Crescent Dragonwagon's Deep Feast

I remember being on Good Morning America — early spring,  1993 —  with less clarity than I do the Sunday afterwards.

When, in the kitchen of the restaurant I then owned, I was standing over a 16-inch skillet  of eggs, watching intently as they poached, the viscous transparent whites turning milky, coagulating in on themselves to cradle the small suns of each yolk. The dining room was full with guests out for Sunday brunch (though we got great reviews in Gourmet, may it R.I.P., and the New York Times, and Southern Living, I was always unreasonably proud of the fact that our place was the only restaurant in the county the health inspector would go out to eat; Mother’s Day, Father’s Day and Easter brunch, there he and his family would be).

And, that Sunday  morning, a couple of days after the GMA appearance, I was in the zone. The groove. The wholly focused, addictive state professional chefs and cooks hit when they’re in the kitchen on a busy shift and there is nothing, nothing but the world of getting orders out, getting food out, hot and beautiful and in a timely fashion, to those who have paid you the compliment of believing you can and will provide it.  And then the next order, and then the next.

Someone was next to me; the woman who assisting that morning. She didn’t work for us that long; I can’t remember her name. Only that she was tall, had back problems, and was next to me by the stove at that moment when I was in poached egg universe.

And she said something to me, and it was so far from where I was at that second that I literally couldn’t understand it and asked her to repeat it.

She did, her manner edged in — what? sarcasm, perhaps? — a tone I read as wholly dismissive of where we were and what were doing at that moment — poaching eggs in a restaurant kitchen on a Sunday morning in Eureka Springs, Arkansas.

She said, “It’s a long way from Good Morning America, isn’t it?”

Was she trying to be jokey-empathetic, imagining that, to me, being on a television show in New York was such a hugely big deal  that poaching eggs in my own restaurant’s real kitchen would have to be a come-down?

As I say, she had to repeat it for me to even come out of the poaching egg zone enough to have any idea what she was talking about… to even remember I had been on Good Morning America … to even remember what Good Morning America was.  It may sound disingenuous to say this: on one level I knew (though not at that exact moment) that I had just been on a television program which was viewed by millions of people. But — I don’t have a TV. There is no show I watch daily, nor have I ever. A “million” is not an amount, of anything, I fully comprehend.

Some things, I guess, look glamorous from the outside, and no matter how much someone tells you they aren’t in reality, you don’t believe it. Getting picked up from a hotel in New York City earlier that week by the GMA limousine at 4:00 a.m., the city streets unearthly in their relative dark and quiet; there was a little “Oh wow I can’t believe this is happening!’ but it was overshadowed by being so very, very sleepy. And having make-up put on you; what I remember is the make-up artist half-frowning and switching to a heavier concealer than the one she’d first picked up; the circles under my eyes clearly required more serious intervention. I remember it was hot in that room where she spackled on foundation, the light bulbs circling the mirror just like in the movies.

And then being interviewed by famous people who were only famous for interviewing  other people, some of whom were famous.

At some fundamental internal level none of this was important or real to me.  The eggs were.

I mean, GMA: yeah, I did it; I experienced it. I remember that the male interviewer, whose name was Charlie something — I would have to Google it to find out what — had a spoonful of the pumpkin tomato bisque I demo’d while the cameras were rolling and said it was “really good.” Then, after the cameras stopped rolling, had three full cups of it. With much more enthusiasm than he’d had on air.

I remember that the green room actually was green.

So the GMA experience was real, in its way. And it certainly helped sell books, for which I am grateful.

But it was not kitchen-real. It was not change-the-way-you-think-about-yourself real. It was not as real as an egg, the heat of the water in which it bathed gradually changing its strands of protein from liquid to semi-solid.
xxx
I used to say that the cornbread we served in that restaurant was the sun around which the planets of the menu revolved.

