The Ordinary Instant

My nephew Josh, Mom, Josh's daughter Kenley, and Kasey's Emerson  in October

My mother and I sat in identical chairs facing each other in the social worker’s narrow office, waiting for my mother’s discharge meeting.  After nearly two weeks in hospital and then rehab, we are both ready for a change, to move forward to whatever that may be, although the possibilities are narrow, closed in by time and aging.  Beyond the open door, nurses and other personnel, patients and family members moved up and down the long corridor. In my mind’s eye, we are poised the same way, eyes downcast, shoulders hunched as if bracing for a blow, nervous fingers alternately drumming on the arms of the chairs or picking at nonexistent bits of lint.  I am afraid to lift my eyes and confirm our discomfort. The silence is thick and cloying.  My mother sighs and I brace myself, but she remains silent, itself a potent omen.

There are hundreds, perhaps thousands of clichéd phrases, well-meaning admonitions about change, but they are little more than words, a strong statement from one who makes her living, nay, constructs her life from words, but as those phrases flit through my brain, they have little meaning and offer no consolation.  I shift in my chair, recross my legs, and my eyes stray to the tall bookshelf, laden with books on aging and illness, dementia and death. Many I have read or at least picked up and flipped through the pages over the past two years as my mother’s age and the insults of it have become increasingly obvious, more of a challenge to negotiate, and so I know much of what is on those pages. But there on the bottom shelf, one slim volume catches my roving eyes, Joan Didion’s The Year of Magical Thinking.

“Oh,” I breathe and my mother raises her head, her eyes questioning my single word. 

“What?” she asks. 

She has grown smaller over the years, not the smiling round-faced woman who delighted in her grandchildren and great grandchildren. Instead, she has collapsed in on herself, become thin, her once thick dark hair now thinned and gray; the quick eyes slow to focus; the words she used so readily lost somewhere in the depths of her mind.

“A book,” I say, leaning forward in my chair to pull the slim volume from its place.

The cover is deceptively simple: pale pink-beige background, simple black letters.  I flip the cover open, ruffle through a page or two and the words leap up at me.

Life changes in the instant.

The ordinary instant.

And so it is. In some instant, when none of us were really paying attention, my mother’s life, and by extension the lives of those who know and love her, changed in the instant, never to be the same or the familiar.  We had entered the narrow path of life’s dwindling days.

My mother and I have never had the kind of relationship that either of us wanted, longed for.  Two people bound by blood could not be more different.  And yet in strange ways, we are very similar, and that unholy combination has made it very difficult for both of us.  My mother is much more traditional, happiest to be at home taking care of her family or working in her other caretaker capacity as a registered nurse.  Our interactions are checkered with tears and accusations, furor and sorrow, long periods of not speaking to each other, and unrealistic expectations by both of us.

For my part, I carry a haunting memory of her walking out of our house in a furor at me and not returning, and of an argument that resulted in her slapping my face for being cheeky.  For her, she is haunted by the fact that when I left home for college at eighteen, I didn’t return for years, and she spent nights wondering if I was alive.  We are both haunted by what I suspect are the same – or at least very similar – childhood demons.   Years of therapy have put many of mine to rest, but I fear she still is plagued by hers.  Although I did come back home and she has been part of our lives for many years, were we not bound by blood, we likely would have given up on each other long ago.  But she is my mother, and that tie binds me closely.

My father’s death brought us together, for we both adored him, carried him close in our hearts throughout his life and even now that he is sixteen years gone.  My dad grew up in an orphanage after his mother abandoned him in the midst of the 1920s, and was taken under the wing of the gentle and caring woman who was the director of the home.  Many people who went through such an experience would have come away hardened and bitter, but not my dad.  He had a smile as big as all outdoors, a compassionate heart, a strong sense of right and wrong, and a love for his family that defies description.  I have suspected for many years that my mother, who loves and misses him deeply even now, saw him as the person who saved her from her own unsettled life and gave her purpose and meaning.

