Homemade Holidays : An Exile in New York, a military brat, a mom who poached a tree. . .and the search for figgy pudding. ‘Tis the season to remember. With recipes. : The Magical Kitchen and Me

My grandfather gave up private practice the year I was born and went into semi-retirement. He became a hotel doctor. This meant that my grandparents got to live in a palatial suite overlooking the park and that we got to spend Christmas in the suite next door. It was a lot more fun than going to visit your grandparents in a retirement community.

The doorman always seemed genuinely pleased to see us turn up again. The manager always sent me a gardenia with a little note--quite a thrill for a 6-year-old. There were candies on the table and a little refrigerator filled with sodas (another thrill--my mother didn’t approve of them). The maids didn’t mind if we played hide and seek in the endless corridors. And when we got bored we could always go down to the park and tease the mean swans that lived there.

Visiting my grandparents had its down side too. My grandmother, a successful impresario, had very decided notions about children. The first was that they had no need for gifts. When I arrived she always handed me a list of people to whom I was supposed to write thank you notes. Listed next to the name was the gift the person had sent me. The gifts themselves were long gone; my grandmother had given them away.

And then there was the food.

My grandmother was a businesswoman, not a cook. At her house the kitchen had been the cook’s domain, and when she moved into the hotel she occasionally condescended to go into the kitchenette, but only to make a single meal. When we ate in, we always had hamburgers (without buns), rice (instant) and peas (canned).

My grandfather apparently ate this endless meal without complaint; my mother did too. But one year my father, my brother and I rebelled against the tedium of dinner. “Fine,” said my grandmother, “we’ll all go down to the dining room.”

Looking back, I think the staff must have known about my grandmother’s cooking and tried to make up for it. But at the time I thought all hotel dining rooms had the amazing ability to transform food into something magical.

Night after night the chef knocked himself out to delight my brother and me. In my brother’s case this wasn’t difficult--he was already sufficiently sophisticated to know that what he wanted was the most expensive thing on the menu. (My parents were horrified by this, my grandparents indulgent.) I, on the other hand, was not the least bit interested in numbers; it was the words that held me in thrall.

Pate maison sounded exotic. And in the chef’s hands, it was: He sent it out sculpted into the shape of a squirrel. What, I wondered, could coquilles St. Jacques be? It turned out to be creamed scallops and mushrooms snuggled into a large shell with a puree of pink potatoes piped around the rim. Encouraged by my empty plate, the chef sent out a melange of vegetables: tomato roses, carrot flowers, turnip butterflies. Each night was better than the one before. Even my grandmother started looking forward to dinner.

On Christmas night, the waiter said the chef was making me a special dessert. What could it be?, I wondered as I ate my way through a whole new menagerie of vegetables. And then the lights went out, and in the dark the waiter appeared, holding a ball of fire. He carried it, flaming red and blue, to our table where it continued to burn for a full minute. Then the lights went up, he cut the cake, and beneath the fire was ice cream.

What 6-year-old wouldn’t be charmed? I thought Baked Alaska was just about the most magical thing I’d ever eaten. To tell the truth, I still do.

BAKED ALASKA

1 1/2 cups cake flour

1 1/4 teaspoons baking powder

1/2 teaspoon salt

1/3 cup butter

3/4 cup sugar

1 egg

1/2 cup milk

2 tablespoons cherry brandy or kirsch

1 quart strawberry or cherry ice cream

Meringue

1 (10-ounce) package frozen sweetened strawberries, thawed and pureed

Sift together flour, baking powder and salt. Set aside.

Beat butter until light and fluffy. Beat in sugar until fluffy. Beat in egg. Combine milk and brandy. Beat into creamed mixture alternately with flour mixture beginning and ending with dry ingredients. Divide batter into 8 greased large muffin cups. Bake at 350 degrees 15 to 20 minutes or until cakes test done in center. Remove to wire rack to cool.

To assemble, split cakes in half. Spread with about 1/3 cup ice cream. Replace top over ice cream. Freeze until ice cream is set. Remove dessert to foil-covered baking sheet. Spread Meringue over top and sides, being careful to seal all edges with Meringue. Freeze overnight.

Bake at 500 degrees 2 to 3 minutes or until browned. Place each on individual serving dish surrounded with strawberry puree. Makes 8 servings.

Each serving contains about:

457 calories; 403 mg sodium; 78 mg cholesterol; 16 grams fat; 72 grams carbohydrates; 7 grams protein; 0.25 gram fiber.

Meringue

4 egg whites

1/2 teaspoon cream of tartar

1/2 cup sugar

1/2 teaspoon vanilla

Beat egg whites until frothy. Add cream of tartar and continue beating until foamy. Gradually add sugar, beating until stiff but not dry. Beat in vanilla.

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