Sunday, August 17, 2014
Friday, October 5, 2007
Wine
My friend Carolyn tells a charming story about the first time she tasted wine. When she was a young girl her parents would send her to her grandparent's home in Paris every summer. As part of the ritual her grandfather would take a small glass and pour in some wine and mix it with a bit of water. Every meal she drank her petit vin unbeknownst to her parents back in the UK. Carolyn's life has had the panache of being unAmerican and therefore more intriguing and fanciful then my middle class American upbringing.
My first taste of wine was far less intriguing. My parents were not part of the swinging cocktail crowd, although , sometimes I wished when I was younger that they were.They received as a company gift at Christmas time the obligatory bottle of scotch that would go untouched for years. New Years was occasionally toasted with something caled cold duck or Asti Spumante. The wine they would drink was California Chablis. My parents did not travel abroad. My mther feared flying. They did not throw dinner parties and offer mixed drinks while wearing glamorous clothes. In other words, my parents were not the parents of friends who did have parties and played music on the hi-fi while sipping drinks and smoking cigarettes. My parents were straight arrows, purposeful and focused, conscientous and decent.
Drinking a glass of chablis was a big deal for them. The fancy stemmed wine glasses were taken off the top shelf in the kitchen cabinet where they were stored. The evening always started with a shower by my Mother emerging damp and dewy and dabbed with Chanel no.5. The wine was poured and looked to me like refined grapefruit juice, clear pale yellowish pink. I always begged a sip. I was never denied because the evening could only heat up if Lorinda and her brothers were sent to bed.
As a teenager I attended a local prep school, Fryeburg Academy. The students at this school were from around the world but the lambrusco we drank was hardly the penultimate of refinement.The lambrusco was thick and grapey-sweet like an alcoholic Welch's grape juice. We would swig from a communal bottle, staining our teeth and lips. Afterwards we would try to conceal the heavy alcoholic perfume with lots of Bonnie Bell strawberry flavored lip gloss and Wrigley's spearmint gum. Oddly enough I never remember being hung over. Of course, five swigs were enough to make me feel inebriated.
As a young adult, wine was trendy as an aperitif to quaff the thirst and loosen shy tongues at parties. Socially, it put me at ease to order "chardonnay, please" and to hold that stemmed glass as I struggled to define myself as an adult. Sipping wine and became step in the social dance. It was an accoutrement to a social life not a culinary refinement or pleasure.
Drinking fine wine began when my exhusband and I would take trips with friends from graduate school into the Virginia countryside. Tim and Anne, and Evan and I, found small wineries in Virginia, Western Massachusetts and Upstate New York and sipped our way through them all. I recall one weekend in the Blue Ridge mountains where we gorged ourselves on different presentations of smoked trout paired with local wines. The fish was so sweet and the wine piquant. It was a culinary epiphany. We took to bringing a good bottle of wine when we hiked the White Mountains with these same friends. Under moonlit skies, with bone weariness we would lean back sipping wine, feet warmed by the camp fire as our shoulders and far edges were cooled by the cool mountain air.
My introduction to french rose came when I stayed with a friend on the Cap D'Antibes in the south of France. Sitting on the lovely little terrace overlooking the Mediterranean my friend Beverly would serve meals straight from the market in Nice. It might be a little cheese with crusty bread, a bowl of olives and freshly dressed greens or a luscious fresh tomatoes with fresh mozzarella and basil or a slice of charentais melon served with a glass of chilled rose. She was not an accomplished chef but she knew how to eat well. I have never been more relaxed or at ease as I was during that time. The worries of home and future felt far behind me. I still think of this friend whenever I have a glass of rose. I always say a private thank you to her, grateful for that trip and the experience.
Now during the summer I drink Prosecco. When white peaches are ripe I slice the tender pink striped flesh into my wine glass and eat them with an Italian demitasse spoon. I do not treat wine with any pretensions. I allow myself the full experience of taste and sensation, after all, part of the pleasure is the disinhibition and relaxation it offers. So when a day has been stressful, a glass of cabernet and plate of left over pot roast, sitting with my feet up, newspaper in my lap and a remote in hand scanning the news, is just the remedy for forgetting the strife.
My first taste of wine was far less intriguing. My parents were not part of the swinging cocktail crowd, although , sometimes I wished when I was younger that they were.They received as a company gift at Christmas time the obligatory bottle of scotch that would go untouched for years. New Years was occasionally toasted with something caled cold duck or Asti Spumante. The wine they would drink was California Chablis. My parents did not travel abroad. My mther feared flying. They did not throw dinner parties and offer mixed drinks while wearing glamorous clothes. In other words, my parents were not the parents of friends who did have parties and played music on the hi-fi while sipping drinks and smoking cigarettes. My parents were straight arrows, purposeful and focused, conscientous and decent.
