Food

Mamaliga is a cornmeal porridge, sometimes with cheese, that you’ll find all over the place in Romania.

I was talking about American cereal brands the other day and remembered some of my favorites, like Apple Jacks and Cinnamon Toast Crunch. Sugary garbage, I’m sure, but my childhood nonetheless.

So I can’t get this apple-cinnamon flavor out of my head and it suddenly hits me that these are flavors that would work in a mamaliga.

I used a mamaliga recipe out of Irina Georgescu’s Carpathia cookbook to get the ratios. I subbed in coconut butter and grated apples, and I added cinnamon and honey to the mix.

I went the full breakfast route, subbing the dollop of sour cream that usually goes on top of mamaliga with Greek or Oat Milk Yogurt to keep it vegan. It’s also rhubarb season here, so I topped it off with a scoop of homemade compote before sprinkling some chopped toasted almonds, apples, and cinnamon to finish my bowl of Apple Cinnamon Mamaliga.

Every time I’m back in the US, I try pulling more food memories out of my father. One of the latest ones to come back to him was a mini cherry cheesecake dessert my grandmother used to make. My aunt remembered it as well, describing the graham cracker crust and cherry pie filling on top.

I did a quick search and found a Shugary Sweets recipe. “Yep, that looks like it,” they said. I saved it, thinking I’d make it sometime in the future.

I’ve been trying to make more of an effort to dive into German cuisine. It’s a cuisine that brings to mind monstrous mounds of meat. There’s Schweinshaxe or pork knuckle, a dish that looks like something Fred Flintstone would nosh on. Not to mention every corner of Germany has its own take on the sausage from the Leberwurst (liver sausage from just about any animal with a liver) to the Currywurst of Berlin.

But just as I’ve found a treasure trove of vegetarian recipes from the catalogue of Ashkenazi Jewish cuisine, I have to imagine the Germans aren’t always stuffing their gullet with whatever once lived. After all, Berlin itself is something of a vegan paradise.

The first German restaurant on my list was Kantine Kohlmann in Kreuzberg. There’s a chic, Weimar Republic vibe inside –– dark blue tiling that blends into sandpaper-colored walls that you can barely make out in the evening chandelier glow. I’m expecting a fast-paced, jazzy bob to start up any minute with everyone kicking back their chairs, grabbing a partner, and flailing about doing the Charleston.

Morbid curiosity led me to make this recipe.

When I was back in Ohio visiting my father, I flipped through old recipe cards from my grandmother. She mostly made desserts. I’ve heard my father say on multiple occasions, “She could’ve opened a bakery.” During my last visit, I learned that she baked treats for weddings of her friends or even for her dentist.

“I remember carrying bags of baked goods for to her dentist when she had an appointment,” my dad told me.

Then I came across a recipe card that didn’t exactly fit in with the rest. Sure, it was wrinkled at the edges like the others with sepia stains and my grandmother’s barely legible handwriting. But the name of this one left me tilting my head to the side like a puppy trying to understand its owner.

“Wieners in Sauce.”

A Reuben is a classic of the Jewish deli. So what do you do if you want one without the cow? Use a sweet potato.