I had drinks last week with my friend Julia. We hadn’t seen each other for a month. And there was so much holidaying to catch up on: assorted minor dramas and traumas, but mostly we talked about food, traditions and ethnic derivations.
Julia descends from Eastern European stock. Her people settled in Illinois and her parents migrated west to the Bay Area when she was a kid. When you ask Julia what she’s cooking for Christmas, she answers "pierogi." We talked at length about the nuances of pierogi-making. (Perhaps she'll tell you about it herself one day.)
Simona immigrated here from Italy as a young adult. She has an entirely different relationship with her memories: it’s direct and so close. She'll tell you about it on her blog at http://briciole.typepad.com/.
Clara immigrated with her family from Columbia when she was just five. She’s descended from Spaniards. For her, it’s paella on Christmas Eve. Delicious, but an obligation. When I ask her, her “oh, paella” sounds burdensome rather than joyful. She sets her table for 30 or more every year. She’d never think twice about it, but that's what makes beloved Clara beloved Clara.
I need to ask others, what do they do? What do you cook for Christmas Eve? Or Hanukkah? Or Kwanzaa? Or to celebrate the solstice?
As for my people, we’ve been here since forever. On dad’s side, since the 3rd boat landed from England in the early 1620s (we missed that first Thanksgiving by something like two weeks). And dad has a healthy dose of early Spain by way of New Spain (now Texas), but they arrived nearly a century later—ordered by Spain’s king to set up the secular community around San Antonio’s missions. On Mom’s side, we have signers of the Declaration. Though both sides all passed through Texas, which is considered an ethnicity on its own in certain circles, technically I’m really, truly, completely American. Any ethnic baggage I have is so dissolved by time and change that there is none left. It’s either a blessing or a curse. I can’t decide.
Regardless, it allows us the chance to adopt other traditions and preferences as necessary--or convenient.
My immediate kin--mother, brother, me--have never been particularly religious. Our holidays have always been deeply defined by gift-giving and gift-opening rituals, more than by food—often others’.
About 25 years ago, mom and her husband bought a home in Santa Fe, New Mexico--a place steeped in a more mystical version of Christianity. The first Christmas I joined mom and Will, we went to the Christmas Eve celebration at Holy Faith just off the plaza. It was standing room only. And amazing. Babies slept bundled and exhausted kids sat wide awake. Incense burned our eyes, and with that many of us so close, it was warm, and when we began singing ... Outside it was frigid, the clear air held hints of pinon fires burning in fireplaces hidden in the Sangre de Cristos and the slight moon cast soft shadows across the mountain ranges. Behind the moon, all those stars. Amazing.
That night, tradition and heart were more palpable any consideration of historical fact—or of gifts that might come later. That night, the stories we told each other about it all were so big, and at that altitude, they seemed so close, it seemed we could just reach out and touch them.
When we got home, mom dished out posole garnished with cilantro and avocado, green chile tamales, and Coronas with limes. That late, our meal was just like a kiss before sleep. Light, delicious. There was something in the flavor—or perhaps just the context—that I’ve been looking for ever since. Mom holds it all dear too, and every year strives for a perfected version of that moment--for that something that makes it as it was that first night we celebrated it together.
This year, we used the Santa Fe Opera cookbook’s recipe--same as back then, same as nearly every year since. In Santa Fe, it was so delicious. But in other places, and here, on the shores of Lake Merritt, it's good, but not the same … We've to make certain concessions to our local reality: instead of dried posole soaked overnight, we used canned hominy; instead of frozen green chiles, we used Hatch brand canned; instead of green chile tamales stuffed with jack cheese and fresh chiles, we used San Antonian interpretations, thick with masa and light on filling. Delicious, but not the same. Somehow, not the same.
So then, what combination of elements creates that tradition, a memory of food? Does it take more than just a few years? Or can it happen in just a moment? Is it repetition (have we not prepared this Christmas Eve meal enough to make it a true tradition)? Is it in the ingredients and methods? What do the people, the air, the smells and the bright stars hanging in the dark skies above bring to the recipe?
While we mull this, Phillip, beloved husband, and I are considering change. Next year, perhaps, we'll adopt a different tradition; one we can relate to ourselves. One without such burdensome expectations. One less dependent on the stars and clear night air.
Sunday, January 11, 2009
Friday, January 2, 2009
Starts. Stops. Happy New Year. And Barbra ....
I never really intended for it to take this long to return to weekly prose. The "other" world interfered. I'm still seeking balance. And focus. My friend Jen gently, graciously excused my blog absence. She's been thinking about restarting her blog too. We decided that 6 months was the limit between viable postings.
