My father is responsible for more than a few of my food obsessions, but one of the earliest began with a frying pan, high heat and a thick slab of kashkaval.
While my dad was no stranger to cooking — turning out everything from omelets stuffed with herbs, cheese and mushrooms to flaky bourekas and pots of cholent crammed with beans, barley, potatoes and meat — he often told me that his father rarely ventured into the kitchen, except to make kashkaval. My father often fried this Balkan cheese as an afternoon snack, but I never knew where he procured it. Growing up in Venezuela, I was surrounded by wonderful fresh cheeses like queso guayanés, telita and queso de mano, but their mild flavors had little in common with the salty kashkaval.
The minute the cheese hit the pan, it would sizzle angrily. My father would smile at the sound, and I’d wonder if, for a second, it had carried him back to a childhood memory. He rarely spoke about the everyday moments he shared with his father, like standing over a stove frying cheese. The stories he regaled me with were on a grander scale: My grandfather’s work as chief translator for the British Mandate for Palestine and the dignitaries and government officials who came to their small Jerusalem apartment for marathon games of chess.
I’d watch my dad flip the cheese, revealing a perfectly golden-brown crust, and hear him say, “Ah, eizeh yofi” (“How lovely”). The tangy, nutty aroma would fill the kitchen, just as I imagined it had years before in Israel, when his father made it for him.
Kashkaval is much easier to find now, especially in Florida. When I’m particularly nostalgic for my father — for his stories or simply for the sound of his voice — I know exactly what to do. I put a small frying pan on the stove, turn up the heat and wait for that familiar sizzle.
Happy reading!
Alona Abbady Martinez
alona@bocaratonobserver.com