A culinary online center dedicated to promoting the importance and the joy of American home cooking with an emphasis on local products and talent, celebrating the unique spirit and energy of the new food world ethos, especially in Vermont.

amuse bouche

I love quotes that add meaning to my life. Here are a few to live by:

We can dramatically increase global food availability and environmental sustainability by using more of our crops to feed people directly and less to fatten livestock.
—Jonathan A. Foley, director of the Institute on the Environment, U of MN

Don’t eat anything your great-grandmother wouldn’t recognize as food.
—Michael Pollan

Cooking is at once child’s play and adult joy. And cooking done with care is an act of love.
—Craig Claiborne

People who eat according to the rules of a traditional food culture are generally healthier than those of us eating a modern Western diet of processed food.
—Michael Pollan

Cooking with Evan Jones: My Father’s Recipes, Part 3 of 4

Fresh Italian ParsleyContinued from the previous post, Cooking with Evan Jones: My Father’s Recipes, Part 2 of 4.

My First Dinner
But, now, there I was making my first dinner with my father, Evan Jones, practicing my first efforts as the family sous-chef. The crumbs were mixed into the meat and I’d chopped the parsley “very finely”, as my father had ordered. “Be careful with that knife,” he’d said, as he handed me a large square butcher knife, sharpened for all it was worth. The tiny fronds of herbal flower became bright green confetti under the knife’s edge and weight.

Everything was in the large striped bowl. “Did you get an egg out?” my father asked. I opened the “magic box” once more and lifted the perfect brown egg out of its cardboard crate. He handed me a smaller bowl and a whisk. “Whisk it together and pour it in”, he said. I loved to use the whisk. I’d been whisking eggs for omelets for at least a year. As the white and yellow of the egg blended together, I reached for salt and pepper on the shelf above the stove. I heard his acknowledgement that I was doing the right thing and suddenly felt that I was part of the kitchen dance, a member of the corps de ballet a la cuisine!

 A Little of This
Now the Salisbury steak was ready, I thought. Ground meat, breadcrumbs, parsley, egg and salt and pepper. “Anything else?” I asked. Yes, there was. “Lets throw in a little of this”, said my father as he reached for a small bowl in the refrigerator. To this day, I don’t know what was in that bowl, but maybe something from an Indian dinner eaten the night before because the flavor of cumin and coriander perfumed our Salisbury steak as it cooked. He also brought out two slices of bacon. “Let’s shape the meat and we can put it into the oven.” 

I worked the meat with my hands until it resembled a rounded hilltop. I placed it in a Pyrex platter and my father crossed the bacon slices, almost ritualistically, over the top.

I was dancing as I crossed from the counter to the oven set at 350 degrees. My father opened it and the Pyrex dish slid onto the top shelf.

 

 A Memorable Meal
That night I sat down at the small round table that served as workspace and dining room to eat the first dinner I’d ever cooked with my father. My stepmother, Judith Jones, lit the candles, a ritual always observed at mealtime, and my father brought out the Salisbury steak on a blue pottery platter. He’d topped the crisp bacon with a sprig of parsley. The juices from the meat had been augmented with a few tablespoons of red wine and poured over the top creating a deep brown fringe around my “hill top”.

 “Delicious”, said my father. And my stepmother concurred. It was perfectly done. My father’s new recipe was my first cooking adventure. It set my course for a lifetime just as his mentoring about literature and history and the arts set me on my way to explore the world. And it wasn’t long before I was making fresh pasta from scratch, helping him to pick out just the right cheeses at the eastside cheese emporium, Ideal, where Eddie, the owner, was his cheese loving co-conspirator; or walking East 59th Street’s treasure trove of food shops in search of the perfect cut of meat for braising. My father already had a love affair with New York and sharing this with him, a mid-westerner transplanted, made the city a paradise for me.

Please check back in 2 weeks for part 4, the final post on this thread of  My Father’s Recipes. Please check back or subscribe to my blog to automatically receive it!

A Bientot! 

Posted: 6-18-2012

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Fresh Italian ParsleyContinued from the previous post, Cooking with Evan Jones: My Father's Recipes, Part 2 of 4.

My First Dinner
But, now, there I was making my first dinner with my father, Evan Jones, practicing my first efforts as the family sous-chef. The crumbs were mixed into the meat and I’d chopped the parsley “very finely”, as my father had ordered. “Be careful with that knife,” he’d said, as he handed me a large square butcher knife, sharpened for all it was worth. The tiny fronds of herbal flower became bright green confetti under the knife’s edge and weight.

Everything was in the large striped bowl. “Did you get an egg out?” my father asked. I opened the “magic box” once more and lifted the perfect brown egg out of its cardboard crate. He handed me a smaller bowl and a whisk. “Whisk it together and pour it in”, he said. I loved to use the whisk. I’d been whisking eggs for omelets for at least a year. As the white and yellow of the egg blended together, I reached for salt and pepper on the shelf above the stove. I heard his acknowledgement that I was doing the right thing and suddenly felt that I was part of the kitchen dance, a member of the corps de ballet a la cuisine!

