The bitter scent of coming winter
I remember preparing a meal for him in the decay of autumn, after the leaves had dropped from the trees and lay rotting in the gutter and the breeze was turning cold and harsh. I was just 21 years old and could focus on the kitchen, had the time to think about cooking, and it was all still new, too, love and cookery. There was a recipe in Gourmet for roasted fall vegetables. I skinned and hacked a heavy butternut squash, added knobby shallots, garlic, and chunks of red potato, then tossed the vegetables with olive oil and roasted them in the oven. Near the end of cooking, I added slivered sage leaves, the bitter scent of coming winter.
Sage takes well to butter and olive oil, get crisp
and intense, medicinal over gnocchi, tucked among
thick slices of potato. My husband and I grow sage in
our front yard. The plant sits between the
flat-leafed parsley and the lemon verbena, its silver
green leaves upright, purple flowers still drawing
honeybees. I’ll have to trim it soon, deadhead the
flowers and clean off the spider webs in preparation
for the feasts and sadness of fall.
Here is the original recipe, from Epicurious.
Add 2 tablespoons slivered sage in the last ten
minutes of cooking to recreate my more winter-scented
dish.
Roasted Autumn
Vegetables
1 1/2 pounds small red potatoes
1 pound shallots (about 24), peeled and trimmed
5 tablespoons olive oil
1 bay leaf
1/4 teaspoon dried thyme, crumbled
4 garlic cloves, crushed
2 pounds butternut squash, peeled and cut into
3/4-inch pieces (about 4 cups)
fresh thyme sprigs for garnish, if desired
In a bowl, toss together the potatoes, quartered, the
shallots, 4 tablespoons of
the oil,
the bay leaf, the dried thyme, the garlic, and salt
and pepper to taste. Spread the vegetables in an
oiled large roasting pan and roast them in the middle
of a preheated 375°F. oven, shaking the pan every 5
to 10 minutes, for 25 minutes. In a bowl toss the
squash with the remaining 1 tablespoon oil and salt
and pepper to taste and add it to the pan. Roast the
vegetables, shaking the pan occasionally, for 10 to
20 minutes more, or until they are tender. Discard
the bay leaf and garnish the vegetables with the
thyme sprigs.
Gourmet
October 1990
Image: Attractive sage bush, much
nicer than ours, from eHow.
The intersection of food, love, and memory
If it wasn't frozen, processed, or
heavily laced with sugar, my grandmother didn't cook
it. I have her old recipe box, which includes many
selections from the "Kitchen of Duncan Hines," as
well as things like Pow-Wow Sandwiches, English Liver
Bake, and salad molds, recipes that are products of
the sixties and seventies. My grandfather made the
box, designed it to hang between the refrigerator and
the stove in the kitchen at Hollywood Beach. We use
it to hold keys now. One of the first things I do
when I move to a new place is to hang it by the front
door, a reminder of a past so long gone that it feels
like fiction. I may look through the recipes, but I
never feel an urge to actually make any of them.
When the corn and
tomatoes are at their peak, however, and I steam a
dozen ears to eat for dinner alongside a salad of
freshly-picked tomatoes, I feel a tug on the line
that connects me to those long-ago meals. Corn on the
cob with butter sits at the intersection of food,
love, and memory for me. It has the power to bring me
back to a time before I was born, to Hollywood Beach
in the late fifties and early sixties when my mother
and aunt were still children, before my grandfather
was injured in an
industrial fire. On late July and early August
evenings when my grandfather was working late at
the plant, Mom-mom could be persuaded to abandon
the freezer and let the canned food gather dust in
the cupboard. She would prepare farmstand corn and
sliced tomatoes for dinner, maybe add some sliced
bread on the side. Perhaps she was feeling as lazy
as Ludlam's
dog,
unwilling to turn on the oven or chop loads of
vegetables, happy with simplicity.