Drinking a glass of chablis was a big deal for them. The fancy stemmed wine glasses were taken off the top shelf in the kitchen cabinet where they were stored. The evening always started with a shower by my Mother emerging damp and dewy and dabbed with Chanel no.5. The wine was poured and looked to me like refined grapefruit juice, clear pale yellowish pink. I always begged a sip. I was never denied because the evening could only heat up if Lorinda and her brothers were sent to bed.
As a teenager I attended a local prep school, Fryeburg Academy. The students at this school were from around the world but the lambrusco we drank was hardly the penultimate of refinement.The lambrusco was thick and grapey-sweet like an alcoholic Welch's grape juice. We would swig from a communal bottle, staining our teeth and lips. Afterwards we would try to conceal the heavy alcoholic perfume with lots of Bonnie Bell strawberry flavored lip gloss and Wrigley's spearmint gum. Oddly enough I never remember being hung over. Of course, five swigs were enough to make me feel inebriated.
As a young adult, wine was trendy as an aperitif to quaff the thirst and loosen shy tongues at parties. Socially, it put me at ease to order "chardonnay, please" and to hold that stemmed glass as I struggled to define myself as an adult. Sipping wine and became step in the social dance. It was an accoutrement to a social life not a culinary refinement or pleasure.
Drinking fine wine began when my exhusband and I would take trips with friends from graduate school into the Virginia countryside. Tim and Anne, and Evan and I, found small wineries in Virginia, Western Massachusetts and Upstate New York and sipped our way through them all. I recall one weekend in the Blue Ridge mountains where we gorged ourselves on different presentations of smoked trout paired with local wines. The fish was so sweet and the wine piquant. It was a culinary epiphany. We took to bringing a good bottle of wine when we hiked the White Mountains with these same friends. Under moonlit skies, with bone weariness we would lean back sipping wine, feet warmed by the camp fire as our shoulders and far edges were cooled by the cool mountain air.
My introduction to french rose came when I stayed with a friend on the Cap D'Antibes in the south of France. Sitting on the lovely little terrace overlooking the Mediterranean my friend Beverly would serve meals straight from the market in Nice. It might be a little cheese with crusty bread, a bowl of olives and freshly dressed greens or a luscious fresh tomatoes with fresh mozzarella and basil or a slice of charentais melon served with a glass of chilled rose. She was not an accomplished chef but she knew how to eat well. I have never been more relaxed or at ease as I was during that time. The worries of home and future felt far behind me. I still think of this friend whenever I have a glass of rose. I always say a private thank you to her, grateful for that trip and the experience.
Now during the summer I drink Prosecco. When white peaches are ripe I slice the tender pink striped flesh into my wine glass and eat them with an Italian demitasse spoon. I do not treat wine with any pretensions. I allow myself the full experience of taste and sensation, after all, part of the pleasure is the disinhibition and relaxation it offers. So when a day has been stressful, a glass of cabernet and plate of left over pot roast, sitting with my feet up, newspaper in my lap and a remote in hand scanning the news, is just the remedy for forgetting the strife.
Radishes 2/2007
In the poor soil by the foundation was a garden. This garden had a border between the dusty soil and the tufts of stiff grass made of oversized round rocks. For part of the day this garden was overshadowed by a mock orange shrub. The reddish soil was the product of shale and leftover from the time the cellar for the house had been dug. When watered, this parched pitiful plot was dry within a half hour under the hot summer sun. Its location was on the far corner facing the back yard. This was my garden. I was six years old.
My garden grew Four O'clocks and radishes. The flowers were multicolored with fine contrasting lines like the crazed surface of old paint. When they were finished blooming, they curled up like old wads of wet tissue. The radishes had hairy leaves that made the tops of your hands itch if you rubbed up against them. These were coarse and ugly leaves.
Rarely, did my radishes grow to resemble anything like the beautiful rosy globes you see in the market. These were long and narrow, a skinny root anchored to a leafy top. If they did grow a tuber, it was usually riddled with brown rimmed holes created by microscopic white wroms. I sometimes salvaged these nasty orbs by cutting away the bad bits with a butter knife just to claim I could eat them. These were radishes as hot and bitter as horseradish. These were radishes that set your mouth on fire.
As a child I was obssessed with books that had passgaes of food descriptions. I wanted to be Francis the Badger with bread and jam and hard boiled eggs taken to school with special salt shakers. I read and reread passages of Laur Ingall Wilder's apple pies. I imagined myself at every meal I ever read about. In my tome on French cooking, I read about radish and butter tea sandwiches. I grew radishes to eat tea sandwiches. This was my inspiration and the sole reason my garden would have no vegetable. I thought radishes had panache.
