This meal was unlike any other I would ever eat. A petite, soft around the middle, Englishwoman invited us to share the meal. I can remember every detail of the food but can’t seem to bring her name to mind.
“I have children your age,” she said. “If my children were abroad, I would want someone to take them in and feed them like this.”
The drizzly damp air was the cold of rheumatism. Our hostess's welcome cottage was a cocoon of warmth. The tidy sitting room housed two small settees, thick and plush and an oversized armchair. Here sat the six of us, missionaries, all transplants from the states. Each having spent a different amount of time away from home but all still susceptible to homesickness.
We breathed in the aroma of full bodied meat drippings. They spoke of a chicken, roasted whole with rosemary and garlic. Our next inhalation distinguished that almost breadlike scent of Yorkshire pudding. It was a moment of anticipatory satisfaction because food that follows aromas like that is certain not to disappoint.
One by one, our meals were brought out on trays. The kitchen table was far too small to seat all of us, so we would be eating on our laps. The plates had been kept in the warmer. Heat spread over my palms as I took my dish from our hostess. My eyes landed on the Yorkshire pudding first, caramel colored gravy pooling in its hollow. Two types of potatoes: a pillowy mound of mashed and a few crusted golden brown roasted ones. Three inch strips of julienned braised parsnips rested next to what I thought at first was some sort of blush colored applesauce. But after tasting the slushy thick substance, I was surprised. Savory with an overlay of radish. Was this a turnip? Swede, I was told. It’s a root vegetable. I had never heard of it before. We call it rutabega in the states. God bless that highly overlooked vegetable.
We ate in near silence, fearing that words might interrupt this celebration of our senses. Believing that nothing could be better than what we had just partaken, our hostess announced dessert. Rhubarb apple crumble with custard. Even today, in the retelling, I whisper these words with the reverence and respect reserved for deity. A transcendental dessert. The nutty heat of the cinnamon and molasses sugar in the crumble fought with the sharpness of the granny smith apples and rhubarb, all blanketed in the pale yellow, velvet custard, not too thick, not too sweet. Flavors wrapped up together into a comforting mouthful. The tastes abroad replaced the tastes of home.
I looked across at one of my dining mates, tears streaming down his face.
“Are you O.K.? I asked.”
“Yes,” he said. “It’s just so good.”
I’ve tried to recreate this same dish on several occasions but have never achieved the same result. I believe it is because when I was there, I was a child abroad looking for a piece of home. When our hostess was preparing the meal it was as a mother preparing a piece of home for her child abroad. There is, however, one exception. Every time I make the custard, regardless of what it is poured over, someone is reduced to tears.
Thursday, June 11, 2009
Sunday, May 31, 2009
Tribute
I’ve been driving irradically all weekend. My uncle, Truman, died last Thursday and I’m beginning to suspect that my driving might be an unconscious tribute to him. My uncle pushed the term crazy driver to lunatic levels. Born generations before extreme sports hit the scene, my father and his brothers Truman and Grant enjoyed plummeting down the vertical streets known as the avenues. Always in the middle of a story, steering, stopping, or signaling, never got in the way of their gesticulating to emphasize a point. Cars honking, yelps of startled pain as result of passenger’s heads banging into side windows after a sudden jolts and jerks, wouldn’t cause so much as a pause in the dialogue. Instead of trips to theme parks, my parents could just throw us in a car with Uncle Truman, give the pre-recorded safety advice to keep our heads and arms in the vehicle at all times, and tell us to sit back and enjoy the ride.
Truman owned a burgundy Gremlin, more the color of a wine stain than the actual liquid. The geodesic dome-like roof created the illusion that you were going for a ride inside a purple turtle shell. At a time that predated seat belt laws, we could all pile into the back and bounce around like the multi-colored balls inside those playschool popcorn popping bubble topped push toys that had two wheels and a long wooden handle.
I think about that car. I think about how Truman, on leisure days, would wear a mechanic’s jumpsuit with a trucker’s polyester and mesh hat resting on the top of his head because he couldn’t be bothered to unstick the plastic adjustable band in the back to make it fit. I think about how he was the middle of three boys, raised alone by their sturdy father, their mother having died from complications after the birth of my father. I think about the smell of their father’s head, bald and sweet, the same smell of my father’s head and the smell of my middle son’s forehead. I think of their family motto “Us Four and No More.” One, Two and Three are gone. My father is Four and there are No More. I think of my three boys and my grief overtakes me. Grief for a mother who never knew her beautiful sons, grief for a Grandfather who never knew my sons, grief for my father who now lives without brothers. This grief sits at the top of my throat, hovering above my heart, waiting for the ride to be over. I swallow and swallow but I can not force it to the pit of my stomach.
Even now, as I am driving home, I can picture his soft clear, watery blue eyes, a smile creasing their corners. His hands raised above his head, “Blessings,” he says as he exits. I brake and swerve from the shoulder back onto the road.
