THE REPORTER’S KITCHEN
AUGUST 2002
The kitchen where I’m making dinner is a New York kitchen. Nice light, way too small, nowhere to put anything unless the stove goes. My stove is huge, but it will never go. My stove is where my head clears, my impressions settle, my reporter’s life gets folded into my life, and whatever I’ve just learned, or think I’ve learned—whatever it was, out there in the world, that had seemed so different and surprising—bubbles away in the very small pot of what I think I know and, if I’m lucky, produces something like perspective. A few years ago, I had a chance to interview Brenda Milner, the neuropsychologist who helped trace the process by which the brain turns information into memory, and memory into the particular consciousness called a life, or, you could say, into the signature of the person. Professor Milner was nearly eighty when I met her, in Montreal, at the neurological institute at McGill University, where she’d worked for close to fifty years, and one of the things we talked about was how some people, even at her great age, persist in “seeing” memory the way children do—as a cupboard or a drawer or a box of treasures underneath the bed, a box that gets full and has to be cleaned out every now and then to make room for the new treasures they collect. Professor Milner wasn’t one of those people, but I am. The memory I “see” is a kind of kitchen, where the thoughts and characters I bring home go straight into a stockpot on my big stove, reducing old flavors, distilling new ones, making a soup that never tastes the same as it did the day before, and feeds the voice that, for better or worse, is me writing, and not some woman from another kitchen.
I knew nothing about stockpots as a child. My mother was an awful cook, or more accurately, she didn’t cook, since in her day it was fashionable not to go anywhere near a kitchen if you didn’t have to. Her one creation, apart from a fluffy spinach soufflé that for some reason always appeared with the overcooked turkey when she made Thanksgiving dinner (a task she undertook mainly to avoid sitting in the cold with the rest of us at the Brown Thanksgiving Day home football game), would probably count today as haute-fusion family cooking: matzo-meal-and-Rhode-Island-johnnycake-mix pancakes, topped with thick bacon, sour cream, and maple syrup. Not even our housekeeper and occasional cook could cook—beyond a tepid sherried stew that was always presented at parties, grandly, as lobster thermidor, and a passable apple filling that you could spoon out, undetected, through the large steam holes of an otherwise tasteless pie. I don’t think I ever saw my father cook anything, unless you can call sprinkling sugar on a grapefruit or boiling syringes in an enamel pan, the way doctors did in those days, cooking. (I use the pan now for roasting chickens.) The only man in my family with a recipe of his own was my brother Bob, who had mastered a pretty dessert called pumpkin chiffon while courting an Amish girl who liked pumpkins. My own experience in the kitchen was pretty much limited to reheating the Sunday-night Chinese takeout early on Monday mornings, before anyone else was awake to eat it first.
I started cooking when I started writing. My first dish was tuna curry (a can of Bumble Bee, a can of Campbell’s Cream of Mushroom Soup, a big spoonful of Durkee Curry Powder, and a cup of instant Carolina rice), and the recipe, such as it was, came from my friend Mary Clay, who claimed to have got it directly from the cook at her family’s Kentucky farm. It counted for me as triply exotic, being at once the product of a New York supermarket chain, the bluegrass South, and India. And never mind that the stove I cooked on then was tiny, or that “dining” meant a couple of plates and a candle on my old toy chest, transformed into the coffee table of a graduate-school rental, near Columbia; the feeling was high sixties, meaning that a nice girl from Providence could look forward to enjoying literature, sex, and cooking in the space of a single day. I don’t remember whom I was making the curry for, though I must have liked him, because I raced home from Frederick Dupee’s famous lecture on symbolism in Light in August to make it. What I do remember is how comforting it was to be standing at that tiny stove, pinched into a merry widow and stirring yellow powder into Campbell’s soup, when I might have been pacing the stacks at Butler Library, trying to resolve the very serious question of whether, after Dupee on Faulkner, there was anything left to say about literature, and, more precisely, the question of whether I’d find anything to say in a review—one of my first assignments in the real world—of a book of poems written by Norman Mailer on the occasion of having stabbed his second wife. I remember this because, as I stood there, stirring powder and a soupçon of Acapulco Gold into my tuna curry, I began to accept that, while whatever I did say wasn’t going to be the last word on the poetics of domestic violence, it would be my word, a lot of Rhode Island still in it, a little New York, and to my real surprise, a couple of certainties: I was angry at Norman Mailer; I was twenty-one and didn’t think that you should stab your wife. Mailer, on the other hand, had produced some very good lines of poetry. He must have been happy (or startled) to be taken for a poet at all, because a few weeks after my review ran—in a neighborhood paper you could pick up free in apartment-house lobbies—his friend Dan Wolf, the editor of what was then a twelve-page downtown alternative weekly called The Village Voice, phoned to offer me a job.
