Food, Family and Memory

Daddy was everything to us. He was a lot to many and my mother's whole world. He moved from Los Angeles to a small southern town in Georgia when he was 16 years old and met my mother shortly after. Mom was 15 and the rest is history. He left us, very unexpectedly on an early Spring night. Nothing could have prepared me for it. He was the pied piper, the epitome of a fine man, the definition of love, all the reason I turned out to be me. He was kind and gentle, inspired me every day to see the good in people. He inspired the adventure in me. It's why I grew up in a small southern town on a cotton and pecan farm and have seen so much of the world that most folks will never see.

I always packed a cooler on my way home to the farm and took Daddy things he just couldn't grow on the farm. Italian prosciutto, spicy tuna roles from my favorite sushi place, homemade fennel sausage lasagna from Bacchanalia (one of two, 5 star Michelin restaurants in Atlanta.) He liked tiny blueberries from Vermont from Whole Foods to put on his Raisin Bran every morning. And the late summer 'wild king salmon' I got at the fish market. I brought him Peach Bread from Breadwinners Bakery. The finest olive oil and balsamic vinegar from Italy. I always brought him several boxes of Lily O'Brien's sticky toffee chocolates from Ireland along with a loaf of local soda bread. He loved the whole cranberry sauce Amy turned me on to from the LA Farmer's Market.

Defining the dress code of the Gents, that was easy….BUT OH, THE DRESS CODE for women…that was serious. Pant suits were just coming in big and the Maitre’D would have none of it. It was here, at the Plaza Hotel, with all the Management taking notes, that I rewrote their dress code with sketches and fabric swatches, as I tried to educate those huffy puffed-up doormen.

I explained carefully to them that they must never allow entrance, if the fabric on the pant suit was the least bit shiny… like Polyester… that was a no no. They liked that, since it left them with some power… Imagine having to make sketches of what a woman could wear to a doorman... Who were we trying please here in this Boys Club of the Oak Room? Why the Mad Men of course! Only linen darling... or flat dry wool or men's tweeds... Oh dear... 

My mother made guacamole. Its key ingredients were avocadoes, diced onion, sour cream, and worcestshire sauce, (at least it didn't have mayonnaise like her famous cottage cheese dip, which also had worcestshire sauce) but it wasn't really like the guacamole that we make or serve today.

It was fabulous, though, because it was elegant - at least, we thought it was fabulous then. It was smooth. Absolutely mashed to a pulp with a fork and blended with sour cream, almost pistachio green.

Sitoo means grandmother in Arabic, a deeply respectful title.

There was a small Syrian market and bakery called Sitoo George’s in the next town from where I grew up that sold the ‘necessary’ ingredients to recreate the taste of Syria for the immigrants that migrated to America. Two brothers and their wives ran it, naming it Sitoo, an homage to their grandmother who taught them to bake before the left their homeland. With the skills and her recipes they immigrated and opened a small store.

When they first opened the wives would bake spinach and meat pies called fataya and the brothers would make pita bread in a small home oven. When the word spread, they couldn’t bake fast enough. Construction started and a bakery was born. As time passed and demand increased they slowly became automated.

The new kitchen had large windows for customers to watch the process. A slot in the wall was made to accommodate a heavy canvas covered conveyer belt to transport the pies to their wives as they came out of second hand pizza oven. The two sisters-in-laws at the check out either bagged them or plucked them off the belt to sell to waiting customers.