A basket of cornbread wedges, on my table in Vermont... the same table that was in front of the fireplace in the restaurant, back in Dairy Hollow days

The restaurant was in the Ozarks. To me, there was never any question that cornbread belonged there. This was a matter of  perplexity to some locals, who could not quite wrap their minds around the concept of  “cornbread” (a down-home food, loved but long traditionally associated with poverty) being served at a  “fine dining restaurant.”  I was, not to put too fine a point on it, doing local-and-organic-and-regionally-rooted-but-creatively-reinvented long, long before it was cool or even comprehensible. The first cookbook to come out about the inn, The Dairy Hollow House Cookbook, was published in 1986 (it has just been reissued by its original paperback publisher, Cato and Martin, by the way. You can get it here, new).

(Just for a reference point:  according to Wikipedia, “The word ‘locavore’ was the word of the year for 2007 in the Oxford American Dictionary. This word was the creation of Jessica Prentice of the San Francisco Bay Area at the time of World Environment Day, 2005.”  So, we were doing that stuff nineteen years before there was a word for it. )

The Dairy Hollow House Cookbook, written with my dear friend Jan Brown, and illustrated by then-Eurekan Jacqueline Froelich.

We called our style of cuisine nouveau’zarks; in fact, the first chapter of  The Dairy Hollow House Cookbook is entitled “Old-Time Ozarks Country Cooking vs  ‘Nouveau’Zarks’ Country Cooking, ” and in seven pages  it pretty much laid out the ethos which informs so many good restaurants today: respect and honor the place where you are, its history, ingredients, climate, traditions, people. Seek out local farmers, growers, producers, gleaners.

Take all that bounty — morels from the scruffy bearded guys who showed up each spring with their precious collected fungi — did I ever know their names, or how they found us? —   rabbits from the down-to-earth farm wife  whose husband slaughtered them the same morning she delivered them ( along with a quart of rabbit blood; yes, vegetarian me used this to thicken the rabbit gravy in the traditional French manner), and lettuces as frilly as full-skirted ball-gowns, UFO-looking kolrabi, voluptuous tomatoes, brought by  monks, sometimes in habit,  from Little Portion , a farm/monastery in Berryville, Arkansas (of all places, I was and am always tempted to add).  All this, delivered right to the restaurant’s back door… for there certainly was no farmers market in Eureka in those days.

So. Take all that bounty and… see where you can go.

But, even as I sought out and found Oklahoma prosciutto, Arkansas goat cheese, and even White River caviar (from paddlefish) — the kinds of foodstuffs that are now, but were not then, known as “artisinal” — there were some traditional dishes which were so good, so central, so perfect as they were, I just didn’t mess with them. Cornbread was one.
xxx

The dish I was poaching the eggs for the Sunday after the Tuesday I had been on Good Morning America was Eggs Eureka. Its creation came about  via what’s today called mash-up — ideas and influences from all over layer and conjoin to make something new. But “mash-up” is a distasteful phrase when applied to food. Eggs Eureka were in no way a mish-mashy dish.

Instead, they took that brunch cliche Eggs Benedict, making it local and making it Ozark.

Instead of English muffin, the foundation was wedges of our skillet-sizzled cornbread, split, toasted and very lightly buttered… we always had the leftover cornbread on hand at the restaurant.

Instead of Canadian bacon, we used crisp slices of Arkansas bacon (vegetarians got smoked tempeh strips instead).

A great big thick round of dense, juicy height-of-summer tomato, underneath that bacon, had no Benedict equivalent, but just belonged. And on top of all that, poached egg, sauced not with Hollandaise, but a ladleful of good old piping-hot from-scratch Sauce Mornay … cheese sauce. We tried it with milk gravy, which, especially if we had used biscuits instead of cornbread, would have been closer to traditionally Ozark… but the Mornay was just so much better.

A little grated cheddar atop that, an in-and-out run under the broiler to gratinee it, a sprinkle of paprika, a sprig of parsley, or maybe a spike of rosemary or a sage leaf, and out it went.

