I was young when Ellen came to my mother as housekeeper.
I didn’t know it—realize it—then (as a child then teenager, my interests, I’m sorry to say, were too much taken up with my own life) that Ellen herself seemed barely out of teenagehood.
If you’ve ever been young, perhaps you’re able to recapture that state of mind…being, perhaps, fond of any number of people, and interested in them—but only to an extent. Rarely to the extent of sitting down with them, peppering them with questions about where they were born, what their childhood was like, and what they hope for at that moment in their lives.
So it took a very long time for me to learn that young Ellen was born in a small village in Denmark and had just landed in Santa Monica, California. Looking for a job as what was then called a domestic, i.e., housekeeper. Maid. And she found one, working for a family named Sheekman. Screenwriter husband. Artist wife. High school daughter. Boxer dog.
Ellen was blonde, slightly built, very pretty, and with a lovely Scandinavian manner—pleasant, bright, willing, eager, intelligent, resourceful, kind, honest…you get the idea. My mother was thrilled. Plus she was a fabulous cook.
You know I rarely exaggerate.
Ellen’s dinners were a revelation. Simple but interesting, beautifully presented, always perfect. She was a fastidious cook, taking great pains. Her cooking was that perfection of achievement that was pure and simple—painstaking. I’ve known great cooks who could “throw something together…” Not Ellen’s style.
Ellen became my friend…cohort. I spent several Christmas Eves in her room, always frantically wrapping gifts as the clock ticked past midnight. Ellen would watch me for a bit, then quietly pick up a gift—perhaps a book for my father—pull out a sheet of colored tissue paper, wrap it perfectly with just the right ribbon from my ribbon basket, smile—all this without a word…nod, go on to another….say a box of perfume for my mother…
But on the other side of the coin, Ellen never said as much but it was clear she was equally delighted with her circumstances. As someone to work for—the woman whose house she was taking care of—making beds (except for mine), cleaning, polishing, washing, scrubbing, laundry, ironing, not to mention cooking every night at least for Sylvia and often for dinner parties, Mrs. Sheekman was a stroke of luck. Ellen didn’t know this, but Gloria Stewart Finch had done all the same homely chores to support herself through college and during her first young marriage. Ma’s stepfather didn’t want her in college, Mama couldn’t filch the money—or rarely could —so if young Gloria wanted something—her UC Berkeley tuition…her boarding house room and board…any clothes…books, theater, movies, music…not to mention transportation forth and back to Mama in Santa Monica, she had to earn it. And did. Which gave her special feeling for those earning their living.
Ah, but now we have from Denmark young Ellen new-minted caring for a big house in a handsome part of what she discovered was the movie world… She served her dinners to recognizable folk like Humphry Bogart…Lauren Bacall…Groucho and Harpo Marx.
Well and well. Time came when Ellen told Ma she’d met a young man from her village in Denmark! She hadn’t known Sven back home, but fate brought them together in Santa Monica. Amazing. They were in love and planning to marry… “And, Mrs. Sheekman, Sven will have his contractor’s license so he’ll be able to support me. I will no longer need to work…” Sven was as tall, handsome, and sweet as a hero out of Hans Christian Andersen .
Storybook ending. The two young Kristensens lived in Santa Monica while Sven built beautiful houses in Malibu, Bel Air, Los Angeles….then they moved to Santa Maria in central California, where Sven built his family a handsome four-bedroom house.
We always exchanged Christmas cards…at least we didn’t lose track of so special a woman.
Then in late September, 2000, when my mother was given a star on Hollywood Boulevard, Ellen and Sven came to the gala ceremony. I was thrilled. I by now had four children and three grandchildren to show her! Ellen was as lovely, soft-spoken, and dear as ever. And she brought some of her incomparable cookies she’d baked for us. It was a loving reunion…I was touched they’d driven 150 miles to be part of the celebration…with 150 to return home.
But something I’m not proud of. Even though their house was minutes off Highway 101—a main California north-south route–when Gene and I drove it a couple of times a year, I don’t know what kept me from saying to him, “Let’s stop in Santa Maria for a few minutes…I want to give Ellen a hug.” Never did. It’s odd, isn’t it…perhaps you’ve had the same experience, dumb reluctance to go out of one’s way for a small caring gesture.
But I’ll tell you who did say, “Let’s do it.” You guessed. Angel husband Bill. One day about five years ago we arranged to stop on our way home from L.A. By now, Sven had passed on but I was thrilled to have a tour of the impressive four-bedroom house he built for his family–daughter Karen had joined them. To see Ellen in her very own kitchen deeply touched me. Now in her late nineties, she still made her own bread every week, still cooked all her own food, still had friends in for lunch now and then… And she gave us a tour of her garden—I hadn’t known Ellen loved to garden. Many herbs, easy vegetables, and colorful annuals…a kitchen garden like mine.
