Friday, March 31, 2017

Canard á l’Orange


    Chicken, steak, fish drowned in tartare sauce, interspersed with toaster-oven pizzas or spaghetti and pennies saved. Vegetables followed seasons. There was plenty. Our ups and downs were not about food. Still, the occasional exotic dish felt inexplicable and disgusting. Calves liver, cow’s tongue, and boiled beef. I interpreted these dishes as hostility. I had no idea my mother might seek pleasure in something other than what I thought good.  
     I traveled on my own by subway and bus downtown to junior high, crosstown for after-school art classes and the orthodontist. What was important was the candy bar in my lunchbox or that on Fridays Debbie and I would get a burger at a diner where crocks of pickles and table-side jukeboxes graced each booth.Wednesdays after drama Julie and I got Blimpies with extra everything. Week-ends were for sleepovers. I don’t remember the meals at my friends houses or what they ate at mine but I do remember our giggly caresses as we played ‘boyfriend and girlfriend’ under the covers during long sleepless nights, drifting off, then waking near noon for French toast and bacon smothered in syrup.
     What changed my world was the Canard á l’Orange from a restaurant called The Library. We'd pass from the familiar lights of Broadway through a forest of hanging fern and navigate the long dark bar to a maze of bookshelves holding real books. The tables were tucked in the nooks and crannies. We went as a treat, sometimes with neighbors, if my mother was tired, or maybe just because.
     How did I love thee? Mahogany, shatteringly crisp skin taught over melting flesh. Sticky sweet glaze and salty fat soiling eager fingers and lips. Gilded, elegant, French; everything my mother was not. She never made duck. With its lousy bone to meat ratio and abundant fat it was not something it would've occurred to her, to us, you could make. 
     It wasn’t till much later, when I’d moved downtown that I’d stride with bravado to the butcher to ask for ducks, wild boar or tiny quail. At that time ‘New American’ and lite were all the rage and I switched allegiance to barely seared Magret breasts flavored with star anise and peppercorns, or olives, lemon and thyme. I fancied myself a connoisseur, but ducks migrate south only to fly back home. I see now my lavish cooking was no different from my mother’s pot au feu. She must have had strivings. She must have had her passions, only then I couldn’t see them, it wasn’t my concern. 

    Two days after my mother died I sliced a tomato as she might have and ate it with onion, like her. Next day a tuna salad sandwich helped me think past her illness. Stirring chocolate pudding expressed what I could not. Grief sparked the memories and the stories followed suit. A dish gets in my head, I cook it and emotions rise. I write them down. Words instead of tears. When first my mother died I needed to feel a strong connection so what came to mind were dishes from when my life revolved around her. A year later Canard á l’Orange marked a separation. 
     I went out and bought a duck, easily available in the supermarket meat section. The duck and I slow-danced across griefs’ stages; denial, regret, anger, flashes of relief. The thought of dousing it with cloying sauce dispirited. What was it I had liked so much? Why go there now? Taste changes, and memory, and the person remembering, and what we remember isn’t necessarily what it was. The duck sat in my fridge a week till I cut off its legs and stuck them in the freezer and boiled the carcass for broth.
     Later I bought another duck, cut it in half, added one leg to the legs in the freezer, scored the skin of the breast to quickly sauté, boiled the wingtips and backbone. The other half I pricked with a knife to release the fat and while it roasted skimmed half dozen recipes for sauce. Fresh squeezed juice and julienned zest simmered with way too much brown or white sugar or honey, sherry vinegar or cider vinegar, Grand Marnier or marmalade. Once the dish was the sexiest I’d tasted then it became quaint, now it seems lurid. 
     When my mother was alive I went about my business. Now what I remember are fragments without details, or my attention is drawn to what wasn't there. The longing comes in waves but I'm not sure what for. Maybe just a moment of her voice on the other end.
     At supper the roasted half lay by the rosy breast, au jus. A piece of history striped bare, full flavored and un-sauced.

