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:

Americans who have been to France and come home craving a reminder of their magical European experience, love Vermont cheeses.
—Allison Hooper, founder, VT Butter & Cheese Creamery

Practice not cleaning your plate: it will help you eat less in short term and develop self-control in the long term.
—Michael Pollan

Sweet taste buds develop before all others, that’s why small children love sweets.
—Bronwyn Dunne

Don’t eat breakfast cereals that change the color of milk.
—Michael Pollan

My rule of thumb is, when in doubt, cook more than you think you may need.
—Marian Cunningham, from Learning to Cook


Cooking with Evan Jones: My Father’s Recipes, Part 1 of 4

Bronwyn Dunne as a girl with her father Evan Jones

Bronwyn Dunne with her father Evan Jones

Growing Up
When I was growing up, my father’s recipes were everywhere. Usually stacked on his desk in off-kilter piles looking like miniature Towers of Pisa, they also often littered the kitchen counters where they become covered in flour and stained with oil and water. It wasn’t just that my father was interested in cooking; my father’s recipes were becoming an important part of his writing career. He was a writer with food a focal point. At a time when Craig Claiborne was only just becoming a household name and James Beard’s career as a cooking expert was taking off, my father’s research of American food was creating a new culinary category for the decades of food interest that followed.

Salisbury Steak
Evan Jones was a divorced father living in New York, visited by his children on weekends. When I would arrive at his apartment door on Friday evenings, I’d find him sitting at his typewriter clicking away in his two-finger style.  At the sound of my voice, he would stub out his cigarette in an ashtray already filled with the burnt ends of Camels or Gitanes, and walk away from the work until Sunday night, when I returned to my mother’s suburban home. He left his desk but the recipes weren’t left behind. They became the structure of our weekend.

“Have you ever had Salisbury steak?”, he asked one day when I arrived a little later than usual. It was time to cook dinner and, in the tiny New York kitchen, we worried a new recipe into life with all the care of catering for a king. It was 1954, my stepmother was staying late at her office and I was sous-chef for the first time. If my father were alive today, he would wonder why I remembered this particular recipe since now Salisbury steak is hardly thought of except with nostalgia. But, in those days, the days before Julia Child revolutionized cooking in America and preparing food became an art not only in France but also at home, the recipe was novel, another way of using ground meat that wasn’t the great American pastime, hamburgers.

He’d never asked me to help him prepare the main dish before. That’s why I remember the moment. I’d helped peel and scrape and shuck and pound but I’d never really been given the responsibility of working on the main dish of the moment with my father. “Here’s an apron”. He threw me one of my stepmother’s, as he tied his own large dark blue and white striped apron around his waist. “Let’s see what we can do.”

See our recipe for Salisbury Steak.

Ambition
I realize now that my father was only thirty-nine that year. He was a young man, younger than his granddaughter, my daughter, is now, and he’d been married and divorced and married again. He was still a man starting out in New York, making his way in the world of publishing. His life’s ambition was to write the great American novel, to add his name to the ranks of the literary heroes of the day, Ernest Hemingway, F. Scott Fitzgerald, Carl Sandburg, Theodore Dreiser.

To be continued in the next post….Please check back or subscribe to my blog to automatically receive it!

A bientot!

Posted: 4-11-2012

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Growing Up
When I was growing up, my father’s recipes were everywhere. Usually stacked on his desk in off-kilter piles looking like miniature Towers of Pisa, they also often littered the kitchen counters where they become covered in flour and stained with oil and water. It wasn’t just that my father was interested in cooking; my father’s recipes were becoming an important part of his writing career. He was a writer with food a focal point. At a time when Craig Claiborne was only just becoming a household name and James Beard’s career as a cooking expert was taking off, my father’s research of American food was creating a new culinary category for the decades of food interest that followed.

Salisbury Steak
Evan Jones was a divorced father living in New York, visited by his children on weekends. When I would arrive at his apartment door on Friday evenings, I’d find him sitting at his typewriter clicking away in his two-finger style.  At the sound of my voice, he would stub out his cigarette in an ashtray already filled with the burnt ends of Camels or Gitanes, and walk away from the work until Sunday night, when I returned to my mother’s suburban home. He left his desk but the recipes weren’t left behind. They became the structure of our weekend.

“Have you ever had Salisbury steak?”, he asked one day when I arrived a little later than usual. It was time to cook dinner and, in the tiny New York kitchen, we worried a new recipe into life with all the care of catering for a king. It was 1954, my stepmother was staying late at her office and I was sous-chef for the first time. If my father were alive today, he would wonder why I remembered this particular recipe since now Salisbury steak is hardly thought of except with nostalgia. But, in those days, the days before Julia Child revolutionized cooking in America and preparing food became an art not only in France but also at home, the recipe was novel, another way of using ground meat that wasn’t the great American pastime, hamburgers.

He’d never asked me to help him prepare the main dish before. That’s why I remember the moment. I’d helped peel and scrape and shuck and pound but I’d never really been given the responsibility of working on the main dish of the moment with my father. “Here’s an apron”. He threw me one of my stepmother’s, as he tied his own large dark blue and white striped apron around his waist. “Let’s see what we can do.”

See our recipe for Salisbury Steak.