One night, almost sixteen years ago to the day that an ambulance took my mother to the hospital here, my dad went to bed the wrong way  – head beneath the tucked-in covers at the foot, feet resting on the pillows at the head.  It was there my mother found him, reoriented him, and in the morning when he was clearly no better, took him to the hospital.  He never came home. 

And so the emptiness of his absence brought us together in an uneasy and still often fractious relationship.  Although a day never went by when I didn’t think of my dad, for my mother, each day in the house they shared was an aching reminder of him, and her world began to shrink in on itself. Oh, she still went about daily activities: picking up the newspapers he had read so carefully, buying too many groceries and stockpiling them in a spare room, shopping simply to be out amongst people, and lunching with the increasingly smaller number of friends, but her missing him was obvious in everything she said during our daily phone calls. 

As the years passed, it was increasingly obvious that her abilities were waning along with her enthusiasm for life, so when her first great grandchild was born, none of us were really surprised when she began advocating that we all move north to be near to family.  It was a move we had been planning for some time, but her desire to see Silas, that first great grand, growing up, pushed us to move north eight years ago, earlier than we had planned.  And so we moved. 

But even that was not enough to slow her diminishing abilities, and the past eight years, although joyful in many ways,  were also fraught with arguments and disapproval, confusion and anger that tested all our abilities, often leaving her angry and me crying in frustration and increasingly fear for her well-being.  It became the path to where we are today.  Clearly, my mother’s life was waning, and that realization brought me face to face with my own mortality, an unpleasant and unsettling place to be.

When I picked up the phone just a few weeks ago and heard her say “I’m sick”, the world collapsed.  As I followed the ambulance in to the hospital, sat with her in the emergency room, walked over to the acute care unit with her, I knew our lives were about to change forever.  It was a chilling realization.  Our time to resolve our relationship, our time to say the things we needed to, our time to be together was waning.

Perhaps worse, with the specter of my mother’s mortality staring me in the face, I realized that with her inevitable passing, I would become the last surviving member of the family of four that not always comfortable, was, well, familiar and sure.  What that means unsettles and eludes me, but I do know that the one thing I have wanted most – the ability to develop a closer relationship with my mother – has slipped away.  What I must accept is that all can do is support her, and love her, and prepare myself to say goodbye.

After my mother decided, during that fated discharge meeting, that she would move to assisted living rather than returning home, forty feet away from me, I went home and cried. I mourned the loss of morning coffee together, her joy in the great grands and our dogs who adore her, the moments of laughter and connectedness.  Then I found my own copy of Didion’s slim book on death and grieving.  In between collecting the things my mother needed, arranging to move some of her furniture, setting up her care with the nurses and support personnel at the facility, I reread The Year of Magical Thinking.

“We are imperfect mortal beings, aware of that mortality even as we push it away, failed by our very complication, so wired that when we mourn our losses we also mourn, for better or for worse, ourselves. As we were. As we are no longer. As we will one day not be at all,” Didion wrote.  such it is for both my mother and me.

 I have realized that though I am grieving for my mother as she is grieving herself, I also am grieving for myself. I have realized that one day, I too will not be at all, and in this final time with my mother, I must abandon how I want things to be and simply accept that this is what they are, to live in the ordinary instant, for it is always ephemeral and changing. 

Soup's on!

Hoarfrost

After a week of warm days that melted snow, bared roads and caused rivers to rise near flood stage, the temperature fell overnight into the teens, bringing with it a veil of light snow frosting the evergreens.  Old man winter has returned, leaving us all hugging the fire and craving warm meals. Nothing is as satisfying or soul-warming as a good soup on a chilly winter’s night. Now I don’t mean the kind that comes in a can or as a plastic bag of dehydrated veggies and pasta, I mean real soup, the kind made from scratch and that is full or wonderful aromas and flavor.  No time?  It’s easier than you think, especially if you plan ahead, and the result is a meal that pleases body and soul for a fraction of what you might pay for a can of add-water soup.

