Remember Me to One Who Lives There

Here, in this fond record, I triangulate food, writing, and remembering. But for most of my life, I’ve been a terrible keeper of memories. I’m the mom who forgets her camera. My photo album is years out of date. I can’t even recall my own office number. (But really, when do I need to call myself?) To tell the truth, I’ve misplaced whole years of my life. It’s a survival technique—a selective memory is cheaper than Prozac. And like everyone, I keep running lists—outsourcing my memory to the computer or notepad. Surprisingly, the extended or prosthetic memory is not a modern phenomenon. What else were those cave drawings for? When Hamlet’s dad says, “Remember me,” his son equates the process with making inscriptions in an erasable Renaissance writing tablet.

I identify with my son’s Aspergian memory. In third grade the students began practicing for the NC fourth grade writing test. DS had to write personal narratives under pressure. A typical prompt for the practice tests: “Write about at time you were sad.” (The underlying assumptions were that we should write about what we know and that kids know their feelings). DS has an endless capacity to catalog facts and concepts (go ahead, ask him what kind of guitar Randy Rhoads played), but conjuring up an experience by its emotional label is a challenge. And why should feelings function as our memory’s primary organizing principle? To prepare for the test (and for life), we kept a memory journal, writing down events, and then listing the possible emotions we could attach to them. When he won tickets to a Durham Bulls Game and competed in a three-legged race on the field, we penned the story and then listed the emotions: happy, excited, proud, and confident. Writing the experience down, and giving it a narrative arc, turned it into a memory.

It’s nothing new to say that food helps to create and prompt memories. Our senses generate memories that our thinking minds forget. And while the impressions in our brains fade and warp, the written memory achieves a form and structure. Here is my memory journal, contoured to fit recipes but jagged as cognition itself.

So why am I writing about memories? Because I put rosemary on our pizza. In Hamlet’s day, rosemary commemorated the dead, comforted the heart, and helped the memory. As mad Ophelia says, "There's rosemary, that's for remembrance."

But as I always say, forgetting can also keep you sane.

This recipe, of course, invokes Italy, but mostly it calls up a mental picture of DS and DD hand-in-hand, walking up the hill of our front yard to pick sprigs of rosemary from the rosemary bush. It’s my memory, but by recording it here, I hope it will be their memory, too.

Pizza with potatoes, mozzarella, rosemary, thyme, and tomatoes (adapted from Jamie’s Italy)

Use a pizza stone. Set oven to highest setting (550 degrees on mine).

Pizza Dough: Combine 3 cups of flour and a teaspoon of salt. Put in food processor on dough setting. Combine 1 and 1/3 cups of warm water with a package of yeast. Add to flour mixture. Mix until the dough looks elastic (about 3 minutes). Place dough in a well-oiled bowl and cover. Let dough rise for at least an hour.

Tomato Sauce: Sauté gently a finely sliced clove of garlic in olive oil. Add a small bunch of fresh basil, 1 14 oz. can of good quality plum tomatoes, sea salt, pepper, and a little sugar. Cook gently for 20 minutes, mashing the tomatoes until smooth.

Pizza:

6 Tablespoons of tomato sauce

4 cooked new potatoes

A small handful of fresh rosemary leaves

1 teaspoon of thyme leaves

Extra virgin olive oil

Lemon juice

Sea salt and freshly ground pepper

3 oz. of mozzarella

When the pizza dough is ready, divide it into two balls (freeze one). Put some corn meal on your pizza peel, then pat out the dough into a circle and place it on the peel. Brush some olive oil on the edges. Smear the tomato sauce evenly over the pizza base. Slice the potatoes into ¼ inch thick slices and toss in a bowl with rosemary, thyme, olive oil, a squeeze of lemon, and some salt and pepper. Scatter over the pizza base and put small torn-up pieces of mozzarella in the gaps. Cook for 7-10 minutes.

