|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
 |
|
|
|
|
831-426 6109
|
Published Articles GARBANZO BEANS Several years ago my best friend spent most of Thanksgiving dinner arguing with her boyfriend about pumpkin pies. One felt they were better made with evaporated milk; the other insisted on half-and-half. The rest of us could only call on the authority of our own families. This seemed to confirm the anthropological theory that you can tell a tribe by what they eat. This Christmas I was merging two tribes. My husband's parents and his two daughters, Danielle and Jennifer, were coming to stay for a week. Last March I had committed an act of optimism and remarried in middle age. I was not a reluctant bride, but being married pleased me more than I expected and for eight months I was dumb in a private happiness. Then my husband had a major project due and started working fifteen hours a day. And I started anticipating Christmas. Christmas does not bring out the best in me. For years I thought that I didn't like Christmas because I was single. Every year I went home to my parents where I would be treated kindly like some overgrown child and watched surreptitiously to see if I would drink too much or mention something they'd rather not know. I had no status as a single person and had to share a room with my sister's children. But now I was respectfully married. I had a husband, two stepchildren, a Christmas tree, and I was still looking forward to January. My family's holiday tradition is trying new recipes. Before an upcoming holiday my father and I get out cookbooks, torn pages from the newspaper, the holiday issues of Sunset and Gourmet magazines, and read recipes out loud to each other. My mother makes suggestions but her main role is saying, "Do you know how expensive that will be?" The room is filled with possibilities. The almond macaroon dressing with pomegranate seeds. The pears poached in Merlot. The cranberry sauce with garlic and ginger. We end up with enough recipes for five dinners and go through a final elimination round, making sure there is enough color in the meal. Plate presentation is very important to my father. My husband is not a cook and does not share this interest in recipes. He tries to look attentive as I spread out the cookbooks on the kitchen table for the fourth night in a row, but my questions are irritating him. I know that but, like trying to convince someone of the virtues of half-and-half, I can't believe that he won't eventually find this satisfying. The quieter he gets, the more I try to engage him in conversation. "What are your family's traditions? Should I make something special?" "I can't think of anything." "What about the potatoes?" I know that people have strong feelings about potatoes. "Do you think they'd like them mashed with garlic? Or sweet potatoes? There is a nice au gratin recipe in here with sweet potatoes." "You are getting uptight," my husband announces unhelpfully. Of course I am uptight. I am trying to plan a Christmas celebration for five people from an alien tribe. The last time I saw my parents-in-law was at the wedding. Danielle and Jennifer, aged twelve and thirteen, recently took me aside to explain that they usually receive a Big Ticket Item for Christmas. A TV for example. "It's just a simple family Christmas," my husband says when I try to talk to him about it. "Everything will be fine." I don't remember him being so dim-witted. I'm surprised to find myself wishing I could go home for Christmas to people who like to talk about food. It wasn't so bad sleeping with my nieces. It was sort of fun sneaking off with my cousin for another glass of wine and feeling superior to the mothers, our sisters, as they yelled at their kids. What was the problem with that? I'm having a hard time remembering. On the Friday before Christmas I arrive home from work carrying bags of groceries to find everyone standing around the kitchen table. I hug my in-laws, kiss my husband, and try to listen to the children who are talking nonstop. Jennifer takes me aside to show me her new nose ring. She demonstrates that it is just a clip-on and I try not to show relief. "But Dad won't let me wear it," she complains. "Tell him I can." "Save it for when we go downtown." "He thinks he can tell me what to do. He is ruining my life." I look at this twelve-year-old with long blond hair, black jeans and dark-rimmed eyes and try not to laugh at her inflection. I remember my father making me wear little girl socks to church when I was her age, when the other girls were wearing stockings with garter belts. I wonder what she and my husband will talk about in thirty years. I can't imagine that it will be recipes. The first, supposedly easy, meal has become a production. I try some new appetizers. Fennel wrapped with prosciutto. Garbanzo beans dressed in oil and oregano. My husband, who claims his intake of garbanzo beans has increased geometrically since he met me, rolls his eyes. The slices of Franchesi