My name is Mitzi, but my family calls me “Adah”. Welcome to my kitchen.
My love of baking began with an epic fail as a nine-year-old. I learned that day about the chemistry of baking and the fact that, though baking soda and flour look similar, two ingredients are not necessarily interchangeable. My chocolate chip cookies were inedible but I was undaunted – and absolutely intrigued by the science as a budding chemist.
Later that same summer I unearthed my mom’s Better Homes and Gardens cookbook, the one with the gingham cover that came as a three-ring-binder. It still looked like new. My mom had taken a roast out to defrost the night before – planning on cooking it when she got home from work – and I decided I was going to take a crack at it. I still remember the explicit instructions I left her about warming the lemon-butter sauce for the broccoli before I walked to softball practice. Returning from practice, my mom stopped me at the front door: “Did you do this?!” I pointed to the book and said, “This tells you exactly what to do! Did you know that you had this amazing book?”
From that day forward, I was the executive chef in our household.
That same summer I went on a baking streak. My brothers would wake in the morning asking what was on the menu that day. My brother Mike would exhort me to “bake something!” Whoosh! Off I would go to the kitchen to prepare something from dust bunnies.
There were more epic fails – more than I can count – and I learned from each and every one. In my adolescence the BHG cookbook was replaced by The Joy of Cooking, a gift from my best friend Annie. Irma Rombauer and Marion Becker became my tutors with their excellent and clear conversational explanation of every technique, as well as the chemistry and physics behind why recipes worked. I developed the confidence to experiment with recipes because of their play-by-play guidance on options with each recipe. I still refer to that same encyclopedic kitchen tome. The beat-up BHG sits proudly in my kitchen library!
To use a trite and perhaps overused phrase: Food is my love language. When I have no words, and even when I do, I always have food to convey every emotion. From as far back as I can remember, even before the guest list was decided, no event, holiday or family gathering was ever planned without first wondering, “What will we eat?” My favorite memories are all bound with the food that I created to celebrate whatever we were doing, down to even the most simple picnic lunch.
I am of Croatian heritage on my mom’s side. She grew up in Biloxi Mississippi – on Point Cadet, she would have told you with pride – and I learned many recipes and techniques at my Nona’s elbow. I can hear Nona’s old country cooking wisdom now: “Don’t make this when it’s too humid outside” or “toss in a handful of flour if it looks like this.” Nona’s vibe was a Croatian/Southern fusion. She made a killer cornbread to accompany her red beans and rice, gorgeous red velvet cakes as well as Croatian hrstule and pusharata – the decadent fruit-filled donut particular to Gulf Coast Croatian women.
Mom spent the last year of her life in my home; I reveled in feeding her the foods and pastries that she grew up with, like pusharata, as well as ones that were newer to her like Povitica -a filled bread which one of her hospice nurses, who also happened to be Croatian, told us about. I laughed at every oncology visit as mom stepped on the scale before looking back at me: “Damn you Mitzi!” As her cancer progressed, as well as her weight – finally there was no need to worry about weight! – I stopped reading her the correct number on the scale. A lower weight gave her tacit approval to happily consume everything I put in front of her, as well as the occasional caramel Drumstick cone; a mutual indiscretion shared with my husband Rick.
My brother Dave was also staying with us the winter that she left us. I think we all padded our winter coats and had less-than-optimal cholesterol levels at the end of it. I fondly recall our 8-foot-long table loaded with tapas that could feed an army of 40, but were only meant for the four of us for New Year’s Eve. The gorgeous spread made the hysterical New Years Eve tradition, that Dave and I made up on the spot, all the more memorable.
I love the flavors and textures of the foods, breads and pastries of Southern Europe and South and Central America – though recipes from all cultures intrigue me – and I will try anything at least once. You will find many of these on this site and they will be outlined in my blog.
My greatest joy is feeling bread dough alive in my hands. I was gifted a sourdough starter in 2007 and it has accompanied me through the ups and downs and changes in my life. It has acquired two friends along the way and they all reside together in my happy kitchen.
All of this is to say that my desire to bring the recipes in my head to life is far greater than my ability, or desire, to consume all those tasty creations. My family has encouraged me to step out of my home and to offer all of these to you, a hungry village. I’m looking forward to feeding all of you too.
"Food, in the end, in our own tradition, is something holy. It's not about nutrients and calories. It's about sharing. It's about honesty. It's about identity." - Louise Fresco
"A party without cake is just a meeting." - Julia Child
"All you need is love. But a little chocolate now and then doesn't hurt." - Charles M. Schulz
"One cannot think well, love well, sleep well if one has not dined well." - M.F.K. Fisher
"Laughter is brightest in the place where the food is." - Irish Proverb