Although I make soup year round, I really come into it when the days start getting shorter and the temperatures drop.  Soup simmering on the stove or in the slow cooker fills the house with a heavenly fragrance that brings the whole family to the table, especially if it is accompanied by a loaf of fresh bread, biscuits, or corn muffins.  We have some favorites, but most soups all start the same, with the broth: meat, seafood, vegetable, or a combination of both. 

Let’s start with a basic chicken broth, which I make from real chicken that I buy as often as possible from small local farms.  That is part of the trick of truly terrific chicken broth, but only part. The rest is dependent on how you prepare the broth, which I’ve often heard referred to as Jewish penicillin, and I do know more than a few people who believe that good chicken soup and plenty of sleep will cure any cold or flu faster.

As I wrote just about a year ago, I start my chicken broth, well most any broth, with the trinity of soup bases: carrots, celery, and onions.  For a couple quarts of good stock, which is really what you need for a credible soup, I use a two medium carrots, two to three stalks of celery, and two medium onions.  Of course, I wash and peel appropriately, then mince fine.  I also finely mince a couple good sized cloves of fresh garlic, but save those aside. 

There are two schools of thought on what is the best fat for sautéing the veggies.  Some people believe that it isn’t real chicken stock unless it has schmaltz – rendered chicken fat – and there is a magical something in terms of flavor that it does add to the stock.  However, it can also be a lot of work to collect and render that fat, so for those who aren’t purists or who are heart or waistline conscious, a really good extra virgin olive oil will do the trick. I put two to three tablespoons in the bottom of a deep stainless steel stock pot, and heat gently until the oil is wavy.  Add in the carrots, celery, and onion, stir to mix well, then turn the heat to medium low and let sauté, stirring regularly until the onion is transparent and slightly golden.  Toss in the reserved garlic, stir again, and sauté for another two to three minutes. Of course what comes after depends on whether the stock is going into the freezer or the soup pot.

Pot o' soup

For plain freezer stock or for chicken soup, I add in couple of parsnips (home grown) scrubbed clean and chunked, a few fresh sage leaves finely chopped, and a sprig or two of rosemary and kosher salt and freshly ground pepper to taste.  Simmer another two or three minutes, stirring often.  Next add in a cup of dry white wine (usually a Two-Buck Chuck variety from Trader Joe’s), and use a wooden spoon to scrape of the browned bits from the bottom of the pot. Let that simmer for a few minutes, and then throw in one or two chicken carcasses (cooked or raw), add about ten cups of water, and bring it all to a boil. If you don’t have whole chicken carcasses, ask the guys behind the butcher counter if they can put together a couple pounds of chicken backs, and add those with a couple pounds each of chicken legs and wings to the pot – skin on. Reduce heat and simmer covered for one to two hours. 

Now, remove the pot from the heat and let cool for a few minutes before pouring through a colander into another stock pot. Let the leavings – chicken carcass and veggies – cool, and when cool, pick the meat from the carcasses, discarding bones and skin, and any bits of cartilage that have turned up. You can either set the chicken meat aside to go into chicken soup later, or freeze it as I do. What you have left is lovely chicken stock, by half cheaper and quite likely better for you, than what you can buy in the grocery.  And, it forms the foundation for many a soup to come.

