Stress-less

Standing in a half crouch, I turn away squeezing my eyes shut and pressing my ears closed with my fingers.  I do not breath, until I hear a muffled, "Barbara it is OK." I blink furiously and watch the flame surround the pan on the stove top. Jerry thought it was funny, but anxiety is debilitating.

My father held fear in his back pocket.  I couldn't mow the lawn because I might cut off a foot.  I couldn't climb a ladder because I might fall off.  Everything in my life was a potential life threatening affair.  As an adult, my anxiety is tempered somewhat, but at times I can still hear my father's voice in my head audio flashing, "Unsafe.  Warning. Stay away. You'll get hurt or blow up. Warning.  Warning."

Tonight I had planned a dish that required sauteing and then baking.  After chopping an onion, I turned the knob to engage the flame under the cast iron pan and nothing happened.  I tried another.  Nothing.  I thought I detected gas with those few attempts, so I stopped.  If Jerry were here he would confidently get a match and light it manually.  If that didn't work, he would check the level of propane.  Hearing warnings chattering in my head, I did neither; instead I plugged in the instant pot and began sauteing the onions.  In less than 20 minutes I was eating. Sometimes, it just isn't worth it to stress.

Kitchen Charm

Until my sister mentioned it earlier today, I had forgotten that my husband liked brown and serve rolls.  Fortunately, I cannot remember the last time I popped them into the oven for 5 minutes and smeared on a generous pad of butter in a futile attempt to improve the taste.  Over the years, I'd like to think that I had a hand in refining my husband's palette.

In high school I began baking bread using a cold raising technique.  Early in our marriage, I discovered  a versatile potato dough that morphed into dinner rolls or yummy cinnamon rolls.  They would regularly appear as part of our weekend menus.  It has been years since I last made this recipe and it has been years since I last made anything remotely resembling bread because all control is for naught.

I was asked to make dinner rolls for Easter dinner and I found a new recipe to try.   Tonight as I cut the dough and gently pulled the rolls into shape, I thought of my husband; grateful for all those years I was able to charm him in the kitchen.

Culinary Delights

I am a risk taker in at least one arena-food.  My father was a meat and potatoes kind of man, but my mother had a stomach of her own. When given the chance, she was ready to try anything. The daughter of a chef attends to the presentation as well as the quality and flavor.  My great aunt was the first person I know to use seasonal, fresh local ingredients in her cooking.  Living in downtown Portland, she was a regular at all the farmers’ markets.

When my husband and I went to Israel more than a decade ago, we were anxious to try local cuisine.  We found the yogurt to be rich and delicious, the pizza had a special mix of spices and were carried out folded in quarters and put in a shopping bag.  The shaved lamb was tender and seasoned to perfection.  We also had falafel from a vendor on Mount Carmel.  When we got home to the United States, I roamed the ethnic section of the grocery store and bought a box of falafel mix.  It stayed in the cupboard and was never used.

Now, I tend to make things from scratch whenever I can.  So tonight, using the Epicurious application, I made falafel and everyone loved it.  My home does not have the ambience of Mount Carmel and the transformative powers that the trip brought to our marriage, but our supper came pretty close to being a perfect blend of textures and tastes.  I must thank my mother and my auntie because I will try just about anything, at least once.

Ode to the Egg

Unlikely place to find comfort
In the sink while water runs
Between white and membrane
With gentle hand the shell releases
Presenting a perfect protein,
Gifts from our hens.

Creating History

There are a few things that change around here as soon as the cold weather arrives-the wood stoves are cranking, I have all I can do to stay up until 9 p.m. and the family gathers for what has become traditional Fall and Winter meals.  Thoughts of Friday night conjure up testing yeasty dough for proofing and using four hands to decorate the pizza pie.  Some weeks the house is filled with hungry teenagers and older Keene children with significant others, while other Fridays are pretty quiet with wedges of left over pizza available for a snack late into the night or for the perfect "take and go" breakfast in the morning.  Food does not last long around here.

My childhood Sundays were filled with mass at St. Mary's Church in Biddeford and then a big family brunch at my home on Dearborn Avenue.  I think that is where I learned to overeat.  This meant that family was gathered around the table eating and chatting until everyone was finished.  The longer I ate english muffins slathered in peanut butter and bacon (after a course of bacon and eggs) the longer I had to listen to family stories.  These tales uniquely bound us together.

My children are big story tellers.  Recently, Jerry and I learned over Sunday waffles (homemade by the way) that Gabrielle was the scape goat for many escapades instigated by her older brother Alex and twin sister Elizabeth. No wonder Gabrielle was always in trouble, I ponder as I toss a few fresh strawberry slices on my blueberry waffle.   Of course, no one else was there on this particular Sunday to deny or to support this point of view, but nonetheless the stories flow freely among the Keenes and their significant others or friends who choose to join us.    

While writing about my childhood and family through the years, I realize that what has been most important to me has been the constancy of traditions and routine.  Over the past week, we have jostled between summer like temperatures in the mid-60's or have endured the frigid task of scraping frost off the car windshield when the thermometer read 23 degrees.  This is our season of gathering and telling tall tales over some mighty good homemade food which is part of our family history. I am ready.

