Eat on a door
“There are only ten minutes in the life of a pear when it is perfect to eat.” -Ralph Waldo Emerson
If every menu is an exercise in rhetoric, what would I choose for my last meal on earth?
As I began my list, I consulted with Emma and Tess. Emma’s list was given without hesitation—hot “bagele” from Temple Mount in Jerusalem topped with za’atar, Japanese onigiri, rice and palak paneer from Heritage India Restaurant on Wisconsin Avenue in Washington, D.C., thin mint ice cream with bits of Girl Scout cookies in it, and helium balloons. One shouldn’t ask what one doesn’t want to hear. Tess’ list was shorter: skebbies, noodles, and paint. There is an inorganic theme in my house, I can see. [Of course, I used to sneak bites from those luscious Elmer’s School Paste jars with the plastic, pliable spreaders built into the lid. Mrs. Goins suspected as much, but I stared her down and never was a word mentioned.]
John’s list included a hot knish that steams in the cold air of Montreal as you bite into it on the street, along with everything that was cooked in the first Godfather movie (which of course, led me to think about food in movies which –you can see this coming, can’t you?—led me to remember the beautiful Johnny Depp in Chocolat, but I digress).
As I pondered my own list, whole meals were conjured up in my mind, each bringing with it a clear picture of a place and a person—a restaurant, a table, a cloth, a companion, a time, a moment, an emotion at the occasion. So the food is meaningful not only as sustenance, but as sense-memory, touchstone for a deeper joy or pain. That list includes Mama’s Brownstone Front Cake, Daddy’s blackberry cobbler and pancakes and hot cornbread made in an iron skillet and crumbled into a glass of milk, soothing vegetarian fesenjan, that succulent pomegranate and walnut stew (hold the chicken) at a Persian restaurant long gone from Washington, D.C., Richard and Susan’s tiny orange pumpkins stuffed and baked in Wellington, New Zealand, every single thing that Chagit cooked for us in Israel, Nana’s pierogies fried in a pound of butter at midnight every time we arrived at her house for Thanksgiving, spring onions pulled from the earth in Grandma and Grandpa’s garden and washed at the shed spigot before pouring salt on them, a seasoning secretly taken from the kitchen cupboard. Even just drinking cold, cold water from the metal spigot. Each to be savored.
Tear arugula into a shallow platter. Top it with big, fresh, sturdy raspberries and splash balsamic vinegar on it. Eat, eat.
Sauces and creams and 25-ingredient recipes that make my head ache and force me to wear bifocals are too tiring for me now. It’s just not necessary anymore, all that measuring and combining and mixing and folding and separating. No, I need one food object at a time, each leaf washed like I was bathing my baby, lifted gently into a favorite bowl. Nutty and earthy arugula. Meditative leaf-washing. Asparagus roasted, pumpkin roasted, butternut squash roasted, yellow squash grilled on an outdoor grill, onion and potatoes in foil tucked into hot coals. Perhaps the Warden is right in setting a simple limit for that meal.
I was in Seattle in July and on Sunday morning, we went to the West Seattle Farmer’s Market. I want to live there. In the market. The sweet French man who makes cheese, all the flowers, the kids listening to music with swim goggles on, the evil European pastries. But it was the line for peaches that caught my attention. “Washington peaches today,” Lora explained. “People wait all year for this day.” And the line was impressive. There were other peaches to be had all over the market—but not Washington peaches, the kind that you need to eat in the shower, the kind that merit their own “don’t touch” sign. And so we waited. Some things you need to eat when the time is right. Know the time and wait for it. Enjoy the anticipation.
When you want tortillas, go to Albuquerque and find M&J’s Sanitary Tortilla Factory. If it has closed, sit in protest at its former site. If you want to eat hot bagele, get thee to Israel.
To pick rambutan and eat them fresh or to eat hoppers, go to Pita Kotte, Sri Lanka. For the best chopped salad in the world, go to the Bottle Restaurant in Cara Lodge at 294 Quamina Street in Georgetown, Guyana. What? You’re not into flying? Then, better yet, meet a farmer in your town, a real one, one who grows real vegetables and knows them. Eat food from the earth, not from a semi-tractor trailer truck. Support farmers and chefs and bakers in your own town; eat food that comes from no more than 100 miles away. Perhaps the Warden is right in insisting on this condition—can you do it?
If the truth were told, I married my husband in large part because he chopped up one half of a red pepper into such tiny squares as he prepared the first meal he cooked for me that I couldn’t help but swoon. Sure, there were other reasons I married him—the whole Mr Brilliant thing and all—but that one sticks in my mind—his tiny kitchen on Mintwood Place, using only half of the red pepper; the economy of scale impressed me. I was smitten by the sheer, unspeakable beauty of that small crisp red confetti.
Eat slowly so your mouth has time to say thank you
Simply put, fast food is the Scourge of the Universe.
My friends, David and Lora, live in a beautiful apartment in Seattle in which a wonderful little table serves as our gathering spot for Lora’s homemade granola in the mornings. When more than four people come together there, the table can’t sustain the crowd. Does that mean that they don’t invite more than four at a time? Shut up. No, the Sunday when Sam and Mary came over, I looked up from reading the paper to see David disassembling the bedroom door with a screwdriver. Before I could ask, it was off its hinges and placed on tables put sideways on the floor. And a most magnificent table was born; the place nearest the doorknob was, of course, the place of honor.
What if the table was big enough for everyone?
Okay. In the spirit of transparency, let me be honest: I can’t complete this list without including the foods that I sneak: homemade macaroni and cheese with a crunchy wheat germ top, Kozy Shack Rice Pudding (trust me, it’ll win any taste test, won’t it Bradley?), Raspberry Frosted Pop Tarts (there simply is no explaining it, some deep-seated psychological thing, no doubt). Girl Scout Thin Mint Cookies, fresh coconut ice cream. Well, that’s enough embarrassment. At least I’ve moved on from Kit Kat bars. And now that I’m in my raw food phase, these too will have to wait.
Tana writes a beautiful blog about farms and the people who commit their lives to them and it was she who “tagged” me for this meme focused on “Five Things to Eat Before You Die.” It provided some real food for thought (he..he). Thanks, Tana!
And so with eating, it is with life. Six rules: Eat simple (Be satisfied. Marvel at simplicity). Eat when the time is right (Know your own season). Eat from the source (Honor what’s near). Eat food cooked with true love (Love is a flavor. Use it). Eat slowly so your mouth has time to say thank you (Take the time). Eat on a door (Include others at your table).