As a child my mother would sliced fresh radishes into salads or would serve them sliced in a bowl with cider vinegar and salt and pepper. I suspect radishes and vinegar were something from my mother's childhood in Maine. It is a homely and quick condiment you might find at a bean supper in a local grange hall. It was farmers' food, a quick pickle.
But I was no farm girl and my garden was in a post world war II housing development in suburban Connecticut. I longed for what my six year old sensibilities thought was sophistication. I wanted that loaf of white bread with a fine crumble sliced thinly, spread with sweet butter and sprinkled with sea salt. This desire represented a simple pleasure beyond satisfying basic hunger.
In college I discovered another type of radish, huge white radishes sliced into stews by vegan and macrobiotic friends. Unlovely boiled lumps that tasted like dirt. The taste of overcooked skunk root could only be washed away with a bottle of wine.
When I discovered Korean food I realized other cultures pickled radishes too, like Maine farmers. I began to understand that radishes in farming cultures are used like seasoning, adding a layer of flavor to meals.
Still I prefer the french method of eating a radish. The contrast of hot and sweet , salty and savory appeals to my sensibilites. It symbolizes my approach to life of wanting to experience it fully, bitter and happy, passionate and humble.
My garden grew Four O'clocks and radishes. The flowers were multicolored with fine contrasting lines like the crazed surface of old paint. When they were finished blooming, they curled up like old wads of wet tissue. The radishes had hairy leaves that made the tops of your hands itch if you rubbed up against them. These were coarse and ugly leaves.
Rarely, did my radishes grow to resemble anything like the beautiful rosy globes you see in the market. These were long and narrow, a skinny root anchored to a leafy top. If they did grow a tuber, it was usually riddled with brown rimmed holes created by microscopic white wroms. I sometimes salvaged these nasty orbs by cutting away the bad bits with a butter knife just to claim I could eat them. These were radishes as hot and bitter as horseradish. These were radishes that set your mouth on fire.
As a child I was obssessed with books that had passgaes of food descriptions. I wanted to be Francis the Badger with bread and jam and hard boiled eggs taken to school with special salt shakers. I read and reread passages of Laur Ingall Wilder's apple pies. I imagined myself at every meal I ever read about. In my tome on French cooking, I read about radish and butter tea sandwiches. I grew radishes to eat tea sandwiches. This was my inspiration and the sole reason my garden would have no vegetable. I thought radishes had panache.
As a child my mother would sliced fresh radishes into salads or would serve them sliced in a bowl with cider vinegar and salt and pepper. I suspect radishes and vinegar were something from my mother's childhood in Maine. It is a homely and quick condiment you might find at a bean supper in a local grange hall. It was farmers' food, a quick pickle.
But I was no farm girl and my garden was in a post world war II housing development in suburban Connecticut. I longed for what my six year old sensibilities thought was sophistication. I wanted that loaf of white bread with a fine crumble sliced thinly, spread with sweet butter and sprinkled with sea salt. This desire represented a simple pleasure beyond satisfying basic hunger.
In college I discovered another type of radish, huge white radishes sliced into stews by vegan and macrobiotic friends. Unlovely boiled lumps that tasted like dirt. The taste of overcooked skunk root could only be washed away with a bottle of wine.
When I discovered Korean food I realized other cultures pickled radishes too, like Maine farmers. I began to understand that radishes in farming cultures are used like seasoning, adding a layer of flavor to meals.
Still I prefer the french method of eating a radish. The contrast of hot and sweet , salty and savory appeals to my sensibilites. It symbolizes my approach to life of wanting to experience it fully, bitter and happy, passionate and humble.
Wednesday, December 27, 2006
The first time I tasted fruitcake
Is fruitcake overrated or underrated? It is hard to recall the first time I tasted fruitcake. It is a holiday food item that is omnipresent, appearing seemingly out of nowhere and disappearing as quickly. Does anyone admit to truly loving it?
There is no nostalgic longing for fruitcake. It is not seen as a comfort food nor as highly refined culinary accomplishment. It is dark and archaic harkening back to a time when people have no family memories. This is medieval food.
Fruitcake is what people may have eaten in the renaissance.Perhaps there is ambivalence about loving fruitcake because it reminds us of our primitive roots. It is the reminder that despite our refinement and sophisticated technological adaptations, that we have barely moved beyond the dirt floors of our ancestors. The first time fruitcake was tasted is probably the same as it tastes now.
