Toughest Table

I Was Raised Like Veal

I was born a short, pudgy, middle-class-Jewish kid in Far Rockaway, New York. They named me Morty. While Woody Allen may have exaggerated his childhood home as being under the roller coaster in Coney Island, out in the furthest reaches of Queens, in Far Rock we lived beneath the constant clamor of airplanes coming in and out of JFK. Rattling houses and jet-fuel showers. That was life at the beach.

Our world seemed to play by its own rules--the streets a healthy mixture of Catholics and Jews, Irishman and Italians. Moms were in charge of meals and dads couldn’t tell cumin from paprika. The family differences lived not in economics, but what was on the table each night at dinnertime. There were--and are--many worse places to be from.

My parents, Beverly and Larry Aaronson, were boardwalk sweethearts in the 1950’s, Dad drove the choo-choo train at the same small amusement park in Edgemere where Mom sold tickets in the booth. Exotic cuisine from every corner of the world made my parents foodies long before it was fashionable, and certainly before things like “organic” or “farm to table” existed. My grandfather, Abe Margulies, also a 30 year sitting Judge, was the family cook on my mom’s side and the son of Russian immigrants who owned many Kosher vegetarian restaurants. On dad’s side was my Uncle Benny Cohen. Uncle Benny really made cooking fun, wearing a short bathrobe, a camel straight in his mouth and a little gin in a glass. These two men, each extremely important in my young life, were great cooks. They loved doing it and, more importantly, instilled in me this passion for food.

When my parents were children they ate franks and beans. When I was a child we were offered tastes of whatever they ate: Knishes, Italian Ices, Meatball Subs, Pizza, Pastrami on Rye, Tuck-ee Cups, and Egg Rolls were all fair game. We ate dinner as a family every single night. We never ate until dad got home. We had breakfast on the weekends. I can hardly remember a missed meal in my household. The kitchen table became the centerpiece of my family’s life.

My parents absolutely loved entertaining. Whether it was out of town family, cross- town family, in-town family, my friends, friends of friends, or guys that worked with Dad, our kitchen was always full and Mom never failed to put out more food than could possibly be consumed. Whether in Far Rock, or later on in my wonder years home of Deerfield, Illinois, neighbors planned their eating time around Bev’s leftovers schedule. Holidays were easily the best, and Mom never took issue in getting up at 1 am to serve a full meal for my stoned friends and me.

At Mom’s funeral, I held back the tears as I exclaimed to the audience of those that knew her best by eating at her table: “you remember me as a fat little kid--you know, I was raised like veal.” I was overfed, overprotected and went off to college only to lose weight, and discovered a way of eating that sprouted from my cooking idols. I discovered that I had the same health-focused sensibilities as my grandfather--the organic farmer and power walker, mixed with the absolute joy of my Uncle Benny, who loved every second in the kitchen. Above all, I discovered I had my mom’s love and celebration of the power of communal eating. I came to understand that cooking for others was the purest way of showing love.

As I aged I learned how much I love markets, cook books, restaurants, the flavors of the world, growing my own veggies, and preparing food for my family and friends. In college I used cooking as a way of navigating the dating scene at the University of Wisconsin. In my early 20s I explored the emerging and varied Pan-Asian food of Chicago’s North Side. I was catapulted into the foodie overdrive that was fourteen years of eating in New York's booming culinary landscape of the 80’s and 90’s. And finally I landed feet first in Denver, Colorado, my adopted home town of 24 years where the farm-to-table scene is boundless.

I am not a trained chef. In fact I know of no real formal training in any field of my life, be it work, cooking, or parenting. I have learned that all of these things, or life in general, all have one very similar limit: you only get to play with the cards you’re dealt. Wish all you want for fresh peaches in the middle of winter or the million-dollar salary. Pray to look better or be taller or have more hair. Whatever it may be. You work with what you have, you build on what’s available, you use the freshest ingredients, and you make the most out of everything as often as you can.

My wife Sue, and my kids, Sam and Jesse, are my primary cooking world. Aside from them, I have cooked for a select group of loyal friends and colleagues that have sat at my tables in NYC, the Hamptons, and here in Denver. Admittedly there was a dark period of almost 2 years in Atlanta that did not positively advance my cooking and entertaining skills, but we don’t need to get into that. Today, I can tell you without a beat, who likes which protein, which herbs they can’t stand, and endless variety of food aversions, allergies, and preferences. Cooking for picky eaters ( my wife and best friend Sue may be the pickiest of them all) taught me to put my loved one’s desires above my own. The limitations of the seasons taught me to use what was available. And the impressively wide variety of preferences in my family taught me to adapt. But perhaps the most important lesson of all: even when you’re the boss at work, when you come home you’re not as cooking is about pleasing the other people at the table, not you. Imagine the massive change in perspective.

Cooking for those you care for and love changes your life. For someone that has held every imaginable C level job over the past 25 years, I can promise you that the answer to happiness does not lie there. Cooking gave me a hobby to start, softened me as a person and quickly transformed into a reason to be home and a way to learn about the lives of my children and guests. It continues to give me a beginning, middle, and end to each day that I’ve rarely found in a workday. It’s given me time to contemplate and reflect and focus on the most important and simple thing: what’s for dinner and who is coming.

Nobody really needs to learn how to cook from me. The world certainly doesn’t need another cook blog or book. Mark Bittman’s unbelievably well written encyclopedias on Everything food could make the whole world eat well, eat healthfully, and eat a dazzling array of foods and cuisines, never once repeating for rest of our lives. This blog is not about any of that. It’s about sitting down at the table with those you love. It's about the age old understanding that breaking bread with others never fails to create a greater understanding of one another.

My Inspirations-

To Sue, Sam, and Jesse...my 3 all-time favorite humans and by far the toughest table I have ever pleased

To G.P and Uncle Benny......my cooking icons before cooking was cool

To the whole Arlow Family...once again I’d like to apologize for the cactus paddle salsa

To Anthony Bourdain the king of making food as cool as music

To David Chang for making me believe there is someone that will take over where Anthony left us wanting more

To Mark Bittman for making everything so simple. Never confuse simple with easy.

The array of colors at every market

The smells of every culture

The change of seasons

The ability to present yourself to others in a different light. As a human vs a parent, friends, peer, boss or stranger.

And to my mom and dad, who I think about and miss everyday. I can still hear the laughter and drama of your meals, and the morning discovery of that one dish you failed to serve still sitting in the oven. I love you.