A note about my eating habits first. As a small child, I wasn’t just a “picky eater.” After being hospitalized for an umbilical hernia and then pneumonia at 18 months, followed by chicken pox, I lost all interest in food. Textures frightened me. Anything that was tough, fatty, gristly, or slimy made me vomit, and I stopped eating. At 2 ½ years, I was skeletal.
My mother was desperate to rebuild my appetite, so she bought a stash of Gerber’s Baby Food, and tried to re-introduce me to food one jar at a time. I ate the stuff because it made her happy, and because there were no tough bits to surprise and possibly choke me. But my love of food sprang up like Athena from the head of Zeus when Mom gave me my first spoonful of Gerber’s peach puree. It was like tasting a mouthful of summer sunshine. I have never tasted a peach as flavorful as that puree, and it saddens me to think that I never will.
But I tell you this to make a point: I have had a lifelong preference for soft foods. More than one nutritionist has told me that I eat like a bulimic. I have rarely vomited up food since my toddler years, but my texture biases are still in play. Even accidentally biting into a bone fragment or gristle in meat makes it impossible for me to finish it.
Which is why I fell in love with stroganoff from my first taste of it.
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When I started cooking, I’d clip recipes from the Los Angeles Times, and try to recreate dishes I ate in restaurants. Sometimes I’d try making a particular microwave meal (hello, Budget Gourmet!) from scratch. That’s how I learned to make both Swedish meatballs and beef stroganoff. But my first attempt at stroganoff was a disappointment, probably because I made it just with sour cream and sliced beef. It looked like shaved tree bark covered in birdlime, and tasted almost as bad.
I tried several different recipes before lamenting to a friend of mine that I couldn’t find a version of stroganoff that I loved. She snorted and said, “My grandmother used to make stroganoff that I would’ve eaten straight from the pot, if she’d let me.”
“And? Did she leave you the recipe? Did you watch her make it? Please say you know how to make it, and you’ll tell me!” I begged.
Laughing, she sent me the recipe, and it is glorious.
There’s just one thing. Grandmother didn’t really use measurements.
Seriously, the recipe I received had no measurements whatsoever. It was, “put in this, as much as looks good.” “Add this, as much as you like.” I realized the lady was like many of our own grandmothers and great-grandmothers; she didn’t go by teaspoons or cups or liters — she went by taste, texture, sight, and smell. She’d told Rachel how to make it before she died, and Rachel had written down her exact instructions, down to the last “if you like.” I read that recipe and giggled with a delighted despair. To figure out how to make it, I was going to have to just make it.
It took a while. Oh, did it ever. I ruined several batches before I finally got it to my taste. And here’s the thing — I think Grandmother made this dish to her taste. Quite likely it was her comfort food. And so I focused on making it so that it would be my comfort food when it was done.
I urge you to do the same thing. Tweak it if you like. Adjust to your taste. See if you don’t come up with a pot of stroganoff that makes you feel like your own grandmother just reached out and hugged you. Here is The Russian Grandmother’s Stroganoff, as I finally decoded it.
And, Rachel? I confess: I’ve stood over the pot and eaten spoonfuls of it, too.
The Russian Grandmother’s Stroganoff
Ingredients — One pound beef (the best cut to use for this is boneless sirloin, but if you can afford the expense, well-trimmed ribeyes or even beef tenderloin will make this sublime)
1 small (or half a large) yellow onion, minced
1 pound mushrooms; cremini are fine, but I’ve found shiitake or oyster mushrooms add a wonderfully interesting, earthy note
3 Tbsp butter
2 Tbsp flour
1 tsp tomato paste
2 cups (plus ½ cup if wanted) beef broth
1 cup sour cream
1 cup milk or heavy cream
1 tsp Dijon mustard
Worcestershire sauce
Salt & pepper, to taste
Hungarian paprika (sparingly and optional — my addition; add it with the sour cream if you do)
Egg noodles tossed with butter and parsley
Salt and pepper some beef, cut it up in cubes, and brown it in a stewpot with a little butter. Take it out and put it in a bowl with all the juices. Cut up one yellow onion and cook it until it’s soft. Add some mushrooms, as much as looks good, and cook with a little more butter.
(Note: until the mushrooms release their liquid and get brown.)
Cover the mushrooms and onions with some flour, a little tomato paste, and salt and pepper. Stir and let it cook for a bit.
(Note: About 2 minutes.)
Pour in some beef broth and some brandy or cognac, even vodka if you want, and stir until the lumps are smoothed out. Simmer for a while.
(Note: “A while” is about 5 minutes. Don’t worry if it reduces, but if you want more sauce, keep ½ cup of broth on hand. As for the brandy, cognac, or vodka, keep it to no more than ¼ cup if you do add it.)
Add sour cream, a cup of heavy cream or milk if you like, a spoonful of Dijon mustard, a few dashes of Worcestershire sauce if you like, and let it simmer for half an hour. You can add more salt, pepper, or Worcestershire if you like. Add the beef and beef juices back to it, stir, and let it cook for a bit.
(Note: Just one minute. Then remove the pot from the heat.)
Now Grandmother ended this with, “Then you can eat it.” Rachel added the following:
During this time, cook egg noodles, drain, and toss them with butter and parsley. When you can no longer stand the torment of smelling the stew, serve it over the egg noodles and devour at will.
Or you can just take the cooking spoon and start scarfing it down straight from the pot. But sitting at the table is much more comfortable. And Grandmother won’t scold you for not minding your manners.