Fruitcake is a shock to the palate, sweet and bitter, aromatic and sticky. There is nothing else like it. Every time you taste it the sensation is reborn and becomes new again. This is not a taste the memory lingers over or waxes about poignantly or even craves.Fruitcake is the forest potion of a Germanic witch out of fairy tales, overripe fruit mixed with the groundnuts of the forest floor with a hint of pine resin thrown in. Have you ever eaten an acorn as a child? Well I did and there could be an acorn or two in this cake.
That is not to say I dislike fruitcake. I have acquired a sentimental ritual of eating at least one piece toasted with butter and a cup of strong black tea mixed with milk and sugar. It calms me and centers me in reality during those electrified bright days of the holiday season when we are all on sensory overload. Fruitcake is like the iron weight of food anchoring down the colorful bunch of bobbing balloon of holiday sweets.
There is a new breed of fruitcakes with lighter ingredients intended to enhance the palatability and image of fruitcake.I am not referring to this new species. I am referring to the fruitcake of old, the kind called "large dark fruit cake in the 1959 Farm Journal's Cookbook" or "fruitcake, dark" in the 1950 Mennonite Community Cookbook. These are the cakes heavy with molasses or brown sugar, nuts, the candies fruit or peel of cherries, dates, citron, orange and lemon. These cakes always have nutmeg, cloves and mace the spices used in medieval items used to mask foul food odors. There is one Maine recipe that uses three pounds of raisins. These are cakes that are baked and stored, well wrapped, in cool dark places. These are cakes as one recipe states are "best is made around Thanksgiving and kept in a tight container until Christmas"...
These are the cakes that are so cloyingly sweet and heavy that verge on being repugnant. If there is genetic memory this is the food of ancestral gorgings of frost sweetened withered grapes, browning apples fallen beneath tress and buried nuts. It was the food we ate as primitive people filling ourselves until we were stuffed for the sake of survival. It is food that we are simultaneously drawn to while being repelled.
Perhaps fruitcake is actually the apple of Eden.
There is no nostalgic longing for fruitcake. It is not seen as a comfort food nor as highly refined culinary accomplishment. It is dark and archaic harkening back to a time when people have no family memories. This is medieval food.
Fruitcake is what people may have eaten in the renaissance.Perhaps there is ambivalence about loving fruitcake because it reminds us of our primitive roots. It is the reminder that despite our refinement and sophisticated technological adaptations, that we have barely moved beyond the dirt floors of our ancestors. The first time fruitcake was tasted is probably the same as it tastes now.
Fruitcake is a shock to the palate, sweet and bitter, aromatic and sticky. There is nothing else like it. Every time you taste it the sensation is reborn and becomes new again. This is not a taste the memory lingers over or waxes about poignantly or even craves.Fruitcake is the forest potion of a Germanic witch out of fairy tales, overripe fruit mixed with the groundnuts of the forest floor with a hint of pine resin thrown in. Have you ever eaten an acorn as a child? Well I did and there could be an acorn or two in this cake.
That is not to say I dislike fruitcake. I have acquired a sentimental ritual of eating at least one piece toasted with butter and a cup of strong black tea mixed with milk and sugar. It calms me and centers me in reality during those electrified bright days of the holiday season when we are all on sensory overload. Fruitcake is like the iron weight of food anchoring down the colorful bunch of bobbing balloon of holiday sweets.
There is a new breed of fruitcakes with lighter ingredients intended to enhance the palatability and image of fruitcake.I am not referring to this new species. I am referring to the fruitcake of old, the kind called "large dark fruit cake in the 1959 Farm Journal's Cookbook" or "fruitcake, dark" in the 1950 Mennonite Community Cookbook. These are the cakes heavy with molasses or brown sugar, nuts, the candies fruit or peel of cherries, dates, citron, orange and lemon. These cakes always have nutmeg, cloves and mace the spices used in medieval items used to mask foul food odors. There is one Maine recipe that uses three pounds of raisins. These are cakes that are baked and stored, well wrapped, in cool dark places. These are cakes as one recipe states are "best is made around Thanksgiving and kept in a tight container until Christmas"...
These are the cakes that are so cloyingly sweet and heavy that verge on being repugnant. If there is genetic memory this is the food of ancestral gorgings of frost sweetened withered grapes, browning apples fallen beneath tress and buried nuts. It was the food we ate as primitive people filling ourselves until we were stuffed for the sake of survival. It is food that we are simultaneously drawn to while being repelled.
Perhaps fruitcake is actually the apple of Eden.
Sunday, December 3, 2006
The First Time I tasted Mushrooms
The first time I remember tasting mushrooms was probably when I was eight years old when my mother made Hungarian goulash. I was always an experimental child and I was intrigued with the idea of eating something called goulash. It was a time of life when I had favorite words like, catechism and anthropology. Goulash sounded exotic.