bread, salami, and mozzarella are eaten. Usually I'm a good, if casual, cook but tonight I can't seem to do anything right. I put too many red pepper flakes in the spaghetti sauce and we have to dilute it with more tomatoes. This causes it to be too hot and too tomatoey. The girls, who have been suspicious about the spaghetti from the start, want the sauce kept separate. By the time we eat, the noodles are a gelatinous ball. Only my husband believes that I never intended to include meatballs. "This is like the time you forgot to put the egg in the hot and sour soup," Danielle says. "This is just a tomato sauce. There weren't supposed to be meatballs." "They're very easy to make, Karen. Maybe we can get the recipe from our Mom." Saturday night I decide to try a new pork roast recipe. I had imagined the smell of pork and onions wafting through the house when my in-laws returned from Mass. Unfortunately shopping took longer than I had expected and the pork is still sitting in the butcher's paper when they walk through the door. My mother-in-law takes off her jacket and puts on an apron. I appreciate her help but feel guilty that she has to work so much. We make slits in the pork and stuff garlic and olives in them. We peel beets and apples for a puree. We cut up parsnips, potatoes, carrots and onions to bake. We're about an hour and a half late at this point, but things are starting to come together. I go look for my husband who is in the study working on his computer. Jennifer is there talking on the phone. "My Mom," she mouths as I look at her. I suspect this is not true, but let it go. I lean over my husband and say, "Your Dad is sitting by himself. Come out here and keep him company." He sighs, walks past his father to the kitchen and asks if everyone is all right. He probably wants to make sure I'm not waving knives around at his family. I ask him to hand me the cilantro and, after an initial search, he sits cross-legged in front of the open refrigerator, cleaning it out. With the refrigerator door open he has effectively trapped us all in the narrow kitchen. He is talking to his mother about the nuances of Macintosh hard drives while plastic bags of semi-liquid vegetables and half-empty yogurt containers pile up on the floor around him. I assume he thinks he is helping, but I am not appreciative. There is a scramble to light the candles, pour Pepsi and Pinot Noir, and we sit down to dinner. They tell me the roast is good, but I can't tell. The kids won't even try a spoonful of the pink puree once they find out it is beets, but I knew that was a long shot. Jennifer, who has been beeped two times during dinner, excuses herself to go back to the phone. My husband takes me aside to say that it was delicious, but in the future it might be more efficient if I make only one dish and we get the rest take-out. I suggest it is his turn to do the dishes. I guess the week is going well. Danielle and Jennifer are suspicious of any outdoor activity, thinking it might involve exercise, but they help with the cooking, suggest games of Hearts and Double Solitaire, and are generally affectionate. My parents-in-law are easy to be with and appreciate the activities we've planned. My husband goes two days without turning on his computer. I am the problem. I keep making silly mistakes in the kitchen. I feel disconnected from my husband. I wish everyone would stay put, while I go downstairs and take a two-day nap. It almost comes together on Christmas Eve. I had decided to avoid a traditional dinner and in the afternoon we scrub mussels and clean shrimp for a seafood paella. My husband joins us again in the kitchen, this time sitting in front of the sink to straighten out the paper bags under the counter. I step over him without commenting. The paella is colorful in the middle of the table although Danielle, who has a future as a food critic, rightly points out that the mussels didn't all open and the rice was slightly undercooked. Jennifer stays at the table without making an excuse to get back to the phone. My father-in-law has three helpings of the jumbo shrimp, for which I am very grateful. Everything is fine, but I feel something is missing. Even at midnight mass the priest seems determined to describe Mary as young and frightened, giving birth in a dirty cave alone without other women. I would have preferred a miracle. The next afternoon, when my husband returns from taking the girls home and his parents to the airport, he finds me reading in the living room. "Thank you," he says. "It was a wonderful Christmas." "Did you think so?" I am bald-faced in my need for reassurance. "It was better than wonderful. It was magic." It is my taciturn, practical husband that finds the right words. I listen very closely, knowing that he will not repeat them. |
|
|
|
Brochures | Newsletters | White Papers | Direct Mail | Sales Tools | Features & Essays | Bio | Home © 2001 Karen Ackland. Reproducing articles and essays without permission is strictly prohibited. |
||