Sous Vide Duck Confit
3 duck legs
2 t Kosher salt
juice from 1/2 an orange plus strips of zest from same orange
1 t  black peppercorns
1/2 t Sichuan peppercorns
1 small knob fresh turmeric, cut in half
a bay leaf and a sprig of thyme
2 smashed garlic cloves
1 shallot, roughly chopped
2 T rendered duck fat (or substitute butter)

Put the duck legs on a plate and sprinkle with salt
Let sit in the refrigerator overnight, uncovered
Pat legs dry and seal into a heavy duty ziplock bag with the remaining ingredients
Make sure you press the air out of the bag—do this by submerging the bag in a pot of water, keeping the last inch of the zip held out of the water and unsealed until all the air has been pressed out. Be careful not to get water inside the bag
Attach sous vide device to a large water filled pot and set for 76.C 
When it reaches temperature, submerge the sealed bag of legs in the water bath. You might need to weight the bag or jerry-rig something to make sure the bag is submerged (I clip a small metal bowl to the side of the pot to weigh down the bag) 
Cover pot as best you can with foil or plastic wrap to help minimize evaporation
Set timer for 10 hrs. Check water level from time to time.


When done, rapidly chill bag in an iced water bath. When cool enough to handle, pull legs from bag, reserving fat in one bowl and accumulated juices in another. Lay legs on a sheet pan and broil for 5 - 10 minutes until skin crisps and browns. Be cautious of spattering fat. Meanwhile, simmer “jus” with a splash of Grand Marnier or Brandy until slightly thickened and serve with duck. Save fat for other uses.  

Sunday, February 5, 2017

flour, water, salt, yeast



Jasper Johns "Bread" 1969



     After school, week-ends, on summer break I am at the pottery throwing pots, dreaming I’ll apprentice to a stern Japanese master and my life will be set. In my mother’s kitchen with floury hands, palms pushing, lifting, folding, turning, I practice Japanese spiral wedging technique on warm yeasty dough. The repetitive motion burns my burgeoning triceps. I see my arms as I imagine them seen. In doing I am also posing. With each thrust braless nipples graze the inside of my sleeveless tank top. My hips gently rock. Black curls sway.
     Kneading develops wheat’s tightly curled proteins. The proteins lie dormant until hydrated and prodded by floured hands. There is no hurrying the process. In time awakened proteins unfurl and tangle, weaving a lattice that traps the yeast's breath enabling the bread to rise. 
     In my kitchen now a mixer does this labor but when my hands gather the dough I feel that seventeen year old inside me; not time’s passage but the actual girl-me as if we are nesting Russian dolls. My hands shape the dough into a crystal ball. I see widened girth, drooped breasts, greyed hair, and strength the girl didn’t yet know. And I am not sure, do I see my own coming frailty or is that my mother’s deathbed repose etched and archived? I tuck the ball into an oiled bowl and cover it with damp cloth.
     The drying residue of dough turns my hands to artifact. I pick at the flour in the crevice of my nails. The most radical thing that girl-me’s hands had ever held was Bobby; tentative tender hands that softly stroked until he was stiff, swaying, and awesome. My mother had recently remarried. We had new furniture. They bought a weekend cottage get-away and we were so relieved for the space between us. My life was in the city at the pottery and playing house, waking next to Bobby in my parent’s double bed. The potters, ten years my senior came for supper at my parent’s oak table. Thick soup in stoneware bowls, buttered bread, raucous chatter. We’d sip from hand thrown goblets that often tipped. I’d frantically mop the spilled Burgundy least evidence greet my parents on their Sunday night return. 
     When the dough has doubled, punch down, pat flat, roll into a bundle to fit inside the pan.
     To pass time the years I sat with my mother when she could no longer speak I’d inspect our hands side by side; hers yellowed, gnarled, curling in upon themselves, mine marked by callouses and cooking burns, becoming crackled like porcelain glaze. My hands have picked up pieces, settled, held, and released, sometimes with love, sometimes despair. Where was my mother’s guiding hand? If I dig deep enough will I find her embrace? 
     In its given time the yeast ferments the dough. In the oven there is a last burst of energy. As the internal temperature rises crust forms and wheat’s natural sugars caramelize, perfuming the kitchen. The scent of bread is a dream. An imagined home. Tap the bread to check for doneness. It will sound hollow. Pull the loaf from the pan. Cool.
     I step back from the hurts I grasp so tightly and see my mother too had picked up, settled, held and released. Differences stem from the flow of time. She sucked the marrow out of bones and liked dry ends from supermarket loaves. Thrift, self-depreciation, simple pleasures? I like a center slice. I eat the crust as an obligation, eating around the edges, spiraling inwards towards a toasted buttered heart.












