Broccoli

Broccoli. I just ate an entire head of broccoli. For dinner. There was no meat, no potatoes, no roll, no butter, no milk, no salad, no sauce. I just steamed it for a couple minutes until it was bright green and just barely tender. I drizzled some olive oil over the top and dusted it with kosher salt and black pepper. It was delicious. The buttery stems and the nibbly ends, the smooth and herby oil, all with a slight peppery bite.

One might wonder how it is possible to enjoy broccoli this much, but to understand where I’m coming from, you would have to meet my dad. My dad and I are a lot alike; the artsy types who doodle, draw, cook and dream. He made dinner most nights when I was a kid and it was always interesting. Such meals as quiche Lorraine with spicy sausage, cottage cheese, and pumpkin seeds (from jack-o-lantern carving) will live in infamy in our house because they were horrible. If my dad didn’t have an ingredient he would use what was in the fridge instead, never questioning the possible flavor or function differences. Leftover night was common, as were stir fries, casseroles, stews, and quiches‒all excellent vehicles for fusing a multitude of flavors together.

That’s not to say that everything my dad cooked was bad or weird. In fact, he is an amazing cook. I think his nonchalant attitude and tendency to experiment are surely what have shaped his culinary skills. He could take on any grandma for flakiest pie crust, most addictive caramel corn, or chewiest brownies. He was always confident about his cooking, even when the rest of the family questioned the results. But it wasn’t just cooking that he made look easy; whether it was jumping off a cliff into Lake Powell or playing a concerto by Rachmaninoff, my dad seemed to do most things without pause or hesitation.

In addition to having mastered American classics, he could cook foreign cuisine as well. My mother’s family is of Russian heritage, so my dad learned how to make delicious piroshky, pilmeni, borscht, pashka, and kulich that made my Baba swoon. Self-taught from the Joy of Cooking, my dad would bang out roux-thickened sauces and vinaigrettes from scratch in minutes. I would sit on the bench by our stove and beg him to speak only in French while he slowly stirred cheese sauce or onion soup. This led me to evolve into a complete Francophile, pretending I was a beautiful Parisian girl staying with an American family temporarily. Some people say reading books is like taking a vacation, but for me that was dinner. Sometimes we had Chinese night and ate on our special green china, the meal complete with chopsticks and tea. We ate curry, pad Thai, moussaka, baklava, and enchiladas. Mole, chile rellenos, flan, and pasta Puttanesca.

I loved dinner time. Every single night my family ate together, and I found it so strange to hear my friends say they never ate dinner with their families. Interestingly, those same friends were the ones who didn’t like vegetables or trying new things. My brother and I were the unpicky kids, the ones who would try anything. Before the Food Network even existed, my dad made purple potatoes and quinoa for dinner, unheard of foods on most American dinner plates. It wasn’t our choice to be adventurous; it was just the way it was.

My dad claims the reason why he loves bold flavors so much is because of the fairly bland food he ate growing up. His family is of mostly Norwegian and Swedish descent, where simple meat and potato dishes dominate. While his palate may have diversified over time, some of his Scandinavian upbringing sticks with him today. He lives quite simply, a naturalist and a nature enthusiast with no desire for riches or fame. He has a fondness for sweets (hence the ever-present brownies), but also a philosophy of moderation and balance. His spiritual beliefs include a mix of love, karma, and God, and while he made these known, it was never in a preachy or self-righteous way. Dinners always commenced with grace, which was said in unison. It became almost a chant, which upset my mother who didn’t think we were taking it seriously. “God is good; God is great; now we thank him for our food. Aaaaaamen!”

There were some components of dinner that were always the same, no matter how exotic the entree. You always had to finish your glass of milk, salad, and cooked vegetable. That’s right; almost every single night we had a raw vegetable and a cooked vegetable, and you could not clear your plate until you had finished both. My dad’s cooked vegetable of choice? That’s right, broccoli. He would steam it, top it with a pat of butter or a drizzle of olive oil, and sprinkle it with salt and pepper. Sometimes he would add a squeeze of lemon juice, but this was pretty much how broccoli was always cooked.

I no longer drink a glass of milk with dinner, and sadly, I almost never have both a raw and a cooked vegetable in the same meal. However, the lessons my dad taught me about being confident, adventurous, yet kind and humble, and especially how to cook, have stuck with me. I still enjoy my broccoli the way I have for the past twenty some years; the same every time.

Steamed Broccoli

Ingredients:

1 head broccoli
1 tsp butter
¼ tsp salt
¼ tsp black pepper, ground

Directions:

1. Cut the stem from the florets. Cut up the florets into pieces. Peel the broccoli stem and slice into ¼ inch thick coins.
2. Bring an inch of water to a boil in a pan with a steamer over it. Add the broccoli and steam for about 3-5 minutes, until bright green and just tender.
3. Put the broccoli into a serving dish and lightly mix in the butter and salt. Serve hot.