My paternal grandmother wore stilettos in the kitchen. Not kitten heels—stilettos. Her lipstick was always red, hair teased to an inch of its life, and glasses thick; a strand of pearls linking them around her neck an accessory as much as utility. Ann Louise, an icon of the family function, the potluck, an evening in the backyard–she was there. In heels, with food, and her best creations. This was very much the Americana “Midwestern” side of my cultural upbringing—Jell-O molds with the title of “salad” loosely attached.
Across town, things were subtler. My Italian grandmother peeled tomatoes my grandfather grew, tore fresh basil, and cooked the two slowly into a sweet sauce. She was always sorting the best from the rest: olive oil, basil, salt, tomato. All recognizable ingredients, and the finest within reach. Far from a trope, she bore a quiet profundity in everything she did: precious, steady, almost austere.
Benjamin Tansel
One side fed me Cool Whip, Wonder Bread, and homemade pies. The other showed me the importance of time, passion, and patience. Somewhere between those kitchens, I figured out who I was—and learned some valuable cooking lessons and philosophies along the way. They’ve stayed with me through more than 20 years in professional kitchens, quietly shaping my craft.
I often think about my grandmother Ann (“Nana”) whenever I picture a Midwestern potluck. For those unfamiliar with the scene, it’s a whole thing: picture roasting pans lined up like a vintage car show: chrome, jet-black enamel, a fraying cord risking it all just to keep the beans hot.
One side fed me Cool Whip, Wonder Bread, and homemade pies. The other showed me the importance of time, passion, and patience. Somewhere between those kitchens, I figured out who I was.
Nana’s lime Jell-O salad always came out of a deep cooler, her gold-ringed fingers and bangled wrists lifting the masterpiece: once-neon green, now muted to pale seafoam by a tub of Cool Whip, carefully folded with canned pineapple and chopped pecans—subtle, but still electric. For Easter, she poured the mixture into a lamb-shaped mold pulled from the dusty space above the kitchen cabinets, where it waited all year for its moment of glory. Every year, the lamb emerged looking slightly haunted, its ears sagging, one eye collapsed. No one cared. The texture was velvet, the jiggle irresistible, and every bite was a handshake between midcentury kitsch and family lore.
To say she had one trick in the kitchen would be selling her short. Another of her greatest hits: razor-thin cucumber slices drowned in sour cream, dill, and vinegar until they collapsed into something between a soup and a pickle. Impossible to categorize and therefore, definitely a salad. That’s the thing about salads in the Midwest—they aren’t defined by greens, health, or even freshness. They’re defined by mood. Nostalgic, creamy, comforting, often sweet, always shareable. More sentiment than sustenance.
She presided over these dishes with a kind of humbled pride while being the best-dressed woman at the function. Red nails. Big hair. A laugh that matched. She brought charisma to casseroles and glamour to gelatin. She taught me—without a word—that food didn’t have to be precious to be powerful. It just had to show up, unapologetically, and claim its place on the table.
Meanwhile, Memo, my grandmother Lena, was teaching me something else entirely.
Benjamin Tansel
One of her greatest lessons came not in the kitchen but in the market. Grocery shopping was a ritual, an exploration. Everything sniffed and squeezed. If a melon or squash wasn’t perfect, it didn’t come home. If the bread wasn’t fresh, she spoke to the baker to get one from behind the counter. She introduced me to persimmons, pomegranates, and pig trotters. In 1980s Toledo, Ohio, these things were exotic—and all fair game in her kitchen.
That’s the thing about salads in the Midwest—they aren’t defined by greens, health, or even freshness. They’re defined by mood. Nostalgic, creamy, comforting, often sweet, always shareable. More sentiment than sustenance.
And in that kitchen, the fragrances were ever changing. In summer, notes of peach, lemon, tomato vine wafted up the stairs. Roasted meats, hazelnuts, and oranges in winter met you the second the door opened. She had a way of capturing the season. Vegetables peeled with a knowing hand, cooked with her own effortless gravity. She didn’t need recipes. Olive oil and salt were the thread, along with a few good tomatoes, and a whole fish. More vegetables, more herbs—nothing fancy, but everything precise.
There was little chaos in her kitchen, no jiggling lambs or vagaries to salads. Every dish had a purpose. Every step mattered. Her cooking wasn’t showy. It was sentimental. It was a daily devotion to family. She taught me that simplicity wasn’t the absence of effort—it was the result of deep, abiding care.
For a long time, I thought I had to choose between them.
One side felt elevated. The other, eccentric. Working in restaurant kitchens, as I have for more than two decades, I’ve struggled with their differences. Is what I learned correct? Is there only one way? I wrestled with technique, with the split between home cook and professional. I didn’t go to culinary school. I learned from my grandparents and put it into practice at work. What does that make me?
My grandmothers’ grandson, it turns out.
Over time, I’ve come to understand that both of their philosophies live in me—whether I’m executing under the intense pressure of a two-Michelin-starred restaurant in Brooklyn or flipping burgers while watching the waves at Rockaway in Queens. My conclusion? High and low make a wonderful middle. One that lets everyone have a seat at the table—and a spot in the kitchen.
Dining and Cooking