My most vivid food memories involve overcooked spaghetti in a wooden bowl, and my grandmother Phyllis.
For decades, my grandmother’s wooden bowls sat stacked in the cabinet next to the refrigerator in her old, two-story home in Gardena. They followed her to her retirement home in Palm Desert, which she lovingly referred to as “toe-tag city.” She was part of the volunteer wellness-check committee that called other residents to make sure they were still breathing.
The bowls were lopsided and smooth, burnished and misshapen by countless years of scraping Lipton onion dip and spaghetti off the sides.
When she died on July 17 at the age of 91, the first memories that came to mind involved spaghetti in those wooden bowls, and all the meals and laughs we shared together.
They were not the expensive cherry wood, olive wood or acacia you might find at Crate & Barrel. The wood was thin, pressed and woven — the chicken nugget equivalent of a piece of dinnerware.
My grandmother bought them at a restaurant supply store in Los Angeles almost 40 years ago. An internet search for “cheap wooden bowls” produces images of something similar.
During my childhood summers, I spent most of my days lounging on a fraying towel on a patch of lumpy grass in my grandparents’ backyard, eating out of one of those wooden bowls.
My too-long hair was always damp from the aboveground pool where my late grandfather, Warner, taught me how to swim. “You’re my favorite,” he would say. He said that to all the grandkids.
Phyllis Harris at Sullivan’s Steakhouse, her favorite restaurant in Palm Desert. The Harris family frequented the restaurant.
(Jenn Harris / Los Angeles Times)
Phyllis and Warner were Jewish but never kept kosher. She used to boast that her grandfather opened the first kosher butcher shop on Pico Boulevard, though she could never remember the name or the year.
There was always bacon in the house. She used a plastic tray to microwave the bacon until it was crisp and perfect. And her most famous dishes involved both meat and cheese in those wooden bowls.
The sound and sensation of my bent fork against the wood is palpable even now. My grandmother’s spaghetti was always cooked two minutes past al dente. I squeezed the noodles between my tongue and front teeth and counted how many I could eat without chewing. The sensation was simply exquisite.
The meat sauce, slightly salty and grainy, was always seasoned with Lawry’s spaghetti mix from a paper pouch. The ground beef was pulverized until it became one with the canned crushed tomatoes. My grandmother slid the emerald green cylinder of Parmesan across the table and never questioned the Everest-sized mountain I managed to shake into the bowl.
Phyllis Harris with two granddaughters at a dim sum restaurant in Los Angeles.
(Jenn Harris / Los Angeles Times )
I used to study the grooves and nicks in the bowls and wondered what would happen if I accidentally ate wood. Is there a tiny tree growing in my stomach right now?
Armed with a head full of dreams, a slender grasp on reality and the high of a new Hello Kitty backpack for the fast-approaching fall, I happily slurped my noodles, unburdened by the anxiety of the 1/8th-life crisis that so often crept into my thoughts and threatened to ruin a good meal. But never this meal.
The bowls were a promise, that at least for the time it took to eat whatever filled them, things would be just fine. I have my grandmother to thank for this, and for so many of my fondest memories, food quirks and preferences.
It’s thanks to Phyllis Harris that I prefer the Lipton onion soup mix dip to anything whipped up in a restaurant kitchen. And that I know how to host everything from a small gathering to a proper rager. She’s the reason my friends ask me to make latkes for every Hanukkah party. Her holiday gatherings were legendary, with a full spread of golden latkes, brisket, bagels, lox and white fish. And there was always a bowl of pitted black olives. My cousins and I used to slide an olive onto each finger and pop them into our mouths while we ran around the house.
A portion of a recent schmutz platter by Phyllis Harris. This was the name her grandchildren gave her lunch spreads of cold cuts and various salads.
(Jenn Harris / Los Angeles Times)
My grandmother was the master of something called the schmutz platter. I can’t recall which one of us came up with the name, but I suspect it was me. It was more of a table-wide spread than an actual platter, comprising various deli cold cuts, leaves of romaine lettuce, dill pickle chips, black olives, sliced cheese (always havarti and usually provolone), a wooden bowl of tuna salad, another of potato salad, sliced rye bread and challah, ramekins of mayonnaise and mustard. While grandma made her own tuna salad and potato salad, both studded with bits of hardboiled egg, the coleslaw was only ever from Kentucky Fried Chicken.