I bought a madeleine mold, at a kitchen shop near the old Voice offices, on Sheridan Square. It was my first purchase as a reporter who cooked—a long, narrow pan of shallow, ridged shells, waiting to produce a Proust—but though I liked madeleines, they didn’t collect my world in a mouthful, the way the taste of warm apples, licked from the cool tingle of a silver spoon, still does, or for that matter, the way the terrible chicken curry at the old brasserie La Coupole in Paris always reminded me of Norman Mailer’s wife. The mold sat in my various kitchens for twelve years before I moved to the kitchen I cook in now and tried madeleines again, and discovered that, for me, they were just another cookie—which is to say, not the kind of cookie that belonged in the ritual that for years has kept me commuting between my study and my stove, stirring or beating or chopping or sifting my way through false starts and strained transitions and sticky sentences.
The cookies I like to make when I’m writing are called “dream cookies.” I made my first batch in my friend John Tillinger’s kitchen in Roxbury, Connecticut, at one in the morning, in a mood perhaps best described by the fact that I’d just been awakened by the weight of a large cat settling on my head. The cookies were a kind of sand tart. They had a dry, gritty, burned-butter taste, and I must have associated them with the taste of deliverance from sweet, smooth, treacherous things like purring cats. I say this because a few years later I found myself making them again, in North Africa, in the middle of reporting a story about a tribal feud that involved a Berber wedding and was encrypted—at least for me—in platters of syrupy honeyed pastries, sugared couscous, and sweet mint tea.
At the time, my kitchen was in the Moroccan city of Meknes, where my husband was doing ethnographic research, but my story took me to a village a couple of hours up into the foothills of the Middle Atlas Mountains. It was a wild, unpleasant place. Even today, some thirty years, a couple of wars and revolutions, and an assortment of arguably more unpleasant places later, I would call it scary. The wedding in question, a three-day, her-house-to-his-house traveling celebration, was about to begin in the bride’s village—which had every reason to celebrate, having already provided the groom’s village with a large number of pretty virgins and, in the process, profited considerably from the bride-prices those virgins had commanded: goats, chickens, silver necklaces, brass plates, and simple, practical, hard cash, some of it in negotiable European currencies. The problem was that none of the young men in the bride’s village were at all interested in the virgins available in the groom’s village, whose own supply of goats, chickens, necklaces, plates, and money was consequently quite depleted. All that village had was an abundance of homely daughters—or, you could say, the bad end of the balance of trade in brides. As a result, the men in the groom’s village were getting ready to fight the men in the bride’s village, a situation that left the women in both villages cooking day and night, in a frantic effort to turn their enemies into guests.
