Comestibles and Purpose
“Experience is the one thing you cannot get for nothing.”
- Oscar Wilde
“Meals make the society, hold the fabric together in lots of ways that were charming and interesting and intoxicating to me. The perfect meal, or the best of meals, occur in a context that has very little to do with the food itself.”
- Anthony Bourdain
“Carry your heart through this world like a life- giving sun.”
- Hafiz
Any one who follows me on Instagram is bound to have noticed that I have posted an inordinate number of food pictures over the past few months. Yes, I still design and sell my jewelry, and read lots of historical fiction and British cozy mysteries. I am walking Lucy faithfully and attempt to declutter my closet on a daily basis. I research and set itineraries for trips that I pray I will be able to take someday. I am currently taking an online iPhone photography class although I receive frequent emails from my instructor, no doubt generated automatically, that usually begin: "We miss you! Is everything all right? You have not watched a video for 7 days." REALLY? Sorry, European-Guy- who- thinks- I-am- a- slacker. You are NOT the boss of me and my time management of a class I am not getting graded on, Buddy!
This is all proof positive that I do have a life outside of planning my next meal, although the food posts seem to indicate otherwise. The fact is, I derive an immense amount of satisfaction and comfort from preparing food and feeding people. My family, immediate and extended, instilled in me a love of cooking and sharing food. My parents were both excellent cooks. Mama made the best fried chicken, gumbo, gazpacho, shrimp scampi, rump roast, cheese grits, deviled eggs, and tossed salads as far as I was concerned. Yes, there is an art to making a good tossed salad, and my mama had it perfected, right down to the bread she cubed and toasted, and tossed in seasoned vegetable oil to make the croutons. Dove, quail and pheasant, all shot and brought home by my father, were all cooked according to a recipe my maternal grandfather handed down that involved browning the lightly- floured birds in oil, then cooking them slowly on top of the stove in chicken broth, sherry, butter, with sage, salt, and pepper in a large pot with a lid, of course. My brother, sister and I still use this recipe. The finished product, served over rice, is heavenly. I still recall the instructions from Gaga, when he was demonstrating the technique to my 10- year-old self: “Now, Paige, pay attention. You shake enough black pepper in the pot until you think you have ruined it, then add in a little more.” I did, and he was right.
My daddy, like so many men of his generation, was very handy with a barbecue grill, a hibachi, and a smoker. Besides that, he made incredible scrambled eggs, (which is not easy), amazing pound cake, and even vichyssoise. The vichyssoise was an all day production, involved lots of steps, a huge mess in the kitchen, and frankly, did not seem worth it to me. One year, long after my parents' divorce and his move to San Antonio, he smoked a goose for Christmas dinner. It was his first and only attempt, but delicious.
Our household was a house divided. This division did not result in my parents splitting up, (there were other issues that led to the demise of their marriage), but it was a difference in backgrounds that I experienced firsthand when I married Ed. I am referring to the friction which arises between a husband and wife when one spouse was raised in a potato family, and the other descended from rice people.
My father grew up eating mashed potatoes as a side dish to leg-of- lamb, roasted chicken, and ham. Occasionally, baked potatoes or scalloped potatoes made an appearance at Nanny’s dining room table in San Antonio. I never recall a grain of rice accompanying the meat, fresh vegetables and homemade rolls for Sunday dinner or any other time. Potatoes were always present, no exceptions. At Gaga and Tutu’s dining table in Victoria the starch was, with one exception, rice.
The exception was, if steaks were being grilled outside by my daddy and/ or my uncles. In that case, we would have potatoes, roasted in their skins, wrapped in aluminum foil on the same grill. There were bowls of crumbled bacon, grated cheddar, sour cream, and butter to dress that amazingly savory potato that burned my fingers as I cut it open and squeezed to make it “fluff- up” before I added butter and bacon. We also had fresh corn, roasted in aluminum foil just like the potatoes. A big, tossed salad of iceberg lettuce, and farm- fresh tomatoes, radishes and carrots dressed with Green Goddess salad dressing. One of the grownups said a blessing before we scattered around picnic tables, card tables, and sitting on the porch steps to enjoy a feast! Slices of ice cold watermelon for dessert finished the evening’s repast, and then the children chased fireflies, played hide- and- seek, freeze tag, and reveled in time with three generations present.
Ed came from potato people. When we married, the only rice he had eaten, on rare occasions, was Minute Rice. I do not even pretend to know what Minute Rice actually is, but it offends my delicate rice sensibilities more than I have enough words or time to express. It was not difficult to “turn” Ed once he had tasted actual rice, so we have rocked along for 47 years eating all kinds of rice, including wild rice, pecan rice, brown rice, Mexican rice, risotto, and Rice- a- Roni, ( The San Francisco Treat, as the jingle described it). We are very broad- minded and ecumenical concerning rice. Yes, we also have potatoes. Pot roast demands potatoes as do a host of other dishes.
But whether your heritage is potato or rice, you have been influenced by your experiences with food. There is so much gratitude in my heart for the memories I have of the time spent around the table with family and friends. Sharing meals is a communion that Is irreplaceable, and I am missing it right now. The joy and spontaneity of conversation shared as food is passed cannot be replaced by any other social activity. From the preparation in the kitchen, crowded with everyone helping chop, stir, and season; to setting the table, to holding hands for the blessing, there is room for everyone, there is purpose for everyone, every single person has a job and a place. We squeeze in extra chairs at corners, we make room for all. I crave these rituals and the closeness of the people sitting on either side of me and across the table. There are no boundaries at the table. Young, old, and in between, we are sharing in the most basic and elemental way- nourishing body and spirit together.
My hope and prayer for everyone is to stay safe, to play outside, and to have the incredible opportunity to receive the vaccine. Ed and I are so grateful that we have had those shots! Please show kindness and compassion by wearing masks at the grocery store, or wherever your errands take you. Let’s get back to the table.
Love and Grace,
Paige
