09-27-00 Eastern Echo

The food for our souls is...FOOD

Outside the sky is steel gray, the grass wet from a night's heavy dew, the breeze brisk with the first hint of the colder weather to come. In the kitchen a pumpkin pie cools on the counter and the air is filled with the heady aroma of spices. My children, in turn, venture into the kitchen and sniff the air. "Whatcha cooking, Mom?" "Pie," I say, cleaning the flour off the floor and wiping the splatters of pumpkin off the mixer. "Pumpkin pie." One inevitably will say, "I HATE pumpkin pie." The next will say, "Oh, Mommy. I LOVE pumpkin pie!" The last will ask, "Mommy? Do I like pumpkin pie?" It makes me feel content. It is a scene that has been repeated with some variation throughout my entire lifetime, from the time when it was me saying, "I HATE pumpkin pie" to these times when I must remind my youngest that he does, indeed, like pumpkin pie. My mother, myself There are times when I am seized by the sensation of deja vu. How many mornings as a child did I awake to the scent of cooking and shamble downstairs to investigate? Did my mother feel compelled to cook certain foods according to vagaries of the weather or the time of year? Certainly she did. Like a treasured family heirloom, she has bequeathed to me this potent need to create a place replete in comfort. A place that I fill with smells that say home and love and tranquility. This feeling of comfort is mostly associated with food; making it and consuming it. The lesson of comfort and food has been passed not only to me, but my sister and all of my brothers. We all cook, and cook well. Our memories correlate the deep sense of home represented in food. We all, sometime in our young lives, stirred the pudding until it thickened, rolled tiny meatballs for the Italian chicken noodle soup, learned to test the pasta for that elusive al dente moment of perfection. My mother rarely followed a written recipe, instead relying on her sense of smell and sometimes touch to duplicate perfection in every meal. The notes she wrote down to help her remember certain recipes were cryptic and hard to decipher, often scribbled on used envelopes or scraps of torn paper that floated through various drawers in the kitchen. We learned to cook the way our mother did, by smell and touch. When friends ask me for a favorite recipe, I have to admit I only know the approximate measurements. Even though my siblings and I have labored to chronicle the family recipes we still find ourselves smelling and kneading our way to the finished product. What should I cook? It isn't unusual to wake in the morning and immediately know what I will cook. Some subliminal cue has been given and I am powerless to resist it. Extraordinary as it sounds, it isn't unusual to call my sister or mother and find that they have made the same meal that very day. Cool weather brings with it the desire to make Italian chicken noodle soup and fresh bread. The pungent aroma of new fallen leaves calls for apple pie, and the first snow for pot roast and mashed potatoes. We serve no other main course on Thanksgiving except turkey and Easter demands a fine ham. It is a tradition that cannot be broken. I remember one year listening in horror as my brother described dinner at his in-laws over the Easter holiday; they had pork roast. My family sat around the cherry-wood table in my mother's large dining room and laughed at the absurdity of it. All of us try to reproduce our mother's recipes, and improve on them. My Italian soup is the best and my brother Joe has mastered Italian lemon cookies. My sister Lisa makes bread with a skill that surpasses even our mother, Jeff's spaghetti sauce is a work of art, and Bruce can turn a mean meatloaf. Food is comfort, and I'm hungry We cook to feel at home. We cook to provide comfort, to ourselves and our families. We cook because the day is cold or the leaves have fallen. Me and my siblings are continuations of my mother, we are the fulfillment of years of subconscious conditioning to nurture, protect, and gratify. Every time we make a pot of soup or spaghetti, we are paying homage to our mother. Every pie that comes out of the oven has the unmistakable imprint of her hands, every meatball the precise rotund curve she perfected. Now we pass it all along to our own children. Already my youngest knows the proper firmness for pasta noodles. The oldest renders critiques on how well I spiced the pot roast and the middle child cannot tolerate mushy broccoli. They are learning as I learned, oblivious to the lessons that will someday come to define their own conception of home and comfort and love. Today was a day for pumpkin pie. Tomorrow I will wake up and listen to the quiet voice in my stomach that will tell me what is right for that day. Now it is my job to make our house a home, and to fill that home with the smells of pie and soup and bread. But no matter how long I've been taking care of my own nest, I still walk into my mother's house, sniff the air, and ask, "Whatcha cooking, Ma?"