By then I was close to being an enemy myself, having already broken one serious taboo: I had asked the name of somebody’s aunt in a conversation where the naming of paternal aunts in the company of certain female relatives was tantamount to calling catastrophe down on the entire family, and the women had had to abandon their cooking in order to purge the premises, which they did by circling the village, ululating loudly, while I sat there in the blazing sun, under strict orders to keep the flies off a platter of dripping honey cakes. It hadn’t helped any that, in a spirit of apology (or perhaps it was malice), I then invited the villagers to Meknes and served them my special Julia Child’s bœuf bourguignon, which made them all quite ill. A few days later, I went to the medina and bought some almonds for dream cookies. I don’t know why I did it. Maybe I was homesick. Certainly I was being spoiled, knowing that Malika, the young Arab woman who worked for me and had become my friend, would grind those almonds into a sandy paste as quickly as she had just peeled peaches for my breakfast—which is to say, in less time than it took me to check for scorpions underneath the two cushions and copper tray that were then my dining room. But I think now that I was mainly trying to find my voice in a country where some women couldn’t mention an aunt to a relative—where the voices of most women, in fact, were confined to their ululations. Once I heard that same shrill, fluty cry coming from my own kitchen and rushed in to find Malika shaking with pain and bleeding; she was sixteen, and had taken something or done something to herself to end a pregnancy that I had never even suspected. After that, I would sometimes hear the cry again and find her huddled in a corner of the room, struck with a terror she could not describe. No one had ever asked her to describe it, not even the man she’d married when, by her own reckoning, she was twelve years old.
I never finished the story about the Berber bride. I was a bride myself, and this posed something of a problem for my erstwhile village friends, who had wanted to find me a husband from the tribe and thus assure themselves of the continued use of, if not actually the title to, my new Volkswagen. In the event, one night, after we’d been trading recipes, the women sent me home with a complicated (and fairly revolting) “love recipe” to try out on the husband I already had, and it turned out—at least according to the neighbors who warned me not to make it—to be a bit of black magic whose purpose was, to put it discreetly, less amorous than incapacitating. I took this as a sign that it was time to come down from the mountains. I wrote a book about an Arab wedding instead, and I waited until I was back in my study in New York to finish it. The lesson for me, as a writer, was that I had to burrow back into my own life before I could even start thinking clearly about someone else’s, or come to terms with the kinds of violence that are part of any reporter’s working life, or with the tangles of outrage that women reporters almost inevitably carry home with their notes.
In New York, I cook a lot of Moroccan food. I keep a tagine on the shelf that used to hold the madeleine mold, and then the Swedish pancake skillet and the French crêpe pan and the Swiss fondue set and the electric wok that my husband’s secretary sent for Christmas during a year when I was stir-frying everything in sesame oil—something I gave up because stir-frying was always over in a few fraught seconds and did nothing at all for my writing. The cooking that helps my writing is slow cooking, the kind of cooking where you take control of your ingredients so that whatever it is you’re making doesn’t run away with you, the way words can run away with you in a muddled or unruly sentence. Cooking like that—nudging my disordered thoughts into the stately measure of, say, a good risotto simmering slowly in a homemade broth—gives me confidence and at least the illusion of clarity. And I find that for clarity, the kind that actually lasts until I’m back at my desk, poised over a sentence with my red marker, there is nothing to equal a couscous steaming in its colander pot, with the smell of cumin and coriander rising with the steam. That’s when the words I was sure I’d lost come slipping into my head, one by one, and with them, even the courage to dip my fingers in and separate the grains.
Some of the food I learned to cook in Morocco didn’t translate to New York. I have yet to find a hen in New York with fertilized eggs still inside it—a delicacy that the Meknasi would produce for their guests in moments of truly serious hospitality—not at the halal markets on Atlantic Avenue or even at International Poultry on Fifty-fourth Street, poulterer to the Orthodox carriage trade. I cannot imagine slaughtering a goat on Central Park West and then skinning it on the sidewalk, if for no reason other than that I’m an ocean away from the old f’qi who could take that skin before it stiffened and stretch it into a nearly transparent head for a clay drum with a personal prayer baked into it. I have never again squatted on my heels, knees apart and back straight, for the hours it takes to sift wheat through a wooden sieve and then slap water into it for a flat-bread dough, though in the course of various assignments I have made chapati with Ugandan Asian immigrants in London, stirred mealie-mealie with Bushmen in Botswana, and rolled pâte feuilletée with Slovenian autoworkers in the projects of Södertälje, Sweden. And I am still waiting for permission to dig a charcoal pit in Central Park for the baby lamb that I will then smother in mint and cumin, cover with earth, and bake to such tenderness that you could scoop it out and eat it with your fingers.