Butterflies vs. Butter Pears

What looked like fantastic autumnal shading was actually a cluster of pulsing wings. It was a trick of the eye. They were insects. Glorious black and orange insects—the colors of Halloween— and they had blanketed our community. I was 10 years old when I witnessed the Monarch Butterflies descending on Pacific Grove, California. Every fall, hoards of them travel 2,500 miles to winter in the coastal town. School age kids don costumes to celebrate—as if competing with nature’s blazing show—and march in the annual Butterfly parade. Indeed, we referred to our town as the “butterfly capital of the world” (although there’s a town in Florida that holds a prior claim).

We were, of course, competing with many other self-proclaimed capitals in California. Most are food-oriented—the garlic, citrus, blackberry, strawberry, date, and raisin “capitals of the world” dot the Golden State. We were well aware that Castroville, the artichoke capital, was just down the road. I was enchanted by the Butterflies—they gave Pacific Grove a fairy-tale quality. But butterflies aren’t food—no matter what they’re name implies. If I had been tempted by these other town festivals, I like to think I’d remain loyal to the Monarchs.

Unless, of course, we’re talking Fallbrook, California! Fallbrook would have to outstrip them all. For Fallbrook, my friends, is the Avocado capital of the world.

Ah, the avocado. Butter pear, alligator pear, love fruit, call it what you like. It is unique in flavor, texture, look, and possibilities.

I had a hard time when I was pregnant with DD—only bland, salty white foods would stay down. But when I entered the second trimester, the nausea passed and the cravings hit. Avocados were all I wanted. I ate them every single day. I’m surprised DD didn’t enter the world green. I love avocados on sandwiches (mmm BLATs), in salads, alone, and mashed up in the most perfect dish of all—guacamole.

With my Texas and California background, you can bet I’ve eaten my share of guacamole. Vats of it. Back in the 70s, my mom used to make it with lemon juice, garlic, and sour cream (and she’d even use mayo in a pinch). (Avocado green was the dominant theme of our living space, too--from the paint on the walls to the avocado plants my mother diligently nurtured from the leftover pits).

My own guacamole recipe has evolved over years:

Guacamole

(These measurements are guesses, since I usually eye-ball it)

2 ripe Haas Avocados

1/4 cup of chopped red onion

Juice from half (or whole) lime

1/4 cup of chopped cilantro

2 Tablespoons of homemade salsa

(or 2 teaspoons of finely chopped jalapeno and ¼ Cup of diced tomato)

sea salt and freshly ground pepper to taste

Ole, Guacamole!

Friends . . . Thick as Chowder?

It took some effort and forgiveness, but I’ve finally renewed an old friendship. I became acquainted with Eating Well in the early 1990s when I was in graduate school. As we got to know each other, I found a lot of qualities I appreciated. EW’s recipes demonstrated a healthy approach without sacrificing taste. Not only that, EW could successfully make over problem recipes, providing lighter versions of fried chicken and chocolate cake.

To EW’s enormous credit,I never developed the same closeness with Cooking Light. Of course it’s easy to lose patience when a relationship feels one-sided. How many times did I pore over a brand new Cooking Light, looking for compatibility, eager to accommodate, only to be disappointed by the sheer lack of appealing food?

EW followed me to my first job and helped me through my first pregnancy. Indeed, our friendship felt destined when I had the good fortune to meet someone who had worked in the magazine’s test kitchen in Vermont. Her experience ratified my sense that this was a special magazine—a rare and excellent companion. And then, in 1999, EW up and disappeared. Just like that, the magazine had folded.

And what about me (I’m sure you’re asking yourself)? How was I affected by this desertion? How did I handle abandonment? Well it wasn’t easy. There I was, all alone, trying to shed the pregnancy weight of my first born. Friendless, hungry, and without inspiration. Sure, I managed. But I held a bit of a grudge.

Observing my despair, DH made valiant efforts to revive my faith and spirits. He scoured the internet and ordered back issues of the magazine off of E-bay, just to cheer me up. But the relationship felt forced. The nutritional information was out-of-date. I had, admittedly, grown weary of using apple-sauce as a fat substitute.