I’ve been driving irradically all weekend. My uncle, Truman, died last Thursday and I’m beginning to suspect that my driving might be an unconscious tribute to him. My uncle pushed the term crazy driver to lunatic levels. Born generations before extreme sports hit the scene, my father and his brothers Truman and Grant enjoyed plummeting down the vertical streets known as the avenues. Always in the middle of a story, steering, stopping, or signaling, never got in the way of their gesticulating to emphasize a point. Cars honking, yelps of startled pain as result of passenger’s heads banging into side windows after a sudden jolts and jerks, wouldn’t cause so much as a pause in the dialogue. Instead of trips to theme parks, my parents could just throw us in a car with Uncle Truman, give the pre-recorded safety advice to keep our heads and arms in the vehicle at all times, and tell us to sit back and enjoy the ride.
Truman owned a burgundy Gremlin, more the color of a wine stain than the actual liquid. The geodesic dome-like roof created the illusion that you were going for a ride inside a purple turtle shell. At a time that predated seat belt laws, we could all pile into the back and bounce around like the multi-colored balls inside those playschool popcorn popping bubble topped push toys that had two wheels and a long wooden handle.
I think about that car. I think about how Truman, on leisure days, would wear a mechanic’s jumpsuit with a trucker’s polyester and mesh hat resting on the top of his head because he couldn’t be bothered to unstick the plastic adjustable band in the back to make it fit. I think about how he was the middle of three boys, raised alone by their sturdy father, their mother having died from complications after the birth of my father. I think about the smell of their father’s head, bald and sweet, the same smell of my father’s head and the smell of my middle son’s forehead. I think of their family motto “Us Four and No More.” One, Two and Three are gone. My father is Four and there are No More. I think of my three boys and my grief overtakes me. Grief for a mother who never knew her beautiful sons, grief for a Grandfather who never knew my sons, grief for my father who now lives without brothers. This grief sits at the top of my throat, hovering above my heart, waiting for the ride to be over. I swallow and swallow but I can not force it to the pit of my stomach.
Even now, as I am driving home, I can picture his soft clear, watery blue eyes, a smile creasing their corners. His hands raised above his head, “Blessings,” he says as he exits. I brake and swerve from the shoulder back onto the road.
Wednesday, May 13, 2009
Anatomy of an Outfit
So as I am getting ready for bed I realize that my current outfit tells the story of today. This morning instead of going to the gym I decided to eat baked goods. I was showered, dressed and ready to begin my journey toward a carbohydrate induced coma by 9 am. White shirt, blue capris, both ironed, hair actually done, and a sweater in case it got a little chilly in the bakery. Off to Les Madeleines with a friend who is about to be induced and needed to squeeze in some beignets before birthing. Bakery tasting over, two thumbs up for the Kouing-aman, slightly less enthusiasm for the beignets (I realize this isn't New Orleans but there's still that moment of hope right before you taste something). Back at home, feeling the sugar buzzing and allowing myself about an hour before the crash and then the coma, I emabark on the dishes. Now white shirt is wet waist high. Losing the strength and will to clean, I lie down to log in the begninnings of my daily television dose. Fashionable flats removed, feet now cold, I dig in my sock drawer for the first match. I settle on some striped socks that could only be improved if the individual toes were multi-colored and divided. After my reunion with the Real Housewives of NYC, and recognizing that piano students are soon to arrive, I decide to get a second load of dishes in the dishwasher. (That's right, there was an accumulation large enough to warrant two loads and some handwashing today). Now, wet at the waist again but not enough time to change as the first piano student arrrives early, I grab the closest sweatshirt. The oversized red park city rescue sweatshirt. Four lessons later I've agreed to walk my last student to the park to meet her aunt. I grab my running shoes by the door. The construction workers on the street that I might be trying to protect my charge from are looking at us like maybe they ought to call Child Protective Services and report a homeless woman following a young girl on a scooter toward the park. On the return trip, I walk with the confidence of a home-owner and reach to swing open my door to find it locked. The sheer act of knocking raises the whole homelessness question again. My husband lets me in. On to making pancake puffs (yes, the ones 'not sold in stores' but rather 'as seen on tv') before soccer practice (refer to the dandelion picker from past posts). Pancakes puffed, kids stuffed, we're out the door. Halfway through practice, while talking to the dads, I notice the drips of batter running through "park city" and "rescue". Back home again for the last time of the day, one extra kid for at least an hour and the last set of dishes to be done, I take off my sweatshirt. As I tug to pull it free from my head, I notice my shirt has come off with it. Good thing I didn't get hot at soccer practice. I think tomorrow's going to be a pajama day.
Mother's Day or "I Would Have Been Happy with the Cross"
So here's the thing with Mother's Day...