One of the newest recipes in my soup collection, but one of my favorites is Italian Fish Stew, which came from daughter, Kasey.  Although a New Englander through and through, and therefore invested in the milk/cream, potato and fish chowder that makes Maine and other states in the region famous, this stew has a heady Mediterranean flavor to it that honors my husband’s Italian heritage with a subtle pairing of flavors.  Even better, it’s fast and easy to make

Italian Fish Stew 

Ingredients:

• 4 tsp olive oil
• 1 cup diced red onion
• 2 chopped garlic cloves
• 2 tsps. fresh chopped parsley
• 2 tsps. fresh chopped oregano
• 2 cups. chopped tomato
• 6 cups good chicken broth
• 4 cups fresh spinach, washed and torn into bite-sized pieces
• 1 ½ lbs of haddock, cod, or even halibut

Directions:

1. Sautee onion and garlic in olive oil until soft, about 5 minutes.  Add herbs, cook 1 minute more.
2. Add tomato and chicken broth, and heat until simmering.
3. Add spinach and fish. Simmer until fish is cooked, less than 10 minutes.

I serve this with good rustic bread and little else, although a nice glass of white wine like a verdicchio, is also nice. 

Around Thanksgiving, this broth forms the basis also for a lovely curried turkey and leek soup that combines the leftover bird with my favorite leeks.   Again, it’s a complex blend of ingredients that creates an amazing flavor.

Curried turkey and leek soup

Ingredients:

3 tablespoons butter and a dribble of olive oil

2 cups leeks, cut in coins
3 tablespoons all-purpose flour
2 1/4 teaspoons curry powder
5 cups chicken broth
1 1/2 cups potatoes (red add good color unpeeled), diced
3/4 cup carrot, peeled and diagonally sliced
3/4 cup celery, chopped
2 1/2 teaspoons fresh parsley, chopped
3/4 teaspoon rubbed sage
3 cups cooked turkey, chopped
1 cup half-and-half or heavy cream
1/2 teaspoon salt, to taste
1/4 teaspoon black pepper, to taste

You can add fresh spinach to this for color and flavor and if you choose to do so, wash and stem about 10 ounces of baby spinach.

Curried turkey and leek soup

Directions:
In a large Dutch oven, melt butter and oil over medium heat. Add leeks and cook, stirring frequently, until tender. Add flour and curry powder, stirring until smooth. Cook 3 minutes, stirring constantly. Gradually add broth, stirring until blended.

Add potato, carrots, celery, parsley, and sage; bring to a boil over medium-high heat, stirring frequently. Cook, stirring constantly, until mixture thickens slightly. Cover, reduce heat, and simmer 15 minutes.

If using spinach, stir it in now, and then add turkey, half and half or cream, salt, and pepper; cover and simmer 10 minutes, stirring occasionally. Adjust spices to taste before serving.

I like this best with fresh potato rolls, which I wrote about in an earlier blog.

Making a good beef stock is a bit more complicated, but nonetheless every bit as rewarding. 

I start with three or four good soup bones which can be had from the butcher, and even from most good groceries.  The bones serve double duty, too, because once they have given up the flavor to the stock, I share them with the dogs who love to lie before the fire and gnaw away on them.  Of course, we watch to make sure that they don’t splinter, but they provide hours of good chewing. But that’s another story.

Making beef stock comes from an old and tattered cookbook my great grandmother used.  Begin by preheating the oven to 400 degrees.  Then peel and chop two medium onions, a couple medium carrots, one rib of celery, a half cup of chopped parsley, and peel and halve three cloves of garlic. Lightly oil a shallow roasting pan and place the bones and veggies and herbs in it.  Now drizzle 2 tablespoons of olive oil over all and place in the oven.  Roast them for about 45 minutes, checking often to make sure the veggies and bones don’t burn. 

When the bones are nicely browned, remove them from the oven and place in a large stock pot along with the roasted veggies.  Add two bay leaves, a half teaspoon of dried thyme, and two sprigs of fresh (1/2 teaspoon dried) rosemary.  Pour a cup of dry red wine into the roasting pan and scrap the bottom to release the juices and bits.  Add to the pot. Now fill the pot with enough water to cover the bones by about two inches, and add a pinch of kosher salt and a turn or two of freshly ground pepper.  Place over medium heat, cover and bring to a gentle boil.  Reduce to a simmer and let cook slowly two to three hours.  Depending on how fatty the bones are, you may want to skim off some of the fat as it rises to the top while the bones cook.