Wednesday, November 30, 2016

A Wave of Grief Takes Me By Surprise


Pablo Picasso, 1941


When the pot sat on my mother’s stove I was too short to see inside 
Now I’m looking into it squeezing half a lemon 
Inhaling peppercorn and bay 
I yank a leaf from an almost cooked artichoke 
Scrape its flesh between my teeth    
Memories form inside my mouth 
A girl reaching across the table 
Dipping leaves in drawn butter
Tough outer leaves give way to purple tinged tender ones 
Sweeter but with less meat

I straighten while my artichoke cools
One hand runs the faucet to soak the pot 
The other sponges the counter  
Mom’s efficiency internalized, eternalized 
I catch myself smirking 
Then unbidden her litany of illness
Ties me in knots 

Mom didn’t trim her artichokes 
Though it might have been expected 
It was a nasty surprise when a leaf’s spiny tip pricked my finger Drawing blood 
I learned to be wary
She guided my hand as I held the knife 
To cut out the tangle that guards the heart
With her same intent I do it now

Later I cut a mango to share with my son
“Want to the gnaw the pit”  “Nah, no pit”   
There was never mango in my mother’s kitchen
So the wave of grief takes me by surprise
Then I remember 
A lifetime ago I mistook pit for seed
I said ‘A man plants a pit in the woman to grow a baby’
My mother laughed, repeating my gaff a million times
Its good to remember her laughter

Wednesday, August 31, 2016

Opening Cans



     As if I were there now I remember the cold smooth surface of the white formica table that sat in the crook of our “L” shaped kitchen. I can hear, or maybe feel the latch of the cupboard, the Frigidaire’s hum, the smell of the broom closet, the nearly imperceptible progress of white enameled hands around the black Modernist clock. 
     I have few memories of eating supper with my family even though we set that table nightly, taking dishes from said cupboard, pulling things in and out of the fridge. After supper we’d sweep up, negotiating TV and bedtimes by the ticking of the clock. Maybe the memories are buried, maybe lost with the passage of time. 
     Except for Chicken-a-la-King. When it was served I’d pick gingerly at the plate, stomach in knots, shooting squinty-eyed hate darts at my sister. She loved this dish but I couldn’t stand the bland beige glop that was mixed from cans and called a fancy name.  
     I know from photos that Karen was a lanky string bean with a thick auburn ponytail that was longer than I was tall. Our parents divorced before I was two. Karen, five years older, remembered living with our father. She was Daddy’s girl and I was considered Mom’s. 
     I remember snippets of stories: we played “Highland Kennels.” She was the stern mistress and I’d crawl on all fours barking and wagging my butt, eagerly lapping the bowl of water she’d put on the kitchen floor. She’d insist I thank her. I’d lick her feet. 
     After latkes one Hanukkah we lit our menorahs and opened gifts of matching blue nightgowns we immediately pulled over our clothes. Mom went out of the room. Karen and I were alone watching the candles and I broke the rule and used a napkin to smother a dying flame.The napkin caught fire. With bare feet we stomped it out. My gown got singed. I took it off and hid it. Karen never tattled. 
     One year she stopped going to school. She’d get up, get dressed, sit and read, and in the afternoon visit Dr. Halpern who had candy and Highlights Magazine in the waiting room where I sat biding time. When she returned to school the next year she wasn’t even behind. In contrast, I went to school early each morning because I needed help learning to read. 
     By fifteen she was into boys, LSD and was at war with our mother. I don’t know—maybe it was after dinner and they were in the kitchen yelling while I fidgeted in the living room. I don’t know—maybe it was once or maybe a couple of times; what I remember are the sounds of slapping and crashing pots.  Soon after she swallowed a bottle of pills and knocked on a neighbor’s door. The Skernick’s in 6A. She babysat for them. They called 911. She had her stomach pumped and was admitted to a psych ward. My mother cried a lot. We went back and forth visiting the hospital. Years later Karen told me if she’d known the misery would end she wouldn’t have done it—it wasn’t like she wanted to die.
     It was unkind of me to turn up my nose at supper. I see now my mother and sister’s fondness for Chicken-a-la-King was a rare instance they could recognize themselves in each other. Food is good for that—nurturing bonds, which sometimes leads to healing. But I couldn’t stand Karen being ‘easy’ for even a moment. She got attention messing up, I wanted sole dominion being good. Each chunk of insipid chicken, each squashed pea pushed to the side of my plate wreaked havoc with the status quo.        
      Over years things softened. Mom remarried. My sister married. I did too and we spoke frequently about our kids, and then about my marriage falling apart. Mostly we had long wonderful conversations about art. But bring the three of us together, even after years living apart and we’d slide back to old patterns; Karen defiant, my mother beleaguered, me—nursing indignation.
     In 2006, after a period feeling foul my sister ended up in the emergency room, diagnosed with stage IV colon cancer. It was already too late. I attributed it to drugs, to her diet, to a mistrust of authority that kept her from check-ups when maybe it could have been caught early on. We didn’t tell our mother because she was fragile and in early dementia. 
     I was back in school and had irregular hours so I became the chemo buddy. While the chemicals slowly dripped Karen helped me write my papers. After treatment, if she needed I’d walk her home and wait till her husband arrived. Often I made lunch. Once I made pasta tossed with mushrooms. She ate with gusto. We reminisced about Chicken-a-la-King. Further along in the treatments she became nauseated from the chemo so we skipped the meals. It was a good time for us, the period before her death.
     When my mother died, I set about cooking her dishes. I thought the smells and motions of cooking and the taste of her food would bring back memories of her vitality. One day I purchased the cans she’d used for Chicken-a-la-King; Swanson’s, Green Giant, Cambell’s Cream of Mushroom soup. I set them on the counter but couldn’t bring myself to open them. After a while I left the cans on the steps of the church down the street and decided to make the dish from scratch. 
      Objectively, free-range chicken tenderly poached in aromatic broth, tossed with wild mushrooms, hand-shelled peas, torn herbs and thick fresh cream is delicious over al dente egg-rich noodles. But taste is not objective. What goes in our mouths tastes as much of memory as of flavor. Each time we remember, each time a bite of something conjures our past, a part of us relives the time anew. 
     I was so sure my reinterpretation would be good but after a forkful straight from the pan I put the remainder in the fridge where it sat untouched. A month later I tried again sure it would be different, but there I stood, an hour gone, with a chicken and expensive wild mushrooms made bland and voluminous; wasted. 
     “You would like this” I pushed, hoping if my son ate the dish the feelings dredged up might also be consumed. “I just don’t” he declared “I don’t like it” and for a flash his simple declaration let me reframe my knotted sorrow. I had been right to rebel. Then I started worrying that without meaning to I must’ve passed along my pain.