It's the only meal she made that my mother and I
still talk about. When I was a kid, my cousin and I
were given weekend corn shucking duty, sent outside
with paper bags to do the messy work of removing the
husks and cornsilk. We would sit on the white-washed
metal lawn chairs out front under a canopy of maple
leaves, kick our heels against the grass. After
passing the naked corn to my aunt through the side
door, we would wait for the moment at the table when
we could smear the cooked kernels with squeezable
Parkay. I was fascinated by the prongs, shaped like
tiny ears of corn, that Mom-mom stuck into either end
of the cob, and studied them between bites, felt the
neat rows of miniature kernels like braille against
my fingertips. We ate until we are too full for
anything else but a thin slice of tomato.
You probably have summer food memories of your own,
can bring back an evening lit by fireflies, your lips
stained purple by blueberry cake. Your parents didn't
care how late you stayed up and you got to light a
sparkler even though the fourth of July had been over
for days. Or maybe you remember your mother, already
unsteady on her feet, placing a platter of swaying
Jello on the picnic table. You swirled the first bite
against your gums, pushed it between your teeth
before swallowing and then refused to eat any more.
After dinner you and your brother played tag in the
dark while the grown-ups drank bourbon on ice and
talked in voices too low for you to understand. When
you slipped in a pile of dog shit, they laughed until
you started to cry.
Image: Recipe from my grandmother's
collection.
Diversionary tactics
Don't be disturbed by the
photograph. It is only a diversion. In fact, I
actually posted it a couple of weeks ago and then
removed the post. I had nothing to say and the
photograph wasn't adding to the conversation. Today
it appears as filler, a little piece of San Francisco
scenery. Or maybe it works as metaphor, too, though
as a metaphor for what you'll have to be the judge.
Last night I was walking home from my food writing
class, feeling energized and full of something
(beans? ideas? hope for the future?) when I realized
that I have a commitment problem. I've been circling
working life for almost five years now, keeping
decisions on hold, tossing words into the air. I
fumbled into my first career, became a librarian
almost by default, then stumbled when making what
felt like a deliberate move into the world of
cooking. And I've been floating with the current ever
since.
I have to commit or I'll keep on writing 450 - 800
word posts here forever and ever. It's not a bad gig,
though the pay is lousy. I love interacting with my
blogging friends. But I need something more
substantial. A career.
Do you know what I mean?
For your trouble, your time, maybe as a reward for
leaving a comment, here's a recipe. Consider it
another diversionary tactic or maybe just some picnic
food for your next visit to Fort Funston, the hang gliding mecca.
Herbed feta
and tapenade sandwiches
Briny tapenade and thyme-spiked feta punch up the
flavor of this Mediterranean sandwich. A couple of
simple tricks -- adding a sprinkling of herbs and
olive oil to a supermarket cheese, roughly chopping a
handful of olives with a touch of garlic – give it an
effortless homemade touch. Bring extra bread along to
sop up red pepper juices and the occasional escapee
feta tidbit.
Makes 2 sandwiches
1/2 cup kalamata olives, pitted and roughly chopped
1 small clove garlic, minced
2 tablespoons mayonnaise
1/2 cup feta cheese, crumbled
1 tablespoon fresh thyme leaves, minced (can
substitute 1 teaspoon dried)
1 tablespoon extra virgin olive oil
pinch freshly ground black pepper
4 slices country bread
1 small cucumber, peeled and thickly sliced
1 large red pepper, roasted, seeded, and quartered
Stir together kalamata olives, garlic, and mayonnaise
in a small bowl. Lightly toss feta, thyme, olive oil,
and black pepper in another small bowl. Slather each
slice of bread with a generous amount of tapenade and
layer the feta, cucumber, and red pepper on two of
the slices. Top each sandwich with the remaining
bread, slice in half, and serve.
Image: Hang gliders at Fort Funston, Memorial
Day 2009. Photo by "Mr. Trinkle."