In 2002, I started to see EW on the newsstands again. Looking sharp, showing off some new photography skills, touting good carbs and good fats, and initiating friendships with whomever looked its way. I averted my eyes and flipped through Food and Wine. But then, a couple years later, a mutual friend tried to patch things up. This was someone whom I had introduced to the Eating Well magazine back in its early days. Now he had given me a copy of The Essential Eating Well Cookbook. Book in hand, the memories came flooding back. EW and I had been friends for a reason. We liked each other. It was time to let go of past grievances.

I’m happy to announce that I’ve renewed my subscription.

The other night we ate EW’s healthy rendering of New England Clam Chowder. The recipe’s a breeze, especially if you use canned clams (which I think are delicious). I’m no chowder expert. (I have had the classic stuff at Lenny’s Seafood in Branford Connecticut and at the Union Oyster House in Boston, so I’m not hopeless, but my primary familiarity with this soup came from heating up Campbell’s version as kid). Don’t neglect to put the scallions on top—they add the perfect cool crunch to the soup’s creamy texture.

New England Clam Chowder

2 teaspoons of canola oil

4 slices of bacon, chopped

1 medium onion, chopped

2 stalks of celery, chopped

2 teaspoons chopped fresh thyme

1 medium red potato, diced

1 8 oz. bottle of clam juice

1 bay leaf

3 cups of low-fat milk

½ cup heavy cream

1/3 cup of flour

¾ teaspoon salt

12 oz of fresh clam strips chopped, or 3 6 oz cans of chopped baby clams, rinsed

2 scallions, thinly sliced

Heat oil in large saucepan over medium heat. Add bacon and cook until crispy. Transfer half the bacon to a paper towel lined plate. Add onion, celery, and thyme to the pan; cook, stirring, until beginning ot soften, about 2 minutes. Add potato, clam juice and bay leaf. Bring to a simmer, cover and cook until vegetables are tender, 8-10 minutes. Whisk milk, cream, flour, and salt in a bowl. Add to pan and return to simmer, stirring over medium-high heat. Cook, stirring, until thickened, about 2 minutes. Add clams and cook about 3 minutes more, stirring occasionally. Discard bay leaf. Ladle in bowls and top with bacon and scallions. 253 calories per cup; 13 grams fat (6 sat, 4 mono), 16 grams of protein.

Pici Keen

Our view from the restaurant in Monteciello

The view from our table on the restaurant terrace was breathtaking. The air in Monteciello was pleasingly cool. The house red wine was more than drinkable. The kids were quiet and complacent, happily munching on bread and coloring pictures. We all shared that giddy feeling of triumph that accompanies a welcome rest and good food after a day of sightseeing.

But there was one hitch in my perfect evening. I had ordered the wrong dish. Not that my meal was bad. Quite honestly, I don’t remember what was on my plate. Instead, my recollection of that lovely evening is taken up almost entirely with intense feelings of covetousness. I wanted the bowl of food across the table. Meanwhile, my friend S was blissfully chowing down. He had cunningly ordered the house specialty: Pici in a pork and white bean sauce. And I was kicking myself.

Oh, S had been generous. He had given us all tasting bites of his repast. But tasting time was over. And it wouldn’t be right to ask for another bite. Instead, I had to watch, in pain, as the last morsel was devoured right in front of me.

In fact, I had to accept a more momentous possibility: I may have just had my last bite of Pici ever. As I pouted and picked at my own Tuscan fare, I envisioned the end of our Italy trip. We’d soon be back in the States. Our holiday would end. And where would I find my beloved Pici?

Pici is similar to spaghetti, but it’s hand-rolled, so it comes out a little thicker and more uneven. It has a rustic mouth-feel, and it holds sauces well (it’s often served with boar ragù). Pici’s only available in the towns south of Sienna, such as Montepulciano, Montalcino , and where we were, Monteciello. It’s basically Tuscan comfort food.

When I discovered a recipe for Pici in Jamie’s Italy, I prepared myself to meet the challenges. Sure I’d feel arthritic after a couple hours of repetitive rolling. Sure, we wouldn’t eat until 9:30 PM. Sure, I’d have to face the inevitable question: “Is Pici really worth it?”

Oh Yeah, Baby! If I had my little way, I'd eat Pici every day.

