Read Cherries in Winter: My Family's Recipe for Hope in Hard Times Online
Authors: Suzan Colón
Tags: #Self-Help, #Motivational & Inspirational
Cherries in Winter: My Family's Recipe for Hope in Hard Times (19 page)
One more frantic phone call to the reverend (“I’m
trying
to relax!”) and at last we were off the highway and on a path that wound around pretty homes guarded by maple and pine trees. The air was fresher here, and we breathed deeply. At the end of the path, we came to a house painted a gentle yellow cream. My parents, Nathan’s brother, and the reverend all waved to us. We practically fell out of the truck with relief.
The reverend spoke about how we, two individuals, were now coming together as one entity, and how we had to nurture this union and protect it. Nathan then took me as his “lawfully wedded
life
,” and I put his ring on the wrong hand. We laughed about it later with our new in-laws as we ate our supermarket wedding cake.
• • •
One month later we would have our “big” wedding, the one with all our friends and family. Right after that, I would put a sign on my office door that read “Off to our Hawaiian honeymoon, see you in two weeks!” Only three sleepless nights later, we twice-newlyweds would be chased off the island by a plague of incredibly loud frogs—yes, frogs. (I knew it was time to give up on
the idyllic honeymoon fantasy when Nathan, tired to the point of delirium, got up and dressed at one-thirty in the morning. “Where are you going?” I asked, as we were currently in a hut in the middle of nowhere. “Out to kill myself,” he answered. “Want to join me?” Well of course, I said; we’re married now. We left the next day, after a very romantic meal at a fast-food burger joint in the Maui airport.)
A year and a half after our honeymoon from hell, I would pack that sign, along with my other personal things, when I was laid off from my job. And not long after that, I would find Nana’s recipes for food, and for living.
At that point, I had to economize on groceries, but the reverence I paid food was high. It always had been; to truly appreciate food, one only has to experience a brief period of meals going from a certainty—evening is, after all, known as “dinnertime”—to a question mark. This had not been an uncommon theme in my family’s history, as I’d come to learn. The coffee and mashed potatoes my great-great grandmother had sometimes served for days on end. Nana having to make a single corn muffin last for breakfast and lunch during the Great Depression. I throw a couple of cans
into my cart to donate to the local soup kitchen along with my monthly check.
But this reverence I have for food isn’t rooted in fear; that’s a lousy way to eat, and it can lead to hoarding of the internal kind. My ancestors transformed their suffering into gratitude, and finding their recipes and hearing their stories made me realize that many of my happiest memories are associated with food—being able to provide it, the loving meditation of preparing it, the delight of sharing it.
Now, every time I go to the market, every time I set a plate in front of my husband, I think of my family. I remember what they didn’t have, and I remember what they gave me. Four generations of love are in my heart and my hands, and I put my gratitude into the food I make.
Baked Pork Chops with Sauerkraut
Beef Stew with Yeast Dumplings
Mom’s Liver with Bacon and Onions
Split Pea Soup, Suzan’s Attempted
I am not now, nor have I ever been, a chef.
And yet, one of my favorite things to do is personalize a recipe. This has sometimes led to disastrous dinners, but even I know that sometimes, a recipe just has to be altered. Still being something of a novice (some would say menace) in the kitchen, I’ll make little notes in the margins of my cookbooks to add more of this or less of that, especially when it comes to spices; Nathan was born to be mild, while I missed my calling as a carnival fire-eater.
More experienced cooks will simply make a mental note that they’ll remember next time, which is probably why I don’t see any alterations in Nana’s recipes. However, having made some of the dishes in this book dozens of times since I found her recipe file, I wanted to write down a few changes to the recipes in this book that I’ve found helpful.
• • •
German Potato Salad
: A quarter cup of sugar?
Whoa
. With all due respect, my great-grandmother Carrie must’ve had some sweet tooth, and considering my borderline addiction to sugar, that’s really saying something. I went for a few teaspoons and called it a
night; please start out sparingly and taste frequently. Also, I preferred to cook the onions a bit in the vinegar and sugar, which added flavor and took away the sharp bite they tend to have when completely raw.
• • •
Butter Cookies
: I’m sure you’ve seen those magazine and book articles that show how much bigger our food has gotten since The Good Ol’ Days. We’ve super sized our fries, our muffins dwarf baseballs, and a single soda is roughly a quart of liquid. These cookies must follow the same principle. I don’t know what size cookies Nana was making, but the ingredient amounts specified in this recipe have never yielded four dozen cookies. Two dozen, yes; four dozen, never—not in the two to four dozen times I’ve made them. Maybe I’m making them too big …
• • •
Quick Apple Cake
: Cake pan, no; loaf pan, yes. Or, if you want a larger cake, double all the ingredients except the apples. If you’re using a loaf pan, one apple will cover the top quite nicely.
• • •
Lemon Meringue Pie
: As I mentioned in the story, one small but vital ingredient was left off that scribbled list on Nana’s company envelope: a pinch of cream of tartar, without which your meringues will be liquid uselessness and you will end up, as I did, with a lemon tart. While that’s certainly not going to kill your evening, life can be frustrating enough without missing out on meringue just because a teensy pinch of magic powder was mistakenly forgotten.
