The Peach

“You can taste one, you know.” I was at a meeting at CVS Headquarters, milling around, when a young lady came up beside me and said that. I was newly hired as a sous chef for the St. Andrew’s School in Barrington. Having never worked for a food service contractor before, never mind a huge one like the Compass Group (the largest food ser­vice employer in the world, with over a million employees), I didn’t really know much about this Compass Community Council meeting. Just that I was required to attend, and that I didn’t know anybody.

The dining center at CVS was huge and bright and cheerful, all glass and win­dows, with chrome tables that had artfully brushed circles etched into them, and tall metallic stools that shouted of “design.” Chefs and executives greeted each other warmly, shaking hands, patting each other on the back. People mingled, chatting enthusi­astically, while sipping New Age drinks and noshing fancy appetizers. I looked on, alienated, trying to look interested, yet feeling like I didn’t belong.

In fact, working with school food had me wondering what I’d gotten myself into. Although the company I worked for, Flik, portrayed itself as upscale, it was difficult to overcome the attitudes of a bunch of middle- and high-schoolers. I wanted to give them fresh fruit and vegetables; they wanted pizza and chicken nuggets. I cooked handmade burri­tos, they loved their Taco Bell. It was frustrating. As modern and progressive as this corporate cafeteria was, the dining hall at St. Andrew’s was equally dark, backwards, and old-fashioned; and the appeal of really good home-style food was much less than I imagined. I sighed and turned toward a huge exhibit of gourmet foods.

Now here was something I could get into: a long table, set up by Sid Wainer and Sons of New Bedford, well known purveyors of quality produce. I was familiar with them from other places I’d worked, and this was a spectacular display of just about everything they sold. There were piles of beans, all different shapes, sizes, and colors. Mounds of grains: rices, couscous, spelt, quinoa, wheat berries, and more. Silvery anchovies, grilled artichokes, and tiny roasted onions in oil. Spices of every description, and a few I’d never heard of: grains of paradise, fennel pollen, annatto. Flavored honeys in every shade of gold, lined up like soldiers in their short square jars, along side of preserves, chutneys, oils, smoked salmon, mustard, and balsamic vinegars.

Further down were the fruits and vegetables. Some of the eggplants were deep purple; others were white brushed delicately with amethyst. Bell peppers piled in a riot of colors: red, of course, plus yellow, orange, green, and even black. Berries in baskets, apples, citrus, apricots, and…peaches, stacked high but neatly way at the end, drawing me to them. These were special. Actually, they were perfect; they looked too good to be true. I paused next to them, trying to decide if they were real, when the lady came to me and said, “You can taste one, you know.” Apparently she’d seen the look of bemusement on my face.

“May I?” I asked, surprised out of my reverie.

“Of course,” she said, beckoning toward them.

I reached out and grabbed the one on top, and got a palpable jolt: It’s alive! Indeed this was no cold, hard supermarket peach– it was warm and vital. Touching this fruit was like touching flesh: a baby’s cheek, or a lover’s breast. The unexpectedness of it was shocking.

The skin was the softest velvet. I lifted its heft towards my mouth and relished a brief whiff of its perfume. The fruit itself was neither soft nor firm, and yielded an exquisite nectar that was simultaneously sweet, tangy, floral, and extraordinarily peachy. I devoured it unabashedly, with juice eventually running down my chin and forearm. Then I had to excuse myself and grab a handful of napkins from a nearby table.

In a way, I reasoned, it was a damn shame. For weeks, I’d been hearing about what foods the kids liked, and much more about what they didn’t like: I don’t like broccoli. I don’t like salad. I don’t like whole wheat bread… I don’t like peas, or squash, or carrots. I don’t like apples, oranges, or bananas, unless they’re not too brown. But how could any child possibly not like fruit such as this, so sweet and ripe, a product of the earth and sun, the air and rain? And not merely as a food that’s “good for you,” but as something to be savored, even treasured? I could only conclude that they never had such a thing.

It was right then I decided to bring it to them. An old proverb says, give a man a fish, and he’ll eat for a day; teach a man to fish, and then he’ll eat for a lifetime. But who will teach what that fish is supposed to be? I will. It’s a lesson I’ll be teaching, and learning, for the rest of my life.

Cook Until Done: Culinary Wisdom From Memere's Kitchen

The winter has been very cold. The search for comforts usually includes food, and as I was contemplating making a tortière, a French meat pie according to my grandmother’s recipe, it occurred to me how little I actually know about her style of cooking. Though some recollections are vivid, I realized I had very little written record to draw from. I’ve had stacks of her kitchen papers hanging around since she passed away several years ago, and one day I decided to go through them in search of inspiration. Would there be a theme? Could the tortière recipe actually have been written down, and would it differ from what I thought was in my memory? What would the collection of clippings, from God knows where, say about a frugal French-Canadian widow from Woonsocket and the way she lived? The results were unexpected, to say the least.

Life may have been hard for the working poor of that small mill city, but it certainly wasn’t without its pleasures, or even humor. Years ago, when I was in cooking school, a Canadian friend of mine decided to “help” me out with a project for the class I was taking at the time, Menu Planning and Design. Bob was born in Québec and English was his second language. Sometimes I thought Wise-Ass was his first language, no less so after the “Menu For The Shi-Shi (sic) Crowd,” a document I’d almost completely forgotten about until I found it, inexplicably tucked in with Memère’s recipes. All of the dishes contained a wicked double entendre or a play on words, most of which can’t remember except one. I’ve always believed that the French have a word for everything, and I relearned a new one in the raque à jeous d’agneau. “Jeous” (pronounced “zhoo”) is slang for a popular feature of the female anatomy— in a word, tits. Raque à jeous, therefore, is another term for a brassiere. The “tit-rack of lamb,” then, sold for the relative bargain of $36.95. Serves two, naturellement. Though Bob had explained each item, on the rest I could only speculate. Poulet farci avec gosses de tammarois? Don’t go there.

