheeks. We would lean against the counter, chatting pleasantly in the
Pennsylvania Dutch dialect of the Amish and Mennonites while nibbling on rolls,
straight from the oven, their brown sugar frosting finding its way down our
fingers and onto our chin. Later, a pan of goodies between us, we made the
short drive home to our own farmhouse, where, most likely, my mother was in the
kitchen baking bread.
These
early traditions of homemade food and neighborliness were woven into every memory
of my childhood. By the age of 12, as most Mennonite girls, I had
learned to cook for thirty at a moment’s notice, whether for a crew of hungry
threshers helping on our dairy farm or a table full of unexpected guests. I
learned how to handle hot pots, bake a turkey, make browned butter gravy and
preserve bushels of corn, apples and peaches. I learned to set a Sunday table
with Mama’s Blue Willow dishes, because we always used the best for company. I
learned all these things and more by working at my mother’s side in the daily
rhythm of life, for my father was a firm believer in “more is caught than
taught.”
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Amish Cinnamon Rolls |
I “caught” a whole lot of things in those
childhood years, and the traditions of our culture became an important part of
my life. The community we cultivated with friends and family provided a
nurturing environment with memories galore. There were ice cream suppers with
neighbors who came walking across fields with pails of home-churned goodness.
There were bountiful Sunday potlucks to enjoy after hours of sitting on hard
pews listening to the drone of the minister. There were apple butter stirrings
and taffy pulls with aunts and uncles. And always there were daily gatherings
around the table.
My father often reminded me, “The best time in
your life is when your children have their feet under your dinner table.” I
thought it was funny then, back in the day when I wore plain Mennonite dresses
and a traditional white cap to cover errant curls. Passing bowls of food and
tipping cups with my kinfolk was as sure as the sun that set over our fifty
acres each night. It wasn’t until later (and after children of my own) that I
realized the importance of family dinners in an era where fast food threatened
to crowd out home cooking. I learned to appreciate the culture of slow living
which made time for sit-down dinners where everyone was present, and mealtimes
were punctuated with hearty laughter and storytelling. At the core, we
celebrated life over plates of food around tables with those we loved.
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A picnic on my mother's quilt under the Oak tree. |
When I left the Mennonites at age 23, I
determined to carry this tradition of family dinners into my own home when my
husband and I got married. Over the years, my table was filled with our
children and friends, and then friends of friends, and eventually a long list
of guests who came to dine. It became inevitable this love of cooking and
feasting would one day expand beyond the walls of my home.
In 2007, we moved to North Carolina, and, to
make room for more guests, I moved my dinner parties outdoors. Now, in scenic
locations throughout the state, I set tables under live oaks, in back yards and
on porches, recreating the intimate experiences of my childhood. Sometimes the
dinners are well-planned events and at other times they are last minute
potlucks where everyone brings a plate and pulls up a chair. As one might
expect, they have become the backbone of building friendships in a land far
from our kin.
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A dinner to honor the arts and crafts heritage of Appalachia. |
This commitment to family dinners led me to
start a blog and Instagram account in 2014, The Cooks in the Kitchen, which created a platform
for me to share stories and recipes of my heritage, in addition to those of
home cooks around the world. Through this, I have met incredible women
(sisters, really) who are passionate foodies, but, more importantly, share my
conviction of nurturing families and carrying on the tradition of home-cooked
meals. I’ve met women like Abigail Bordigioni (@thecreativepalate), a
winemaker from Sonoma who left NASA to paint, make wine and raise her two kids
in a 1900’s farmhouse. Seattle’s Deborah Balant (@rainydaybites) and her online
cookbook club introduced me to a variety of cuisines as we worked our way
through a different book each month. Hazel Seah (@beurrenoisette_) from
Singapore inspired me with her dedication to carry on heritage recipes such as
Prawn and Pork Dumplings. Asha Sivakumar (@foodfashionparty) influenced me to
add a whole new section of Indian spices to my cupboard with her easy-to-follow
cooking from her San Francisco kitchen. Susy Villasuso (@holasus) a London
chef-turned-mama, gave me confidence to try dishes inspired by her native
Mexico, and Toronto’s Jennifer Emilson (@thelemonapron) took my idea of flavor combinations
to a new level. These women hail from various continents, countries and
cultures, but, at the core, are committed to family, heritage recipes and
dinners around the table. And I’ve been honored to tell their stories.
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Peachy Blueberry Pie in my mother's enamel pie pan. |
One of the most unusual stories I’ve told is of
Australia’s surfing chef, Sarah Glover (@misssarahglover), a 27-year-old from
Sydney who carries a surf board and a camp stove in the back of her Land Rover.
Her out-of-the-box creativity reflects pure pleasure as she hovers over her outdoor
camp stove or an open fire. Whether preparing a freshly caught fish or stirring
a steaming pot nestled in embers, her billowy skirts hunch about her as she
intuitively seasons, stirs and serves up romantic dinners ocean-side or on
tables set in the Outback. A keen dedication to family (she is one of eight
kids) and a compelling thirst for adventure often finds Sarah and her siblings
on cooking and surfing trips along Australia’s untamed coastline, relying on
the sea to provide the evening’s dinner.
Stories like Miss Glover’s are fun to read, but
they’re also inspiring. And that’s what draws people to my blog. It’s fascinating
to learn how food is cooked in kitchens across the globe and it’s interesting
to see that no matter the culture, women generally share a basic instinct to
prepare food and nurture their families.
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Sarah Glover, author of the soon-to-be-released cookbook, Wild. Photo by Luisa Brimble |
I’ve had a lot of feet under my table over the
years. I’ve set out the Blue Willow for artists and musicians, college students
and diplomats. I’ve rubbed elbows and traded stories with the rich and the poor
as candles flickered and faces glowed with the passion of conversation. I’ve
learned that a table melts differences and brings people together on common
ground as we meet a basic need for survival – that of nourishing our bodies
with food. And in the process, we nourish our souls, as well.
I may have traded the Amish countryside for
life in the foothills of the Blue Ridge, but I’m still a promoter of roots and
embracing one’s heritage. Though my parents have passed on, my father at the
age of 100 and my mother at 91, others are carrying on the tried and true
traditions of their generation. For me and my family, that looks like dinner
around the table.
Photography by Red Cardinal Studio