Chicken-a-la-King
Poach a small chicken in 4-6 c water along with an onion cut in half, a carrot, celery, parsley stems, a sprig of thyme, a bay leaf, salt, and a small handful of peppercorns. When chicken is cooked through but before it is falling apart (approx. 40 minutes) strain broth and set aside. When cool enough to handle, pull meat off the bones and set aside. Return the discarded skin, fat, bones and seasoning to the broth and simmer for another hour to wring out every bit of flavor. Strain the broth again and discard the solids.                                                              
In a cast iron skillet sear two cups of mushrooms over high heat until the mushrooms give up their moisture and begin to brown. Add a splash of sherry, or bourbon is good too and let it cook down. Add a pinch of salt and set mushrooms aside. 

In the same skillet melt  2 T butter. Stir in a heaping tablespoon of flour and let cook over low heat for a few minutes. Add a cup each of milk and the reserved broth (save the rest of the broth for another use). Add a glug of heavy cream Add a scant grating of nutmeg, freshly ground pepper and a pinch of salt. Bring to a simmer and reduce slightly. Stir in cooked chicken, the mushrooms, a handful of frozen peas and some chopped fresh herbs (I suggest parsley, thyme, and a bit of sage). Serve over buttered egg noodles (or toss the buttered noodles directly into the skillet so they soak up the sauce).

Sunday, July 3, 2016

Beef Stew



It was because the neighbors made such a fuss coming over when my mother cooked stew and asking for the recipe that the stew grew larger than life. I greeted the gravy soaked potatoes and carrots with pleasure. I’d line them up on my plate and mash them into piles, melting margarine on top to make them richer. My mother loved the onions but I didn’t and I was neutral on the celery. The meat was a crapshoot, some pieces were fall apart tender but the threat of hidden gristle or an endlessly chewy bit made each bite suspect.

She browned the meat first. She used cooking wine from the supermarket mixed with bouillon cubes for broth. She must have cooked it over the week-ends when she had more time. We’d eat it two or three times the following week. I’d sit at the table waiting, watching her discard shards of congealed fat from the surface of the chilled pot. Once defatted, she’d reheat the pot over a low flame and turn her attention to salad. 