Pici con Ragù

(adapted from Jamie’s Italy)

1 lb. finely ground semolina flour

approximately 1 cup water

For the sauce:

Olive oil

1 red onion

2 cloves of garlic

3 bay leaves

A sprig of fresh rosemary

1 lb. 2 oz. of ground beef or veal (I used ground turkey)

2 28 oz. cans of good quality plum tomatoes

Sea salt and freshly ground pepper

Freshly grated Parmesan cheese

Jamie instructs you to knead the dough, but I put the flour into the food processor on the dough setting, and then added the water slowly. It took about 7 minutes to get it smooth and velvety. Wrap it in plastic wrap and put it in the fridge until you’re ready to roll.

Jamie also gives advice on how to roll the dough with a wooden skewer, so it creates a hollow tube, but I simplified things and simply rolled out noodles. Begin with an orange-sized ball (about one third of the dough). On a very lightly floured surface, roll this ball into a long sausage shape, about 1 inch thick. Break it into 1 ¼ inch pieces so you have lots of little nuggets of dough. Using your finger tips roll each piece of dough until it’s thinner than a cigarette. Lay all your pici on a tray, dusted with semolina flour. Don’t let the strands touch, or they’ll stick together. Let them dry out slightly before cooking.

For the sauce, peel and chop the onion and garlic. Heat up a large sauce pan, add olive oil, and cook the onion and garlic slowly for about 10 minutes, until soft and slightly colored. Add the bay leaves, the whole sprig of rosemary, the ground meat, and the tomatoes. Stir well and bring to a boil. Turn down the heat and simmer gently for 2 hours with the lid on the pan. (I actually removed the lid for the last half hour to let the sauce thicken up a bit). Season well with salt and pepper. Remove the bay leaves and the rosemary sprig before serving.

Cook the pici in a pot of boiling salted water for 10 minutes, or until al dente. (Jamie suggests 10-15 minutes, but 10 minutes worked perfectly for me). Drain the pici and stir in the sauce. Add a splash of olive oil. Serve with lots of freshly grated Parmesan.

Holy Olives, Batman!

Since my mom was single until I turned 7, she would drag me along on her social engagements. Engagement is too formal a word; they were gatherings at someone’s “pad.” Candles were lit, incense was burned, smoke inhaled. Inevitably there’d be three or four scraggly kids, who’d divine the location of the television in a back room, where we’d watch Creature Feature late into the night. Tables in the living room were laden with cheap, filling food, and all the groovy sorts sat on the floor, on pillows, plates in lap. On one such occasion my mom hosted a crowd with a big pot of split pea soup, salad, garlic bread, and jugs of Gallo wine.

These pot lucks almost always included a bowl of canned, pitted California black olives. Hmmm. My favorite. I became notorious for filling half my plate with these jet jewels. I had to have at least enough to tip each finger. “Look, scary black claws!” I chortled, goofily scratching the air like Cat-Woman. “Hmm. Yummy black claws!” I thought, as I popped them in my mouth one-by-one. Salty, slightly bitter, a little rubbery—nasty to many, but delightful to me. These bead-like nibbles constituted my humble introduction to the Olive.

Forget ambrosia, people. True Olives are the food of the gods. Just look at the Mediterranean diet.

I’ve come a long way from my canned olive days, sampling widely in the varieties available from Calamata to Sicilian to Picholine to gorgonzola-stuffed. I drink martinis solely for the olives. Extra please. I’m the only one in the family who loves them. I’m waiting patiently for DH to acquire the taste. And DS’s response to the dry-cured olives I ate this afternoon? “Creepy.” (I have to confess, they were a little creepy. Closer to what Cat-Woman would look like today.)

A favorite way to serve olives? On a Salade Niçoise. With niçoise olives, bien sur. I enjoy Salade Niçoise many ways—authentically with oily canned tuna and anchovies—or the bastardized West Coast version—with fresh tuna. As a tribute to those Mission black olives, let’s put some flowers in our hair, and go the Cali-forn-i-ay way.