Most of the items in her collection were less, shall we say, pointed. Many are unintentionally funny, like her tendency to misspell “bowel” for “bowl,” as in, “put the ingredients in a bowel.” (Not tonight, dear, I have a headache.) Some have cryptic instructions, such as “cook until done.” If you don’t know what that means, then you shouldn’t be in the kitchen. Others were terse to the point of ludicrousness. Here’s a fudge recipe that I don’t mind reproducing for you verbatim. Typed on a tiny slip of paper it seems almost poetic, in a primitive sort of way:

No Fail Fudge

Mix Two ¼ cup sugar 3/4 cup of evaporated milk.
BOIL 5 MINUTES
Add I cup of choclate morsels I or 2 cups of
marshmallow fluff I tablespoon of margarine
add a few drops of vanilla

BEAT TILL COOL

I don’t think I need to point out that any recipe that calls for “I or 2” cups of Fluff could hardly be considered No Fail.

Disappointingly, however, very few of the recipes were actually hand-written. Most were clippings from various sources, not the least of which was the local newspaper, the Woonsocket Call. One entire page dated December 22, 1960, is headlined “Hospitality— It Begins At Home.” Really? I did not know that. It continues somberly, “The season of the bird is upon us;” a photo shows us a turkey on a plate surrounded by unrecognizable vegetable matter. The author tells us that some holiday dishes rate as entertainment as well as food, and that “eating is for everybody.” I wonder which recipes Memère wanted to save. Was it the Happy Clam Dip? The Sour Cream Prune Pie? Maybe it was the Miniature Bubble Loaves, a yeast bread covered in sugar and spice and everything nice. Probably not; Memère wasn’t the yeast bread type. In the middle of it all was the surreal meditation titled “What Is Food?” Not merely a rhetorical question, it continues, in part: “IT is the workman’s arsenal of energy. IT is the housewife’s obedient servant. IT is the happy, colorful, fragrant, tempting, honored guest of the holi­day. IT is the handiwork of nature and farmer, dairyman, rancher, manufacturer, processor, wholesaler, retailer, and every other responsible man and woman who make up the lifeline that is the food industry… IT is all of these things and more. IT is the force and source of life itself. WE call it ‘Food.’”

Most of the recipe collection is in the form of brochures, the kind that are designed around a specific product or type of food. Now, how could any smart cook think of keeping house without Minute Tapioca at her fingertips, one wonders? This particular mini cookbook throws around such words as wonderful, perfect, magical, and glamorous; indeed, it’s amazing what “savory, flavory” dishes may contain the Miracle of Minute Tapioca, from desserts and soufflés, to omelets, vegetables, and Miracle Meat Loaf (“so juicy, so tender!”). Surely, according to the author (Frances Barton, a Betty Crocker rip-off if there ever was one), you are going to find all kinds of good luck with Minute Tapioca! (I think I’ll have what she’s having.)

Speaking of meatloaf, one has to assume that there’s no end to the hyperbole and inappropriate food metaphors. Take Meatloaf: Theme and Variations (“An economical main dish made simply marvelous!”) as another prime example. That mainstay of many a family meal is capable of orchestration into dinner or luncheon party dish supreme! That is, if your idea of supreme includes pineapple upside-down ham loaf, or cheese and spaghetti loaf, or the eternal salmon loaf.

Eternal, I say, because of “The Story of Salmon: From Catch To Can To Kettle.” Few foods, this brochure assures us, have the romance and mystery that surrounds a can of salmon. (I swear I’m not making this up.) This beautifully illustrated brochure treats us to recipes for Salmon Party Mold (with sour cream and gelatin, delicately garnished with cucumber slices— no party is complete without one), salmon hash (which sounds delicious, I have to admit. Well, not really), and… Salmon Lemon Loaf! Furthermore, the booklet was available in a 16-page teacher’s manual, entitled Basic and Creative Cooking With a Can of Salmon, which was available free to home economics teachers. I would have waited for the movie. Actually, two movies were produced through the co-operation of the US Government (Salmon— Catch to Can and Take a Can of Salmon). Our tax dollars at work.

Actually I do have a canned fish story to relate. One time, while my mother was in the hospital, Memère stayed over our house to watch over my sister, Renée, and me. And while she didn’t make salmon loaf, she did make creamed canned salmon one night for dinner. I can’t remember very much about it, except that it was rather salty. Besides, how bad could it be if it could be served over mashed potatoes? Renée had a much different recollection. “Disgusting!” she exclaimed recently over Christmas dinner, as we were talking about the good old days. She shuddered and scrunched up her face as if she still had the taste of it in her mouth. “And she wouldn’t let me leave the table until I’d eaten it all!” (This from a girl who hated real strawberries, but would eat anything with strawberries in it: Pop-Tarts, preserves, even strawberry Nesquik, for God’s sake. She never could quite grasp the irony. But I digress.)

Clearly, there was no great wealth of information to be found in all of Memère’s cookbooks and recipes. I know what the secret ingredient for the meat pie is (I’m not going to reveal it here), and otherwise it’s basically the same— ground beef and pork, potatoes mashed into it, onions, and spices. Nevertheless I really don’t have a true idea of how close my meat pie is to hers. But it doesn’t matter because the feeling is the same. The aromas, as so many of them do, evoke so much more than the recipe itself: images of family, warmth, and the holidays; cousins I’d hardly ever see except at Christmas and New Year’s; and Memère herself, who was always quick with a laugh or a treat, or a bit of home-spun advice that was never intrusive but always seemed to have just the right timing and emphasis. True, the recipe may be gone. But the memory will live on forever.