I don’t know the story behind the recipe, or if she took pleasure in the slow simmer that scented the house. Did she think “Damn I make good stew.” Did she sometimes think she was something raising kids on her own? Did she feel alluring and wish someone might fall for her because she could juggle, cope, and cook? 

When I make stew I use carefully trimmed pasture-raised beef, good red wine, homemade broth, and I think all those things. Lighter, quicker cooking is more my style, but when I make stew I’m filled with hope. 

My stew has never once matched the one that fed that awkward girl. I can see myself sitting in my mother's kitchen watching her every move, searching for cracks in her veneer—places levity or love might seep out. What I got was gravy soaked potatoes. My mother put in extra because she knew I liked them.

Stiffness and incremental loss of stability mixed with depression and the onset of dementia coalesced into the diagnosis of Parkinson’s. Year after year pieces of her disappeared. I’d sit with her, lining up food on her plate, mashing it into piles, feeding her with a spoon, hoping the food might wake her senses. She was trapped inside herself, slogging through a tangle of memories, or maybe they were drug induced hallucinations. I thought if I listened carefully enough I’d figure out what her broken sentences meant. I liked to think I had a knack that could break though her isolation.

Now, cooking and eating her stew to write these words, the memory of the girl at the table watching her mother cook, and the woman feeding her mother, merge. I'm realizing how much time I spent waiting, watching and waiting, hoping for something that wasn’t there. The food was there, but it didn’t fill me. It couldn’t fill her. 

One common storytelling trope is the quest story. When its a food story the protagonist tastes something and the flavor rekindles something lost. In the story a single bite transports an eater across time and a kind of magic takes place where the food and the thing lost become one. I cook my mother’s stew over and over. I am a better cook than she was and my stew is excellent. It tastes of what wasn’t there. 


Beef Stew
3 # Chuck steak
1 large onion, peeled and cut in half 

1/2 # Crimini mushrooms
3 c. homemade broth
1 c. red wine
bay leaf, thyme, 4-5 garlic cloves, salt, pepper
2 T tomato puree
1/2 # carrots—peeled and cut into large chunks 
1/2 # each: Japanese turnips and shallots—peeled and left whole
1#  potatoes—peeled and cut into 2” chunks
2 stalks celery, chopped into 2” pieces

Use a thick Chuck steak rather than the pre-cut stew meat. Trim away thick veins of gristle and the thickest of the fat. Sear the steak in a super hot skillet sprinkled with a big pinch of salt—approx 3-4 minutes per side—long enough to brown the surface of the meat. Move to a cutting board and let rest. In the same skillet sear the peeled onion until there are bits of char on the surface. Set onion aside. Sear mushrooms until they give up their water. Set aside. Deglaze pan with wine, scraping up any browned bits. Reduce wine to around 3/4 c.
Preheat oven to 300
Cut seared meat into 2” chunks. 
Put onion, celery, mushrooms, red wine, bay leaf, thyme, tomato puree and broth in an 
oven-proof stew pot. Bring to a boil. Add beef and a sprinkle of salt and pepper. The broth should not quite cover the beef. 
Partially cover pot and transfer to oven for an hour and a half. 
Add carrots, turnip, potatoes and another sprinkle of salt and pepper. Add a little more broth if needed. Roast, partially covered for another hour or until the vegetables and meat are fork tender.



Saturday, May 28, 2016

baked goods




My mother would supervise and help me light the oven when I baked box cakes on my birthdays. As far as I recall she never baked a cake from scratch or made a pie—but since you don’t miss what you don’t know, I didn't feel deprived. There was frozen Sara Lee, or Entenmann’s, or maybe a babka from the bakery down the street. Anyway, I was more interested in salty crackers and chips.

Mom noshed mid-morning. A bisl bis to fit the side of a saucer or a paper napkin she’d de-crumb for later reuse, or on work days she’d tuck a foil wrapped treat in her purse. This was a habit she observed until her last days, an indulgence tenaciously guarded; her second cup of instant crystals with a bite of something sweet. All by herself. Not even with the newspaper. Over time I’ve come to understand such pleasure but as a girl I didn’t. Her ritual seemed lonely and dreary and I was never invited to join.

Baking is a part of the life I’ve built as a professional cook. I’m a competent baker though lack passion for the art, nonetheless I’ve mastered what my mother loved; rugelach, tender quick breads that are a foil to coffee, sweetened yeasted twists. She was never tempted by milie feuille, cannoli or towering lemon meringue—those were deemed fancy and she was plain, and in cake at least, our tastes converged.