I can still remember the aroma of the beef being seared and yellow onions being added. The kitchen was full of steamy aromas. Beef seemed to have a more distinctive scent when I was younger, wilder and bloodier. When the sour cream was added I asked for a taste. The sweet tang of the soured cream and beef with the aromatic juices of the onion whetted my taste for more.
Then my mother opened a can of button mushrooms. She drained them carefully in the sink before tipping the can into the stew pot. The pot was then left to simmer while she boiled a pot of water for egg noodles.
I recall the moment she sprinkled bright red paprika over the stew before serving. I was entranced with the foreigness of it all. At dinner she spooned the creamy brown goulash ove the egg noodles.I ate a piece of beef, stringy and tender. The sliced mushrooms were slid to the side of the plate before trying them. I pierced one with my fork and nibbled it. I was intrigued with the rubbery texture and the mildly salty yet vaguely tinny taste of the mushroom. I was hooked, mushrooms were my new favorite food.
The first time I tasted a fresh mushroom was when I was around ten.An old family friend of ours, Harold Clapp, was an expert at identifying wild mushrooms. Harold was an interesting man who had done his undergrad at Bates College in Maine and gotten his Masters in French from Harvard. He was a free thinker and an earlier follower of the natural food writer Adele Davis. He believed eggs were poison and canned alot of his own food. He had taught high school math in Hartford, CT and was the only white man in a neighboorhood of color. He only wore grey or khaki utility clothing from Sears and Roebuck having one set for each day of the week. He had white hair and flesh toned plastic rimmed glasses. He was a unique and brilliant individual. He was also the man that taught us all how to play chess on Sunday afternoons.
At the time he took us mushroom hunting he was in his 80's. My family had built a house on a lake in Maine where we vacationed. Harold also had a summer home in Maine that was built around 1920.He was a new widower after the death of his wife, Edith, a devout quaker. After a lifetime of marriage, Edith who wore only black dresses and white caps, had left him alone in his grey and tan.
The day we went foraging there was a group of us ; my mother, brothers, paternal grandmother and myself. Harold carried a basket lined with a linen napkin as we walked through the forest surrounding the lake. With a long stick he prodded through the dead and rotting leaves of the forest floor.The dappled light through the trees leaf canopy made it difficult to pick out the shapes of the mushrooms. The scent of leaf mold and hemlock needles was strong. The sounds of cicadas and blue jays announced the coming end of summer.
Harold knew instinctively where to lift up a clumps of leaves or peek on the other side of a log. Deerflies dodged our heads. Slowly we filled the basket with large tannish orbs, caps that were burnt umber and funghi in the shapes of coral in shades of ivory and orange. He told us the names, in latin, as we went along. Perhaps, more vivdly, I remember him warning us kids which ones were poisonous, so poisonous that touching them would make us deathly ill. These were the big mushrooms out of fairy tales with white stems and orange or red caps with white polka dots. My brothers and I walked in wide circles around them as though being in close proximity would somehow contaminate us.
When we returned home the basket was full.It was late afternoon and the sun now sparkled low on the water and the house was cast in shadows. We children slid out of our clothes and jumped into our swimming suits to take one last swim, to cleanse ourselves of the insect repellant sweat and cool our brown summer flesh.
In the house, Harold instructed my mother to clean the mushrooms carefully because they might contain insects.He left in his tan sedan to return to his cottage because he was a man of habits and rituals. He had promised my grandmother to bring her home and it was time for his dinner.
My mother rinsed the mushrooms of dirt, pine needles and beetles. Slicing a few I remember tiny worms squirming through them. She was at a loss at how to cook them because she had never cooked fresh mushrooms. Remembering canned mushrooms were in water the decision to boil them seemed logical. She also had seen those tiny worms and was worried she had missed a few during cleansing.
The mushrooms were boiled thoroughly and served. They were disintergrated and gluttinous. It was a revolting mass of slime that had a strange taste of dirt. I decided to eat only canned mushrooms.
After a few years, fresh cultivated mushrooms began to appear in the local grocery store. My mother decided to make stuffed mushroom capes for a dinner party and had obtained a recipe. The recipe was little more than the stems chopped and sauteed in butter with minced onions and seasonings and stuffed with bread crumbs back into the caps and baked in the oven. I thought they were nirvana and kept trying to finagle them from the guests. I recall they were succulent and full of mushroom essence enriched with butter.
My mother began to regularly buy mushrooms at my request. I would slice them or dice them and sautee them in butter and serve them on buttered toast for my lunch. I was 12. Years later, I realized I was making duxelles and it was not my invention as I had so smuggly thought.