Had this been one of my step-grandmother’s recipes, though, I would’ve known the omission was no mistake. Grandma Shirley was famous for her rugelach and cheesecake, and she loved the fact that no one could seem to make them as well as she could. And why? Because she “mistakenly” left one ingredient out of each recipe she finally shared with the relatives who begged her for them, thereby ensuring her legacy. “Nobody ever made ruggies like my mother,” Dad will say wistfully to Mom. “How could they?” she’ll retort. “She left one little thing out of every recipe, the sneak!”
• • •
Rolled Shoulder of Lamb
: The house my grandparents moved into in Saratoga Springs was over a hundred and fifty years old, as were many of the other homes in the area. Wood-burning stoves were not uncommon, and temperature readings consisted of best guesses: warm, hot, pretty hot, really hot, and
May you be in heaven five minutes before the devil knows you’re dead
.
When I made that rolled shoulder of lamb, the directions said “a hot oven.” I had two choices: make my best guess, or … actually, there was no “or.” Who was I kidding? There wasn’t even anyone else in the kitchen to kid. I had no idea what temperature I should start out with, and no way was I going to ruin a gorgeous spring lamb with a guess. For two and a half pounds of rolled lamb, I preheated the oven to 450 degrees, and then I lowered it to 350 when I put the lamb in. I cooked it for one hour and fifteen minutes, and it came out perfectly. (If you like your lamb rare in the middle, take it out at an hour or so.)
Also, a note about the apricot sauce: I suppose, if one were to make the dressing from fresh apricots, three-quarters of a cup of sugar would be an appropriate
amount to add. And if one were feeling like a member of the Ladies of The Grange, one could make the apricot sauce from scratch in this way. However, if one were looking for a shortcut, one (oh, all right, I’m talking about me here) could very easily use a third of a jar of apricot jam instead. I prefer the kind with no added sugar; it goes better with the crushed garlic clove rubbed on the inside, along with the salt and pepper. I also rubbed the outside with garlic and sprinkled salt and pepper there too. And I was glad I did.
As for the dressing, I dispensed with it. When there’s lamb on the table—especially with an apricot sauce—I don’t even want to know about anything else.
• • •
If you’ve made your own modifications to the recipes in this book, I’d love to hear about them. Please write to me at
[email protected]
.
I make a gratitude list every day. Here is the one from the last day of writing this book.
I’m grateful to:
Amy Gross, Susan Reed, Deborah Way, Cathleen Medwick, Sudie Redmond, Celia Barbour, and all my editor-teachers at “Harvard.” You made me a better writer, and I try to imagine you over my shoulders every time I write. It’s a little intimidating, but it works.
Mary Ann Naples and Debra Goldstein, the right agents at the right time, and to everyone at The Creative Culture and DiFiore. I dreamed big; you dreamed huge. Because of that, we all made this happen. Thank you for being among my biggest supporters and peppiest cheerleaders.
My Random House family: Bill Thomas, Kris
Puopolo, Alison Rich, Todd Doughty, Lauren Lavelle, Jillian Wohlfarth, Russell Perreault, Andrea Robinson, Dan Ozzi, Emily Mahon, Katya Mezhibovskaya, and everyone who took such great care of this nervous little cookie-baking writer.
Where would I be without the Muses? I don’t like to think about it; I just thank them profusely. To Sherri Rifkin, for all the plans we made at THPOE, and for giving me the occasional kick in the butt with a sling-back with a kitten heel. To Francesco Clark, for breathing with me and being a chocoholic who puts my sweet tooth to shame. And to Aaron Krach, Muse at Large and Renaissance Man.
My amazing support team: Jon Barrett, my Guardian Angel in Chief; Amanda Siegelson, Web Mistress par excellance and baker of rather pretty cakes; Steve Korté, Superhero; Carolina Miranda, for saying (with very wide eyes), “Suzan … You have to write this book.” May I give all of you what you’ve given me.
Our wonderful longtime friends Chris Moore and Charles Cermele, the Ricardos to our Mertzes; Donna Herman, maker of the greatest brisket I’ve ever overeaten and owner of the most generous heart I
know; Susannah Harte for her seemingly endless patience and spiritual generosity; Jason Arbuckle and Mark Arena, our most swellegant pals.
One lunch with three women provided a pivotal moment in pushing me from fear to creativity. The menu was roast chicken, grilled asparagus, and pure encouragement. For all of the above, I’m grateful to Ann Summa, Marlane Miriello, and Frankie Wright. Thanks to the women of The Break Free Club for power breakfasts with a side order of “Why not?” And thank you, Melissa Clark, for taking the time to answer an e-mail from a fan.
There is no way to properly thank David Keeps, who took me on as an extra intern in the summer of 1984 and taught me how to write for magazines, and who turned out to be an even better friend (and matchmaker) than mentor.
To the Ladies of The Grange: Nana, Mom, and I give thanks for sharing your recipes.
To Feeding America, for doing just that—feeding America’s hungry.
To Sylvia Boorstein, Julia Cameron, Rolf Gates, Natalie Goldberg, and Sharon Salzberg, for putting answers to big questions in simple, beautiful words.
To the many bloggers who took the time not only to read this book, but to write about it on their great websites, you made me
. Many, many thanks for your support; you are a writer’s lifeblood.