I hope this finds you happy and healthy.
We've survived December's fetes and I've almost eaten my share of Dungeness crab--roasted, boiled, hot, cold, and whenever possible, with lemon, garlic, butter and artichokes. Our household practically breathes culinary retail and every Christmas is like tax time for CPAs. Intense. Exhausting. This year, more so than usual. This year, it was better than expected, an exercise in flexibility and agility.
We've welcomed, just barely, the New Year and soon we'll welcome a new administration. Food and politics intermingle like never before. It's always been there, as essential as air, but it seems that it's a new player in the larger game. Perhaps even a seat at the "big table," rather than just in our millions of smaller kitchen tables.
This holiday Mom was here from San Antonio. We sat in Scoma’s the day after Christmas, drinking mid-day Bloody Marys and eating crab with our hands. It was one of those San Francisco days kissed by fog, but just barely. Scoma’s is on a pier, and the boats unload fish just across the parking lot. It’s one of those places where the waiters are career guys—20, 30 years is the norm rather than the exception. It was one of Mom’s favorite places back when. When she and her best friend Barbra, both single mothers (one divorced, one widowed), escaped their kids and their work and their solitude and all their craziness, settling in to eat crab and solve the world’s problems. (Our time in San Francisco back then began with the Summer of Love and ended as Nixon resigned. You can imagine the conversations!)
Mom was a student at UC Berkeley, Cal, in the 50s and that’s when and where she and Barbra, both "only children," became “sisters.” When dad died, it was Barbra who talked Mom into returning to San Francisco. ("There's a house for sale up the street. Jeannie, it's so easy." And for Mom, Barbra was a huge comfort in a world away from daddy’s rocket science.)
Barbra was a restaurateur's daughter here. Her dad, “Ada” to us, "Bob" to the rest of the world, was Italian, first generation, and his steak house was renowned for thick prime rib served off a cart and peppery slaw.
An only child, Barb was blessed only with sons. (Most unpleasant people, even as toddlers. I learned dislike from them.) When I was a kid, and one of just two girls on our street in the old neighborhood, Gracie and I were Barb's surrogate daughters. For me at least, Barb was my first, maybe my only "other mother." Barb bought me my first phone, coached me through boy problems, taught me to drink and smoke ("now, hold the smoke deep in your lungs") and swear properly (oh, what a mouth!). And she taught me another way of cooking.
When I think of Barb, her drinking and smoking and swearing are followed closely by Dungeness crab and table cloths, cioppino and Christmas. Red splattered all over her lovely, thick linen tablecloth; red spattered like that redefined white. The splattering was always celebratory, the result of a raucous party. Good friends, good food, good wine, crisp sourdough bread.
Barb's cooking was exuberant, robust, messy and delicious. Like her, it was bawdy, with a deep undertone of straight-out, unabashed hedonism. There was subtlety and layering, but in the end, nothing dainty or restrained about it. She had glass canisters filled with dried herbs and spices lined up on her kitchen's counter. Oregano. Rosemary. Basil. Salt. Pepper. Sugar. Chiles. Garlic. Not jars. Canisters. When Barb cooked, it was lids off and sleeves rolled up. She'd start with a recipe, but then she'd deviate. She cooked by taste, by smell. It changed as martinis were made and wine was poured. Barb would call us in, hold us close, ask us to chop or stir or mix, then banish us, only to invite us back in again. It was always a ride.
That day, one of those that Gracie and I still--not quite 40 years later--remember, was luscious. Barb's house sat high on a hill. Its wide windows faced west: the sunset and the sea. Grace and I were 12, maybe 13. It was a warm Saturday afternoon in December and the sun’s glare was blinding. It wasn’t really hot out, but all the windows were wide open and cool breezes blew though that openness.
In Barb’s kitchen, we chopped onions and smashed garlic, opened cans of tomatoes, scrubbed clams, peeled and deveined prawns, and sipped Bloody Marys (very nearly virgin, but Barb being Barb, offered them to us "not quite"--just a splash of Smirnoff). The layering of fragrance was amazing: onions and garlic, then spices—parsley, basil, rosemary, thyme, a bay leaf-- tomato juice, wine and clam juice. With our heads filled with these good smells, Barb would send us out (with a minimal buzz) to go off and get lost in girliness together.