 A Little of This
Now the Salisbury steak was ready, I thought. Ground meat, breadcrumbs, parsley, egg and salt and pepper. “Anything else?” I asked. Yes, there was. “Lets throw in a little of this”, said my father as he reached for a small bowl in the refrigerator. To this day, I don’t know what was in that bowl, but maybe something from an Indian dinner eaten the night before because the flavor of cumin and coriander perfumed our Salisbury steak as it cooked. He also brought out two slices of bacon. “Let’s shape the meat and we can put it into the oven.” 

I worked the meat with my hands until it resembled a rounded hilltop. I placed it in a Pyrex platter and my father crossed the bacon slices, almost ritualistically, over the top.

I was dancing as I crossed from the counter to the oven set at 350 degrees. My father opened it and the Pyrex dish slid onto the top shelf.

 

 A Memorable Meal
That night I sat down at the small round table that served as workspace and dining room to eat the first dinner I’d ever cooked with my father. My stepmother, Judith Jones, lit the candles, a ritual always observed at mealtime, and my father brought out the Salisbury steak on a blue pottery platter. He’d topped the crisp bacon with a sprig of parsley. The juices from the meat had been augmented with a few tablespoons of red wine and poured over the top creating a deep brown fringe around my “hill top”.

 “Delicious”, said my father. And my stepmother concurred. It was perfectly done. My father’s new recipe was my first cooking adventure. It set my course for a lifetime just as his mentoring about literature and history and the arts set me on my way to explore the world. And it wasn’t long before I was making fresh pasta from scratch, helping him to pick out just the right cheeses at the eastside cheese emporium, Ideal, where Eddie, the owner, was his cheese loving co-conspirator; or walking East 59th Street’s treasure trove of food shops in search of the perfect cut of meat for braising. My father already had a love affair with New York and sharing this with him, a mid-westerner transplanted, made the city a paradise for me.

Please check back in 2 weeks for part 4, the final post on this thread of  My Father's Recipes. Please check back or subscribe to my blog to automatically receive it!

A Bientot! 

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Fresh Italian ParsleyContinued from the previous post, Cooking with Evan Jones: My Father's Recipes, Part 2 of 4.

My First Dinner
But, now, there I was making my first dinner with my father, Evan Jones, practicing my first efforts as the family sous-chef. The crumbs were mixed into the meat and I’d chopped the parsley “very finely”, as my father had ordered. “Be careful with that knife,” he’d said, as he handed me a large square butcher knife, sharpened for all it was worth. The tiny fronds of herbal flower became bright green confetti under the knife’s edge and weight.

Everything was in the large striped bowl. “Did you get an egg out?” my father asked. I opened the “magic box” once more and lifted the perfect brown egg out of its cardboard crate. He handed me a smaller bowl and a whisk. “Whisk it together and pour it in”, he said. I loved to use the whisk. I’d been whisking eggs for omelets for at least a year. As the white and yellow of the egg blended together, I reached for salt and pepper on the shelf above the stove. I heard his acknowledgement that I was doing the right thing and suddenly felt that I was part of the kitchen dance, a member of the corps de ballet a la cuisine!

 A Little of This
Now the Salisbury steak was ready, I thought. Ground meat, breadcrumbs, parsley, egg and salt and pepper. “Anything else?” I asked. Yes, there was. “Lets throw in a little of this”, said my father as he reached for a small bowl in the refrigerator. To this day, I don’t know what was in that bowl, but maybe something from an Indian dinner eaten the night before because the flavor of cumin and coriander perfumed our Salisbury steak as it cooked. He also brought out two slices of bacon. “Let’s shape the meat and we can put it into the oven.” 

I worked the meat with my hands until it resembled a rounded hilltop. I placed it in a Pyrex platter and my father crossed the bacon slices, almost ritualistically, over the top.

I was dancing as I crossed from the counter to the oven set at 350 degrees. My father opened it and the Pyrex dish slid onto the top shelf.

 

 A Memorable Meal
That night I sat down at the small round table that served as workspace and dining room to eat the first dinner I’d ever cooked with my father. My stepmother, Judith Jones, lit the candles, a ritual always observed at mealtime, and my father brought out the Salisbury steak on a blue pottery platter. He’d topped the crisp bacon with a sprig of parsley. The juices from the meat had been augmented with a few tablespoons of red wine and poured over the top creating a deep brown fringe around my “hill top”.

 “Delicious”, said my father. And my stepmother concurred. It was perfectly done. My father’s new recipe was my first cooking adventure. It set my course for a lifetime just as his mentoring about literature and history and the arts set me on my way to explore the world. And it wasn’t long before I was making fresh pasta from scratch, helping him to pick out just the right cheeses at the eastside cheese emporium, Ideal, where Eddie, the owner, was his cheese loving co-conspirator; or walking East 59th Street’s treasure trove of food shops in search of the perfect cut of meat for braising. My father already had a love affair with New York and sharing this with him, a mid-westerner transplanted, made the city a paradise for me.

Please check back in 2 weeks for part 4, the final post on this thread of  My Father's Recipes. Please check back or subscribe to my blog to automatically receive it!

A Bientot! 