Behind the Brick Facade

Ignorance is bliss. I know nothing about engineering or architecture, yet I can't help myself from collecting photos of buildings, mostly brick buildings. Brick buildings of my youth include the bank with smooth rounded veined marble pillars.  Somehow my cheek would find a way to access the coolness of the rock.  The ceilings high making the building hollow and echo.

Perhaps my affinity for brick, aged buildings comes from after church Sunday visits to Auntie and Gene's in Portland.  There was always lots of food.  Not the meat and potatoes that graced my table at home, but fresh produce from the farmer's market and pickled vegetables. I developed my sense of culinary adventure behind that brick facade.   Often we would bake short cakes to go with fresh strawberries or blueberries. I would walk down to the tiny store around the corner with my big sister to get a carton of cream that would be whipped into sweet peaks of delight.  Auntie's was the first place I had a taste of loose tea, mostly milk and spoonfuls of sugar.    Family stories, secrets between adults in French and food.  Auntie's was a place of constancy and love.

Fried Chicken Dreams

We knew it was bad for us, but we ate it anyhow because it was what we packed on our annual excursion up to the White Mountains.  Auntie would get the cast iron skillet hot and her husband Gene would dredge the chicken in flour, salt and pepper and perhaps a few secret ingredients. Certainly, the basket was filled with other goodies, most likely from the farmer's market, but I don't remember.  All I remember was the fried chicken and the years that I saw the crumbling nose of the "Old Man in the Mountain" through a thick fog.  Some years the foliage was so brilliant that we would pull the car over to the side of the road and just gawk with a chorus of "Ooohs and aaaahs."

Only as an adult do I now realize how important those traditions and annual family outings are to children.  Those are the memories that after all these years make me smile and wish I could recall all the fine details.  Auntie was a spontaneous free spirit who engineered a good number of my childhood memories, including dreams about her fried chicken.   Most importantly she loved life.  I just hope a little of her rubbed off on me.

Food for Body and Soul

         Stress has been my shadow for a long time.  I’d like to think that I am of the resilient sort, which sometimes I am, but then again I go through periods in which food is used to comfort me.  Food is associated with large, happy family gatherings where cousins, aunts and uncles gather to tell family stories that bind. I love food.  The remembrance of biting into a ripe peach, the juice dripping down my chin as I lean forward to direct the drip stimulates my taste buds.   Nothing’s better.  Wait, maybe the pairing of vine ripened tomatoes, sliced thickly on a slab of fresh mozzarella, topped with basil leaves, dribbles of extra virgin olive oil and sprinkles of freshly cracked pepper and sea salt. I come from a long line of cooks.  My grandmother would hoist me onto her yellow wooden step stool, me in an oversized apron.   We would take turns stirring the thick chocolate chip cookie dough with a sturdy wooden spoon.  My arm would ache as I stirred and she would steady the ceramic bowl.  My grandmother could have baked without me, but she chose to mentor me, as did my mother. Early baking experiences with my mother always included stories about how her mother taught her the workings of the kitchen.  Cooking has always been a bonding experience. To varying degrees all my children cook and bake.

         

         When I think about the sensory pleasure that food provides, I am transported to times with family or dear friends.  Food is a spiritual experience for me.  It is not only the inclusion of the freshest ingredients, but the intention of the preparation, for it feeds both the body and the soul.  It links me to past generations of cooks and bakers binding us as a family and to a place that I am happiest, in the kitchen. No wonder food is a comfort.

The Celebration Continues

Gathering in a setting like this is well, something you don't forget very easily.  Today was a mix of sun, black flies, boating, black flies, lobster, steamers and black flies.  The best part though?  Friends, really  family who traveled to celebrate a girl and her accomplishments.

Food Love

This is Sam.
See Sam cook.
Cook Sam cook.

Seriously, my son Sam volunteered his time to prepare "Farm to Table" cuisine for a hungry crowd as part of the Jamie Oliver Food Revolution Day sponsored by MDI Hospital.  He wowed the crowd with variations on fiddle head pesto. I was way too busy eating to have the where-with-all that I should pay closer attention to all the fancy dishes and toppings he prepared. The Maine Cider Braised Pork was topped with a smooth, ruby colored tasty sauce made with rhubarb and there was fresh ricotta made with farm fresh whole milk.  The crowd kept eating and he continued serving dish after dish.  Sam put in many hours of hard work to make this a success.  Slipping in and out of the groups of two, three and four people facing one another taking turns eating, talking and listening; my mother's ears were alerted to the fact that everyone recognized my boy's talent and passion for producing high quality, healthy food that makes one beg for more. This created a bad case of "Food-Love."   A mama could not be prouder.

Lucky 13!

A few extra adolescent boys showed up at the house. Six to be exact-possibly at the same time that my daughter called and asked, “Hi Mama, what are you fixing for din-din?” her voice light-hearted and sweet.   Eight homemade pizzas and nearly three hours later, everyone is fed and satisfied. Not bad, considering I expected our usual six for supper. Isn’t 13 a lucky number?  This mama is a happy one. (By the way, that is turkey pepperoni and all the veggie pizzas were devoured.)

