My mother was brilliant at many things: arranging music, directing women’s choral groups and, because she had perfect pitch, she could play anything on the piano by ear. But her genius stopped at the swinging door to her kitchen. My mother was a lousy cook.
Over the years she learned to cook a few things reasonably well. She could make a good shrimp curry that she saved for adults-only dinner parties, but the rest of her repertoire fell short. My siblings and I grew up on Jell-O, tapioca puddings, frozen vegetables and overcooked meat. Because she was raised in Missouri where the Southern influence is palpable, all vegetables were boiled limp and all meats were well done.
I never had a cooking lesson from my mother, and I was never expected to try my hand at making even one single dish, much less an entire meal. And this was how I entered my married life.
My new husband (who knew less about cooking than I did but had grown up with a mother who was a marvelous cook) was eager for me to learn my way around the kitchen as soon as possible. And so it was that just a few weeks into our marriage, he uttered the words dreaded by every new bride: “I’ve invited the new guy over for dinner.”
I looked around our tiny rented beach cottage, the lack of appliances and kitchen tools, and the empty pantry, and panicked. What to do? I conjured up all my courage, flipped through my shiny, new Better Homes & Gardens Cookbook (1965 version) and decided on pork chops. How difficult could pan-fried pork chops be? I’d seen my mother do them many times.
I no longer remember what side dishes I put together for that Meal of Culinary Initiation, but I distinctly recall the colorless, thin pork chops I bought at the Navy commissary (that I didn’t know enough to season) sizzling in an iron skillet. When I assembled our plates, I will never forget the next words out of our guest’s mouth: “I’m Jewish and I don’t eat pork.”
Trying to salvage my own dignity and my mortified husband’s reputation, I loaded up our guest’s plate with side dishes, salad and rolls, while Hubby and I, forcing smiles, sawed away on a pile of overdone pork chops. If my mother could see me now, I thought to myself, she wouldn’t see anything out of the ordinary. Rock-hard pork chops were her specialty, after all.
It took years for me to recover from that, and I avoided cooking pork chops for a long time. Eventually I learned a few things about pork:
Ø It’s okay to undercook it and slightly-pink-in-the-middle pork is safe. In fact, most professional chefs cook pork only to 150 degrees, not 185 like my first cookbook had recommended.
Ø Pork is inherently short on flavor, so dry rubs, marinades and glazes help immensely. Dry rubs can be applied hours before cooking, or even at the last minute. Pork responds beautifully to sauces and glazes once it has been seared.
And this last point is why I like to use this Ginger Plum Sauce on any cut of pork. It’s sweet and spicy, kicks up the flavor and moistens every bite. I make a ton of this at the end of the summer when my Satsuma plum tree is loaded with juicy, dark purple plums.
Ginger Plum Sauce
1 Pound firm purple plums
1 medium onion, chopped
2 Tablespoons butter, melted
½ Cup firmly packed brown sugar
¼ Cup tomato-based chili sauce
2 Tablespoons soy sauce
1 Teaspoon ground ginger
2 Teaspoons lemon juice
Wash and pit the plums. Whirl in the blender until almost pureed, leaving some chunks for texture. Cook the onion in the butter. Stir in the brown sugar, chili sauce, soy sauce, ground ginger, and the lemon juice. Stir in the plum puree. Simmer uncovered about 30 minutes until slightly thickened, stirring occasionally. Makes about 1-½ quarts, enough for several meals (it’s great on poultry, too) and some to freeze.
A juicy, boneless pork chop, dry-rubbed with ground sage and salt and pepper, grilled
and served with Ginger Plum Sauce.
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