Then she announced, “Sylvia, next year I’ll be one hundred!”
From then on every few months we chatted on the phone, and to my surprise, she’d inevitably confess how hard life was—she was still living in the big house by herself—Karen offered to join her, but Independent Ellen said no thank you.
And then, as happens, one day not long ago I called to check in, and the phone rang and rang and rang and rang. The next day the same. A week later, the same. Oh gosh. I looked online in the Santa Maria newspaper. Ellen left this world after one hundred and four remarkable years…
I wrote Karen, expressing my sadness and my gratitude for her mother in my life. And I asked if possible, could I have one of her wooden spoons? Something she worked with every day.
Then came a package from Karen Kristensen. Two wooden spoons.
Karen suggested mounting them in a frame.
Frame them? Hell, they’re in a jug next to the stove. When I stir with one, I can feel Ellen’s hand beneath mine. Maybe in the years I have left some of the magic ingrained in the spoons by the incomparable hand that held them will seep into my hand…
Blessings on Ellen. And of course Sven.
Blessings on all the young women and men who come to this country to make a life…who then do make marvelous lives for themselves…and when they pass on, leave something tangible for those who cherished them to hold on to.
Now about Ellen’s extraordinary cooking. I wrote this sixty-four years ago*:
“One of my most tantalizing childhood images still burns bright in my mind’s eye: after opening the icebox door, staring straight into an ochre mountain—or so it seemed—absolutely dripping with burnished caramel. It was one of Ellen’s ethereal custards, the secret brought with her from Denmark and kept for so many years from my anguished mother and me after Ellen left to get married…”
As dear as Ellen was, it was amusing—and frustrating—because she always had a reason why she couldn’t give us the recipe. But when I bravely asked for it for my first cookbook, she sent it generously.*
One of the secrets of this custard is it isn’t baked…it is steamed. Like many dishes that are sublime, it’s a tad fussy—ain’t the dessert to toss off in a hurry. And results are more than worth every moment spent. But lordy, it’s fun to create a masterpiece…a masterpiece is an adventure.
If you have special guests coming, make
Ellen’s Crème Danoise
(6 to 8 servings)
1 cup granulated sugar
½ cup water
2 eggs
4 egg yolks
4 cups half-and-half (or 2-2/3 cup milk** to 1-1/3 cups heavy cream)
2 teaspoons best vanilla extract
Gather: 6-cup smooth-sided dish or mold (souffle dish or ring mold); small heavy pot; smallish mixing bowl; whisk; medium saucepan; Dutch oven or other very large deep pot in which the mold fits; trivet (or steaming rack or several layers of dish towels); wooden spoon; several thicknesses of waxed paper or square of foil to cover mold.
For the caramel glaze: Blend ¾ cup sugar with the water in a small heavy pot. Simmer over medium-low heat–stirring with a wooden spoon occasionally–until clear tawny gold. Quickly pour into dish or mold and swirl around to cover the insides thoroughly.
For the custard: In a mixing bowl lightly beat the eggs, then whisk in the yolks to blend. In the saucepan over medium heat, stir the half-and-half and remaining ¼ cup sugar until the sugar has dissolved. Slowly whisk the hot half-and-half into the eggs. Stir in the vanilla.
Set the empty caramelized mold on a trivet or towels to stand a generous inch above the bottom of a large deep pot. Into the deep pot—in the space between the sides of the pot and the sides of the mold–carefully pour 2 inches boiling water. The water should only come up about an inch on the sides of the mold itself.
Pour the custard mixture through a strainer into the mold. Cover tightly with several thicknesses of waxed paper or foil. Set the pot on the burner and turn heat to lowest possible. Set the lid on the pot and steam—never let the water actively boil for one instant— Ellen says 45 minutes but it might be 60.
The custard is finished when you lift the paper or foil and the custard feels semi-firm to the touch—and a knife comes out of the center clean. Custard will tremble in the center but firm more as it cools. Lift out the mold and refrigerate at least 4 hours before serving. Cool as soon as finished, then keep chilled.
To serve, slip a knife around the edge of the mold, place a fairly deep serving dish over it, then quickly flip over and the custard will slide out, the caramel skimming golden down over it.
It may be made a day before.
*Sylvia Vaughn Thompson, Economy Gastronomy. New York: Atheneum. 1963
**Haven’t done it, but I’d bet you could use 2% (low-fat) milk just fine…custard would just not be as rich…maybe add another egg yolk for creamy fat?
