By nature I am an introspective person. I let feelings and emotions thrive and flourish within me. I am a keeper of memories, safeguarding my past and the history of my family. I have been accused of over-thinking things, of worrying too much, of obsessing. I like to brew over my thoughts while I perform somewhat mindless tasks. I am also a planner, an organizer, and a slave to my own schedule. I like to think of my home and life as a nest. I’ve built it, I tend it, I patch it up when it begins to fall apart, and at the end of the day, it is my favorite place to be.
I think this is why I love preparing food so much. Crafting a meal requires a dedicated balance and interaction of all these qualities. It begins with an idea. This is where my mind flourishes, pouring over archives of food photos I remember seeing as I paged through a magazine, recipes I remember reading, and what I’d like the overall effect of the meal to be. I sort through what I want to accomplish with this meal, and how I will set about achieving that goal. Then, once an idea has been roughly established, it follows with a plan. I like to make lists—a list of what I will serve, a list of what ingredients I need to make those things, and a list of what ingredients I’ll need to buy and where I will buy them. Creating a meal is a task close to perfection for anyone who fancies themselves a planner. Finally, there’s the execution. There are vegetables to chop, fruit to peel, meat to trim. These are the somewhat mindless tasks I enjoy so much because they allow my mind to wander, and my obsessive nature to come out and thrive. There always seems to be some complicated task, which challenges me, but also allows for a great sense of pride—a feather in my cap, or rather, in my nest, a photo to hang on my wall. Freely flowing among all of these components of a caringly prepared meal is one thing that shelters and comforts me—nostalgia.
It started on Monday of this week. Something persuaded me to buy two bunches of collard greens at the Athens Farmers Market last weekend. I’d been craving them. I think this has something to do with fall weather and fall foods. Collards are a cool season crop, and come in nicely in the temperate Appalachian spring and fall. I fixed them the only way I like to eat them—braised with biting vinegar and tender black eyed peas. I scooped a large dollop of dangling greens, dotted with tiny pieces of sautéed orange carrots and creamy white onions, into a small bowl. Perhaps my favorite part of collard greens followed, as I dipped up a ladle full of their pot liquor and poured it over them, exposing a mound of soft, myrtle, wilted greens and precariously perched black eyed peas. That was my dinner, accompanied by a piece of whole-grain corn bread, baked in my cast iron skillet. I used the golden, butter crusted bread to absorb all remnants of pot liquor once my greens were happily eaten. The coziness of a pot of slowly simmering collards always makes me think of the first place I’d ever eaten them this way.
Several years ago I had the wonderful experience of spending a weekend in the mountains of rural, Eastern Kentucky; in the city of Hazard, down Lott’s Creek, to be exact. While my collards were somewhat different, being prepared without salt pork, and dressed with olive oil and low-sodium chicken stock instead, the tanginess of the apple cider vinegar is what really takes me back. I was sitting on a wooden bench, Styrofoam tray in my hand with a cup of greens and a hunk of grainy, salty cornbread on the side, listening to a bluegrass band, lovingly cradled by two mountainsides. It was fall in the mountains, and I was in the company of a dear, sweet friend I only had the privilege of knowing briefly before God carried her home just after Christmas the same year. Collard greens always make me think of her. I like to think of myself as an adopted Appalachian sometimes. While it isn’t part of my heritage, I’d like to think it’s a part of the culture of who I am today.
Then came Wednesday, when Cleveland Scene Magazine released their “Best of Cleveland,” list. I was browsing through the fan and staff picks, seeing mostly expected results, until I came across an unusual category: Best Place to Experience your Grandparents’ Cleveland. Immediately the title of the article had me thinking about my own grandparents and the Cleveland they knew. Then I read the staff pick for this category: Frank Sterle’s Slovenian Country House. A very contented smile came across my face as I immediately began to remember Mother’s Day lunches and family birthday gatherings. It made me think of my paternal Grandmother, the only Grandparent I ever got to know. While I think most would say that her style of “Grandma,” was somewhat different than the stereotype of what we expect grandmothers to be, I can honestly say that now I understand and appreciate who she was and I don’t begrudge her that at all. Just reading the name of the restaurant made me remember so many things about her, most not even associated with Sterle’s. I didn’t see her very often, so one of my last memories of her is from my cousin Laurie’s wedding (which happened to be five years ago this month). When the DJ kindly obliged my family’s repeated request and played a polka, my Grandmother who was in her eighties danced with my Aunt Joanne, slowly, carefully and mechanically making all the correct steps. I’ve heard stories of how she used to love to dance polkas. I remember catching her out of the corner of my eye as my father practically dismembered me, whipping me around the shiny wooden floor. That was the only time I’ve ever danced with my father, and the last time I saw my Grandmother dance.
As always, food lives on like a flame in my memory, around which some of my fondest thoughts warm their hands. Sterle’s serves food like my Grandmother used to make, making it, for me, a perfect selection on how to experience your Grandparents’ Cleveland. I am not alone in thinking, and missing my Grandmother’s breaded city chicken, and pork chops, her home fried potatoes, browned and soaked with lovely bacon fat, and even her homemade creamed spinach, or fresh green beans dressed in vinegar and slivered onions. The Slovenian half of my heritage was never as fully developed as the other half, which I’m about to entertain. That doesn’t mean it isn’t there though, or that I don’t still strongly identify with my Slavic roots. I have heavy limbs, dark hair and blue eyes and I’m tall and broadly framed. I know those traits didn’t come from my short, petite Italian relatives. They are the things I see in the mirror every day and every day I’m reminded.
Finally there was Friday. Friday was the culmination of the mood of memories, autumn and cooking I’ve been experiencing this week. I had invited a friend over for dinner, and being the person I am, a meal rich in local foods, prepared in a healthy manner was in order. There is one thing I seem to make once a year, every year, in the fall—Butternut squash ravioli. There is something so delightful about the smooth, velvety pockets of pasta filled with creamy, nutty squash and a hint of fresh nutmeg. They speak of the comforts of fall, and for me, making ravioli hits home. My maternal Grandmother made homemade ravioli. We’re Italian, so of course she did. Before I moved to McConnelsville, my Mother and I were going through our kitchen drawers looking for any of my cooking utensils which had been mistakenly thrown in with hers while I was living with my parents. In one particular drawer where my Mother keeps very obscure things she never uses, I found a set of ravioli cutters. There was a large size, and a small. They were round, with crimped metal edges and worn, beveled wooden handles. When I asked about them, she told me they were my Grandmothers. Then she took them from me and put them in my box. She knew that nothing would’ve made my Grandmother happier than to know that I would use them, instead of letting them sit, sadly in my Mother’s kitchen drawer.
I carry in my heart so much unwarranted regret when I think about my maternal Grandmother. I want so badly to have known her, to have been her willing apprentice at pasta making and vegetable canning, to have known what her arms felt like when I hugged her. It isn’t my fault that I don’t know these things. She passed away three years before I was born. Thanks to my parents, I carry her with me everywhere I go. I feel her presence every time someone asks me what my middle initial stands for. While I know she might’ve been skeptical of the rich brown, grainy whole-wheat flour I used to make my paper thin sheets of ravioli, I also know that she could feel my palms bearing down heavily on the handles of the ravioli cutters, using my fingertips to guide and roll them, pinching closed the little pillows of seasonal American flavors. My heart feels near to her every time I make things the way she made them, as though I can feel her hands on my hands, directing me. The ravioli I made with her ravioli cutters on Friday were utterly perfect, so honestly reflecting my spirit in their preparation, ingredients, flavors and execution. They were the best I’ve made.
No comments:
Post a Comment