Like her daughter, Irma was born in Germany and an offspring of the Third Reich from which in some ways she never recovered. She spent the war years living in a commune deep in the Wald with other children who had been evacuated to protect against Allied bombing. It was in the commune that she learned to be frugal and also where she began her lifelong love for cooking.
"Do you know how much egg is wasted," she would ask in heavily accented English as she ran her finger around inside a broken egg shell to extract every bit of albumen, "In the camp, we could save enough egg white to feed another person." Irma was like that.
With her ex-POW husband (Luftwaffe, shot down over Scotland) and first-born daughter (my ex), Irma emigrated to Canada as a young woman and began her career as homemaker and --eventually-- mother of three girls. But, as I was to find out, it was in the kitchen where she reigned as both queen and, for me, inspiration.
It was over braised pork pot roast that we first connected. She had fixed it for us on a holiday visit to Toronto and I was genuinely effusive in my praise. She seemed pleased by my appreciation, so much so that she started upon a year-long tutorial, including mandatory trips to the market with instructions on how to pick just the right piece of meat, what kind of equipment to use and strict cooking techniques.
"Now, you must WORK with it," she would say while I watched her brown the roast, "you MUST be patient." Her tone was commanding, made somehow more so by her accent.
On birthdays and Christmas she would always give me something to advance my German cooking skills. Soon, if I say so myself, I learned to do a pretty good pork pot roast, although it must be said I could never quite do it as well as her. In the end, it was always a matter of that 'right touch'.
Irma eventually extended the lessons to potato salad, sauerkraut, potato pancakes, cabbage rolls, and rolladen. But it was braised pork pot roast that was always the star in the repertoire and for which I will always remember her.
It saddened me to learn recently that Irma is suffering from Alzheimer's. I suppose she would not recognize me today but I'll bet anything she would recognize the wonderful smell of a good pork pot roast.
This Friday's special will be my feeble attempt to duplicate Irma's wonderful pot roast. I only wish she were here to join us.