The Friday before Mother's Day, my oldest son brings home a portrait from art class of a blonde, blue-green eyed woman (who looks a lot like our good friend and neighbor, by the way) and says "Happy Mother's Day." When I mention my eyes and hair are brown, he says "Yea that's just a picture of a random woman." What do I do with that? Either he's looking to trade-up and have our neighbor as a mother, or I've just been equated with some random woman.
Saturday morning, on the way home from spin class, this same blonde neighbor (now my competition apparently) asks me if I want to be dropped off at my youngest son's soccer game. "No," I say. "I've got a lot to do today. I don't have time to watch him sit and pick dandelions and think about our part in the Griffiths family athletic legacy (seriously...three boys...not one athlete in the bunch?)" An hour later, the phone rings, "tell mom what happened." my husband says. "I scored a goal!" says the dandelion picker. Great, now I have guilt.
Sunday morning, "Close your eyes mom." The annual father-son shopping trip has taken place and the gift processional has begun. Years past have included a soft-ice cream machine, a body pillow and two back scratchers. The first offering, well not technically the first because the night before I was handed three of a ten pack of snickers (yeah, you want to know where the other seven went too, right?) was a flowering plant with a card, the next was another flowering plant and the phrase "I got you some chocolate too, but I ate it." The third and final offering was a gaint bucket of red vines. This came from the artist (mr. some random woman) who says "I saw that it said fat free and thought that would be good for you, besides I know you don't like red vines too much and figured you'd probably just end up giving them to me."
My husband then pipes up. "You should have seen what they wanted to get you." Dandelion had discovered something 'Just like on tv'. It was a huge bejeweled cross necklace. Now the people of my faith don't focus too much on crucifixion and crosses aren't exactly a regular accessory so I get that my husband steered him toward the flowering plant, but what's up with the red vines? No intervention there? I love my kids, and I know it's the thought that counts (even if the thought is how to score a big bucket of licorice for yourself) but I gotta say, "I would have been happy with the cross. It might have had diamonds.
The Friday before Mother's Day, my oldest son brings home a portrait from art class of a blonde, blue-green eyed woman (who looks a lot like our good friend and neighbor, by the way) and says "Happy Mother's Day." When I mention my eyes and hair are brown, he says "Yea that's just a picture of a random woman." What do I do with that? Either he's looking to trade-up and have our neighbor as a mother, or I've just been equated with some random woman.
Saturday morning, on the way home from spin class, this same blonde neighbor (now my competition apparently) asks me if I want to be dropped off at my youngest son's soccer game. "No," I say. "I've got a lot to do today. I don't have time to watch him sit and pick dandelions and think about our part in the Griffiths family athletic legacy (seriously...three boys...not one athlete in the bunch?)" An hour later, the phone rings, "tell mom what happened." my husband says. "I scored a goal!" says the dandelion picker. Great, now I have guilt.
Sunday morning, "Close your eyes mom." The annual father-son shopping trip has taken place and the gift processional has begun. Years past have included a soft-ice cream machine, a body pillow and two back scratchers. The first offering, well not technically the first because the night before I was handed three of a ten pack of snickers (yeah, you want to know where the other seven went too, right?) was a flowering plant with a card, the next was another flowering plant and the phrase "I got you some chocolate too, but I ate it." The third and final offering was a gaint bucket of red vines. This came from the artist (mr. some random woman) who says "I saw that it said fat free and thought that would be good for you, besides I know you don't like red vines too much and figured you'd probably just end up giving them to me."
My husband then pipes up. "You should have seen what they wanted to get you." Dandelion had discovered something 'Just like on tv'. It was a huge bejeweled cross necklace. Now the people of my faith don't focus too much on crucifixion and crosses aren't exactly a regular accessory so I get that my husband steered him toward the flowering plant, but what's up with the red vines? No intervention there? I love my kids, and I know it's the thought that counts (even if the thought is how to score a big bucket of licorice for yourself) but I gotta say, "I would have been happy with the cross. It might have had diamonds.
Intentions
I don't anticipate posting any pictures on this blog, or referring to my husband as "hot" in relation to anything but his actual temperature. I'll probably just rely on stick figures and representational images, because, one day, my son might cure cancer, and on that day, he can then reveal that his mother was responsible for the embarrassing musings on this blog (as well as the fact that he wasn't an Eagle Scout-keep in mind, he's only 9 right now-I'm just planning for the future) Until then, I will try to protect his anonymity-a little.
This blog won't be in place of the scrapbook I never intended to make, or a place for my family to catch up on all of our latest greatest memories.
This blog is the receptacle of my observations and musings that are too long for twitter and don't have any accompanying quizes to make it facebook worthy.
This blog won't be in place of the scrapbook I never intended to make, or a place for my family to catch up on all of our latest greatest memories.
This blog is the receptacle of my observations and musings that are too long for twitter and don't have any accompanying quizes to make it facebook worthy.
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