But when I’m starting a piece about politics, especially French politics, I will often begin by preserving the lemons for a chicken tagine, perhaps because a forkful of good tagine inevitably takes me back to the home of the French-speaking sheikh whose wives taught me how to make it (to the sound of Tom Jones singing “Delilah” on a shortwave radio), and from there to the small restaurant in Paris where I ate my first tagine outside Morocco, and from there to the flat of a surly French politician named Jean-Pierre Chevènement, who lived near the restaurant, and who unnerved me entirely during our one interview by balancing cups of espresso on the breasts of a hideous brass coffee table that appeared to be cast as a woman’s torso, while barking at me about French nuclear policy. Similarly, I make choucroute whenever I’m starting a piece that has to do with music, because my first proper choucroute—the kind where you put fresh sauerkraut through five changes of cold water, squeeze it dry, strand by strand, and then braise it in gin and homemade stock, with a ham hock and smoked pork and sausages buried inside it—was a labor of love for the eightieth birthday of the composer George Perle; and since then the smell of sausage, gin, and sauerkraut mingling in my oven has always reminded me of the impossible art of composition, and set my standards at the level of his luminous wind quintets.
On the other hand, when I write about art I like to cook a rabbit. My first rabbit was also, unhappily, my daughter’s pet rabbit, and I cooked it with understandable misgiving, one summer in the Vaucluse, after an old peasant sorcerer who used to come over during the full moon to do the ironing took it from its hutch and presented it to her, freshly slaughtered and stuffed with rosemary, on the morning of her first birthday, saying that once she ate it, she would have her friend with her “forever.” We had named the rabbit Julien Nibble, in honor of our summer neighbor Julien Levy, a man otherwise known as the dealer who had introduced Max Ernst and Arshile Gorky and most of the great Dadaists and Surrealists to New York, and my daughter, who is thirty-one now, has refused to eat rabbit since we told her the story, when she was six or seven. But I have kept on cooking rabbit, changing recipes as the art world changes, and always asking myself what Julien would have made of those changes, and of course whether he would have liked the dinner. There was the saddle of rabbit in a cognac-cream sauce that smoothed out my clotted thoughts about a middle-aged Italian painter with what I’d called “an unrequited sense of history.” There was the lapin niçoise, with olives, garlic, and tomatoes, that saw me through the first paragraphs of a story about the politics of public sculpture in the South Bronx. There was the rich, bitter rabbit ragout—a recipe from the Croatian grandmother of the Berlin artist Renata Stih—that got me started after a couple of earthquakes hit Assisi, shattering the frescoes on the ceiling of San Francesco into a million pieces. Dishes like these become invocations, little rituals you invent for yourself, in the hope that your life and your work will eventually taste the same.
Good cooking is much easier to master than good writing. But great cooking is something different, and during the years that I’ve stood at my stove, stirring and sprinkling and tasting, waiting for a sauce to thicken and a drab sentence to settle—if not precisely into echoing, Wordsworthian chords, at least into a turn of phrase that will tell you something you didn’t already know about Gerhard Schröder, say, or Silvio Berlusconi—my cooking has leaped ahead by several stars, leaving my writing in the shade. Some dishes have disappeared from my repertoire; tuna curry, for example, has been replaced by the crab-and-spun-coconut-cream curry I first tasted in Hong Kong in 1990 and have been working on ever since, and never mind that the crab in Hong Kong turned out to be doctored tofu, while mine arrives from a Broadway fishmonger with its claws scissoring through the paper bag. Some dishes I’ve sampled in the course (and cause) of duty are memorable mainly because I’ve tried so hard to forget them. For one, the crudités I managed to get down at Jean-Marie Le Pen’s gaudy and heavily guarded Saint-Cloud villa, with M. Le Pen spinning an outsize plastic globe that held a barely concealed tape recorder, and a couple of Dobermans sniffing at my plate. For another, the rat stew I was served in the Guyana jungle by a visibly unstable interior minister, who had accompanied me there (en route to a “model farm” hacked out of the clearing that had once been Jonestown) in a battered Britten-Norman Islander with no radar or landing lights and a thirteen-year-old Air Force colonel for a pilot. Some dishes I’ve repressed, like the cauliflower soup that was ladled into my plate in the dining room of a Belfast hotel just as a terrorist’s bomb went off and a wing of the building crumbled, leaving me, the friend whose couch I’d been using for the past week, and a couple of other diners perched in the middle of the sky—“like saints on poles,” a man at the next table said, returning to his smoked salmon. Some dishes I’ve loved but would not risk trying myself, like the pork roast with crackling that Pat Hume, the wife of the politician and soon-to-be Nobel Peace laureate John Hume, was in the process of carving, one Sunday lunch in Derry, when a stray bullet shattered the window and lodged in the wall behind her; she didn’t stop carving or even pause in her conversation, which, as I remember, had to do with whether the New York subways were so dangerous as to preclude her visiting with the children while John was in Washington, advising Teddy Kennedy on how to get through a family crisis.
