The day brings an epiphany and salmon

"Grandma, what's heaven like?"
"I don't know. When I go there, I will come back and tell you, all right?"
"Okay, Grandma."


Maria Theresa - known in the USA as "Tessie" died when I was 11. There was so much I didn't know. So much I am finding out - about all my grandparents and great grandparents.
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Yesterday, I came home from a challenging and poignant day. I put my pots on the stove and improvised. I thought a lot about why I cook. And why it has grown in importance the older I get. Yes, I love to eat. Yes, I want to pass down my heritage to my children; "yes" to all answers regarding cooking and family and organics and local ...

I have been researching the foods and recipes of Basilicata. Grandma did not hand down any recipes. It was all what was fresh, what was handy and all was cooked according to what was "right" by the seeing and "delicious" by the tasting.
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I added some oil to my pot. Sliced cabbages and onions and thyme. Threw in a pad of Earth Balance butter for creaminess. Sauteed. Added some wine. Simmered. Added some orange juice. Stood over the stove. Stirred. Added the salmon.


How could I have not realized that I cook to find my grandparents... that I cook to talk to them because I was too little when they were here or they were gone before I was here. I cook to find them and ask them questions.

Grandma did not come back to tell me what heaven was like. Or, I missed the call. But she's inside me, guiding me... telling to to look, taste and feel. Throw away the recipe and pay attention to what you are doing.
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When I cook, I am doing something that has been done through the ages. I am connected. And I have many guides, many loves and a wealth of inspiration.

Why write? Why cook?

Ireland.

Wild.

And tame.

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And now a memory. As I walked the streets of Galway, I pinched myself and thought over and over, "Appreciate. Savor. Love." For all too soon it is a memory. In my work life, I am waiting for these days to be a memory. I am in the "dark side of the moon" phase where even my award-winning plays cannot find a home. I considered papering the walls with my "You write very well, but we cannot market this particular play" letters. It's been many, many months.

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So why write? Well, it silences the voices. Yes, it is true. Writing (particularly plays) encourages a schizophrenic mind set. And writing is some sort of bizarre artistic therapy. Which brings me to cooking. It, too silences the voices.

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In Julie and Julia, Julie Powell says, "“I love that after a day where nothing is sure — and when I say nothing, I mean nothing — you can come home and absolutely know that if you add egg yolks to chocolate and sugar and milk, it will get thick. It’s such a comfort."

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I love that statement - but I am not sure that is why I cook. When I cook, I can lose myself. When I am chopping aromatics, my head is quiet. I am fully engaged in the colors and aromas and the wish to not cut my fingers off. Fast food does not give me that. Fast food leaves out anticipation. It does not fill my head with anything but the worry I am ingesting unknown ingredients! The physical activity of whisking, chopping and tasting engages my eyes, ears, nose and anticipatory taste buds. It has to. I'm not all that coordinated.

I look at my thyme and I know that if I combine it with lemon juice and a bit of olive oil and throw it in a bag with chicken drumsticks, I will make some people very happy. All I need to do is grill on some blazing coals and it will disappear - amid smiles.
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Combine pasta with the bounty of the season, add some cheese and your pick of herbs and you have a meal. A meal that feeds, nourishes and entices. When the rejection slips pile up and I cannot face the computer, I turn to my kitchen. It lifts the fog. It nourishes body and spirit. I will now write a scene for my middle school play and sautee some porcinis from Italyville with shallots and cream. There is no guarantee that the scene will remain in the play. But I am sure the porcinis will delight!