I never mentioned the cakes I baked and didn’t bring her samples though I've shared with everyone else. It was like I was out doing her, being more her than she was. I suppose too it was an unconscious revenge; “I wasn’t invited to your lonely kaffeeklatsch, well mine is tastier and more fun.”  


In the weeks following her death I binge-baked, stocking my freezer for her  memorial, rolling chocolate into rising dough, pinching measures of cinnamon and cardamom, slicking danish with melted jam. The more heavenly the kitchen smelled the sadder I became, but not from grief. It was that with her gone I could begin to examine the depression that had blanketed our world. 

Those meager bites she’d allowed herself for comfort only fed my hunger. The seeds and nuts buried like gems in the pastries she loved became seeds of my despair. I had been neither good enough company, nor strong enough to rescue her. 

The other night I had a dream. I am a cartoon apple. Round, red, easily bruised. I lay fallen in the shadow of the tree, waiting for a buck’s swift kick or howling winds to carry me off, ashamed I have no legs.

Apple Cake
1 c AP flour
1/2 c dark rye flour
1/2 c buckwheat flour
1 1/2 t baking soda
1/2 t each: salt, cinnamon, nutmeg, and unsweetened cocoa
3/4 c granulated sugar
1//2 c brown sugar, lightly packed
1 1/2 c unsweetened applesauce
1 apple, peeled and cut into small chunks 
2 eggs
2/3 c vegetable oil
2 t vanilla
2 cups peeled and roughly chopped apples tossed with 1/2 t cinnamon (approx 2 apples)

Pre-heat oven to 350o Oil and flour a bundt pan and set aside. In a medium bowl combine the flour, baking soda, salt and spices. Stir to blend. In another medium bowl combine sugars, eggs, vanilla, applesauce and oil. Stir to blend. Add the dry ingredients to the wet ingredients and mix well. Stir in apple. Pour the batter into prepared pan and bake 50 - 60 minutes or until a wooden skewer inserted into the cake comes out dry.   
(If you prefer, bake in a loaf pan but you will have a cup or so too much batter for a standard 9” x 5” pan—put the extra in a mini-loaf pan or a muffin tin and bake for approx. 20 minutes). 

Allow the cake to cool in the pan for 10 minutes, then turn out onto a wire rack. Let cool. If you’d like, glaze the cake with 1/2 c confectionary sugar stirred with 2 t or 3t of apple cider.



Thursday, March 31, 2016

#rememberingmymotheronebiteatatime rice-a-roni



Convenience may not be the most delicious, but it is a consideration. My mother worked full time, had little money and took whatever help she could get. She loved Rice-A-Roni. It was her way to elevate the same old same old, so in my eyes Rice-A-Roni became the mother-from-which-all-other-rice-dishes-derived; Biriyani, Arroz con Gandules, Mujaddara—even Chinese fried rice. Ass backwards, and the crazy thing is subliminally I still felt this despite knowing something of the crisscrossed journey of rice and recipes across time. We hold tight to what our mothers teach us despite the things we learn.

As a kid the elongated vermicelli and swollen grains were an impressionistic tangle of tasty earth tones on an otherwise hum drum plate. And eating something with such a happy tv jingle meant we too were a happy tv home. Now, the hydrolyzed corn gluten and dehydrated parsley flecks in true Proustian form carried me back through time, but the flavor set-off a collapse of painstakingly built illusion. The salty pilaf, like our dutifully held premise of happiness, turns out to have been make-believe.

In 1960, my mother, the shy youngest of shtetl immigrants, divorced my father who was having an affair, or maybe he left her—I never knew. Either way it was a distinction among her siblings and extended relatives, which speaks to her liberalism, and also how bad her marriage must have been. Dogged by missing support checks, the string of live-in nannies, my sister’s troubles—it was more than she could handle even though I tried so hard to make it right.

That bite of Rice-A-Roni after forty-five years filled my mouth with vitriol. Its broken promise tasted of my mother’s shortcomings, her weaknesses, my father’s narcissism, his absenteeism, my sister’s fragility, my passivity. Our missed connections. That bite ripped open memories I would have liked to forget. I scraped the Rice-A-Roni into the trash and left the pan on the counter where the rice dregs dried to crust.


Two days later washing my mother’s precious pan I was filled with such sadness. This is what she did. She fed us, then washed the dishes through her sadness and disappointment. She did the best she could.