Long before there was ever a Cooking Channel, Chicago had its own celebrity television chef. His name was François Pope and he hosted a morning program on WBKB Channel 7 called “Creative Cookery.”
And even though I was a tiny tot, I loved that show. (Even now the bouncy lilt of the waltzing theme music runs unforgettably through my mind.) Every weekday from nine until nine fifty-five, I was fascinated by this show- which was kind of strange given that, back then, I had absolutely no interest in cooking- or eating.
I never cottoned to the idea of cooking until 1969. For then I was a newly-wed, and suddenly I realized that I had never cooked a thing in my life- except s’mores with the Girl Scouts.
But my brand-new husband wanted to eat more than just s’mores, and so I threw myself into the culinary fray.
Armed with every new bride’s bible- The Joy of Cooking-and shower gifts- Thoughts For Buffets and Thoughts for Festive Foods- I plunged in.
A glimpse of my annotated recipes is like a miniature time capsule. In 1969 I liked:
Chicken Crepes
Mushroom Crepes
Hawaii Salad (Huh ?)
Turkey Pancakes (Do we notice a theme here?)
Turkey Divan
Chicken ala King
Chicken Hash Pump Room
Chicken Kiev
Turkey Tetrazzini
Chocolate Mousse
Pot Roast
Prime Rib
Twice Baked Potatoes
Broccoli Mold Amandine
But even with Mrs. Joy’s expert help, I made plenty of gaffes as I fumbled my way around my shiny new kitchen.
I remember one dinner party for both sets of in-laws. I proudly cooked filet mignon, and after I carefully plated and served them, my ears were assailed by the sound of low, perplexed murmuring.
Never a good sign.
It seems that my filets were perfectly done- on one side. They were raw on the other. Nowhere had I read that “broil” meant both sides. I had to ignominiously collect eight steaks, remember which one was whose, and broil them on the other side.
Fast Forward to 1973 and Husband Number Two. Now we were firmly in “the avocado green fondue pot” era and my go-to cooking maven was Tennessee songbird and legendary Palm Springs hostess, Dinah Shore.
Dinah contributed these sure-fire hits:
Fried Chicken
Popovers
Baked Stuffed Pork Chops
Veal Piccata
Corn Bread
Beef Stroganoff
Gazpacho
Omelette Grand Mère
Thanks to hanging in the kitchen with Dinah, my prowess was growing. But that still didn’t mean I didn’t have a gastronomic disaster or two.
Like the Great Chocolate Mousse Debacle.
My dinner party that night had gone swimmingly. All the guests raved as each new course appeared. Alas, all that praise went to my head and I kept saying, “Oh, this is nothing. Wait ’til you see dessert.”
Famous Gastronomic Last Words.
Primed and ready, my dinner guests oohed and aahed as I triumphantly brought out a gorgeous chocolate mousse to be unmolded table-side for extra culinary F/X.
But I had neglected to give the molten chocolate enough time to cool down before I had folded in my egg whites. Thus, when I freed the mousse from its teflon-lined home, it hadn’t congealed, and it slid out, ran off the serving plate and slimed its way right onto my dining table.
The look on my guests’ collective faces was priceless. They weren’t sure if I hadn’t unleashed the Creature from the Brown Lagoon on purpose or not.
The marriage was in as big a mess. Mercifully then came Italy and I actually learned to eat and cook. My beau there taught me the art of the “farm to table” approach.
And then it was 1976 and my third time at marital bat.
Enter Julia Child.
I was ready for her now, and with the recipes and guidance of The French Chef Cookbook, I set out to wow my new husband.
It was full steam ahead and I started with the very first recipe- “Chicken Breasts and Risotto” and kept right on cooking. Lobster à la Americaine, Coq au vin, Veal Prince Orloff, French Veal Stew, Hollandaise and Bearnaise sauces all became hits in my repertoire.
The only dinner party disaster I can recall was perpetrated by my naughty standard poodle, Arno. As I was greeting my guests that night, he wolfed down exactly one half of my raw chicken paillards. It was “Family Hold Back” as hubby and I gamely ate only rice for dinner.
In 1996, when I moved full-time to Aspen, I really started cooking on all burners.
Aspen food was okay but it’s a small town after all. And I quickly tired of the restaurant offerings.
And the Roaring Fork Valley didn’t have the scope or quality of the ethnic foods that- being from Chicago- I had come to love.
And finally, given the incentive of a new husband who loved to eat, I soared to new culinary heights.
This husband was fearless.
He wasn’t frightened by the thought of cholesterol or calories. He was a superb athlete who kept in shape all year long and he had grown up with a mother who was a good cook.
And for a bonus, he was well-versed in the chores of sous chef and clean up.
I had finally found my audience.
I trotted out all the old favorites- great spicy recipes from Paul Prudhomme and Emeril, light-as-feather waffles to DIE for, awesome sour cream cinnamon coffee cake and devil’s food cupcakes that could make one weep. There were no holds barred. Nothing was “off the table” and I became obsessed with the “from scratch” doctrine.
Everything I put on the plate had to be home-made- from the barbecue sauce to the salad dressing to Chinese food.
I also became enamored of cookbooks and cooking utensils. I constantly added to my collection- and then had to try them all out, of course.
I even augmented my china collection guided by that King of Housewares, Amen Wardy. Maiolica platters, pasta bowls and new dinnerware made my china cabinets groan at the seams.
