In time for the holiday season, I’m reposting a favorite blog, written after my mother died. Five years on, it’s no less true. Read to the bottom for news on sipping and storytelling, and updates on new workshops.
How I Risked a Return to Kitchen
In the months since my mother had died, I avoided cooking.
Not in the traditional how ‘bout a quick fried egg and spinach salad sense, but in the let me find a recipe that I can lose myself for hours sense. I wanted to clutter up my kitchen, carve up root vegetables, throw salt in the air as if I were a fairy godmother granting wishes and immerse myself in the smells of memory.
But the task had eluded me until I read Ruth Reichl’s memoir, Save Me the Plums.
The title, a reference to a William Carlos William poem, had drawn me in. I desired to read something not dementia-related as per my field of endeavor, something not everybody else was reading so I had to wait to borrow it from the library, or something I had to read because I committed to reading it.
Ruth Reichl had been the last editor-in-chief of Gourmet magazine and so much more. In one hand, I held her purple plum book, but with my other hand, my fingers danced across the shelf to the best-selling Tender at the Bone, Ruth’s first memoir about food. One was enough. My bookshelves were brimming and my husband, Mark, had warned me, if I bought any more books, he would buy the same number of earbuds to match my collection.
I carried the book home and dug my teeth into a crunchy apple as if I were sinking them into Ruth’s world, the one she created for the reader as a child who read cookbooks.
As a young girl, I had done the same, though I only had my mother’s cookbooks of Italian recipes to leaf through. However, I would skim the recipes of the Sunday newspapers. And Good Housekeeping magazines. When I was finally on my own, then married in my late twenties, I no longer made Betty Crocker’s Suddenly Salad pasta helpers. I subscribed to Cooks Illustrated instead.
The subscription was my shot to break free from my mother’s Italian cooking. And her attempts to be American—hamburger pie, zucchini pancakes, Jello desserts layered in angel food or pound cake. Even her vegetable lasagna.
I was in full rebellion mode.
It was her blessing—and her curse. But all I did was stray. My own blessing—and curse.
I read through Ruth’s memoir, awed by her challenges in establishing herself in the food world and her experiences in the glorious days of Parisian food scenes and the raucous dinner parties she attended with access to the best chefs in New York City. But the scenes about her mother kept me riveted to the page. When finished, I borrowed Tender at the Bone and Not Becoming My Mother from the library and feverishly read them too.
While her father had introduced her to the world of New York City smells, her mother’s crazy ideas of buying a suckling pig on a whim, making refrigerator stew, or sickening an entire family of in-laws by serving them days-old deli salads surely inspired and prompted young Ruth to pursue her mastery in the kitchen.
Toward the end of Save Me the Plums, Ruth tried to replicate the one dish her mother had always ordered at the now-defunct New York City’s Lüchow’s—apple pancakes. She soothed herself as she peeled apples, finished the task and offered the concoction to her son. Her son took one bite and said, “I’m sure you can figure this out.” Ruth worked at the recipe from memory and began again.
We always cook for our mothers, don’t we?
It was why I stayed away from the kitchen for so long after my mother died. My husband and I had traveled with our adult children from Cincinnati to Austin, so I wouldn’t be reminded of my mother in the kitchen during Christmas. Cooking on vacation was not like cooking in my own kitchen. I could mess up on vacation with a few easy excuses. But cooking in my kitchen, I could not run away from the truth. The truth of my mother’s death.
My mother had never faltered in the kitchen. She never had a choice. She and my father didn’t have the money to waste food or always eat out. It wasn’t what my father expected. It wasn’t what she expected of herself. The kitchen was hers. It was where she went to grieve the death of her baby, her mother, the death of her in-laws, the heartache of children who left home, and those who never returned.
Hers was a kitchen that never stopped. Despite the number of times she pronounced, “The kitchen is closed for the night,” her words were mostly a signal to us to wash our own plates. She would never close the kitchen, until one day she forgot how.
As I had read Ruth’s memoirs, my hip and thighs ached in a pain from the repetitive motions of sitting for long stretches. It was a pain I could not get over easily. But her writing had helped me forget about the anguish of the burning sensation in my hip flexors.
Suddenly alive with hunger while seated my kitchen island, I pulled Save Me the Plum toward me. Something from inside the book beckoned me and I wanted to hold onto the hospitality and generosity I felt from the love that gushed forth on those pages.
I turned to the recipe for Thanksgiving Turkey Chili, a recipe Ruth and dozens of volunteers made for first responders during the horrific days following September 11th. I recalled the intention with which she devoted her energies to food as a way of recovering.
Food had always been my way of healing.
Lately, I had forgotten that cooking was not only an extension of my mother, but by now, had become an extension of me.
Following my errands to Kroger and Findlay Market, I spent a few hours with just Ruth, a gurgling pot of chili, and another presence I recognized in the breath of steam coming off the pot. My husband and I ate from that batch of goodness for three days. The flavors had melded into a singular emotion of loss. I wanted to eat to the bottom of the pot.
After that first night of chili for dinner, Mark had offered to clean up. “It’s our agreement. You cooked.”
“It’s okay,” I had said, “I’ll do it.” It felt good to cook in a way that welcomed my mother back into my kitchen and my life. Opening the lid on the chili had opened my heart.
We always cook for our mothers, don’t we? As if that last pinch of salt will finally produce the savory taste of our mothers on our lips. Ruth wrote about the risks she took, applying as a cook at the co-op in Berkeley or accepting the position as magazine editor,
But sometimes our risks are much simpler, more straightforward. Yet, they are the harder ones take. Like a risk to return to the kitchen.
NEW and On-going
Pauletta Hansel and I are pleased to announce two of our FREE Caring for the Caregiver writing experiences will be IN PERSON. We know this is important to many of our participants, so we are happy to offer this in partnership with Giving Voice Foundation and Jewish Family Services. Confirmed dates are Feb. 9th, 10-noon, and August 9th, 10-noon. Watch this space, or visit givingvoicefdn.org soon to register.
Our FREE, VIRTUAL writing experiences for caregivers will continue through Much More than a Meal and Giving Voice. Tentative dates of May 7 and November 14, 10-noon. Forthcoming details will also found at givingvoicefdn.org soon.
TASTE ON ELM
THANK YOU to all who attended this SOLD OUT sipping, supping and storytelling event at Taste on Elm in Ludlow, KY. Owners Chalice and Lauren are dedicated to serving their community and what better way to do so than through food and words that fill our bellies and souls. We hope to partner again with Taste on Elm in the future. In the interim, check out more of their events, add your name to their mailing list, or stop in to pick up any of the wines participants didn’t purchase from this joy-filled day. www.tasteonelm.com.
December 8
I’ll be introducing renowned poet, writer, editor, and teacher Maggie Smith at Women Writing for (a) Change, for an evening of moving readings and conversation. Writing workshop, Saturday. Space is limited. Visit womenwriting.org for details.
January 9
I’ll be appearing on Wellmed’s Caregiver SOS podcast. Live, on-air at 2:30. Visit this link for more details.