It was so good, and well-appreciated by those who ate with us.

One of our more well known guests was the feminist Betty Friedan, who wrote The Feminine Mystique. The weekend she was visiting us, the Eggs Eureka were on the menu. She told me, “This is so much better than any Eggs Benedict I have ever eaten anywhere, Crescent. This dish is… it’s genius. Pure genius.” Nice to hear from an icon, there’s no denying that.

And, Eggs Eureka began with our cornbread.

As much did, over the years.

Featherbed Eggs, our version of breakfast strata (where eggs and milk are poured over bread crumbs and seasonings the night before, and baked in little ramekins or one large casserole the next day, and they puff up just beautifully) — ours was done with cornbread crumbs, not wheat bread, plus green chiles and Southwestern flavors and “Arkansalsa” on the side.

Featherbed Eggs

More than half a decade went into writing The Cornbread Gospels.

Of course, the dressing at Thanksgiving was cornbread-centric. And eventually, I even began to do bread pudding with cornbread.

Five years after I left the inn and Arkansas, I wrote a whole book on cornbread, The Cornbread Gospels. Gospels with an “s”, because I had learned that there is way more than one right way to make cornbread. (Though most people who are cornbread lovers disagree — they think there is only one right way: the way their grandmother made it. They indulge me, mostly, in my insistence that  gospel be pluralized; but they know there is really only one right way: their grandmothers’.)

It took me about six years to write that book. There was researching, talking to people and sometimes eating in their homes, going to mills and to the National Cornbread Festival (see picture below; three generations of cornbread lovers). There was testing recipes, developing recipes, and writing. I finally stopped because I had to; it was time to end the book. I could have continued for another six years; this is what happens when you fall in love with a subject. There’s no end (and despite all that time, I am still learning things about cornbread I didn’t know and hence didn’t put in the book).

Three generations of cornbread lovers, at the National Cornbread Festival, South Pittsburg, Tennessee

Why did I fall in love with cornbread? Because it tastes so good. Because I was  genuinely was fascinated by the stories behind this American, and Ozarkian life-staple. Because the more you find out, the less you know. Because it turns out that everything is connected to everything and, because I was looking at cornbread, cornbread was right there in the middle of it all.

And, of course, because when you love something, you love something; you just do.

And I love cornbread.

xxx

Because I do, I still make it. Not daily, as I did when I lived in Arkansas and ran an inn, but here, in private life. in Vermont, at least a couple of times a month.

I should say cornbreads, again plural, because I don’t make just one kind. Sometimes I do the type we served at the inn, which is essentially African American (half cornmeal, half  wheat flour; a little sugar, not much; buttermilk; baked in a hot cast iron skillet). Sometimes I do the straight Southern cornbread (all cornmeal, no sugar or flour, buttermilk, skillet sizzled). Sometimes I do an embellished Southwestern style cornbread (green chiles, chopped onion, minced garlic, corn cut off the cob, grated cheese). Sometimes corn muffins, or cornsticks. And very very occasionally I do Yankee cornbread (as much or more flour than cornmeal, quite sweet, milk instead of buttermilk, baked in a cold pan instead of a heated skillet).

Sometimes, cornsticks...so good.

As I write these words, it is the height of summer. We bought too much fresh sweet corn on the cob (so easy to do) earlier this week, so I wound up making a spicy corn chowder. And nothing, it seemed to me, could accompany it more perfectly than cornbread: straightforward, unembellished, crisp-edged classic Southern cornbread. So that is what I made (the Truman Capote’s Family’s Cornbread, on page 13, for those of you have The Cornbread Gospels.)

Because there are only two of us here, even though of course we ate more of that always-excellent cornbread hot from the skillet, than perhaps was prudent, there were a few leftover wedges.

The next morning, at breakfast, I said to David, “You know, I used to make this really good breakfast dish back at the inn. We called it Eggs Eureka.”