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Fresh Italian ParsleyContinued from the previous post, Cooking with Evan Jones: My Father's Recipes, Part 2 of 4.

My First Dinner
But, now, there I was making my first dinner with my father, Evan Jones, practicing my first efforts as the family sous-chef. The crumbs were mixed into the meat and I’d chopped the parsley “very finely”, as my father had ordered. “Be careful with that knife,” he’d said, as he handed me a large square butcher knife, sharpened for all it was worth. The tiny fronds of herbal flower became bright green confetti under the knife’s edge and weight.

Everything was in the large striped bowl. “Did you get an egg out?” my father asked. I opened the “magic box” once more and lifted the perfect brown egg out of its cardboard crate. He handed me a smaller bowl and a whisk. “Whisk it together and pour it in”, he said. I loved to use the whisk. I’d been whisking eggs for omelets for at least a year. As the white and yellow of the egg blended together, I reached for salt and pepper on the shelf above the stove. I heard his acknowledgement that I was doing the right thing and suddenly felt that I was part of the kitchen dance, a member of the corps de ballet a la cuisine!

 A Little of This
Now the Salisbury steak was ready, I thought. Ground meat, breadcrumbs, parsley, egg and salt and pepper. “Anything else?” I asked. Yes, there was. “Lets throw in a little of this”, said my father as he reached for a small bowl in the refrigerator. To this day, I don’t know what was in that bowl, but maybe something from an Indian dinner eaten the night before because the flavor of cumin and coriander perfumed our Salisbury steak as it cooked. He also brought out two slices of bacon. “Let’s shape the meat and we can put it into the oven.” 

I worked the meat with my hands until it resembled a rounded hilltop. I placed it in a Pyrex platter and my father crossed the bacon slices, almost ritualistically, over the top.

I was dancing as I crossed from the counter to the oven set at 350 degrees. My father opened it and the Pyrex dish slid onto the top shelf.

 

 A Memorable Meal
That night I sat down at the small round table that served as workspace and dining room to eat the first dinner I’d ever cooked with my father. My stepmother, Judith Jones, lit the candles, a ritual always observed at mealtime, and my father brought out the Salisbury steak on a blue pottery platter. He’d topped the crisp bacon with a sprig of parsley. The juices from the meat had been augmented with a few tablespoons of red wine and poured over the top creating a deep brown fringe around my “hill top”.

 “Delicious”, said my father. And my stepmother concurred. It was perfectly done. My father’s new recipe was my first cooking adventure. It set my course for a lifetime just as his mentoring about literature and history and the arts set me on my way to explore the world. And it wasn’t long before I was making fresh pasta from scratch, helping him to pick out just the right cheeses at the eastside cheese emporium, Ideal, where Eddie, the owner, was his cheese loving co-conspirator; or walking East 59th Street’s treasure trove of food shops in search of the perfect cut of meat for braising. My father already had a love affair with New York and sharing this with him, a mid-westerner transplanted, made the city a paradise for me.

Please check back in 2 weeks for part 4, the final post on this thread of  My Father's Recipes. Please check back or subscribe to my blog to automatically receive it!

A Bientot! 

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19 Responses to “Cooking with Evan Jones: My Father’s Recipes, Part 3 of 4”

  1. I have to say that for the past couple of hours i have been hooked by the amazing posts on this website. Keep up the wonderful work.

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  4. Mark Dobson says:

    Have you been making wonderful blueberry muffins with this season’s most bountiful crop of blueberries?
    If yours are like mine, they taste delicious, but often stick to the paper!
    The trick is either to spray the inside of the papers with cooking spray, or add the blueberries as you are filling the cups! You add a spoonful of batter, drop in some blueberries repeat! It’s the cooked blueberries which come in contact with the paper that makes them stick!

  5. Nadine Haven says:

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  13. Bronwyn says:

    To all who have taken the time to comment: This is so heartwarming! I’m so glad you’ve enjoyed the blog. Your comments are really important to me.

    I’ve been busy, busy, busy with a move to a new home and several trips and food events that have kept me away from my writer’s desk. But I’m back and will definitely be continuing the story of my family, my adventures in the food world in Vermont and my great fun with food wherever my travels take me.

    Please keep your comments coming and if you have questions about recipes or my post accounts, don’t hesitate to ask!

  14. Marcus says:

    I think you would be copeable to write an ebook about this stuff

  15. Kathleen says:

    I loved reading this on a cool fall morning with breakfast scones in the oven: recipe courtesy of J.& E. Jones BRUNCHES AND BREAKFAST CALENDAR 1985!! How on earth do I still have that one? Wonderful memories Bronwyn, I can picture it all so well. I look forward to the next one!

  16. So nice to hear that you found the post about my memories of cooking with my father. I miss him everytime I cook….but it is lovely missing him this way. Almost every cooking experience is a kind of tribute to him….

  17. Christoper says:

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ArtsRiot Truck Stop!

ArtsRiot Truck Stop!


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Dinner Club at Agricola Farm


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Bronwyn Dunne and Judith Jones Prepare Two Potato Salads at Bryn Teg. See the recipes


Gateau de Crepes- In Molly’s Kitchen.
See recipe from the Smitten Kitchen



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