Delicious, Wholesome Muffins, Breads and Cakes
Inspired by Three Generations of Family Cooking
Jill Berkowitz Provan was born in Boston, Massachusetts, into a family of food lovers, cooks, and restaurateurs. For some family members, cooking was a serious hobby; for others, it was a livelihood. Jill grew up eating wonderful food made with high-quality ingredients, and this shaped her life.
In Baking Breakfast, Jill Berkowitz Provan puts her passion for baking to work. She has created recipes and updated the traditional ingredients of her parents and grandparents by adding healthy alternatives that have only recently become widely available. The result is a cookbook filled with delicious, wholesome breakfast breads, muffins, and cakes, including many that are gluten-free.
See below for the book's contents and an excerpt from the introduction.
Excerpt from the Introduction to Baking Breakfast
THE BERKOWITZ FAMILY
Food was important in Harry and Frances Berkowitz’s house, a family affair shared with any of their children’s friends who happened to be around at meal time, and aunts and cousins and nieces, who filled the house each Friday night to eat dinner and play the Russian card game Durak (“the fool”).
Frances, a barely five-feet-tall bundle of energy, was welcoming and relaxed. She did, however, maintain an orderly home and encouraged responsibility. A weekly job list was taped to the inside door of a kitchen cabinet and everyone had a part in keeping the kitchen functioning. (All except George, who usually had a date or some other engagement on the nights when it was his turn to wash the dishes.) Responsibilities didn’t stop in the home. They included working at Harry’s grocery store, Legal Cash Market, in Boston’s Inman Square. Harry’s children and grandchildren all harbor memories of exploring the meat locker filled with hanging animal carcasses, and, when allowed, freely grabbing a treat from the shelves of food. My mainstay was a small, rectangular box of Cheez-Its, which I toted around the store by a purse-style string.
After a long week at Legal’s, Harry proudly escorted Frances, whom he called “my girl,” and their five children—in order of birth: Leonard, George, Ethel, Stanley, and Donald—out to dinner. Each Sunday they walked from their Mattapan home down the street to their favorite Chinese restaurant. That changed when Frances decided it was time to move the family to the suburbs. When the perfect home went on sale in Newton, she hastily purchased it without consulting Harry. They moved into the new house, and Harry did not talk to Frances for one month—quite an ordeal for a man whose first action when he came home from work late at night was to embrace his wife, lift her up, and exclaim, “How’s my girl?”
I remember the back door that my grandfather walked through into this house each night, because it opened onto a screened porch—and what treasures that porch held! In winter it served as a second refrigerator, laden with pots of beans and meat and potato dumplings (tzimmes), among other mouth-watering delights. There were never enough of those sticky, sweet dumplings. I’ve never tasted them anywhere else; or, if I have, the experience was flushed away by the memory of my grandmother’s incomparable ones.
When the extended family grew larger, we spent holidays at my Aunt Ethel and Uncle Oscar’s large home in Beverly, Massachusetts. My cousins, aunts, uncles, and Grammy and Granddaddy drove the 45 minutes for a daylong celebration. Of course, the focus of the festivities was food – and could Ethel cook! There was so much variety and creativity: spare ribs, baked Alaska, and turkey with three different dressings. Years later, early in our marriage, my husband Keith and I moved to Boston for a few years. Ethel often invited us to dinner. “That was the first time I ever had a meal with more than one main course,” Keith says, still marveling at Ethel’s concoctions 35 years later.
While the Berkowitz children loved food, most were content to eat what their mother made. Only Leonard exhibited early signs of culinary curiosity. When he arrived home from working at the market, and passed through the kitchen, with his mother’s dinner simmering on the stove, he would loom over the pots and add “a dash of this and a dash of that.” This habit continued throughout his life. I remember one time, as a teenager, when my sisters, Diane and Cindy, my mother and I sat down to a much-anticipated pot of my mother’s tomato sauce. My mother took one bite, gagged slightly, and turned to my father with daggers in her eyes: “Leonard!” she said sternly. He had added too much red pepper and was the only one who ended up being able to eat the meal.
Like her siblings, Ethel did not start cooking until she married and left home. Later in life she began to draw, paint, and sculpt, but cooking was her first creative outlet. No recipe was too difficult or too odd. She bought a big freezer for the basement and kept it filled. Everyone who visited was happy to help empty it.
George was the only one to make cooking a career. In 1950 he opened a fish market adjacent to his father’s grocery, where he fried fish on Fridays for the Catholics in the neighborhood. Julia Child was living in Cambridge at the time and bought all her fish from George. In 1968, when he opened Legal Sea Foods Restaurant next to his shop, on the site of Legal Cash Market, Child created the signature recipe for the coleslaw that accompanied every meal. Legal Sea Foods has become a Boston institution, and now, six decades later, the restaurant has more than 30 locations populating the Eastern Seaboard, as well as an online fish market and retail product line. For my cousin Roger Berkowitz, who took over as CEO and president of Legal Sea Foods in 1992, eating good food isn’t just an essential part of life; it’s his livelihood.
My father Leonard also made a career for himself in the food-service industry. He was the author of Meat Source: A Newsletter for the Foodservice Industry Covering Meats, Fish and Poultry, which was published from 1986 through 1988. He also taught meat science at Florida International University’s hospitality management school, where he was known as Mister Meat. The older he got, the more he cooked. On weekends he would spend hours in the kitchen preparing a roast: tenderly patting the prime rib dry with paper towels, concocting the perfect marinade, and calibrating the oven. Dad watched over the meat like a mother hen, adjusting the temperature at the optimal time for maximum juiciness. Sometimes I assisted him, sharing his cigarettes and Scotch. I did write down some of his recipes, but he usually made things up as he went; I had to pressure him for approximate measurements. Unfortunately, I never recorded the many marinades with which he embellished all of his roasts. And I have rarely attempted to duplicate them. On those few occasions when I have, I couldn’t match the texture of the glazes, the intense flavors of soy sauce, herbs, vermouth, and sugar.
Harry and Frances instilled in their children a love of food and cooking. For Leonard, George, Ethel, Stanley, and Donald, shopping for ingredients and preparing, serving, and eating food with friends and loved ones were the highlights of their days. Whenever I do the same, I find myself conjuring memories of these wonderful people and the meals they shared.