My mother died when I was 20 years old. Now, 50 years later, I find I have only fleeting memories of her. She had lovely hands and beautiful nails that she (or I) coated with shiny clear polish when she was going out somewhere special with Dad. 

Her sense of humor was playful. She and I had a special made-up language that only we spoke. “Laka wata quiko?” she’d ask and I would respond, “Sotuto mica lo.” She listened well. She looked around at the world and the people inhabiting it with great interest and wonder.

One of my strongest memories of Mom is of her picking and eating wild mint leaves. It seemed that she, alone, spotted where they grew and, with thumb and pointer, would snip off a leaf or two and chew on it contentedly. It wasn’t until my middle age that I discovered my own love for this herb when a sprig sat atop a rich chocolate dessert I’d ordered in a restaurant. I soon began growing different varieties. My mother, who died in 1976, would be delighted to hear of the existence now of pineapple, chocolate and grapefruit mint, among others.

She ate differently than anyone I knew, considering, in particular, that the late 1950s and early 1960s were a time of convenience foods, and most people were scarfing down TV dinners out of aluminum trays and making sauces and complete recipes, at an alarming rate, with Campbell’s soup. The idea of eating a fresh vegetable, as opposed to canned or frozen, was unique. Our family dinners always included a dressed salad (albeit made with iceberg lettuce), cucumbers and carrot curls, topped with Italian vinaigrette mix shaken in a bottle with olive oil and vinegar. I’m sure my mother would’ve preferred arugula had it been available locally in those days.

My mother gravitated toward bitter flavors. She adored watercress. And I can see her dipping endive spears into a shallow bowl filled with a simple vinaigrette. She liked anchovies, and I recall her spreading anchovy paste from a tube on toasted whole grain bread, a phenomenon in itself, since everyone else we knew was eating fluffy white bread and despised anchovies. A “treat” she’d make herself was cottage cheese, also on toast, topped with thinly sliced cucumbers. Over the top she would grind fresh black pepper. From a mill!

She did not have much of a sweet tooth, though when we went out for Chinese food she would have pistachio ice cream, in contrast to the rest of the family’s choice of chocolate, and for dessert at home she would sometimes open a can of Queen Anne cherries in syrup. My sister and I were delighted at this because my mother would give us each a dish of cherries and then place the empty can in the center of the kitchen table. As we ate the silky sweet-tart cherries, we would attempt to spit the pits, in a wide arc, into the can.

My mother was a good cook and enjoyed trying new recipes. Often a clipping from a woman’s magazine would be stuck to the refrigerator with a magnet. My siblings and I could always be counted on to give our unasked-for opinion of the dish in question, prior to it being made. In those days we rarely greeted anything new or different with enthusiasm, but my mother remained undaunted. We were presented with these dishes and expected to give them a chance. An interesting habit she had, which I have since taken up, was making notations in her cookbooks—everything from the family’s reaction to a recipe to changes she made in the ingredients.

On the whole I would say we had a healthier diet than most, and my mother took nutrition seriously at a time when few thought about it at all. Yet, truth be told, she was not above serving us the occasional frozen vegetable and was guilty of using canned soup for just two recipes.

As a matter of fact, our family’s all-time favorite meal was baked chicken napped with a mixture of cream of chicken soup combined with a tablespoon of onion soup mix, string beans almondine or creamed spinach, macaroni and cheese made with Velveeta, canned tomato soup and canned peach halves (alongside the chicken) with a dab of butter and a sprinkling of cinnamon and sugar in their recessed centers.

That canned soup figured so prominently in one meal is shocking to me, but I couldn’t have asked for a better supper.

Luckily, tastes change. I wish Mom was alive to see the evolution. I would be honored and excited to cook for her as I do others who are close to my heart. I would accompany any dish I made with a traditional Italian tri-colored salad of endive, arugula and radicchio, dressed with extra-virgin olive oil and aged balsamic vinegar. And a healthy grinding of fresh black pepper.

To you, Mom, with love.