Intro to my new blogsite 6/20/20:

During these tumultuous times, I often find myself in a state of great sadness, while other times I feel like nothing has changed. The one constant which always elevates my mood and takes me to a wonderful place, is cooking and baking.  During the COVID days, I have prepared every meal but two for the past 104 days – thanks to my Boss who sent me dinner a couple of times. I went from someone who never baked bread to someone who averaged baking more than a loaf a week. Cooking for family and friends has always been a big part of my life, and now more than ever, it has been my constant companion as well as my consolation for not being able to go out and have someone else cook for me while I enjoy the company of friends. I have gotten great joy watching my husband get excited with the anticipation of the bread coming out of the oven, and of my neighbors and I exchanging cookies, goodies and recipes we have made. Mostly, I relish the routine of mealtime, feeling like everything is normal when Miguel and I sit down together and FaceTime with one or both of our daughters, almost like we are with each other having dinner together.

In a recent IG post by @dianemorrisey she quoted Cesar Chavez “…the people who give you their food give you their heart”. This quote is particularly relevant to me because I was raised in Southern California and lived in East Los Angeles, in what had become a mostly Mexican American neighborhood after the Japanese citizens had been removed from their homes and sent to the internment camp near Bishop, CA.  Cesar Chavez was our hero because he tried to bring respect, dignity and fair pay to the people who were directly responsible i.e., essential for picking the food that came to our dinner table. He is one of our bravest, and stands in company with other great Americans who have sacrificed everything to make this country a better place for all of its citizens and residents.

My Grandparents were nurturers to their core. They fed everyone who needed a meal and gave their hearts to so many people. They were my inspiration for what would become my lifelong passion of cooking, feeding and entertaining in my home. I invite you to step into my cooking world @ladyloathome.com where the simple meals shared with one or many, are the greatest pleasures in life.

In my re-launched blog, which I moved from “aroundthetablewithloretta.blogspot.com”, the first recipe I’ve posted is the Bread recipe, which is also known as the “Miracle Boule”, made originally by chef @laura_calder on her cooking show “French food at home”. The blogpost below is the story of Sundays with my Grandparents. I hope you enjoy!

When I was a young girl, Sunday was a family day. It started at my Grandparent’s home, where we would spend most weekends, then bright and early on Sunday morning, my Grandparents my sister and I would walk briskly and directly to St. Mary’s Church for a sleep inducing 8:00 a.m. Latin mass. As direct and purpose driven as the walk to church was, the way back home was leisurely and easily distracted by the many food stops along the way. There might have been a tamale sale or menudo breakfast (spicy Mexican tripe and hominy soup) after mass in the parish. Grandma loved these days because she could mingle with her friends knowing that Grandpa was distracted by the social eating.  Once out of the parish, on the one mile walk back home, there was the Panaderia, sweet bread bakery, where Grandpa would let my sister and I each select our favorite sweet Mexican sweet bread called “pan dulce”. This ritual included getting our own individual tongs and a cafeteria style tray which provided the receptacle for us to gather the colorful breads which filled the bakers’ shelves and lured us toward them. Selecting just one or two breads was impossible. There was also the butcher shop where Grandma would check to see if there was anything special that she might get at a good price, then use her alchemistic methods to make it a fabulous dinner. There were three routes we could take home and sometimes on the longer detour, ice cream might play a part in the walk home, or ripe fruit picked off of Grandma’s friend Amalia’s trees, but that also required a visit to Amalia’s home so Grandpa and us kids would try to steer clear. Whichever detour we took, we always ended up in the same place, the small cozy kitchen at 115 North Fickett Street; Grandma’s kitchen.

The goodies we picked up on the way home, accompanied by a delicious percolated cup of strong coffee (with lots of milk for us kids), would serve as our midday sustenance or “tiente en pie”, just enough to get us through to an early Sunday dinner. Grandma would very efficiently pick up after lunch and move seamlessly into her dinner preparation, always with her apron on during the day, stained with the evidence of the anticipated dinner. It was usually Mexican comfort food; homemade flour tortillas, fresh roasted chile salsas, stewed pinto beans - frijoles, and a tasty manipulation of an economy cut of meat that Grandma was brilliant at transforming into a tender, tasty and often spicy roast.

As family arrived in the early evening they were welcomed to a beautifully set table with the wonderful smell of flour tortillas and a slow roast, greeting them on the front porch before they entered the house. Grandpa had lost his hearing when I was young, but I suspect his sense of smell became more acute because he was always first to sit around the table on cue just before Grandma would call us to the table, impatiently waiting for the rest of us take our places. When we did sit down, there was lots of family gossip, talk of church happenings, and stories of our grandparent’s youth. Grandpa couldn’t hear, but he was a great raconteur and his stories filled with lively characters and Mexican heroes kept us spellbound for the evenings. This is how I remembered my childhood Sundays, but things changed, as they do. I went off to college, siblings and cousins got married, some passed away and others left our nucleus of East Los Angeles in favor of new suburbs popping up outside of LA proper. The landscape of Sunday dinners had been forever changed. By the time I was married and establishing my own household, I didn’t so much host Sunday dinner as I did, go out and meet family for dinner on Sunday. I had let the ritual of my childhood Sunday dinners fall back into a distant memory. For the record, eating out and preparing dinner for loved ones, are two different elements. Preparing a meal is a gift from the heart, and it’s very personal. Then one day I read an article in one of the early Saveur magazines called “Sunday Dinner.”  As I read it, I was transported to my own childhood and the dinner table in Grandma’s house where my Grandfather sat at the head of the table and smiled as we all chatted over one another telling our embellished versions of stories from our previous week and listening to his sage advice. He was the wisest, most loving and caring Grandfather anyone could have.  

At the end of the Saveur article, the writer challenges the reader to give Sunday dinner a try. I rose to the challenge and in that moment I decided that Sunday dinner was a tradition I would revive. My babies were becoming kids and I realized even more how important it is to gather around the dinner table every night, including Sunday, and that became the new standard in my home.  Fast forward more than 20 years; the Sunday guest list has its regulars and some rotating members. My parents and my best friend join regularly, my kids would bring a friend or two. Other friends would join in from time to time and often and my sister and her kids would join when they could. The sound of idle chatter, some talk of social issues and discussion about Grandma’s recipes, and colorful stories about our kids growing up abound. It’s the sound of happiness.

Now, like my Grandparents and my Parents, I have watched in disbelief as my niece, nephew and my children grew up, literally in front of me. The transformation of guests around the dinner table continues and even though we expect change, we are taken by surprise by its apparent suddenness. Much like the ingredients and inspiration for my menus over the years, our lives are perpetual change. In addition to the Mexican meals of my youth, I cook a lot of Italian and Spanish menus. I no longer use lard, and I watch The Barefoot Contessa with my Father and Sister instead of The Galloping Gourmet with my Grandfather. My daughters are now grown up, living their lives in New York City, and as they chase their dreams and ambitions my dinner table has some open spots. There will always be a place for my loved ones at my table and hopefully, as their lives evolve and they have families of their own, we will need a bigger table to sit around for Sunday dinner while we break bread together.

I have chosen the Miracle Boule bread recipe for this post because it captures what every special meal should. It takes planning, time and effort, but the work put into it, is worth every bite. And, what better metaphor for Sunday dinner than breaking bread together?