his nights in the orchestra pit of a Broadway show and his days cooking and caring for his family. He lives in suburban New Jersey with his wife, a violist for the New York Philharmonic, and their three children, the oldest of whom is in college and the youngest in elementary school.
During the first part of my life, in East Flatbush, my grandmother lived downstairs from me. It seemed like everyone was cooking all day long. It was incredible. My parents were both survivors of the Holocaust, and my grandmother was our only living relative. Anytime I had off from school, I’d spend the week with her. She’d schlep me all around, shopping. We would go to a huge space, like a garage, with floor-to-ceiling cages of geese and chickens. It was deafening. There the shohet, a rabbi schooled in the art of butchering, would take a chicken in his fingers, draw back its head, utter a prayer, and slice its neck. The chicken was put upside down in a metal cone so the blood could drain out. When the feet stopped twitching, the chicken was dead.
Lying in bed in the morning as a kid, I would smell onions cooking and know that my mother was making chopped liver. I love chopped liver and I make a mean one today. My mother browned the onions in oil or chicken fat and added the liver to the pan to brown that, too. She then put it all in a big wooden bowl with about a dozen hard-boiled eggs. For the next hour, all I would hear is chop, chop, chop, scrape—chop, chop, chop, scrape. I used to sit in the kitchen and watch my mother and grandmother. By the time I left home, I knew how to cook.
I got married more than twenty years ago, and I started cooking 80 percent of the time. Of course, back in those days we’d go out to eat three times a week; you could get a whole meal for fourteen dollars, including tip.
My oldest son, Brian, started his life as the worst eater imaginable. He was on the white and tan diet: waffles, pancakes, milk, grilled cheese, french fries, and the occasional banana. The only way I could get him to eat was by making up a story and withholding the plot until he took another bite. When Brian turned ten, it was like in The Wizard of Oz when the film goes from black and white to color: he started eating everything.
Dinnertime is sacred. It’s the only time we all get to sit down together and talk about the day. It takes planning. The other day, Brian, who’s now in college, was home from school, so I knew I needed to cook something big. I went food shopping in the morning and bought a pot roast. I had to take the dog to the vet. I had to take my other son to the eye doctor. I had to go to the eye doctor, too. My daughter had ballet at five and Brian had tae kwon do at seven thirty. It was a crazy day. I started the pot roast, along with potatoes, carrots, kale, and garlic, in a slow cooker in the morning and let it cook all day. After six hours, the meat was so tender it flaked like pastry.
Sometimes I think that my wife takes my efforts for granted. Every once in a while I’d like her to volunteer to make dinner. Instead I have to announce “The chef is off tonight” to get her to cook. Different people have different vices; some drink, and some do drugs. I don’t want to call food a vice, but it has always been my comfort.
Recipe File
Applesauce Meat Loaf
This recipe has been in my family for years and has varied over time. For instance, my mother used to bake a meat loaf with hard-boiled eggs strategically placed throughout the meat loaf. It was delicious. When I cook meat loaf, I always make two: one with and one without onions (because my son doesn’t like them). I might use cinnamon applesauce instead of apricot. So you can change it. And it goes well with mashed potatoes. What’s not to like about that?
2 pounds ground beef, or a mixture of beef, lamb, and turkey
1 cup dry bread crumbs
1 egg
1 cup organic apricot applesauce
1 small onion, finely chopped
1 teaspoon salt A pinch of black pepper
¼ cup
During the first part of my life, in East Flatbush, my grandmother lived downstairs from me. It seemed like everyone was cooking all day long. It was incredible. My parents were both survivors of the Holocaust, and my grandmother was our only living relative. Anytime I had off from school, I’d spend the week with her. She’d schlep me all around, shopping. We would go to a huge space, like a garage, with floor-to-ceiling cages of geese and chickens. It was deafening. There the shohet, a rabbi schooled in the art of butchering, would take a chicken in his fingers, draw back its head, utter a prayer, and slice its neck. The chicken was put upside down in a metal cone so the blood could drain out. When the feet stopped twitching, the chicken was dead.
Lying in bed in the morning as a kid, I would smell onions cooking and know that my mother was making chopped liver. I love chopped liver and I make a mean one today. My mother browned the onions in oil or chicken fat and added the liver to the pan to brown that, too. She then put it all in a big wooden bowl with about a dozen hard-boiled eggs. For the next hour, all I would hear is chop, chop, chop, scrape—chop, chop, chop, scrape. I used to sit in the kitchen and watch my mother and grandmother. By the time I left home, I knew how to cook.
I got married more than twenty years ago, and I started cooking 80 percent of the time. Of course, back in those days we’d go out to eat three times a week; you could get a whole meal for fourteen dollars, including tip.
My oldest son, Brian, started his life as the worst eater imaginable. He was on the white and tan diet: waffles, pancakes, milk, grilled cheese, french fries, and the occasional banana. The only way I could get him to eat was by making up a story and withholding the plot until he took another bite. When Brian turned ten, it was like in The Wizard of Oz when the film goes from black and white to color: he started eating everything.
Dinnertime is sacred. It’s the only time we all get to sit down together and talk about the day. It takes planning. The other day, Brian, who’s now in college, was home from school, so I knew I needed to cook something big. I went food shopping in the morning and bought a pot roast. I had to take the dog to the vet. I had to take my other son to the eye doctor. I had to go to the eye doctor, too. My daughter had ballet at five and Brian had tae kwon do at seven thirty. It was a crazy day. I started the pot roast, along with potatoes, carrots, kale, and garlic, in a slow cooker in the morning and let it cook all day. After six hours, the meat was so tender it flaked like pastry.
Sometimes I think that my wife takes my efforts for granted. Every once in a while I’d like her to volunteer to make dinner. Instead I have to announce “The chef is off tonight” to get her to cook. Different people have different vices; some drink, and some do drugs. I don’t want to call food a vice, but it has always been my comfort.
Recipe File
Applesauce Meat Loaf
This recipe has been in my family for years and has varied over time. For instance, my mother used to bake a meat loaf with hard-boiled eggs strategically placed throughout the meat loaf. It was delicious. When I cook meat loaf, I always make two: one with and one without onions (because my son doesn’t like them). I might use cinnamon applesauce instead of apricot. So you can change it. And it goes well with mashed potatoes. What’s not to like about that?
2 pounds ground beef, or a mixture of beef, lamb, and turkey
1 cup dry bread crumbs
1 egg
1 cup organic apricot applesauce
1 small onion, finely chopped
1 teaspoon salt A pinch of black pepper
¼ cup
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