I was young when Ellen came to my mother as housekeeper.
I didn’t know it—realize it—then (as a child then teenager, my interests, I’m sorry to say, were too much taken up with my own life) that Ellen herself seemed barely out of teenagehood.
If you’ve ever been young, perhaps you’re able to recapture that state of mind…being, perhaps, fond of any number of people, and interested in them—but only to an extent. Rarely to the extent of sitting down with them, peppering them with questions about where they were born, what their childhood was like, and what they hope for at that moment in their lives.
So it took a very long time for me to learn that young Ellen was born in a small town in Denmark and had just landed in Santa Monica, California. Looking for a job as what was then called a domestic, i.e., housekeeper. Maid. And she found one, working for a family named Sheekman. Screenwriter husband. Artist wife. High school daughter. Boxer dog.
Ellen was blonde, slightly built, very pretty, and with a lovely Scandinavian manner—pleasant, bright, willing, eager, intelligent, resourceful, kind, honest…you get the idea. My mother was thrilled. Plus she was a fabulous cook.
You know I rarely exaggerate.
Ellen’s dinners were a revelation. Simple but interesting, beautifully present, always perfect. She was a fastidious cook, taking great pains to reach perfection. Her cooking was that perfection of achievement that was pure and simple—and was painstaking. I’ve known great cooks who could “throw something together…” Not Ellen’s style. When I asked if I could have her custard recipe for my cookbook, I was astonished at the detail. Shouldn’t have been.
Ellen became my friend…cohort. I spent several Christmas Eves in her room, always frantically wrapping gifts as the clock ticked past midnight. Ellen would watch me for a bit, then quietly pick up a gift—perhaps a book for my father—pull out a sheet of colored tissue paper, wrap it perfectly with just the right ribbon from my ribbon basket, smile—all this without a word…nod, go on to another….say a box of perfume for my mother…
But on the other side of the coin, Ellen never said as much but it was clear she was equally delighted with her circumstances. As someone to work for—the woman whose house she was taking care of—making beds (except for mine), cleaning, polishing, washing, scrubbing, laundry, ironing, not to mention cooking every night at least for Sylvia and often for dinner parties, Mrs. Sheekman was a stroke of luck. Ellen didn’t know this, but Gloria Stuart had done all the same homely chores to support herself through college and during her first young marriage. Ma’s stepfather didn’t want her in college, Mama couldn’t filch the money—or rarely could —so if young Gloria wanted something—her UC Berkeley tuition…her boarding house room and board…any clothes…books, theater, movies, music…not to mention transportation forth and back to Mama in Santa Monica, she had to earn it. And did.
Ah, but now we have from Denmark young Ellen new-minted caring for a big house in a handsome part of what she discovered was the movie world… She served her dinners to recognizable folk like Humphry Bogart…Lauren Bacall…Groucho and Harpo Marx.
Well and well. Time came when Ellen told Ma she’d met a young man from her village in Denmark! She hadn’t known Sven back home, but fate brought them together in Santa Monica. Amazing. They were in love and planning to marry… “And, Mrs. Sheekman, Sven will have his contractor’s license so he’ll be able to support me. I will no longer need to work…” Sven was as tall, handsome, and sweet as a hero out of Hans Christian Andersen.
Storybook ending. The two young Kristensens lived in Santa Monica while Sven built beautiful houses in Malibu, Bel Air, Los Angeles….then they moved to Santa Maria in central California, where Sven built his family–they now had daughter Karen–a handsome house. Sven did superbly well. Ellen had a gorgeous life.
Then in late September, 2000, when my mother was given a star on Hollywood Boulevard, Ellen and Sven came to the gala ceremony. I was thrilled. I by now had four children and three grandchildren to show her! Ellen was as lovely, soft-spoken, and dear as ever. And she brought some of her incomparable cookies she’d baked for us. It was a loving reunion…I was touched they’d driven 150 miles to be part of the celebration…with 150 to return home.
But something I’m not proud of. Even though their house was minutes off Highway 101—a main California north-south route–when Gene and I drove it a couple of times a year, I don’t know what kept me from saying to him, “Let’s stop in Santa Maria for a few minutes…I want to give Ellen a hug.” Never did. It’s odd, isn’t it…perhaps you’ve had the same experience, dumb reluctance to go out of one’s way for a small caring gesture.
But I’ll tell you who did say, “Let’s do it.” You guessed. Angel husband Bill. One day about five years ago we arranged to stop on our way home from L.A. By now, Sven had passed on but I was thrilled to see their four-bedroom house. To see Ellen in her very own kitchen deeply touched me. Now in her late nineties, she still made her own bread every week, still cooked all her own food, still had friends in for lunch now and then… And she gave us a tour of her garden—I hadn’t known Ellen loved to garden. Many herbs, vegetables, and colorful annuals…a kitchen garden like mine.