Some dishes I’ve left in better hands. It’s clear to me that I’m no match for the sausage vendor at the Frankfurt Hauptbahnhof when it comes to grilling a bratwurst to precisely that stage where the skin is charred and just greasy enough to hold the mustard, and then stuffing the bratwurst into just enough roll to get a grip on, but not so much roll that you miss the sport of trying to eat it with anything fewer than four paper napkins and the business section of the Frankfurter Allgemeine Zeitung. In the same way, I know that I will never equal my friend Duke, a Herero tribesman known from the Kalahari Desert to the Okavango Delta by his Dukes of Hazzard T-shirt, in the art of thickening a sauce for a guinea fowl or a spur-winged goose in the absence of anything resembling flour. Duke was the cook at my fly camp when I was out in the delta researching a piece about “bush housekeeping,” and he thickened his sauces there by grating roots he called desert potatoes into boiling fat. But the secret was how many potatoes and, indeed, how to distinguish those potatoes from all the other roots that looked like potatoes but were something you’d rather not ingest. I never found out, because the day we’d planned to fly to the desert to dig some up, a tourist camping on a nearby game preserve was eaten by a lion, and my pilot volunteered to collect the bones. Food like that is, as they say in the art world, site-specific.
Take the dish I have called Canard sauvage rue du Cherche Midi. I cooked my first wild duck in a kitchen on Cherche Midi in 1982, and during the seventeen years that I lived between Paris and New York, I honed the recipe to what my friends assured me was perfection. But it has never produced the same frisson at my New York dinner table that it did at the picnic table in my Paris garden, if for no reason other than that my neighbors across the court in New York do not punctuate my dinner parties with well-aimed rotten eggs, accompanied by shouts of “Sauvages!,” the way one of my Paris neighbors—a local crank by the name of Jude—always did, and that consequently my New York guests know nothing of the pleasure that comes from pausing between bites of a perfect duck in order to turn a hose full blast on the open window of someone who dislikes them.
Some dishes just don’t travel, no matter how obvious or easy they seem. I know this because I tried for a year to duplicate the magical fried chicken known to aficionados as Fernand Point’s Poulet Américain—a recipe so simple in itself that no one since that legendary Vienne chef has ever dared to put it on a menu. I have never even attempted to duplicate the spicy chicken stew that the actor Michael Goldman heats up on a Sterno stove in his damp, smelly Paris cave, surrounded by the moldy bottles of Lafite and Yquem and Grands Échézeaux that you know he’s planning to open as the night wears on. Nor have I attempted the Indonesian rijsttafel—which is basically just a platter of rice with little bowls of condiments and sauces—that my late friend George Hoff, a Dutch kendo master and nightclub bouncer, tossed off one night in London after a long and strenuous demonstration that involved raising a long pole and slamming it down to within a centimeter of my husband’s head. Or the fish grilled by a group of young Portuguese commandos in the early summer of 1974—I was covering their revolution; they were taking a break from it—over a campfire on a deserted Cabo de São Vicente beach. Or for that matter, the s’mores my favorite counselor roasted over a campfire at Camp Fernwood, in Poland, Maine (and never mind that I hated Camp Fernwood). Or even popcorn at the movies.
