Carol’s Column

The Generation Gap

There is a generation gap and it's alive and well at Chez Lazar. It reared its head last week in the kitchen of that selfsame establishment on the occasion of my youngest child's fly-in visit from the States. A tall, slender, reedlike girl, I hadn't seen her for a while and assumed her slimness was due to the fact that she was starving in New York due to the fact that everything there, including the meanest accommodation, is ridiculously expensive. She obviously hasn't eaten properly for months, I thought to myself when I picked her up at the airport. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed my beautiful reed was wilted and curved.

I kissed her resoundingly and then said: "Nicky, you must stand straight."

"Ma!" she rolled her eyes heavenwards. "I can't believe this. I fly across the world to see you and the first thing you say is 'Nicky, you must stand straight!' "

Suitably chastened, I bit my tongue, sucked in my cheeks, turned my mouth into a prune and vowed to remain silent.

As we drove homewards, I kept glancing at her. Good heavens, how could she fit all her tubes, organs and innards into such a skinny frame. It was obvious that she was spending her money, such as it was, on anything other than food.

Never mind, a week of good, home cooking and she'll add a little weight to those sharp cheekbones I said in my head. Silently, of course. That first night, I excelled myself if I immodestly say so myself, and cooked a feast of fried lamb chops with an apricot sauce, baked potatoes filled with butter and sprinkled with chives, pumpkin with sugar and cinnamon and an apple crumble served with cream whipped to triumphant peaks.

"Ma, this is delicious," said my daughter. But I noticed she took minute helpings and only let rip with the salad.

"Have another chop, another potato, some more pumpkin," I said strategically moving it onto her plate before she could refuse. "Ma, stop being a Jewish mother," she exclaimed. "You're piling my plate with food. Don't worry, I'll help myself."

Things came to a crunch a few days later when we sat down to eat and I served a magnificent pasta from Bella Giorgionetti's well-known book 'Pasta to Die For'. The sauce in itself was a masterpiece - onions and finely-chopped garlic gently fried in butter, lightly spiced with salt and freshly ground pepper, combined with green, red and yellow peppers, mushrooms and lashings of cream.

"Ma, that looks absolutely wonderful," said my daughter, "but you know what, I'll just have salad." "Salad?" I retorted in dismay. You can't just eat salad," I wailed. "You're not a caterpillar." "Ma, salad is good for you. It's healthy, especially your salads, they're the best in the world." She obviously tried to appease me, but once in full flight, I couldn't be stopped.

"Nicky, you can't just eat salad. If we had been intended to eat only lettuce, beans, avocado pear, tomatoes, peppers and sprouts, we'd have been rabbits, right?

I won't repeat the less than harmonious conversation that ensued. All I will say is that according to my daughter, this household has been eating unhealthily for the past 30 years. She believes each of my meals is a veritable death trap, fried in oil, smothered in sauce, sprinkled with salt and sugar. Worse, I am a potential murderer because not only am I killing myself but I am also murdering her father. Well, she didn't say all that but that's what she meant when she told me we had to change our eating habits.

For a week we've existed on grilled vegetables and salad without sauce.

Revolting. Then yesterday my lovely girl flew back to the USA. Naturally I was upset and cried as mothers do when they say goodbye to their children. Then rushed home to cook some unhealthy, fried, drenched in butter and cream food - fried chops, sizzled some wors, mashed potatoes drippled with salt , butter and grated cheese and a genuine chocolate mousse.

It was delicious. Perhaps not so good for the heart but balm for the soul.

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