SHELLEY HALPERN EVANS
Writer


Food and Family
Shelley Halpern Evans

Dedicated to Devorah Goldstein (1894 - 1987)

 

          My grandmother’s raisin cookies. Her small square hands roll the squishy dough into plump balls that she places, perfectly spaced, on a blackened cookie sheet. The raisins poke through as she flattens the balls with her knobby thumb, every thumbprint a loving signature sprinkled with a mixture of white sugar and cinnamon. The kitchen heats up in a cloud of cloves and spice and her joyful laugh permeates the fragrant air, a pure laugh of happiness. That is what I remember. 

          Bubbie sits at the kitchen table and pinches together dozens of kreplach. I can smell the rich broth, the chicken, carrots, celery, onions and parsnip bubbly together in the cast iron pot on the back burner of my mother's chipped enamel stove. The kreplach, chewy hand-seal dough packages containing a hidden morsel of seasoned ground beef, simmer in the steaming chicken soup. Kreplach cook in the stock pot; piles of kreplach sit on wax paper, kreplach in an aluminum foil wait to be stacked in the freezer chest. Bubbie patiently produces enough kreplach to feed a horde of Chassidic Jews or to feed our family until her next visit from the wintry depths of Winnipeg.

          She always carries Israeli candies in the deep pockets of her housefress, hard clear rectangles wrapped in stiff white paper. The crinkly paper is printed with bright pictures of luscious fruit flavours, cherry, orange and lemon. I sit beside her at the kitchen table and watch her bumpy fingers roll dough and wait quietly for her to dip in to her pocket to retrieve a candy for me. She doesn’t speak much English but she looks at me and smiles and I smile back. She stroked my cheek and whispers shaina maidelah, pretty girl. I move closer to her and smell lavender on her housedress.

          Now the house jangles with the clatter of preparations, sterling silver spoons ring the rims of crystal fruit nappies. My efficient mother is hosting another cocktail party. Colourful appetizers lie on gold-rimmed china platters: devilled eggs sprinkled with paprika, mushrooms stuffed with parsleyed breadcrumbs and swollen red grapes draped casually over exotic cheeses. Mommy has carved out the inside of a watermelon and cut a handle in the striped rind - it is an overflowing fruit basket filled with succulent pale orange cantaloupe balls, red lip watermelon pieces and glassy green honey-dew melon shards. The juicy pieces of fruit glisten under the softly lit chandelier above the dining room table. An assortment of cakes rise up on pedestaled cake-plates; three of them are festooned with chocolate swirls or a thick layer of coffee-chocolate frosting. The house has its own distinct party smell, the lang of lemon furniture polish mixed with the sweet scent of dainty white freesias. Mother’s grandest crystal vase sits on the low marble table in the spacious foyer; it is bursting with a massive bouquet of spring flowers. Mom is in the kitchen wearing a lacy black hostess apron over her silk dress, her creamy pearls clank slightly as she gives last-minute instructions to the party help. 

          My father is late for his own party. He runs down the stairs from the bedroom tying his tie and calling lively greetings to the punctual guests who arrived at the dot of eight. I am allowed to stay up until nine o’clock, to offer plates of hors d’oeuvres and fancy napkins to the guests. My father is holding a squat glinting glass of scotch filled with ice cubes and he swishes the yellow liquid around the ice before he takes each sip. He grabs snacks off my tray and I run to the kitchen to fill up the empty spaces on the platter. My mom is still in the kitchen, decorating plates of food and wiping counters. 

          In the morning I creep downstairs. The only sign of the previous night’s party is the mound of sparkling silver platters piled up on the dining room table, waiting for reinstatement to the depths of the china cabinet. I hear the kitchen clock ticking, then heavy footsteps on the stairs. My father appears in his yellow pajamas, his hair messy and sticking up from his head. His glasses are slightly crooked on his face. 

          "Do you want some breakfast?” he asks. I know what that means: he is going to make some scrambled eggs with ketchup, eggs cooked so hard that nothing is moist or runny, just how we both like them. My father can cook scrambled eggs and hotdogs. Sometimes he cuts up vorsht, spicy kosher beef sausage, and fries the chunks with the eggs. Scrambled eggs and vorsht is a rare Sunday morning treat when my mother is still sleeping. Very rare.

           Usually Dad sits like a king at the dining room table and waits for his soup to be served. Then he pauses between courses, the empty soup bowl languishing in front of him until my mother or the housekeeper clears the space for his main dinner. The china plate arries, piled high with perfectly seasoned meat, two brightly coloured vegetables and crispy potatoes. He likes salt and shakes a fine mist of grains over his food before tasting it. He eats quickly gobbling food like a hungry giant, leans back in the padded dining room chair, loosens his belt and belches. “Ah,” he says. Then he gets up from the table, the greasy plate and utensils strewn behind him. My mother bustles about, clearing dishes. I see deeply etched lines between her green cat’s eyes, even when she smiles.

          Now I am a woman, slim and small-boned, feeding my body between late night studying and early morning hospital rounds. I make a casserole of green rice and reheat it for a week. I am 29 when I meet my husband to be. He invites me out to dinner for our first formal date and then he cooks. Then he keeps cooking, my body is sleeker and rounder and I don't even notice. I am full with pasta and cream sauce sprinkled with capers and crunchy asparagus pieces, grilled salmon dripping with homemade barbecue sauce, mashed potatoes made with cream cheese and butter. I eat with abandon through the winter months; the food contains extra love I have never tasted before. In the spring my summer clothes are tight and I wonder whether the cleaners have shrunk them.

          He decorates the food with slices of orange and spoons homemade red chili sauce in a flawlessly formed circle beside a mushroom and cilantro omelet. He prepares stew in aromatic wine sauce and tender crisp vegetables. He is a master pie maker and everyone we know longs for a piece of his specialty: flaky apple or blueberry or strawberry-rhubarb pie.

          We have three children; they are all grown now, nurtured with balanced meals and seasoned with Thai food, Indian curries, burritos and Jewish festivals. Two are vegetarians, concerned about the planet and its food supply. One is a food advocate, immersed in organic farming, world food markets and hunger, corporate subsidies and the future of food for humanity. He has his father’s aesthetic and photographs scrumptious offerings with detailed descriptions for his Facebook friends. His latest masterpiece: whole-wheat rotini with roasted chestnuts, grilled winter squash with cranberries sauteed in peach schnapps, Greek yoghurt-tahini-nutmeg dressing, and maple roasted turnip salad with yellow peppers and broccoli rabe. Love shimmers in the food he prepares.

          And increased consciousness swirls through generational layers like gas escaping from the nether reaches of underground hot springs, percolating through silt-like layers until the bubbles pop in the current air of now. Food is what sustains us, the hands that prepare it caress us, the colours and fragrances seduce us, and the warmth and tastes comfort us. And so daughters and sons of the future: choose wisely. Savour the tastes on your tongues, they are fleeting - the hands holding yours, the fingers chopping and cutting and tenderly stewing the food, are the gentle hands that hold you for life. For dear life.