But most things do travel, if you know the secret. A lot of cooks don’t share their secrets, or more often lie, the way my mother-in-law lied about the proportion of flour to chocolate in her famous “yum-yum cake,” thereby ending whatever relationship we had. My best secret dates from a dinner party at Gracie Mansion when Ed Koch was the mayor of New York. I had known Koch from his Village Independent Democrat days, when he pretty much starved unless his mother fed him. But now that he was Hizzoner the Mayor of New York City, he could, as he repeatedly told his guests, order anything he wanted to eat, no matter what the hour or the season or the inconvenience to a staff best trained in trimming the crusts off tea sandwiches. The dinner in question got off to an awkward start—“You’re Puerto Rican? You don’t look Puerto Rican” is how, if I remember correctly, he greeted the beautiful curator of the Museo del Barrio—and it was frequently interrupted by phone calls from his relatives, who seemed to be having some sort of business crisis. But everybody agreed that the food was delicious. It wasn’t elaborate food, or even much different from what you’d cook for yourself on a rainy night at home: pasta in a tomato sauce, good steaks, and hot chocolate sundaes for dessert. But the meal itself was so uncommonly tasty that I went back to the kitchen afterward and asked the cook how he’d made it, and he told me, “Whatever Ed likes, whatever he says he never got as a kid, I double the quantity. I doubled the Parmesan on the pasta. I tripled the hot chocolate sauce on the ice cream.” Ed’s principle was “More is more.”
It’s not a principle I would apply to writing, but it’s definitely the one I cook by now, on my way from excess in the kitchen to a manuscript where less is more. If my couscous is now the best couscous on the Upper West Side, it’s because, with a nod to Ed, I take my favorite ingredients from every couscous I’ve ever eaten—the chickpeas and raisins and turnips and carrots and almonds and prunes—double the quantity, toss them into the broth, and then go back to my desk and cut some adverbs. I put too many eggs in my matzo balls, too much basil in my pesto, too much saffron in my paella. I have no patience with the kind of recipe that says “1/4 teaspoon thyme” or “2 ounces chopped pancetta.” I drown my carrots in chervil, because I like the way chervil sweetens carrots. I even drown my halibut in chervil, because I like what it does to the reduction of wine and cream in a white fish sauce—though, now that I think of it, when I’m on a bandwagon, when I’m really mad at the world I’m writing about and the people in it, I will usually switch to sorrel.
The first time I cooked halibut on a bed of sorrel, I was in New York, laboring over a long piece about liberation theology in South America and, in particular, about a young priest whose parish was in a favela with the unlikely name of Campos Elísios, about an hour north of Rio de Janeiro. I wasn’t mad at my Brazilian priest—I loved the priest. I was mad at the bishop of Rio, who was on the priest’s back for ignoring orders to keep his parishioners out of politics. At first I thought I could solve the problem by taking the afternoon off to make moqueca, which was not only my favorite Brazilian dish but, in my experience, an immensely soothing one—a gratin of rice, shrimp, lime, and coconut cream, served with (and this is essential, if you’re serious) a sprinkling of toasted manioc flour—which provides the comforts of a brandade without the terrible nursery taste of cod and potatoes mushed together. I made moqueca a lot in Rio, because I was angry a lot in Rio. Angry at the poverty, at the politics, at the easy brutality of people in power and the desperate brutality of people without it. But it’s hard to make my moqueca in New York unless you have a source of manioc flour, and the closest I came to that was the seven-foot-long flexible straw funnel leaning against a beam in my living room—an object devised by the Amerindians, centuries ago, to squeeze the poison out of manioc so that they wouldn’t die eating it. I had wasted the better part of the afternoon on Amsterdam Avenue, searching for manioc flour, when I happened to pass a greengrocer with a special on sorrel. I bought him out, and a couple of hours later I discovered that the patient preparation of sorrel—the blanching and chopping and puréeing and braising in butter—had taken the diatribe in my head and turned it into a story I could tell.