“KFC or bust,” she would say. And she meant it.
I brought countless acquaintances out to the desert to visit, and each time, a schmutz platter would be waiting on the dining room table when we arrived. But even when it was just me, the platter was there.
After living in Los Angeles for most of her life, grandma was used to the depth and breadth of cuisines in the city. Her move to Palm Desert 20 years ago was accompanied by a bit of culinary shock, when she realized there were no Asian markets nearby and the local dim sum restaurant wasn’t exactly local or actual dim sum. Each trip to visit came with a request to bring her a loaf of double-baked rye bread from Langer’s Deli and an order or two of siu mai.
The desert being the desert, we used to brave the 30-second walk to her car in the 110-degree heat to drive to the Rite Aid down the street for ice cream. She used to call the pharmacy waiting area an “ice cream cafe,” and we sat in the blood pressure chairs while we licked our cones. I was only ever able to convince her to order the Chocolate Malted Krunch (the best flavor) once. Grandma only had eyes for rainbow sherbet.
Columnist Jenn Harris and her late grandmother, Phyllis Harris, during one of their many trips to Rite Aid pharmacy to get ice cream. Phyllis called the seating area in the pharmacy area an “ice cream cafe.”
(Jenn Harris / Los Angeles Times )
While we sat in the ice cream cafe, she asked about work and my love life, but never in a prying way. She listened intently and never judged, though I gave her plenty to question. By the time I made it to the bottom of my cone, I felt like there was at least one person in the world who understood me.
As much as grandma loved to host company, with her weekly card games and mahjong, she lived for a night out. She had her hair done regularly into a golden coiffed pouf. Her nails were always painted. I don’t think I ever saw her leave the house, let alone her bedroom, without lipstick. There were dresses for the grocery store, dresses for the mall, lunch with the girls and dinner out. We often staged mini fashion shows to compare outfits.
Sullivan’s, a lively chain steakhouse on the second floor of the El Paseo shopping center in Palm Desert, was our favorite place. She went so often that she had a regular table. She always enjoyed a glass of red wine. I sipped a martini. And we both ordered the crispy Shanghai calamari. This was the height of luxury and culinary achievement for grandma. A plate of battered and fried squid from Point Judith, R.I., coated in a sweet chili glaze with cherry peppers, scallions and sesame seeds.
The crispy Shanghai Calamari from Sullivan’s Steakhouse in Palm Desert.
(Sullivan’s Steakhouse Palm Desert)
The rounds of squid were always tender, dredged in a light, crisp, shaggy coating. The orange, chile-flecked sauce was sticky and sweet, similar to the condiment typically served with Thai barbecue chicken. I can see her licking the sauce from her fingers as I type this.
One of the last great meals we shared was at Alice B., Mary Sue Milliken and Susan Feniger’s restaurant at the Living Out LGBTQ+ community in Palm Springs. Feniger was there that evening and graciously took us on a small tour of the property before steering us toward an order of executive chef Lance Velasquez’s excellent biscuits. My grandmother, who was a fan of Feniger’s for years, was elated at meeting the chef. If the TV was on at grandma’s house, it was tuned to the Food Network.
We marveled at the texture of the biscuits, equal parts crunch and fluff. We finished every drop of the honey and butter. Grandma and I shared a love of fried chicken and discussed the restaurant’s chicken cutlet for much of the drive home.
Columnist Jenn Harris (center) with her sister Jessica Harris and late grandmother Phyllis Harris at Alice B., Mary Sue Milliken and Susan Feniger’s restaurant in Palm Springs.
(Jenn Harris / Los Angeles Times)
She grew teary-eyed as we finished dinner. Grandma was someone who treated each meal, whether it was out or a schmutz platter at home, like it was something to be savored and appreciated, grateful for every moment we got to spend together.
I know that with time, this pang in my chest will dull, but I’m confident that these memories will stay vivid. I can summon the smell of her kitchen. The warmth of her embrace. The sound of her laughter and the way it filled a room. I can taste her spaghetti and feel the grooves of the wooden bowls. Thank you, Grandma, for showing me just how delicious this life can be.