Now drain, using a colander.  If you want a really clear beef broth, use cheese cloth to line the colander.  I like my beef broth a bit meatier, so I just strain.  Cool slightly and pour into freezer containers and freeze.  I also cheat and use the broth leftover from pot roast to supplement this beautiful roasted broth, straining it too and storing it in the freezer.   The results are terrific and form the basis for beef or lamb stew, and for minestrone. 

Beef Stew

Ingredients:

1 ½ lbs lean stew beef, cut in one-inch chunks

¼ c. flour mixed with salt and pepper to taste

1 large onion, chopped

1 clove garlic, minced

1 Tbsp. olive oil

½ c. beer

4 c. beef broth

1 stalk of celery, thinly sliced

4 medium carrots, peeled and cut in one-inch chunks

5 medium potatoes, peeled and diced

½ tsp. dried rosemary

2 bay leaves

Directions:

Place beef chunks and flour mix in a plastic bag and gently shake.  Now in a large stock pot, heat oil and then brown beef in oil over medium-high heat.  Add onions and celery and cook until transparent, then add garlic and cook three minutes, stirring often. Now pour in the beer, and stir often to release browned bits.  Then slowly add in beef broth.   Bring to boil and add in carrots. Cover, reduce heat to simmer and cook a half hour.  Now add in potatoes, cover and cook at a simmer for another hour.  Salt and pepper to taste, and serve. Great served with biscuits hot from the oven.

Beef broth is also the foundation for minestrone, which we have often, again with good crusty bread. Minestrone is a predominantly meatless soup, if you don’t count the beef broth, and relies instead on beans for a protein source.  It’s also easy to make, and there are hundreds of variations on this soup.   I rely on canned beans rather than soaking dried beans overnight as I used to years ago.

Good bread

Minestrone

Ingredients:

2 Tbsps. olive oil

1 clove garlic, peeled and diced

1 medium onion, peeled and chopped

2 celery stalks, chopped

1 medium zucchini, chopped

3 medium carrots, peeled and chopped

2 medium potatoes, peeled and diced

½ tsp. dried oregano

½ tsp. dried thyme

1 large (26 oz.) can of tomatoes

1 15-½ oz. can garbanzo beans

1 15-½ oz. can cannelli beans

½ c. cooked pasta (elbows, farfalle, ziti – your choice)

5 c. beef broth

Directions:

In a large soup pot, heat the oil over medium heat.  Drain and rinse the beans and set aside.

The road home

Add onion and celery to oil and cook until transparent.  Add in garlic and cook for two to three minutes.  Add in dried herbs and cook for two minutes, stirring often.  Add in beef broth, then canned tomatoes with juice.  Bring to a boil, reduce heat.  Add carrots and cook 15 minutes, then add potatoes and zucchini, reduce to simmer, cover and cook for a half hour.  Add in beans, reduce to a bare simmer. Cover and cook for an hour, stirring every so often.  Add in pasta and heat through.  Serve immediately. 

We often add a tablespoon of grated Parmesan cheese just before eating. 

A good soup is as essential to our existence as human beings.  For centuries, the combination of meat and beans, broths and herbs has sustained us, and so it remains today.  Beethoven so valued a truly good soup that he noted that only the pure in heart can make a good soup, and perhaps it is that inherent goodness that sustains and warms us.  Beyond the windows, snow falls light and fine, piling up in corners, softening the lines of the bat and swallow houses, muffling the sounds of passing cars.  Bruce has put a match to the fire and it has flared up sending a billowing cloud of wood smoke up into the winter sky, scenting the cold with its earthiness.  Beef roasts in the oven, the rich aroma teasing our sense.   The day draws to an end, the light is opaque, silvered by snow, and we draw the shades against black chill of night.  

Shelter from the storm