With great twenty-three year old luck, I befriended a lovely woman of another generation. I imagine that she will be described in many other memoirs and personal essays for qualities beside those that involve the tummy, but since I believe that head heart and belly are all in unison I won’t bother separate them here. Gastronomically, what I first learned to admire about M was the way she kept her fridge, then the way she fed her daughter and ate ice cream.
I’d sworn off ice cream for about a year, after having gained one too many ten’s-of-pounds living in Spain. But one terrifically hot and exhausted afternoon (I’d just finished taking Bird to the park), I watched her spoon heaping balls of Neopolitan into big glass bowls that she shared with little Bird, and nothing ever looked so good. I declined a bowl of my own, knowing very well I’d be recreating this in my own home hours later, some flavor a slight fancier and in a bowl I only wish had been transparent. Ice cream is best eaten in a glass bowl.
For weeks after that afternoon I practiced eating ice cream as best I could. I shredded coconut over dark chocolate, but the whole thing was too sophisticated. Then, during a visit with my nana (and nana’s glorious glass bowls), I scooped out a raspberry, chocolate and vanilla medley, which was almost right. My problem was like most of my other fresh-out-of-college problems. Where I’d once felt proud of my preference for those rich, velvety, more complicated flavors that tasted homemade, I was now hungry for a light and fluffy brand like Breyer’s. I was not willing to accept the shift yet. It was at the beginning of this ice cream period that I realized a valuable aspect of dining – one must identify the usual associations connected with a food and magnify them to the point of hyperbole. You must serve three different scoops of light, fluffy ice cream in a big glass bowl.
Just as fine meals evoke curiosity, inspiring people command attention toward the secrets of their habitude. M’s kitchen, like her stories and her appearance, is chock full of delicious mystery. There are those impressive shoes she wears for dinner parties on the rare occasions I’ve seen her dressed in something other than jeans and chuck tailors. Or the pages of her book, which I discovered once lying ruffled on the floor beside her desk, and stolen quick glances of, then ached with dozens of questions about her life. And of course those scrumptious little plucks I’ve taken from the fridge while she’s out with Dave and I’m there to sit with a sleeping Bird.
It was on one of these nights that my attention was caught by the vintage pyrex. She could never know that on my first night as her babysitter, after Bird went to sleep, I sleepily peaked in the fridge and into those old opaque glass containers and was roused by what I found. Deviled eggs, asparagus and ‘cheat’ risotto with baby peas. I still peak in those containers, just to see what treats she’s cooked up for the week. It’s a secret pleasure of mine, discovering the dining habits of other households.
And then the glass milk bottles that come straight from Sonnybrook farm. They hang around all over the kitchen – in the cupboards and the counters, empty; laying in the sink, rinsed; and in the fridge, filled, each one with a different liquid. A guest could not decode the system of these bottles. There are the long necked, almost feminine forms that hold non-fat, the stout and stocky full fat, and then more: chocolate milk, cold coffee, cream.
M taught me more than anybody about New York City eateries. She turned me on to having a fridge full of stone fruits in the summer. Also, she encouraged my keeping a standard for good food on par with beautiful writing (Joan Didion, ramps, champagne). But most of what I appreciate about her is that I can imagine, were she in the unlikely mood for Kraft cheese balls, they’d be poured into a ceramic bowl of a playful color, and presented in the middle of her impossible coffee table, looking tasty and reminiscent of an adolescent fantasy, which is exactly how they should look.
M’s Granola Recipe
Preheat oven to 350º. Mix 7 cups organic rolled oats (not quick-cooking) in a large bowl with 1 cup coconut oil (or enough to get it all lightly covered) and honey as you like it. Toss in a sprinkling of salt and some cinnamon and nutmeg as you like it. Then assort four cups of whatever nuts you like ( I use sliced almonds, chopped walnuts, and sunflower seeds). Put one more cup of rolled oats through a food processor until they turn to a fine powder. Pour oat powder into the rest of the oats and mix well.
Arrange your granola on an ungreased cookie sheet or large cake pan in the center rack of the oven for about 30 minutes, or until the oats turn a golden brown. If you’re like me, you’ll let them cook longer until they have an extra crunch and toasty taste. You may need to cook your granola several batches. Half-way through baking pull out the cookie sheet and stir and turn over the oats, so that they cook evenly.
Once your granola has cooked and is out of the oven, let it cool in another large bowl, and stir in (about a cup of) dried coconut. See if you can find large-gauge coconut shavings. Then stir in whatever dried fruits you like. I use things like black currants, goji berries, banana chips and dried apricot. It’s nice if you incorporate a dried version of whatever fruit is in season.
For the most delicious yogurt parfait ever, heap some of your granola (once cooled) onto a bowl of Greek yogurt (full fat, of course), with some honey and fruit, as you like it. I’m a fan of black plums and blueberries, M likes citrus fruits and bananas. Enjoy!