And, then and there, half a country and fourteen years away from the inn, my beloved co-innkeeper long, long gone, I split and toasted the leftover cornbread wedges from dinner the night before. I didn’t make cheese sauce; it seemed like overkill for just the two of us. If I’d had tempeh bacon I would have used that, but we didn’t, so that, too, was skipped.

But there were slices from one of those God-almighty-I-love-summer tomatoes. And this year the swiss chard in our garden has grown with  exceptional, beautiful vigor. David went out and quickly harvested some, and washed it, and I cut it up and steamed it.

So the Vermont riff  on Eggs Eureka yesterday went like this: toasted cornbread wedge, nest of steamed chard with a little garlic, slice of tomato,  egg over easy (not poached), a little sprinkle of Vermont cheddar.

Eggs Eureka, the simplified version as made last Sunday, here in Vermont

And it made me think about Eggs Eureka, and the old inn days and what that woman — Vicky! I just remembered her name — Vicky! — said to me. And how much it perplexed me at that moment.

Ingredients, and the dishes we make from them, are always changing, as are the people we eat them with, and the circumstances under which we eat them. Always changing, yet affixed by memory. In time, yet out of time.

How many times has the earth circled the sun since I stood in that kitchen with Vicky? Let’s see… the book that got me onto Good Morning America, Dairy Hollow House Soup and Bread, was published in 1992. So twenty years worth of days. Twenty!

My beloved co-innkeeper, my late husband, Ned Shank, left this spinning globe twelve years ago (by which time we had already closed the inn and restaurant, founding a still-existent writers’ colony, the Writers’ Colony at Dairy Hollow). I left Eureka Springs two years after his death, to live in what had been my family’s summer home, in Vermont. Four years after that, I was joined by my present partner, David Koff, the gentleman for whom I made the sort-of Eggs Eureka last Sunday.

The Vermont home in which we live was once owned by my Aunt Dot, who used it as a summer place. She had no children of her own and outlived her money; my buying it gave me a home with which I had connection but not as much association with loss as I had by that time in Arkansas, and it also allowed her to live out her remaining  days in her winter home, an apartment in New York, on East 57th Street. Three years after I moved up here, Aunt Dot, too, exited this green globe.

One day not long after I moved to Vermont,  I went down to New York for one of my periodic visits. I  had come to see Aunt Dot, in the apartment she was by then sharing with her caregiver, Zorina. Zorina was in the kitchen, and you could hear something being chopped.

“What’s that sound?” Aunt Dot asked me.

I said, “I think it’s Zorina, making your dinner. Do you want me to go check? ”

“Yes,” said Aunt Dot, very decisively.

I did. Then I returned to the bedroom.

“Yes, Zorina’s making dinner, ” I reported. “She’s chopped up some onions and some red peppers and she’s frying them in a little oil. I think it’ll be good. ”

Aunt Dot looked up at me, her exceptionally blue eyes always startling. “Will there be enough for Jim?” she asked me.

Jim was Jim Cherry, the man with whom she had spent twenty late-in-life years. They had dated in college, married other people, outlived the other people, and then, in their  70′s, got back together. They remained coupled until his death at age 94. That, his death, had been about 4 years before Aunt Dot had asked me if there would be enough for him.

I said, “Well, I don’t think Jim is coming to dinner tonight, Aunt Dot. But if he did, there’d be enough for him. ”

Aunt Dot nodded, and then she said, slowly,  thoughtfully,  “Where do all our Jims get to?”
xxx
That’s a  question, of course, to which there is no answer. And yet, somehow, at the largest table on which the deep feast is laid, dish by dish, season by season, memory by memory, absence by presence by absence, we  join together, the living and the dead, the harvests of a hundred years ago meeting those picked yesterday.

After a few minutes,  Aunt Dot said dreamily, “I know. You know that big house I have in — is it New Hampshire?”

“Vermont, ” I said.