In my early thirties my then husband and I formed a cooking club with a group of neighborhoood friends. One couple hailed from New York City and were of Sicilian descent. He was a wonderful nurturing chef and she was a driven magazine editor. Another couple had moved to New England from Oregon. Both were very creative. The wife was very experimental with food, sometimes deliciously and sometimes not. She later want to the Culinary Institute of America an became a pastry chef. The last couple had returned recently from the south of France after living and working in hi tech. They were both very conversational and he was an excellent chef who roasted his own coffee. They also had a fully stocked wine cellar.
One dinner we decided to do an Italian theme but there would be no pasta. The techi from France had introduced me to procini mushrooms in a pasta sauce he made at another dinner. I had never cooked them before. Since my husband and I were hosting the party I was to provide the entree. I decided on Risotto con Porcini. With difficulty I located dried porcini. When I cut open the bag I remember an intensely musky perfume that I could taste as dark sweetness on my tongue. It was tantalizing.
To revive the dried mushrooms I soaked them, picking through them and removing any funky or hard bits. Carefully I strained the soaking water and chopped the now spongy mushrooms into a dice. Even the soaking water smelled good.
At dinner the risotto was a huge success, served with finishing touches of cream and parmesan. The softly chewy bit of porcini and creamy rice contrasted beautifully and the table was silent as everyone scraped their shallow bowls clean.
Porcini risotto has become a staple now with a salad and a glass of pinot grigio, but every time I eat it I recall that happy evening when food brought us all together as an adventure and as a comfort.
I can still remember the aroma of the beef being seared and yellow onions being added. The kitchen was full of steamy aromas. Beef seemed to have a more distinctive scent when I was younger, wilder and bloodier. When the sour cream was added I asked for a taste. The sweet tang of the soured cream and beef with the aromatic juices of the onion whetted my taste for more.
Then my mother opened a can of button mushrooms. She drained them carefully in the sink before tipping the can into the stew pot. The pot was then left to simmer while she boiled a pot of water for egg noodles.
I recall the moment she sprinkled bright red paprika over the stew before serving. I was entranced with the foreigness of it all. At dinner she spooned the creamy brown goulash ove the egg noodles.I ate a piece of beef, stringy and tender. The sliced mushrooms were slid to the side of the plate before trying them. I pierced one with my fork and nibbled it. I was intrigued with the rubbery texture and the mildly salty yet vaguely tinny taste of the mushroom. I was hooked, mushrooms were my new favorite food.
The first time I tasted a fresh mushroom was when I was around ten.An old family friend of ours, Harold Clapp, was an expert at identifying wild mushrooms. Harold was an interesting man who had done his undergrad at Bates College in Maine and gotten his Masters in French from Harvard. He was a free thinker and an earlier follower of the natural food writer Adele Davis. He believed eggs were poison and canned alot of his own food. He had taught high school math in Hartford, CT and was the only white man in a neighboorhood of color. He only wore grey or khaki utility clothing from Sears and Roebuck having one set for each day of the week. He had white hair and flesh toned plastic rimmed glasses. He was a unique and brilliant individual. He was also the man that taught us all how to play chess on Sunday afternoons.
At the time he took us mushroom hunting he was in his 80's. My family had built a house on a lake in Maine where we vacationed. Harold also had a summer home in Maine that was built around 1920.He was a new widower after the death of his wife, Edith, a devout quaker. After a lifetime of marriage, Edith who wore only black dresses and white caps, had left him alone in his grey and tan.
The day we went foraging there was a group of us ; my mother, brothers, paternal grandmother and myself. Harold carried a basket lined with a linen napkin as we walked through the forest surrounding the lake. With a long stick he prodded through the dead and rotting leaves of the forest floor.The dappled light through the trees leaf canopy made it difficult to pick out the shapes of the mushrooms. The scent of leaf mold and hemlock needles was strong. The sounds of cicadas and blue jays announced the coming end of summer.
Harold knew instinctively where to lift up a clumps of leaves or peek on the other side of a log. Deerflies dodged our heads. Slowly we filled the basket with large tannish orbs, caps that were burnt umber and funghi in the shapes of coral in shades of ivory and orange. He told us the names, in latin, as we went along. Perhaps, more vivdly, I remember him warning us kids which ones were poisonous, so poisonous that touching them would make us deathly ill. These were the big mushrooms out of fairy tales with white stems and orange or red caps with white polka dots. My brothers and I walked in wide circles around them as though being in close proximity would somehow contaminate us.
When we returned home the basket was full.It was late afternoon and the sun now sparkled low on the water and the house was cast in shadows. We children slid out of our clothes and jumped into our swimming suits to take one last swim, to cleanse ourselves of the insect repellant sweat and cool our brown summer flesh.
