The Royal Stuff

As I wrapped up my graduate school studies and embarked on a job search, I stumbled on an ad in the neighborhood paper that read something like this:

Can you type? Can you cook? We are looking for a girl Friday to read the newspaper aloud and prepare weekly meals.

Always one to be intrigued by unconventional jobs, I picked up the phone and began what would become a two year stint working with Loretta and Alan, an elderly couple who lived in my neighborhood. Alan’s vision was deteriorating due to diabetes and Loretta needed help preparing his no-sugar, no-salt meals. As the reading quickly fell by the wayside (Alan preferred to listen to the Washington Post recordings over the phone), I would spend Sunday afternoons cooking up a handful of dishes that they would eat over the course of the week.

Grammy’s Meatballs

My husband’s family hails from Rhode Island. On his father’s side, second generation Italian and on his mother’s, Portuguese. Both have rich culinary traditions.

Grammy, his paternal grandmother, was quite the cook. My first memory of meeting her, she was chopping, mixing and hand-forming these delicious meatballs. After she cooked them, they went on to simmer in an incredibly rich sauce, infused with the flavors of pepperoni and spareribs.

Guilty Pleasures: The Viennetta

While I was in college, I took a hiatus and went to stay with relatives in England. A good friend joined me and we managed to get into a lot of mischief. Come to think of it, most of our high jinks centered around food.

We were young and impetuous, with ‘devil may care’ attitudes. We spent a week waiting tables at a local Pizza Express, which was, at the time, one of the only traditional Italian pizza chains in the UK. When what we judged as a better opportunity presented itself, we threw in the towel at Pizza Express and moved to Brentwood, a small commuter town about 20 miles outside of London.

Picture these skits on Little Britain, and you’ll have a picture of Brentwood. According to Wikipedia, Brentwood was home to a British East India Company elephant training school at one point, and in the 1990s, due to a mayoral gaff, was mocked as the most boring town in England. Really. It’s a hardscrabble town that doesn’t take kindly to outsiders, let alone two know-it-all American girls on hiatus from college.

In hindsight, there were two things that should have tipped us off to the fact that our new job was less than ideal. Room and board were included in the gig, and when we were shown to our new digs, the manager opened the door and the first thing we saw was a wall scrawled with graffiti. The room’s previous tenants had left behind a message for their successors – something to the effect of this place f*&@!ing sucks, go to h#!! you f*&@!ing bastards, without all the asterisks. The shared kitchen was piled high with dirty dishes and we made a mental note to eat all of our meals out.

The second ominous sign was the restaurant’s American theme. Presumably, our American-ness had given us an in – you know, being more authentic and all. After tossing our bags in the room and heading downstairs for our training, the manager told us we’d be driving into town to pick up our uniforms. Oh, didn’t they mention? We were to wear American football uniforms. I got stuck with the Miami Dolphins. Oh, the horrors; the indignity of it all. As if serving bangers and mash with sparklers poking out of them was not punishment enough.

It probably goes without saying that we lasted all of one week at this place. After locking ourselves out of our room twice and causing the management great consternation, we were finally fired. The straw that broke the camel’s back: pilfering a jelly donut. Turns out the “board” portion of “room and board” consisted largely of toast. This girl cannot live on toast alone, so when a jelly donut made an appearance, I grabbed it and gobbled it down. …Busted!

For those of you who are still reading, you may be wondering how this all relates to The Viennetta. During visits to England, I find myself craving things that, under normal circumstances, I wouldn’t. Sausage rolls, Scotch eggs and Cadbury Flake Bars come to mind. Also on that list: The Viennetta. It’s a layered ice cream confection, though calling it ice cream is a stretch, as god knows what chemicals make up a large chunk of the ingredient list. The piped ice cream, sandwiched between thin layers of chocolate, give it an air of sophistication, packaged and priced for the common man.

A few days ago while in Grocery Outlet I spied row upon row of Viennettas.  At $1 (!) each, I grabbed two. I knew they’d be a hit with Milo.  I could already hear his unbridled enthusiasm for this unfamiliar treat. When I unveiled it after dinner, his eyes lit up and he did a little dance around the kitchen. Tonight, he started chanting “Viennetta! Viennetta! Viennetta!” when I casually asked if he’d like some. So it goes with life’s guilty pleasures.