Sunday Morning

This day feels different from any other.  The preparation begins early.  I never know who’s going to show up.  This morning, we have a house full of teenagers and their friends in varying degrees of awake, although adult children, their partners, and friends from down east may likely show.  Eight cups of flour later…a toppling stack of homemade Belgian waffles, local Trenton maple syrup, whipped cream and fresh strawberries await.  Good food and plenty of it (a bounty), a gathering of extended family and friends (another bounty.)  Cooking for others is one of my pleasures in life.  So, if you are hungry and want some company-the door is always open.

Full of Bologna!

After thirty-two years of marriage our conversations have suffered from lack of substance. Our conversation tonight went like this:

“Did you have fried bologna when you were a kid?” my husband asks as he bites into the unorthodox, never before had supper (bologna, scrambled eggs and English muffin) that he prepared.

“No, not much,” I reply.

“We had it all the time."

 “It’s not good for you, “ I said flatly.

“So what!"

Gosh, I do my best to provide my family with fresh vegetables, fruits, filtered water and lean proteins like fish and poultry.  Every once in a while, we stumble. I can’t blame it all on my husband.  Wait, let’s be honest, every night I stumble.  After eating an orange for dessert,  soon I will be asking for chocolate.  We have our stash.  We usually have a little bit each night.

Can I be allowed that indulgence?  Neither of us smoke. We don’t drink alcohol.  Everything in moderation, I guess.

But, in all honesty bologna is where I draw the line.

Diversity At The Table

My great-aunt ran a boarding house in down town Portland.   It attracted a myriad of people while the staunch rules of a curfew and no visitors deterred a good many other folks.  Most notably, there was the tall, thin scholar who could speak seven languages and a short stout Hungarian woman, Mrs. Shevenall.  When the scholar spoke to my uncle, his English was refined, formal and without a noted accent.  His clothes and how he gracefully moved about the room was so different than how my grandfather shuffled around his apartment.  There was an air of worldly experience.   Mrs. Shevenall spent a good deal of time with Auntie in the kitchen and as requested made the most luscious dish to ever pass my lips.  As I recall the dish had broad flat green beans, fresh garlic and tomato, a marriage of flavors, color and texture.  Whenever I returned, I would beg Mrs. Shevenall to cook this.  Despite my numerous attempts to replicate it as an adult, I have been unable to achieve the delicate balance of ingredients.  At six years old, my culinary experiences were limited, but after tasting a bit of European cuisine and liking it, I was willing to try just about anything. These two boarders helped me to discover that the world literally was bigger than the twenty-mile radius that I had been exposed to thus far.

Each time, I have the good pleasure to eat something beyond the ordinary fare of poultry, pork, fish and potatoes, I am grateful for my early culinary experiences.  My risk taking has extended to my children, most of them anyway.  We regularly eat sushi, pot stickers, and curry at home. My adult son treated me to a birthday dinner and we were talking, just this evening about his love of Thai and Indian food.  My daughter having lived in Costa Rica for years is able to create authentic dishes.  Having accessibility to recipes and produce from all over the world makes this diversity at the table possible.    

Joyful Cooking

Mindfulness comes naturally for me in the kitchen.  It hasn’t always been that way, but with decades of cooking experience, I can relax and enjoy the experience and process.  My cooking in earnest began as a young teenager.  My working mother would leave the recipe and the ingredients handy and I would prepare supper for my family.  With a little confidence, I began scouring cookbooks and my mother’s recipe card files.  I began baking bread, desserts, and other dishes beyond the ordinary meat and potatoes.  It was great fun to experiment and my mother gave me free rein of the kitchen.

Side by side, I cooked with my mother, my grandmother and my great aunt since I was a little one. It was those early experiences and the trust my mother had in my abilities that set the course for a lifetime of joy in the kitchen. 

Tonight feeling the weight of my favorite knife in my left hand and taking note of the uniformity of the bits of onion actually made me smile.  Slices of green and red pepper were added to the mix along with crushed garlic, sea salt, and gingered grated carrots.  What a colorful mix.  Another smile. Tapping the egg cradled in the palm of my hand along the edge of a large soup cup, my thumbs broke through the shell and the egg released in a plop. In went a splash of homemade kefir. torn multi-grain bread pieces, some fresh parmesan,  a slurp of ketchup, and a little soy mixed all together with ground beef.  Meat loaf.  A simple dish from my youth, remade with much joy and intention.  The meat mixture pressed into the cast iron enamel baking dish is a symphony of texture, color and flavor and a testimony that even the simplest of culinary dishes can bring much pleasure and joy.

My love of cooking has bound me to my grandfather, a man I never knew.  This man was a gifted chef.  Even as a young girl in the kitchen, I would somehow attribute my culinary success with genetics.  When my son began working in restaurants and eventually became a chef, my mother often reminded me that, “He got his talent and passion for cooking from his great-grandfather.”  This all may or may not be true. What I know to be true is, that the act of creating nourishment for those you love, helps create bonds in the kitchen and around the dining room table.  Something that is hard to duplicate anywhere else.  No wonder I am a joyful cook.