(Not to mention the new flatware, napkins, napkin rings to garnish the laden table. That Amen was no fool. He started slow with me- straw place mats as I recall- and soon I could have opened my own branch of his store.)
Fast forward to today.
With the exception of one batch of marinara sauce and a stray omelet or two, I haven’t wielded a whisk once since I’ve come back to Chicago.
My latest shopping list:
Paper Towels
Seagram’s Diet Ginger Ale
Bananas
Baby Carrots
Windex
Pretzels
Spice Drops
Sad, isn’t it? But I’m no fun to cook for and besides, I miss the applause. I need some inspiration to start chopping and braising again.
Where’s François Pope when you really need him?
When Carey was a little girl (birthday alert–she “achieves” 30 this month, Joan), she and I would watch The Cajun Chef, Justin Wilson (pronounced, Joos-tan Wil-sohn) cook and “drink some wi-ine.” Carey picked up both parts of that lesson, as she has become a terrific cook and is married to a Culinary School-trained pastry chef (they know how to put on a table). She matured by watching (and being on) “Emeril” and “Emeril Live”, then meeting and cooking with (at age 12) the late, great Charlie Trotter.
Hell, writing about it makes me want to hop the next plane to Phoenix so she and Matt can cook for me.
Thanks for sparking this memory (and hunger pang).
Thanks for sparking mine. Justin Wilson! What a character. I can see how he would have appealed to her. Emeril was fun to watch, too. I met him and he signed a cookbook for me with a drawing of a big chef’s toque. Hope you get to Phoenix soon. Bon Appetit!
Your life’s cooking trajectory is funny and terrific!! And what a history of the foods we ate (at least some). When I was a new bride (the first time), we had invited over a couple who I hoped would be impressed with a beautifully served, delicious dinner. No problems about the first part, but my culinary skills were nada. However, my organizational skills reigned. I secretly enlisted the help of my little brother who was and is an accomplished chef. Table set, dishes laid, and I watched the time as my brother brought the amazing dinner stealthily to my door. The dinner was divine and I felt accomplished (only that we pulled it off).
On another note, you do make (other than Madame Romanine de Lyon wonderful New York restaurant – closed for years) the best fine herbes omelette I’ve tasted.
Happy birthday dear Carey,who as a little girl served me a glass of water with a coaster!!
This is so Joan. (Although I did see an episode once on “Frazier” that must have stolen its plot from you.) Your parties are legendary. And you turn “snacks” into an event. You could teach Mr. Wardy a thing or two about tablescapes -and that’s no small feat.
Thanks, my friend. Anytime you want me to fire up an omelette pan, you only have to ask. Love, The Galloping Gourmet
You have a regular group of followers that often comment on your blog. It is time you once again break out your cooking skills and have the “regulars” over to your place for the meal of your choice. If the concept is that frightening to you – I’ll bring pizzas.
I love this idea! I’m totally up for it. But the hard part won’t be the cooking. It will be conquering the social calendar. Trying to get everybody here on the same free night will be a nightmare of clashing appointment books. Thanks, Doc. Love, The Older Giada DiLaurentis
When Carol and I came home from our honeymoon in 1966, my mother presented Carol with a gift–enrollment in the Pope Cooking School. I guess Mom wanted to make certain that I was well fed. I would think that any other daughter-in-law would have been insulted and agitated by an interfering mother-in-law, but Carol embraced the gift with delight. I still remember her first class which was baking dinner rolls. It was 3:00 am the next morning when Carol woke me to taste her rolls. We laughed about that for 35+ years.
Anyway, Carol was a wonderful baker and cook, and it all started with the Pope Cooking School.
What a great tribute to your thoughtful mom, your wonderful new bride and the Pope’s cooking school. Thanks for sharing this. It was heartwarming. (So how were the rolls?)
Over the years the best recipes I have collected have come from people I loved, mother-in-laws I had, friends and cookbooks I have read (when first married and was aiming to please ). I cherish Lolita Morris’ lemon jello, Hilly Rosenblooms’ brisket, Aunt Roses pepper steak, Aunt Hazels chocolate cake and my mothers kugel and mandel bread. I love seeing the handwriting of chefs long gone in my pile of recipes.
It was great reading Bob Boehms’ blurb…..I didn’t remember his mother Ruth cooking but know Carol would always have accepted all of life with grace and dignity. Breads are not my forte yet . Pillsbury in the explosive tubes are best friends.
I’m with you. I’m much more of a cook than a baker. And I love old family recipes. What a heartwarming part of being human. Thanks for sharing, Jackie.
This brings back the memory of the first time my wife Micki and I made Thanksgiving turkey. We couldn’t find the giblets anywhere, so we just figured our turkey was giblet-less. Until after we cooked it and we realized that they had been frozen solid inside the cavity…so they got cooked, bag and all!! Which is why Micki says the best things we make are reservations. Morton’s anybody?
That could happen to anybody. Turkeys need to come with better owners’ manuals. Morton’s sounds great, though. Count me in. Thanks, Steve.
I’m such a lousy cook, I use the smoke detector as a timer!!
If I did the cooking in our house, we’d pray AFTER we ate!! Even the roaches would be anorexic!!
Nice! Totally Dangerfield- worthy. Thanks, Bernie. Kenny misses Otto every day, btw.
Thanks to Carol Boehm for recommending Pope’s Cooking School when we were newly weds. Joy still makes some of the great recipes they taught her 45 years ago.
How nice to think that the Pope school of cookery goes on…Thanks, Doc.