Letter from the Editor

Second Helpings

By Marcy Nathan, Creative Director

My dad came down with Covid as we were preparing to send this issue to press and I still had this letter to write, but needed to help him at his home, which is where I grew up. I hope you don’t mind a second helping of my letter, Clara, from our September-October 2018 issue, Cooking at Home. It seems very appropriate for this Down Home issue — and considering the circumstances.

In my family, food memories are some of our strongest. My sisters and I have spent a lot of time sitting in dad’s kitchen reminiscing about childhood meals and talking to my dad about his favorite foods; Clara’s fried chicken and mashed potatoes are high on his list, just after raw oysters and seafood gumbo, along with a gin martini with olives. We’ve also been looking at family pictures. My sister Courtney found my mom’s courtesy check cashing card from the old Metairie Road Supermarket in a picture drawer, and an old calendar that has an entry from when my mom was sick that reads, “Mrs. Dotty had a good night. Before she went to sleep we were talking about food she loved, and she said mashed potatoes.” Clara’s, no doubt.

My sister said it was a sign. I think I might agree.

Clara, the woman who took care of me from the time I was very young, was a fabulous cook. My sisters and I spent countless hours in the kitchen with her, watching TV or doing homework while she cooked. Occasionally she’d let one of us lick the bowl in exchange for mashing the potatoes.

Everything she cooked was utterly delicious — meat loaf, fried pork chops and white beans, macaroni and cheese, stewed chicken. My dad even argued that her chopped liver with schmaltz (chicken fat) was better than his Jewish mother’s.

She never wrote down recipes and she never measured ingredients; she had a cook’s hand. I wish I’d stood alongside her when she cooked instead of just mashing the potatoes; I can barely make a proper roux.

My strongest memories of her take place in the kitchen. I particularly loved eating lunch with her. No matter what we were having, even a sandwich, there was always a side of Bunny bread, stacked high.

Clara was more than a nanny for me. She was a second mother. She always made me feel special, which wasn’t easy in a large family. For her, food was love. She cooked fried chicken, mashed potatoes and peas — my favorite — the day before I left for summer camp, and again as a “welcome back” two months later. She knew from my letters that I’d been homesick for her and her food.

I haven’t eaten Clara’s fried chicken in over 20 years, but I can still taste it.

My mother was a good cook, too. She just didn’t do it often. She had her hands full with four daughters and a full-time job. Mom had every plastic-bound Junior League cookbook, from Jambalaya to Talk About Good! and River Road Recipes — and boxfuls of handwritten family recipes on index cards. Her Polish-born aunt and uncle ran a catering business out of their home kitchen in Alexandria in the 1960s. They became quite well-known for their baked goods, including a layer cake that was similar to doberge. My aunt Susan (“Noonie”) has promised to find us the recipe, so I can share it with you in a future issue.

My mother died of cancer way too young — I was 20. Clara died not two years later. It was like losing my head after losing my heart. I never fully recovered.

But I recently reconnected with three of her grandchildren, and it’s been fun reminiscing. I have such happy memories.

And such funny ones.

Like many women in New Orleans, Clara liked to keep her money on her. She taught me to store mine in my bra, the way she did — a habit a cashier at Rouses thankfully helped me break later on. Every time I see a customer pull money or a credit card out of her bra, I am reminded of Clara.

This issue is a tribute to all of the home cooks, like Clara, who share their love through food. Thank you.