“Yes,” she said. “We can have a dinner there. And Jim can come, and Ned can come, and Daddy and Mother, and Sissy, and you, and me… ”

Ned Shank and Aunt Dot, spring 2000, on the front porch of the farm, where I now live. They are both gone, and no now, from this world, forwarding addresses unknown. How much they enjoyed each other in life! I wish I believed in an afterlife, so I could imagine them enjoying each other still, in it.

I have a friend who makes the scientific case that all possible realities actually are, or have, or will, or can happen, simultaneously. He bases his argument on quantum physics; and it’s very convincing when he makes it, thought I can’t quite follow. But I do like to go there when he explains it; I like it a lot. I like the generosity of this idea, since merely to pick one skein in a life so lush and full of possibilities, yet bounded by time, is almost too poignant to bear otherwise.

To really help yourself to all that’s on offer at the deep feast takes accepting the unknown and unknowable.

Side by side with the known.

That the quick dazzle of celebritude a television show confers is fleeting.

That any given meal, too, is a brief transaction in a transitory world, where seasons and people and places change and change and keep changing.

And yet, that swiss chard will produce greens as well as seeds, allowing a kind of immortality in the form of next years’ garden.  That a hen will live and die, but hens themselves will go on laying eggs.

Some of those eggs will become chickens. And some of those eggs will not.

Some of those eggs, subjected to very hot water, will transmute from liquid to solid.

Will poach. Will become breakfast. Will become part of those who eat that breakfast.

And while those breakfast-eaters, too, will be here only briefly, someone will remember. Eggs, under the right condition, will always poach.

And this fact, like a recipe, is a love letter from the past to the present, and from the present to the future.

A book is eventually finished. But its subject? Never, if a writer is lucky enough to have picked a good one.

I keep finding that out.

Back when I wrote Passionate Vegetarian (a process that began in 1991; the book was published in 2002),  I had an idea, one which seems to me now both hubristic and almost touchingly naive.

I would write a kind of vegetarian ultra-Joy of Cooking. If an ingredient of plant origin existed on earth,  a reader could look it up in the book and find it, clearly described and explained, with at least a couple of recipes or ideas for using it. I actually stated this, out loud, occasionally, as my objective, and worked diligently to achieve it.

A work in progress for a very long time, PV was a humbling experience for its author.

But though the book eventually grew to 1110 pages, weighed in at nine pounds, and won a James Beard Award, I did not reach that goal. And thank God for that.

Because the earth is hugely too vast for any one individual’s puny self to grasp. If  any part of that world, even its ‘ingredients of plant origin’, could ever be encompassed permanently in a single book, how much less our lives, and the world itself, would be.  Less mysterious, less interesting. Less filled with the chance to learn,  make discoveries with every step and every bite.  Less finding out that, as the Beatles sang, “The farther you travel, the less you know.” Less surprise. Less wonder.

Shortly after I’d sent off the PV manuscript  (though written on computer, it was the last one on which I submitted an actual paper  copy, which filled 3 large cartons), Ned, my then-, now-late-, but always beloved husband, returned from a trip where friends had taken him to a  fantastic international food market. “You would have loved it,” he told me. “But look what I got you!” He then cheerfully presented me with a bag of plantain flour. I didn’t quite burst into tears, but my thought was: how could he have done this? Here was an ingredient of plant origin that was not only not in the book but which I’d never even heard of.

Welcome to adulthood, Crescent; welcome to the fact that not only is being a know-it-all just not possible, even if it was, it’s much more fun to be a know-some-of-it, and live in a state of  open, soft curiosity.

Humbled by the Bean

I am learning this again with the legume family, through Bean by Bean, my latest cookbook. I’ve spent  six years on it, at the minimum. But legitimately and demonstrably, since I wrote another, much simpler cookbook called  The Bean Book, in 1971  — 27 years. Or perhaps even, in the largest sense, one more spiritual than linear, it took my whole life.