The next afternoon, we’d be called back to Barb’s for more work. After we set the table (thick white linen and butcher paper, white bowls, white napkins, the best sterling, white plates and crystal clear glasses, bibs and “handi-wipes,” for at least a dozen), with red wine decanted, the green salad tossed, the sourdough warm and the butter soft, Barb added in the clams, crabs and prawns and then excused Gracie and me until the next morning. (At G’s house we baby sat our barely younger, but much taller brothers while all our parents were at Barb’s party. We’d drink “pink gins” until our noses went numb--again only barely alcoholic--a 1 to 30 or so ratio of gin to pink lemonade, then we’d sleep. In the morning, Gracie’s little brother fried baloney, Oscar Meyer, and eggs for us and we’d trundle up the hill to help clean up. More on the proper mixing of pink gins later. You need an old Packard parked in the garage. It's an essential ingredient.)
Barb’s Cioppino, slightly modified
1 red pepper, minced (or a ripe jalapeno or Serrano—more or less, whatever you prefer; Barb even liked green bell peppers!)
1 onion, diced
2 cloves garlic, crushed
Olive oil
16 oz. tomato paste
32 oz. canned tomatoes
1 bottle of red table wine
6 Tbs. parsley
2 tsp. fresh oregano
1 bay leaf
3 tsp. fresh basil, shredded or chiffonade
1 tsp. thyme
1 tsp. rosemary
bottle of clam juice
salt to taste
Seafood:
4 dozen clams (Manila are delicious!)
5 cooked, cracked crabs (Dungeness is best, if available)
3 lbs prawns (or sweet gulf shrimp, if available)
Fish (white and flaky, if you like—Barb didn’t, so her’s was only a shellfish stew)
Make the sauce early in the morning the day of the party, or the night before. Sauté the pepper, onion and garlic in olive oil until soft. Add tomato paste, tomatoes, ½ of the bottle of wine, spices and salt (to taste). Simmer gently for 3 hours. If the sauce becomes too thick, add wine. Adjust spices to taste. Refrigerate the sauce overnight.
An hour (give or take) before serving, begin to heat the sauce slowly. When simmering, add clams. When they begin opening, add the prawns (and fish). When the prawns are barely pink, add the crab, and heat the cioppino through.
Serve it in a terrine. Roll up your sleeves, tear bread, smear butter, eat and drink well. It’s the most delicious fun. Best served for a dozen very good friends. Better with steamed artichokes.
I hope this finds you happy and healthy.
We've survived December's fetes and I've almost eaten my share of Dungeness crab--roasted, boiled, hot, cold, and whenever possible, with lemon, garlic, butter and artichokes. Our household practically breathes culinary retail and every Christmas is like tax time for CPAs. Intense. Exhausting. This year, more so than usual. This year, it was better than expected, an exercise in flexibility and agility.
We've welcomed, just barely, the New Year and soon we'll welcome a new administration. Food and politics intermingle like never before. It's always been there, as essential as air, but it seems that it's a new player in the larger game. Perhaps even a seat at the "big table," rather than just in our millions of smaller kitchen tables.
This holiday Mom was here from San Antonio. We sat in Scoma’s the day after Christmas, drinking mid-day Bloody Marys and eating crab with our hands. It was one of those San Francisco days kissed by fog, but just barely. Scoma’s is on a pier, and the boats unload fish just across the parking lot. It’s one of those places where the waiters are career guys—20, 30 years is the norm rather than the exception. It was one of Mom’s favorite places back when. When she and her best friend Barbra, both single mothers (one divorced, one widowed), escaped their kids and their work and their solitude and all their craziness, settling in to eat crab and solve the world’s problems. (Our time in San Francisco back then began with the Summer of Love and ended as Nixon resigned. You can imagine the conversations!)
Mom was a student at UC Berkeley, Cal, in the 50s and that’s when and where she and Barbra, both "only children," became “sisters.” When dad died, it was Barbra who talked Mom into returning to San Francisco. ("There's a house for sale up the street. Jeannie, it's so easy." And for Mom, Barbra was a huge comfort in a world away from daddy’s rocket science.)
Barbra was a restaurateur's daughter here. Her dad, “Ada” to us, "Bob" to the rest of the world, was Italian, first generation, and his steak house was renowned for thick prime rib served off a cart and peppery slaw.
An only child, Barb was blessed only with sons. (Most unpleasant people, even as toddlers. I learned dislike from them.) When I was a kid, and one of just two girls on our street in the old neighborhood, Gracie and I were Barb's surrogate daughters. For me at least, Barb was my first, maybe my only "other mother." Barb bought me my first phone, coached me through boy problems, taught me to drink and smoke ("now, hold the smoke deep in your lungs") and swear properly (oh, what a mouth!). And she taught me another way of cooking.
