Think about those meals that nourish you and realize that they are, like the ‘family’ you depend on, not always around. Understand that food and family have seasonal (certainly regional) availability. Sometimes you have access to them only once, or for a specific period in your life, like say, while you’re living abroad, or visiting your aunt. Unlike apples and ice cream (two important foods which are available every day of the year), or a meatball recipe you memorized and personalized, there are those sacred foods called for from the deep pits of your stomach and the far reaches of your tongue, and which you fear you may never have again.
I would commit murder for my father and for his Puttanesca recipe. A classic Italian dish that nobody can make as well as he, and that I will never cook for someone I do not desperately love. Because I’ve learned that to truly enjoy this meal is to watch my father eat it. More specifically, it is to watch him dip bread crusts into salty sauce between guzzles of red wine. The thought of eating this without him makes me depressed. My father taught me how to eat, showed me how to love cooking, and encouraged me to think with all my senses. Puttanesca, or ‘whore’s pasta,’ was prepared in Italian brothels for men who were hungry for love, or various activities in place of love – eating, drinking, sex (the holy trinity). Sex was ensured, especially following the loads of wine which was consumed rapidly after the salty meal. Olives, anchovies and anything else laying around went into this dish. And so my father – fine purveyor of that holy trinity – spoonfed us all a little history along with his sauce. What he wanted us to remember:
Every dish tells a story, has a history, and holds a power. Without recognizing these things, to eat for the mere purpose of survival, is to be empty of all that makes us human and to accept a fate worse than cannibalism.
Then there are those dishes best left in memory. Those little joys experienced during childhood that should be left in a childhood. There are two that stick out in my mind. I made the mistake of trying one again in my adult life. It was the “Portuguese bread” I loved to eat every time we’d visit my uncle Pierre in Long Island. I think I had a bite once and exclaimed with the delight of a child in a new place. Was it white bread? I’m still not sure and I’ve never seen anything like it elsewhere. Two years of family reunions and I gorged myself on this bread, until my parents split up and we stopped visiting so often. A few years ago I made the trip on my own, and my uncle suggested we drive by the bakery to pick up a few loaves. I loved him for remembering me, for providing comfort in a somewhat sad situation. It was a true act of familial love, and something I will never forget. But damn that bread was awful. Bland, sticky and with a consistency somewhat like a sponge but turning to chalk once dissolved between the tongue and roof of my mouth. Of course I had to fake enjoyment, or felt I had to, so I slowly tugged pieces off in the car, pretending I was too impatient to wait for home.
Another of these memories is, thankfully, left in my memory. Every day after school the carpool kids would go to Becky’s house. Around four o clock she would have snack ready for us. And it was always: Ziti, cooked to the point of fatigue, covered in butter and sprinkled with salt. One huge pool of butter was all we let remain in the bowl, and I can still picture my mother shudder the one time she witnessed this. But then my parents split up, I switched schools and T.J died so I stopped going over to his house every day. Becky’s Ziti is just floating in my memory of 1996, in a pool of butter and death and divorce.
I called my father to ask him for his Puttanesca recipe when I was homesick and hating New York City. He walked me through the recipe and then called back to give me precise measurements. Just like dad I drank half a bottle of Cab before it was ready, than sat at the table while my sauce sat on the stove thickening and thickening the air in my apartment, piquing that hunger for my brothers and sisters, spread out all over America, eating meals of their own.
Jean-Philippe Boucicaut’s Puttanesca
“ok, first you have to crush 6 garlic cloves and mix them with a can of the good anchovies. be sure to use all the oil from the can. you mix them in a small blender until it makes a fine paste. ok, then heat it up in a large saucepan. ok, then add a 35 ounce can of whole tomatoes*, but pascale only add 1-2 teaspoons of the liquid, ok, not too much. add 1/2 cup of chopped imported black olives and a 2.5 ounce jar of capers. huh? yeah, add a little of the caper water. let it cook to bubbly for an hour. meanwhile, cook a whole box of spaghetti and you can feed 4 people.”
what i already knew:
serve with a bottle (or four) of red wine (i like Cabernet my older brothers likes Côtes du Rhône) and fresh toasted baguette.
*note: use San Marzano tomatoes no exception
