Risa Pisko explains why she is a good cook (1974)
author: Risa Pisko
source date: July 1974
language: eng
availability: Letter from Risa Pisko to Phyllis Hanes, July 1974. Transcription in the Autobiography of Sue Pisko Corty, written in 1991, unpublished, in private ownership of the family, pp. 40–42.

Risa Pisko explains why she is a good cook Written July 1974 to Phyllis Hanes, editor at the Christian Science Monitor, who handled mother's recipe columns called "Continental Cookery."

Dear Phyllis:

After sending you through all the years recipes, you probably wonder where I take them from. So let me explain how my collection grew and grew.

I am Austro-Hungarian. My father was Hungarian, my mother Viennese. I was the third child to arrive after two boys. While my mother could not wait to put a bow in my hair as soon as a bow would hold, my father wanted to show off with his daughter's efficiency. He had to wait a few years. In those years, efficiency of a girl meant to be good housekeeper and a good cook.

When company came, I was sent to the kitchen to make a jelly roll, even when the company came after supper and the cook was not happy to get the kitchen messed up again. I was a child then, maybe 10 years old, and probably that jelly roll was the only dessert I knew how to make. Of course, I was proud when praised and to make me do it was no punishment.

All together from a very early age on I was in the kitchen whenever something interesting was cooked. I had a little foot stool to stand on to reach the kitchen table and my own little knife which I guarded with utmost care and did not let anyone else use. My little knife I used to open up and clean out chickens. Hard to understand that a little gir! wants to do that dirty job.

We were a large family, with three in help, and every Sunday six chickens were used. No wonder that up to this day I never buy chicken parts; I like to cut up chickens my own way.

During the First World War, we had officers billeted in our house and they were often invited for meals. Besides, my father, a typical Hungarian, extremely hospitable, loved to have guests. As we lived in a small town in Hungary, there was very little to offer to guests except fine meals, and my mother's house became known for its exquisite cuisine. The officers called our house an oasis in the desert.

Of course, this hospitality put a heavy burden on our cook and this was the time when my help was really needed in the kitchen. Our cook was happy that I took over to make cakes and cookies, to arrange fancy platters and the like.

My mother was an excellent cook, she had her own handwritten cook book and I used that Learning from the cooks was more complicated. They were Hungarian peasant girls, they cooked naturally and laughed about weights and measurements. "Just take as much as needed and cook till it is ready" were their instructions.

When I got married, we lived in Vienna in a big family villa. In my mother-in-law's house cooking was done with even more care. Menus were planned, one did not eat, one dined! Every Sunday we were there for a big mid-day meal. I learned more and more dishes. There were a great many aunts, everyone an expert cook, some with Czech origin, and the recipe exchange went on and on.

Later on my cooking knowledge became a real asset for me. That was when Hitler came.

I skip the whole Hitler period in Vienna. It was ghastly. There are enough horror stories told and no one can fathom it who did not go through it.

In December 1938 our little family -- my husband, myself and our little daughter -- emigrated to England. We were refugees, without money, without any property, with hardly any clothing. But our daughter was taken care of by lovely English people and we had a job. We were what English people called a "married couple" -- butler and cook. Neither of us spoke English. My husband had a little book knowledge and I knew how to use a dictionary, which luckily I owned. And again luckily I found an old battered cookbook, Mrs. Beeton's, in one of the kitchen drawers.

So when the lady ordered the meal, I disappeared and studied until I found what she wanted. My Hungarian upbringing helped, it gave me a feeling for quantities. I remember how upset I was when the lady asked for a "sponge cake." What on earth could that be? Looking up the recipe I realized it is what we called a "Biscuit Torte." What confusion when the lady wanted "biscuits."

When I got over these initial difficulties, I became bold. I cooked as I knew and the family liked it. They stopped ordering and let me take over completely. Sign language helped with the butcher; when I wanted a shoulder, I patted my shoulder; when I wanted a leg of veal or lamb, here was another part of my body. The butcher, of course, got a great kick out of this, we smiled at each other and a friendly relationship was established.

Now I enriched my files with recipes of English dishes: meat and fruit pies, trifles and those delicious fruit fools. Oh to have a gooseberry fool again! I learned to make English sandwiches, to cut the bread so very thin and all the various spreads. I learned that an English elevenses is a big meal and an English tea a meal of major importance.

In 1940, we got our affidavit and came to America. I had to relearn again. A biscuit became a cookie, scones became biscuits. I had had three different jobs in England and the letters of reference called me a "first-class cook." This qualification helped me to get immediately a job as cook, no housework involved. My husband was in poor health and stayed with friends, my daughter was in school; and I was a live-in cook.

The first family I worked for was of German origin and I cooked Viennese to their great delight. The word got around quickly; there is a good cook with us and family and friends gathered for meals and I enjoyed showing off with the best dishes.

The next job was in Brookline. The family was large and every member wanted to eat at different times, guests came without former announcement -- it was like in a restaurant. The equipment was adequate: huge refrigerator, freezer and a large, well-designed electric stove which I called "Great Central Station," the lights went on and off and every part ran on a thermostat.

Then in 1942 (I think it was fall 1941 - spc), our little family was finally able to live together again, no more live-in jobs for me, we could afford to rent a small furnished apartment. First, I did accommodating, cooking for parties or to help out when in a family some emergency came up. After that I worked in restaurants as baker's helper, short-order cook, as salad cook and as manager of a coffee shop in a large hotel. I am glad I had this experience. I was cured forever from wanting my own restaurant. It was the most boring thing I ever did. Day by day, the same thing again, or at least week after week, so little variety in the menus. It came to it that I did not say let us make an apple pie because it is Thursday. It was the other way around, we have apple pie today, it must be Thursday.

So the day came when I decided to change profession. This was not an easy task. In every employment office I was asked what I did before and was promptly offered a cooking position. There was so much more money in cooking than in an office job.

When with a letter of recommendation I came to the big boss of a company, instead of employment in the business world, he offered me the housekeeper's job in his home, with all fringe benefits up to living quarters for all of us.

But the harder it seemed to succeed, the more stubborn I became. Good bye to employment offices, good bye to letters of recommendation. I went out on my own, from house to house, from store to store, and finally I landed a job as clerk in a bookstore.

After four years of cooking, back to my old profession. We had had a bookstore and a publishing house in Vienna.

Cooking now is a hobby and I still collect recipes, even though I use almost exclusively our old family recipes. I have so many of those, they supply enough variety in our menus.