There are, of course, moments in writing when even the most devoted cook stops cooking. Those are the moments that, in sex, are called “transporting,” but in journalism are known as an empty fridge, an irritable family, and the beginnings of a first-name friendship with the woman who answers the phone at Shun Lee West. When I am lost in one of those moments, I subsist on takeout and jasmine tea, or if takeout is truly beyond me—the doorbell, the change, the tip, the mismatched chopsticks, the arguments when I won’t share—on chili tortilla chips and Diet Coke. If the hour is decent, I’ll mix a bloody mary or a caipirinha like the ones that the priest and I used to sneak in the kitchen of the parish house of Campos Elísios on evenings when the Seventh-day Adventists would arrive at the favela in force, pitch a tent in a field, and call the poor to salvation through amps rented by the hour from a Copacabana beach band. But moments like those are rare.
My normal state when beginning a piece is panic, and by now my friends and family are able to gauge that panic by the food I feed them. This past spring, in the course of a few weeks of serious fretting over the lead of a story about an Afghan refugee, I cooked a small Thanksgiving turkey, two Christmas rib roasts, and an Easter lamb. I cooked them with all the fixings, from the cornbread-and-sausage stuffing to the Yorkshire pudding and horseradish cream—though I stopped short of the Greek Easter cheesecake that three cookbooks assured me had to be made in a clean flowerpot. My excuse was that I’d worked through Thanksgiving and been snowbound in Berlin through Christmas, and of course it was nearly Easter when I began my holiday cooking. Easter, actually, went well. No one mentioned the fact that we were celebrating it on a Saturday night, or for that matter, that at noon on Sunday we were due, as always, for our annual Easter lunch at the home of some old friends. But Thanksgiving in April brought strained smiles all around, especially since my next-door neighbor had already cooked a lovely Thanksgiving dinner for me in February. And while my first April Christmas was a big success—one of the guests brought presents and a box of chocolate mushrooms left over from a bûche de Noël—my second Christmas, a few days later, ended badly, when my daughter suggested that I “see someone” to discuss my block, my husband announced to a room full of people that I was “poisoning” him with saturated fats, and my son-in-law accused me of neglecting the dog. But I did end up with a paragraph. In fact, I thought it was a pretty good paragraph. And I finished the piece the way I usually finish pieces, with notes and cookbooks piled on the floor, working for a few hours, sorting the Post-its on my desk into meaningless neat stacks, and then heading for my big stove to do more cooking—in this case, to add the tomatoes to a Bolognese sauce, because my last paragraph was too tricky to handle without a slow, comfortable Italian sauce, and I’d been using Bolognese for tricky characters since I first tackled the subject of François Mitterrand, in a story on his inauguration in 1981.
It seems to me that there is something very sensible about keeping your memories in the kitchen with the pots and the spices, especially in New York. They take up no space; they do not crash with your computer; and they collect the voice that you can’t quite hear—in tastes and smells and small gestures that, with any luck, will eventually start to sound like you. I’m not in New York right now. The dinner I was cooking a few pages ago—the clam-and-pork stew with plenty of garlic and piri piri peppers that I first ate in a Portuguese fishermen’s tavern near Salem, the day I tacked wrong and sailed my boyfriend’s sixteen-footer into a very big ketch and broke his mast and, with it, whatever interest he had in me—is not the dinner I am cooking today, at a farmhouse in Umbria. My stove is smaller here (though my pots are bigger). I do not write easily about myself. I am not as tasty or exotic as the characters I usually choose. My first attempt at anything like autobiography was a thinly disguised short story, and it was returned with the gentle suggestion that I replace myself with someone “a little less like the kind of person we know everything about already.” But twenty years later I did manage to produce a reminiscence of sorts. It was about my mother and my daughter and about being a feminist, and it ended where I am writing now, in Umbria, looking across my pond to a field of wheat and watching a family of pheasants cross my garden. It occurred to me, worrying over this ending—not quite a panic but enough of a problem to have already produced a Sardinian saffron-and-sausage pasta, a cold pepper soup with garlic croutons, nightly platters of chicken-liver-and-anchovy bruschetta, pressed through my grandmother’s hand mill, and twenty jars of brandied apricot jam—that I might possibly solve the problem by cooking the same dinner that I’d cooked then. It turns out to be one meal I can’t remember.
Copyright © 2017 by Jane Kramer