Then she announced, “Sylvia, next year I’ll be one hundred!”
From then on every few months we chatted on the phone, and to my surprise, she’d inevitably confess how hard life was—she was still living in the big house by herself—Karen offered to join her, but Independent Ellen said no thank you.
And then, as happens, one day not long ago I called to check in, and the phone rang and rang and rang and rang. The next day the same. A week later, the same. Oh gosh. I looked online in the Santa Maria newspaper. Ellen left this world after one hundred and four remarkable years…
I wrote Karen, expressing my sadness and my gratitude for her mother in my life. And I asked if possible, could I have one of her wooden spoons? Something she worked with every day.
Then came a package from Karen Kristensen. Two wooden spoons.
Karen suggested mounting them in a frame.
Frame them? Hell, they’re in a jug next to the stove. When I stir with one, I can feel Ellen’s hand beneath mine. Maybe in the years I have left some of the magic ingrained in the spoons by the incomparable hand that held them will seep into my hand…
Blessings on Ellen. And of course Sven.
Blessings on all the young women and men who come to this country to make a life…who then do make marvelous lives for themselves…and when they pass on, leave something tangible for those who cherished them to hold on to.
Now about Ellen’s extraordinary cooking. I wrote this sixty-four years ago*:
“One of my most tantalizing childhood images still burns bright in my mind’s eye: after opening the icebox door, staring straight into an ochre mountain—or so it seemed—absolutely dripping with burnished caramel. It was one of Ellen’s ethereal custards, the secret brought with her from Denmark and kept for so many years from my anguished mother and me after Ellen left to get married…”
As dear as Ellen was, it was amusing—and frustrating—because she always had a reason why she couldn’t give us the recipe. But when I bravely asked for it for my first cookbook, she sent it generously.*
One of the secrets of this custard is it isn’t baked…it is steamed. Like many dishes that are sublime, it’s a tad fussy—ain’t the dessert to toss off in a hurry. Results are more than worth every moment spent. But lordy, it’s fun to create a masterpiece…a masterpiece is an adventure.
If you have special guests coming, make
Ellen’s Crème Danoise
(6 to 8 servings)
1 cup granulated sugar
½ cup water
2 eggs
4 egg yolks
4 cups half-and-half (or 2-2/3 cup milk** to 1-1/3 cups heavy cream)
2 teaspoons best vanilla extract
Gather: 6-cup smooth-sided dish or mold (soufflé dish or ring mold); small heavy pot; smallish mixing bowl; whisk; medium saucepan; Dutch oven or other very large deep pot in which the mold fits; trivet (or steaming rack or several layers of dish towels); wooden spoon; several thicknesses of waxed paper or square of foil to cover mold, source of boiling water.
For the caramel glaze: Blend ¾ cup sugar with the water in a small heavy pot. Simmer over medium-low heat–stirring with a wooden spoon occasionally–until clear tawny gold. Quickly pour into dish or mold and swirl around to cover the insides thoroughly.
For the custard: In a mixing bowl lightly beat the eggs, then whisk in the yolks to blend. In the saucepan over medium heat, stir the half-and-half and remaining ¼ cup sugar until the sugar has dissolved. Slowly whisk the hot half-and-half into the eggs. Stir in the vanilla.
Set the empty caramelized mold on a trivet or towels to stand a generous inch above the bottom of a large deep pot. Into the deep pot—in the space between the sides of the pot and the sides of the mold–carefully pour boiling water to only come up about an inch on the sides of the mold itself.
Pour the custard mixture through a strainer into the mold. Cover tightly with several thicknesses of waxed paper or foil. Set the pot on the burner and turn heat to lowest possible. Set the lid on the pot and steam—never let the water actively boil for one instant— Ellen says 45 minutes but it might be 60.
The custard is finished when you lift the paper or foil and the custard feels semi-firm to the touch—and a knife comes out of the center clean. Custard will tremble in the center but firm more as it cools. Lift out the mold and refrigerate at least 4 hours before serving. Cool as soon as finished, then keep chilled.
To serve, slip a knife around the edge of the mold, place a fairly deep serving dish over it, then quickly flip over and the custard will slide out, the caramel skimming golden down over it.
It may be made a day before.
*Sylvia Vaughn Thompson, Economy Gastronomy. New York: Atheneum. 1963
**Haven’t done it, but I’d bet you could use 2% (low-fat) milk just fine…custard would just not be as rich…maybe add another egg yolk for creamy fat?
