FOOD ON THE FOOD

Cookbook Friday: Icebox Cake

                        

Here, Freddie Donroe (my dad) is showing off for his father, Albert Donroe, and grandmother, Margarita Donarumo, sometime in the early 1950s.  Did I mention my dad’s apparently-very-long bratty phase?  It was known to bring out the best in people.  For example…

Freddie and family were at his Aunt Ann’s house.  A music-lover from an early age, Freddie was rifling through her collection of 78 records.  He was undoubtedly warned to be careful with them since the older shellac records were quite fragile compared to the newer vinyl ones. 

As the story goes, Freddie wanted to bring some of them home.  Ann said no.  Freddie launched into a huge tantrum.  It went on forever.  Finally, Ann lost her temper, grabbed a record, and hit him over the head with it.  She wisely chose one of the durable vinyls.  Still, it shattered. 

Ann was more surprised than Freddie.  “It said it was unbreakable,” she remarked. 

“Yes,” replied Freddie’s Uncle Gerry.  “Under normal circumstances.”

***

All right, food snobs, brace yourselves.  Jell-O pudding is about to make an appearance.  There are only a couple of distinctly non-Italian desserts that Nonni makes, and icebox cake is one of them.  Why?  Because kids love it, and the author of this blog was no exception.

Icebox Cake

To lazy to make Italian cream pie?  Have I got a recipe for you.

2 packages chocolate instant pudding
2 packages vanilla instant pudding
5½ cups milk (or whatever the instructions on the box call for)
1 box graham crackers
4 bananas

In a large bowl, mix together 2¾ cups milk and the contents of two packages of chocolate pudding according to the instructions on the package (e.g., add mix to milk and whisk for two minutes). 

In a 9”x13” pan, arrange graham crackers on the bottom, breaking into smaller pieces to fit, if necessary.  Pour half of the chocolate pudding on top and spread evenly.  Slice two bananas and arrange in a single layer on top of that.  Add the remaining chocolate pudding.  Set another layer of graham crackers on top. 

Wash out the bowl and mix together the remaining 2¾ cups milk with the two packs of vanilla pudding.  Spread half of it over the graham crackers.  Slice two more bananas and arrange in a single layer.  Add the rest of the vanilla pudding.  In a blender or food processor, pulse 5 graham crackers until pulverized.  Sprinkle crumbs over top of cake.  Cover and chill in the refrigerator (i.e., icebox) for 24 hours before serving.

Dora [Barbaresi] Donroe
Hamden, Connecticut
1918 -

Next: Remembrance

     (Previously: Baseball Cards)

Cookbook Friday: Baseball Cards

       

Here’s a photo of my dad, Freddie Donroe, being consoled by his mom, Dora [Barbaresi] Donroe.  I don’t know what he was upset about, but I’m sure it was very, very important.  And speaking of tears, here’s a story written by my dad about collecting baseballs cards in the 1950’s and 60’s:

As a young baseball fan, my prized possession was not my bike, my Yankee-Doodle rocket launcher, or even my dog.  It was my baseball card collection. 

From 1957 through 1963, I was an avid collector of those cardboard stock photos of our diamond heroes: Mickey Mantle, Yogi Berra, Whitey Ford.  There was no greater joy than to go to the corner store after school with my friends and buy a pack of baseball cards.  And if one happened to have a whole quarter to spend, one could buy five packs of cards.  That meant 25 cards and five slabs of the most delicious stale, dried-out gum on the planet.

I became a master at “pitching cards,” that simple game of hurling cards against the wall, with the card nearer to the wall the winner.  If you won, you took your opponent’s card.  I managed to win every one of my cousin Joe Donroe’s Yankee cards one year that way.  Today, as an older and wiser man, I regret the mercenary way I treated my cousin.  But, at the time, he knew what he was getting into.

In 1958, I managed for the first and only time to collect the entire Topps series of cards.  Every single player card, team card, specialty card, and even index cards.  I kept the entire set in an old Thom McCann shoebox in my closet.  I kept them for over a decade.  Safe from thieves, weather, and other mishap, they were not safe from the one predator I could not foresee: a spring-cleaning mom. 