Ambition
I realize now that my father was only thirty-nine that year. He was a young man, younger than his granddaughter, my daughter, is now, and he’d been married and divorced and married again. He was still a man starting out in New York, making his way in the world of publishing. His life’s ambition was to write the great American novel, to add his name to the ranks of the literary heroes of the day, Ernest Hemingway, F. Scott Fitzgerald, Carl Sandburg, Theodore Dreiser.

To be continued in the next post….Please check back or subscribe to my blog to automatically receive it!

A bientot!

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Growing Up
When I was growing up, my father’s recipes were everywhere. Usually stacked on his desk in off-kilter piles looking like miniature Towers of Pisa, they also often littered the kitchen counters where they become covered in flour and stained with oil and water. It wasn’t just that my father was interested in cooking; my father’s recipes were becoming an important part of his writing career. He was a writer with food a focal point. At a time when Craig Claiborne was only just becoming a household name and James Beard’s career as a cooking expert was taking off, my father’s research of American food was creating a new culinary category for the decades of food interest that followed.

Salisbury Steak
Evan Jones was a divorced father living in New York, visited by his children on weekends. When I would arrive at his apartment door on Friday evenings, I’d find him sitting at his typewriter clicking away in his two-finger style.  At the sound of my voice, he would stub out his cigarette in an ashtray already filled with the burnt ends of Camels or Gitanes, and walk away from the work until Sunday night, when I returned to my mother’s suburban home. He left his desk but the recipes weren’t left behind. They became the structure of our weekend.

“Have you ever had Salisbury steak?”, he asked one day when I arrived a little later than usual. It was time to cook dinner and, in the tiny New York kitchen, we worried a new recipe into life with all the care of catering for a king. It was 1954, my stepmother was staying late at her office and I was sous-chef for the first time. If my father were alive today, he would wonder why I remembered this particular recipe since now Salisbury steak is hardly thought of except with nostalgia. But, in those days, the days before Julia Child revolutionized cooking in America and preparing food became an art not only in France but also at home, the recipe was novel, another way of using ground meat that wasn’t the great American pastime, hamburgers.

He’d never asked me to help him prepare the main dish before. That’s why I remember the moment. I’d helped peel and scrape and shuck and pound but I’d never really been given the responsibility of working on the main dish of the moment with my father. “Here’s an apron”. He threw me one of my stepmother’s, as he tied his own large dark blue and white striped apron around his waist. “Let’s see what we can do.”

See our recipe for Salisbury Steak.

Ambition
I realize now that my father was only thirty-nine that year. He was a young man, younger than his granddaughter, my daughter, is now, and he’d been married and divorced and married again. He was still a man starting out in New York, making his way in the world of publishing. His life’s ambition was to write the great American novel, to add his name to the ranks of the literary heroes of the day, Ernest Hemingway, F. Scott Fitzgerald, Carl Sandburg, Theodore Dreiser.

To be continued in the next post….Please check back or subscribe to my blog to automatically receive it!

A bientot!

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Growing Up
When I was growing up, my father’s recipes were everywhere. Usually stacked on his desk in off-kilter piles looking like miniature Towers of Pisa, they also often littered the kitchen counters where they become covered in flour and stained with oil and water. It wasn’t just that my father was interested in cooking; my father’s recipes were becoming an important part of his writing career. He was a writer with food a focal point. At a time when Craig Claiborne was only just becoming a household name and James Beard’s career as a cooking expert was taking off, my father’s research of American food was creating a new culinary category for the decades of food interest that followed.

Salisbury Steak
Evan Jones was a divorced father living in New York, visited by his children on weekends. When I would arrive at his apartment door on Friday evenings, I’d find him sitting at his typewriter clicking away in his two-finger style.  At the sound of my voice, he would stub out his cigarette in an ashtray already filled with the burnt ends of Camels or Gitanes, and walk away from the work until Sunday night, when I returned to my mother’s suburban home. He left his desk but the recipes weren’t left behind. They became the structure of our weekend.

“Have you ever had Salisbury steak?”, he asked one day when I arrived a little later than usual. It was time to cook dinner and, in the tiny New York kitchen, we worried a new recipe into life with all the care of catering for a king. It was 1954, my stepmother was staying late at her office and I was sous-chef for the first time. If my father were alive today, he would wonder why I remembered this particular recipe since now Salisbury steak is hardly thought of except with nostalgia. But, in those days, the days before Julia Child revolutionized cooking in America and preparing food became an art not only in France but also at home, the recipe was novel, another way of using ground meat that wasn’t the great American pastime, hamburgers.

He’d never asked me to help him prepare the main dish before. That’s why I remember the moment. I’d helped peel and scrape and shuck and pound but I’d never really been given the responsibility of working on the main dish of the moment with my father. “Here’s an apron”. He threw me one of my stepmother’s, as he tied his own large dark blue and white striped apron around his waist. “Let’s see what we can do.”

See our recipe for Salisbury Steak.

Ambition
I realize now that my father was only thirty-nine that year. He was a young man, younger than his granddaughter, my daughter, is now, and he’d been married and divorced and married again. He was still a man starting out in New York, making his way in the world of publishing. His life’s ambition was to write the great American novel, to add his name to the ranks of the literary heroes of the day, Ernest Hemingway, F. Scott Fitzgerald, Carl Sandburg, Theodore Dreiser.

To be continued in the next post….Please check back or subscribe to my blog to automatically receive it!

A bientot!

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