Salade Niçoise with Fresh Grilled Tuna

Serves 2 large entrees

10 small red potatoes

2 Fresh eggs, hard-boiled

¾ pound Green beans, snapped with strings removed

Handful of niçoise olives

Mixed Greens, enough for two large plates

Handful of Tarragon chopped

10-12 oz Tuna Steak

Place eggs in pot with enough water to rise an inch above the eggs. Bring to boil, remove from heat, and let sit covered for 17 minutes. Plunge eggs in cold ice water when timer rings; crack and peel. Boil potatoes in well salted water until they are tender but not overcooked (test with a fork). Steam green beans, then plunge in cold water. Grill fish so that it remains pink inside—the time will vary depending on the thickness of the steak, but three minutes a side is usually enough. Mix up vinaigrette (recipe below). Divide the mixed greens and tarragon onto two plates. Slice potatoes and eggs, and place around edges of the greens. Sprinkle olives. Place green beans in the middle. Dress salad. Place sliced tuna on top of the green beans. Serve with crusty French bread.

Vinagrette:

2 tablespoons white vinegar

1 tablespoon Dijon-style mustard

6 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil

2 cloves garlic, minced

1 shallot minced

Sea salt and ground black pepper to taste

Coming of Age Somewhere

I’ve always been a cultural anthropologist in my own land.

If you consider the Lone Star State another country (and some do), then my mom and I were expatriates in San Francisco when I was little. We arrived in the fall of ’67 for the flower power, and we migrated back to Texas every summer to see relatives. My kin in east Texas (on my estranged father’s side) would call me a “Yankee.” At age 6, I’d argue, “How can I be a Yankee? California’s not in the northeast!” But my uncles and aunts would just laugh knowingly. Apparently, logic does not determine regional identity. As the family chronicles tell it, I later marched onto the front porch where folks had gathered and asked: “Are we just going to sit around all day like we’re on Hee Haw?” (In subsequent years, I aimed to blend in a bit more, having learned that it’s best for the objective observer to refrain from judgment or direct conflict.) But what a funny little Yankee girl!* The other oft-told detail of that visit was how much fried chicken I ate at supper.

In my first seven years of schooling, I went to seven different schools. Each relocation demanded that I learn the strange tribal customs of my new surroundings. In sixth grade we moved to the East Coast, where I was informed by one clan chief, a chubby girl named Fiona, that the natives didn’t wear skirts at Cookiecutter Elementary. I smiled and pulled up my knee socks.

Going to high school outside of D.C. meant that when I went to college in the New York area, I was classified a southerner. Then when I transferred to a southern university, I turned out to be a northerner. Becoming an academic solidified my identity as a permanent guest, studying and imitating the indigenous habits with a clinical but loving eye.

North Carolina is where I’ve lived the longest; however, by marrying a man born and bred in Durham, a short visit with my in-laws can produce my own mild form of double-consciousness. Although I’ve been a member of this family by marriage for almost twenty years, they still see me as an unusual creature with odd eating practices. (Despite being told numerous times that I didn’t eat red meat, my [then future] mother-in-law made steak the main entrée at our wedding rehearsal dinner).

The road to embracing a regional identity is long. I’m not a huge fan of North Carolina BBQ (I know . . . blasphemy), and I could easily live without iced tea. But there is one kind of NC cuisine that I’ve adopted as my own. Calabash seafood. I’m not talking about the generic fish camp type restaurants, where they reel you in and stuff you with a pile of fried critters, because those places vary in quality and freshness. (They are, however, a goldmine for making field observations of the local residents).

I am talking specifically about Calabash-style seafood, only available in Calabash, North Carolina. And according to my in-laws, only available at “The Seafood Hut”—a tiny, unassuming building that packs ‘em in and moves ‘em out. Get there early and get in line. Once you’re sitting at your coveted table in the conditioned air, be ready to place your order: hush puppies, shrimp, deviled crab, fried flounder. By emulating the instinctive routine of my father-in-law, I know to choose the shrimp and oyster combo. It sometimes feels natural—innate, even. But as a perpetual stranger in a strange land, I’m deeply amused when I ascertain that no one can define “calabash-style” beyond insisting that you can only find it in Calabash.