When I think of Barb, her drinking and smoking and swearing are followed closely by Dungeness crab and table cloths, cioppino and Christmas. Red splattered all over her lovely, thick linen tablecloth; red spattered like that redefined white. The splattering was always celebratory, the result of a raucous party. Good friends, good food, good wine, crisp sourdough bread.
Barb's cooking was exuberant, robust, messy and delicious. Like her, it was bawdy, with a deep undertone of straight-out, unabashed hedonism. There was subtlety and layering, but in the end, nothing dainty or restrained about it. She had glass canisters filled with dried herbs and spices lined up on her kitchen's counter. Oregano. Rosemary. Basil. Salt. Pepper. Sugar. Chiles. Garlic. Not jars. Canisters. When Barb cooked, it was lids off and sleeves rolled up. She'd start with a recipe, but then she'd deviate. She cooked by taste, by smell. It changed as martinis were made and wine was poured. Barb would call us in, hold us close, ask us to chop or stir or mix, then banish us, only to invite us back in again. It was always a ride.
That day, one of those that Gracie and I still--not quite 40 years later--remember, was luscious. Barb's house sat high on a hill. Its wide windows faced west: the sunset and the sea. Grace and I were 12, maybe 13. It was a warm Saturday afternoon in December and the sun’s glare was blinding. It wasn’t really hot out, but all the windows were wide open and cool breezes blew though that openness.
In Barb’s kitchen, we chopped onions and smashed garlic, opened cans of tomatoes, scrubbed clams, peeled and deveined prawns, and sipped Bloody Marys (very nearly virgin, but Barb being Barb, offered them to us "not quite"--just a splash of Smirnoff). The layering of fragrance was amazing: onions and garlic, then spices—parsley, basil, rosemary, thyme, a bay leaf-- tomato juice, wine and clam juice. With our heads filled with these good smells, Barb would send us out (with a minimal buzz) to go off and get lost in girliness together.
The next afternoon, we’d be called back to Barb’s for more work. After we set the table (thick white linen and butcher paper, white bowls, white napkins, the best sterling, white plates and crystal clear glasses, bibs and “handi-wipes,” for at least a dozen), with red wine decanted, the green salad tossed, the sourdough warm and the butter soft, Barb added in the clams, crabs and prawns and then excused Gracie and me until the next morning. (At G’s house we baby sat our barely younger, but much taller brothers while all our parents were at Barb’s party. We’d drink “pink gins” until our noses went numb--again only barely alcoholic--a 1 to 30 or so ratio of gin to pink lemonade, then we’d sleep. In the morning, Gracie’s little brother fried baloney, Oscar Meyer, and eggs for us and we’d trundle up the hill to help clean up. More on the proper mixing of pink gins later. You need an old Packard parked in the garage. It's an essential ingredient.)
Barb’s Cioppino, slightly modified
1 red pepper, minced (or a ripe jalapeno or Serrano—more or less, whatever you prefer; Barb even liked green bell peppers!)
1 onion, diced
2 cloves garlic, crushed
Olive oil
16 oz. tomato paste
32 oz. canned tomatoes
1 bottle of red table wine
6 Tbs. parsley
2 tsp. fresh oregano
1 bay leaf
3 tsp. fresh basil, shredded or chiffonade
1 tsp. thyme
1 tsp. rosemary
bottle of clam juice
salt to taste
Seafood:
4 dozen clams (Manila are delicious!)
5 cooked, cracked crabs (Dungeness is best, if available)
3 lbs prawns (or sweet gulf shrimp, if available)
Fish (white and flaky, if you like—Barb didn’t, so her’s was only a shellfish stew)
Make the sauce early in the morning the day of the party, or the night before. Sauté the pepper, onion and garlic in olive oil until soft. Add tomato paste, tomatoes, ½ of the bottle of wine, spices and salt (to taste). Simmer gently for 3 hours. If the sauce becomes too thick, add wine. Adjust spices to taste. Refrigerate the sauce overnight.
An hour (give or take) before serving, begin to heat the sauce slowly. When simmering, add clams. When they begin opening, add the prawns (and fish). When the prawns are barely pink, add the crab, and heat the cioppino through.
Serve it in a terrine. Roll up your sleeves, tear bread, smear butter, eat and drink well. It’s the most delicious fun. Best served for a dozen very good friends. Better with steamed artichokes.
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