How could she (or any of us) have known the way the sports memorabilia market would explode in the 1980’s and 90’s?  So much for my daughter’s college tuition!

Freddie Donroe
Hamden, Connecticut
1948 -

Blogger’s note: Coincidentally, Joe Donroe’s son ended up attending the same university as me.  He has since become a doctor, while I am, well…a blogger.  Looks like Dad's cousin Joe got the last laugh, after all.

Next Recipe: Icebox Cake

     (Previously: Stuffed Mushrooms)

Cookbook Friday: Stuffed Mushrooms

Let’s talk about mushrooms!

I have a love/hate relationship with mushrooms.  I love to eat them, but sometimes they make me vomit.  Same with wine (why, God, why?) and, in an unexpected twist this week, sometimes summer squash.  But, like I said, I LOVE mushrooms and will choose to eat them based on how convenient it might be at that moment to vomit spontaneously.

What’s that you say?  It’s never convenient to vomit?  Well, you would be right, sir, but have you ever tasted mushrooms?  They’re delicious.  This is the dilemma of my life.

On the other hand, my dad, Freddie Donroe, has a hate/hate relationship with mushrooms.  Unlike all of the other things my dad claims to hate when he really just doesn’t realize he likes them, my dad really does hate mushrooms.  Here’s why.

When my dad was much, much younger, his father, Albert Donroe (my Poppi), used to take him to forage for mushrooms.  I assume, since Poppi’s family was from Naples, that this was in his blood, or, at the very least, he had some tutelage.  Poppi had a special place they always went, some woods near a quarry in Hamden, Connecticut (maybe East Rock, maybe Sleeping Giant).  There, according to my dad, Poppi would go over every rotting stump he could find and gather mushrooms of every shape and size.  To hear my dad tell the story, Poppi never turned one down, food poisoning be damned. 

After about 45 minutes, and what I can only imagine was my dad’s constant whining, they returned home so Poppi could cook them.  And this is where things got really ugly.  Sometimes, he cooked them in a sauce for spaghetti, but usually they were just sautéed.  The smell was so bad, my dad remembers, he’d completely lose his appetite.  I believe “hellacious” was the word he used to describe it.  Nobody else in the house would touch the stuff, so Poppi just cooked them for himself.  Meanwhile, my dad would make himself scarce for as long as the smell lingered.  To this day, he can’t stomach them.

Now, the question I have is, was Poppi really that bad of a cook?  Perhaps, not a very discriminating hunter/gatherer?  Or were they, in fact, delicious, but my dad just hates mushrooms?  Anyone else ever taste them?  Because I’m willing to bet I would have been smacking my lips, even as they were wheeling me to the ER.  (Poppi, by the way, is a whopping 93.)

The following recipe is Nonni’s Marchigiano recipe for stuffed mushrooms.  They have never made me vomit. 

 

Stuffed Mushrooms

The secret to these is long, slow cooking in a cool oven.  Don’t rush them.

10 oz. package button mushrooms
3 Tbsp. olive oil
1 Tbsp. garlic, minced
¼ cup fresh bread crumbs
½ cup grated Parmesan cheese
Salt and pepper

Preheat oven to 300°F.  To the bottom of an 8”x8” pan, add 1 Tbsp. of the oil. 

Using a damp towel, wipe dirt off of mushrooms.  Gently, pull out the stems and chop them finely.  In a medium bowl, combine chopped stems with garlic, bread crumbs, cheese, salt, and pepper.  Working over the bowl, mound stuffing into hollowed out mushrooms.  Set in oiled pan.  Drizzle with remaining 2 Tbsp. of oil.  Bake uncovered for 1 hour or longer (Nonni cooks the hell out of them and that’s how I like them). 

Dora [Barbaresi] Donroe
Hamden, Connecticut
1918 -

 

Next: Baseball Cards

     (Previously: Squirrel Surprise)