So here’s my outsider’s take on frying up some seafood. This dish is from Nigella Lawson’s How to Eat. (How appropriate that a Brit provides me with a home-cookin’ recipe). She calls them shrimp cakes, but they’ll puff up like fritters, resembling New Orleans' shrimp beignets. Serve them with a fresh spinach salad and the plate will lose all regional provenance. Just like me.

Fried Shrimp Cakes
½ pound shrimp, minced
1 garlic clove, minced
2 scallions, minced
½ teaspoon salt
½ Cup flour
4 teaspoons sherry
olive oil
cilantro
limes
Process the shrimp, garlic, scallions, salt, flour, and sherry with enough water to make a thick batter. Let stand in refrigerator for an hour, covered. Fry in oil in 2 inches of oil, teaspoon at a time, for one minute a side. Drain on paper towels. Sprinkle fresh cilantro, and at the table, squeeze some fresh lime juice on the cakes.

*DS insists I mention that he's the only true Yankee in the family since he was born in Connecticut.

Classy Confections

Let Me Eat Cake

“Dost thou think, because thou art virtuous, there shall be no more cakes and ale?” --Sir Toby Belch

“If eating cake is wrong, I don't want to be right.” --Lorelai Gilmore

What has substance? How do we distinguish the trivial from the weighty? Can The Gilmore Girls convey the same message as Shakespeare? Despite obvious differences in girth and gender, Lorelai and Sir Toby share a perspective not just on the essential worth of cake but also on the implicit immorality of such sweet indulgences. They both insist, with levity, that cake trumps virtue.

More perversely, they’ve inspired me to consider the character of cake.

Here are our heroines . . . Ooey gooey Betty Crocker is the floozy of the bunch, pleasing the masses without shame. Nutty, rich Carrot cake may look like a boho hippie, but she’s got solid values, showing she’s prepared to be more than a mere dessert. Chocolate Cake is best all-around, and she’s great with kids. The southern belle is Red Velvet cake, so sweet and bold, you suspect her sincerity, but she still captures hearts. Pound cake knows who she is, and she knows how to accessorize.

These yellow treasures were made for a Labor Day picnic. Usually I bake to please the kids, but I chose this recipe to say “goodbye summer.” As DD noted, they looked and tasted like lemonade. But as light and airy as they were, they also had character and substance. We know from Proust that baked goods can accomplish a lot, and these cupcakes managed to feel feathery and solid, ephemeral and dense, summery and everyday. They were delicately sweet and citrusy, with subtle buttermilk undertones.

This cupcake's a midwestern farm girl on her first trip to Paris.

Lemon Buttermilk Cake, adapted from Dorie Greenspan’s Perfect Party Cake

2 ¼ Cups Cake Flour
1 Tablespoon baking powder
½ teaspoon salt
1 ¼ Cups whole buttermilk
4 large egg whites
1 ½ Cups sugar
2 teaspoons grated lemon zest
1 stick of unsalted butter at room temperature
½ teaspoon pure vanilla extract

Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Butter muffin tins. Sift together flour, baking powder, and salt. Whisk together the buttermilk and egg whites in a medium bowl. Put the sugar and lemon zest in a mixer bowl and rub them together with your fingers until the sugar is moist and fragrant. Add the butter and whisk with a hand mixer for 3 minutes, until the butter and sugar are very light. Beat in the extract, then add one third of the flour mixture, still beating on medium speed. Beat in half of the buttermilk-egg mixture, then best in half of the remaining dry ingredients until incorporated. Add the rest of the buttermilk and eggs beating until the batter is homogeneous, then add the last of the dry ingredients. Finally give the batter a good 2 minute beating to ensure that it thoroughly mixed and well aerated. Bake for 25 minutes, until cakes are well risen and springy to the touch. A toothpick in the center should come out clean.

Lemon Cream Cheese Frosting

¼ Cup butter (room temperature)
1 8 oz package of cream cheese
1 teaspoon of fresh lemon juice
1 teaspoon of lemon zest
2 ½ Cups of powdered sugar
Beat cream cheese and butter together. Add lemon juice and lemon zest. Slowly add sugar, and continue to mix to right consistency.