On Recipes from Jewish Grandmothers

My mother has requested a dish called "osso buco" for her birthday dinner (she's a Christmas baby!). My paternal grandmother made it for her birthday for years, but now Gram lives in South Carolina and we won't be with her until the 26th. I called my grandmother up to try to get the recipe. Disaster ensues.

Precursor: the last time I asked my grandmother for her mandelbrot recipe, she left out crucial ingredients like, oh, I don't know, baking powder. Needless to say, my first attempt at mandelbrot was a little terrible. I have two theories behind this problem:

1) No Jewish grandmother works from written recipes. Recipes live in the mind, and involve measurements like "a little of this", "a handful of that", and "oh, who knows, just taste it til it seems perfect". Because she was working off of a mental recipe, she just plum forgot the baking powder.

2) Through a scheming grandmother complex of never wanting anyone else to make her signature dishes as beautifully as she did, she purposefully left off an ingredient or two, knowing I wouldn't be able to tell, my cooking would turn out a little mediocre, and she would remain queen of Jewish cooking for all time.

You decide.

Anyway. So I call up my grandmother, who at the age of eighty-something, is, to put it kindly, deaf as a fucking doornail unless you're sitting right next to her. My grandfather picks up, and I tell him what I want, warning him of my past recipe strife, and asking him to tell her that I want the WHOLE recipe, no shenanigans. He gives the phone to her. Before I can even get out of my mouth that I want her osso buco recipe, she has handed the phone to my grandfather because she can't understand me. Through multiple phone-passings-off, we are both finally on the same page that I need the recipe. Highlights of the phone conversation are as follows:

Gram: "Then add tomatoes! You know, I used to just pick them out of the garden, back in the day, but a can will do."
Me: "What size can?"
Gram: "A can. One that's big enough. You'll know."

Gram: "Put all those ingredients in a bag. Shake the bag. Shake it hard."

Gram: "Pour in some white wine. I like all kinds. PLENTY of white wine."

Gram: "Just bake it til it tastes good. You'll know."

We get to the end of the recipe-imparting. I rack my brain, trying to see if I remember any other delicious components of the dish. There are always big chunks of carrots. She has not remotely mentioned carrots. I call her out on this.

Gram: "Oh, carrots...of course, carrots. Brown them. Big chunks of carrots. Very important. Did I not say that? Carrots"

I am skeptical. This seems like scheming grandma, not forgetful grandma. I will win. I will make delicious osso buco. I ask if there are any other ingredients. She says no, wishes me luck with the dish, suggests I rob a bank to pay for the expensive veal shank bones that are the base of the dish. This seems like a good idea.

I call my mother, to tell her about scheming grandmother recipe ordeal. One minute in, my grandmother calls through, to tell me I should cross-check her with the Silver Palate recipe for osso buco, because "I'm old, you know". She tells me that I will make it beautifully, that my mother will love it, and that she wishes she could be there to taste it. Sighhhh. Cutest grandmother ever. I fly down to visit her on Saturday!

I love my grandmother, and am now in a quandary over how to gauge future recipes. Does she love me? Does she want me to fail? Are the two mutually exclusive? (I hope not??) Wish me luck on the osso buco journey. I remain wary.

I will be her one day. Never trust my recipes when I am a grandma and have to guard my Jewish culinary renown. Maybe don't even trust me now. But remember, even if I set you up for failure, I love you. It's for your (my?) own good.