So many gloves became necessary because she had rheumatoid arthritis, and as her fingers gnarled, she required bigger sizes.
When she died, in 1975, I inherited 120 pairs of gloves - silk-lined kid in different lengths and colors. She treasured individuality, never wanting to wear what “they’re wearing,” or handbags that displayed logos, and she sought offbeat touches that expressed her desire to be distinctive, like a bathing suit with one shoulder strap, or a chic black velvet outfit with an unlikely white pique collar. But she insisted on having a Chambers range - top of the line in the 1940s. There was nothing special in her arsenal: Her kitchen, which was not kosher, was equipped with everyday cast-iron and Farberware cookware, a well-worn wooden chopping bowl and mezzaluna, a glass double boiler, an enameled oval blue-and-white-speckled roaster and a pressure cooker. They would have experienced the meaning of patience and generosity. Now that my children and grandchildren are accomplished cooks, I regret that they were never able to share the kitchen with their Nana. While I cannot recall her consulting many written recipes, preferring to follow her own instincts, I enjoyed cooking at her side, and saw how she tweaked flavor with a spritz of lemon or another pinch of salt. She loved dining out with my father, Lee Gertner, and would sometimes incorporate what she tasted in her own cooking, like broiling lamb chops medium-rare instead of the leaden well-done of the 1950s. Rather, she seared slices of filet mignon for sandwiches and grilled whole beef tenderloins for parties. She did not throw hamburgers on our backyard grill. But my mother’s cooking went well beyond the chopped liver, stuffed cabbage, kasha varnishkes and chicken soup of her Eastern European background, both in attention to detail and imagination. She learned from her mother, Fanny Newman, who was born in Russia and died when my mother was 19 - and for whom I was named. (They did not want a woman’s on the correspondence.) But cooking was in her DNA, and now in mine. Before I was born, she was a secretary at an advertising agency, Lord & Thomas, where she had to sign letters using a fake man’s name. Do not rush: Keep the heat on medium, and stir frequently to guarantee no bitter burned edges.īorn in 1908, my mother, Annette Newman Gertner, was a Jewish American housewife from Manhattan. Slice the onions and monitor their progress in the skillet so the result is a bronzed, sweetly fragrant tangle. No, she did not make me cry, but her meticulous handling of a mundane kitchen task left a lasting impression, one that informs my own cooking. Whenever I slice and sauté onions, I think of my mother.
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