In the house, Harold instructed my mother to clean the mushrooms carefully because they might contain insects.He left in his tan sedan to return to his cottage because he was a man of habits and rituals. He had promised my grandmother to bring her home and it was time for his dinner.
My mother rinsed the mushrooms of dirt, pine needles and beetles. Slicing a few I remember tiny worms squirming through them. She was at a loss at how to cook them because she had never cooked fresh mushrooms. Remembering canned mushrooms were in water the decision to boil them seemed logical. She also had seen those tiny worms and was worried she had missed a few during cleansing.
The mushrooms were boiled thoroughly and served. They were disintergrated and gluttinous. It was a revolting mass of slime that had a strange taste of dirt. I decided to eat only canned mushrooms.
After a few years, fresh cultivated mushrooms began to appear in the local grocery store. My mother decided to make stuffed mushroom capes for a dinner party and had obtained a recipe. The recipe was little more than the stems chopped and sauteed in butter with minced onions and seasonings and stuffed with bread crumbs back into the caps and baked in the oven. I thought they were nirvana and kept trying to finagle them from the guests. I recall they were succulent and full of mushroom essence enriched with butter.
My mother began to regularly buy mushrooms at my request. I would slice them or dice them and sautee them in butter and serve them on buttered toast for my lunch. I was 12. Years later, I realized I was making duxelles and it was not my invention as I had so smuggly thought.
In my early thirties my then husband and I formed a cooking club with a group of neighborhoood friends. One couple hailed from New York City and were of Sicilian descent. He was a wonderful nurturing chef and she was a driven magazine editor. Another couple had moved to New England from Oregon. Both were very creative. The wife was very experimental with food, sometimes deliciously and sometimes not. She later want to the Culinary Institute of America an became a pastry chef. The last couple had returned recently from the south of France after living and working in hi tech. They were both very conversational and he was an excellent chef who roasted his own coffee. They also had a fully stocked wine cellar.
One dinner we decided to do an Italian theme but there would be no pasta. The techi from France had introduced me to procini mushrooms in a pasta sauce he made at another dinner. I had never cooked them before. Since my husband and I were hosting the party I was to provide the entree. I decided on Risotto con Porcini. With difficulty I located dried porcini. When I cut open the bag I remember an intensely musky perfume that I could taste as dark sweetness on my tongue. It was tantalizing.
To revive the dried mushrooms I soaked them, picking through them and removing any funky or hard bits. Carefully I strained the soaking water and chopped the now spongy mushrooms into a dice. Even the soaking water smelled good.
At dinner the risotto was a huge success, served with finishing touches of cream and parmesan. The softly chewy bit of porcini and creamy rice contrasted beautifully and the table was silent as everyone scraped their shallow bowls clean.
Porcini risotto has become a staple now with a salad and a glass of pinot grigio, but every time I eat it I recall that happy evening when food brought us all together as an adventure and as a comfort.
Monday, November 27, 2006
The First Time I Tasted Coffee
It was the bitter elixir my father would drink every morning. It was a cup he would mix for my mother upon her awakening. My parents didn’t brew coffee. They drank Nescafe. I remember asking for sips of their watery brew upon occasion to feel adult-like. It was a ritual for my father to rise every morning, put the pot on to boil, get out two cups, measure a teaspoon of granules into each cup, pour in the water, a teaspoon of sugar for him and milk for them both. On the weekends he would serve her in bed. He would then stand before the picture window in the dining room looking out at the lake. In silence he would watch the fog rising off the water and the sun glitter paths down the waves to him.
The silence of the house would rise and fall with our sleeping breaths. On those mornings I woke up early I would catch him in this private meditation. He would smile sheepishly as if I had caught him too idle. When I became an adult I would sometimes join him in silence, but those were very rare occasions.
It was in college I began to drink brewed coffee. It was like being introduced to stout after drinking Budlight. There was an incredibly talented chef in the college cafeteria who made luscious pies, gooey chocolate cakes and chewy nutty bars. After dinner a group of us, freshman from my dorm who had become fast friends, would eat several desserts, light cigarette after cigarette and drink cups of coffee. We talked about everything, meaning professors we liked, somebody’s boyfriend and the next trip to Dartmouth to attend frat parties. We felt free, self assured and a part of something bigger. When I went home at Christmas I went through nicotine withdrawal, suffered headaches and was too big for my Sassoon jeans.
For a wedding gift my first husband and I were given a percolator by my friends of my new in-laws. It looked like a relic from the 1950’s, retro before retro was cool. I had no idea what to do with it. My parents had after all been Nescafe drinkers. My new father-in-law who at the time had a Mr Coffee machine knew what to do and set to work showing me. My new husband didn’t drink coffee. The percolator got used when we had dinner parties. I made do with tea. A few years into the marriage my father-in-law Joel would stay with us after stints in the Peace Corp. Every morning I would wake up with the smell of freshly brewed coffee in the air. I would come into the kitchen and he would always say, “there’s coffee for you Rin”. Those were good memories. Joel and coffee were my morning companions off and on for a few years. He was world weary and sarcastically funny. It was a good way to wake up.
My first cup of real espresso was in Italy. My first marriage was falling apart. I was alone in a marriage with two young sons. A friend invited me to come stay with her at her home in the Cap d’Antibes. She suggested it might refresh me. Selfishly, I went over to see her alone. She brewed coffee every morning in her little French pot on the stove. We ate French bread from the boulangerie. We cooked dinners from the market. Then we went to Milan to visit one of her old lovers. He lived in an apartment on a narrow street with a balcony with doors that opened onto it over the street. We ate wonderful fresh pasta with zucchini and dried hot peppers crumbled into it, drank wine and sipped espresso listening to Pavarotti while the sheer curtains gently billowed in from the doors on the balcony. The room was filled with white light reflecting off the old 15 foot walls, subtly erotic paintings and modern furniture on gleaming wood parquet floors. It was the ultimate seduction of the senses. Soft and sweet ,tangy and cold, bitter and hot, the softness of the breeze, the coolness of the floor and the beginning of a longing for something I couldn’t identify. That evening at a party a lanky Milanese who was trying to converse with me said “Lorinda tell me your sad, sad, story…”.
Exit two husbands and now I make my own coffee. I look forward to the ritual every morning of measuring the grounds, pouring the water and sound of it percolating. After my sons leave for school I sit in silence savoring the steaming bite of the coffee. I have become my father.
The silence of the house would rise and fall with our sleeping breaths. On those mornings I woke up early I would catch him in this private meditation. He would smile sheepishly as if I had caught him too idle. When I became an adult I would sometimes join him in silence, but those were very rare occasions.
It was in college I began to drink brewed coffee. It was like being introduced to stout after drinking Budlight. There was an incredibly talented chef in the college cafeteria who made luscious pies, gooey chocolate cakes and chewy nutty bars. After dinner a group of us, freshman from my dorm who had become fast friends, would eat several desserts, light cigarette after cigarette and drink cups of coffee. We talked about everything, meaning professors we liked, somebody’s boyfriend and the next trip to Dartmouth to attend frat parties. We felt free, self assured and a part of something bigger. When I went home at Christmas I went through nicotine withdrawal, suffered headaches and was too big for my Sassoon jeans.
For a wedding gift my first husband and I were given a percolator by my friends of my new in-laws. It looked like a relic from the 1950’s, retro before retro was cool. I had no idea what to do with it. My parents had after all been Nescafe drinkers. My new father-in-law who at the time had a Mr Coffee machine knew what to do and set to work showing me. My new husband didn’t drink coffee. The percolator got used when we had dinner parties. I made do with tea. A few years into the marriage my father-in-law Joel would stay with us after stints in the Peace Corp. Every morning I would wake up with the smell of freshly brewed coffee in the air. I would come into the kitchen and he would always say, “there’s coffee for you Rin”. Those were good memories. Joel and coffee were my morning companions off and on for a few years. He was world weary and sarcastically funny. It was a good way to wake up.
My first cup of real espresso was in Italy. My first marriage was falling apart. I was alone in a marriage with two young sons. A friend invited me to come stay with her at her home in the Cap d’Antibes. She suggested it might refresh me. Selfishly, I went over to see her alone. She brewed coffee every morning in her little French pot on the stove. We ate French bread from the boulangerie. We cooked dinners from the market. Then we went to Milan to visit one of her old lovers. He lived in an apartment on a narrow street with a balcony with doors that opened onto it over the street. We ate wonderful fresh pasta with zucchini and dried hot peppers crumbled into it, drank wine and sipped espresso listening to Pavarotti while the sheer curtains gently billowed in from the doors on the balcony. The room was filled with white light reflecting off the old 15 foot walls, subtly erotic paintings and modern furniture on gleaming wood parquet floors. It was the ultimate seduction of the senses. Soft and sweet ,tangy and cold, bitter and hot, the softness of the breeze, the coolness of the floor and the beginning of a longing for something I couldn’t identify. That evening at a party a lanky Milanese who was trying to converse with me said “Lorinda tell me your sad, sad, story…”.
Exit two husbands and now I make my own coffee. I look forward to the ritual every morning of measuring the grounds, pouring the water and sound of it percolating. After my sons leave for school I sit in silence savoring the steaming bite of the coffee. I have become my father.
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