A legumagical, if not quite definitive, book.

But. If ever a person could lay claim to being knowledgeable about beans and writing a definitive book on them, it would be me.

Yet,  “definitive” , I’ve come to feel — starting with that lovingly given, less than graciously received sack of plantain flour — always means provisionally definitive.

On the one hand, despite my best intent and effort, I have, in Bean by Bean, written a book that is incomplete. On the other hand, I gave it my best shot, and in so doing I fell in love with a topic that is more than worthy of the years of attention,  curiosity, research, writing and recipe-testing I gave it.  Too, if the topic is inexhaustible, it means I will go right on learning more and more about beans, as I did about cornbread after the publication of The Cornbread Gospels. And to me, that is not Sisyphean but very, very cool.

Am I happy with the completed Bean by Bean, which, to most people besides me, looks pretty durned definitive? Oh, yes. I like its title, a lot, a title chosen not by me but collectively developed at Workman Publishing, with the final twist by the president of the company, Bob Miller.

I love the book’s design, inviting and readable, and its colors — black and a vivid, sassy green —bright,  also inviting,  exactly what I would have chosen had I been asked.  The illustrations? Most are lovely and seductive, especially those which lead each chapter:  sensual, respectful of the food.  That some of the smaller “spot art” pieces are cartoony,  caricature-ish  and to me, overly precious —  well, “You have to take the bitter with the better,” as my mother used to tell me, always adding, “As my mother used to tell me.”

But there is no bitter whatsoever when it comes to Bean by Bean‘s cover. It’s not just “the better”, it’s the best. The cover, that all-important piece by which books, correctly or not,  are often said to be judged, is luscious. It shows off the inherent sculptural  diversity of the book’s real stars: the beans. And it pictures them in an old wooden box, divided and pegged. If you look closely, and you’re into this kind of thing, you’ll discover one magnificent and telling subtlety:  the box is an antique printer’s tray. used, not so very long ago, to store physical type.  This adds a visual subplot, a brilliant undercurrent: the cover says “writing + beans equal this particular book”. I was wowed from the first.

And I have heard person after person say, “Great cover!” And, almost as often, watched as person after person runs their fingers over the shiny stock, and identifies each pictured legume,  sometimes pausing to ask my assistance. Chickpeas, split peas, pintos, lentils,  — what are these, Crescent, these  large speckled red-and-white beans, up in the left hand corner? They’re Christmas limas, I say, a delicious bean, taste amazingly like chestnuts. And these? Pigeon peas, I say.

Goongoo Peas: off the chart; at least my chart. Regretfully.

One day, I was sitting at my 96-year-old-mother’s kitchen table with two people who were looking over the cover in this way:  Carlene and Sharon, two of my mother’s caregivers. Both are Jamaican. “Split pea, kidney bean …. and this one?” Sharon  asked, “Is it pigeon pea?”  “Pigeon pea,” I confirmed.  “Yes,” added Carlene emphatically, nodding.  “Back home we call it goongoo pea.”

Goongoo! What a word, round and soft as a bean cooked to melting tenderness itself, instantly lovable.  But also, less happily: something leguminous I didn’t know, showing up right there at my mother’s kitchen table.   “Goongoo, ” I repeated to Carlene and Sharon, rolling its wondrous soft heft around. “Yes, goongoo pea,” said Carlene authoritatively. She and Sharon both nodded.

I  knew exactly where ‘goongoo pea’  belonged in the book:  in that long, much-disputed chart in the back. In the appendix.

Pigeon Peas: The Goongoo That You Do So Well. (Shown, a mix of fresh and semi-dried, of shell beans), courtesy of CherryGal Heirloom Seeds

Called Basic Beanery, my editor and I disagreed about it.  I knew a chart could only just scratch the surface: there are hundreds of bean varieties and they just wouldn’t, couldn’t all fit in a chart; she knew readers would want and appreciate  a chart.  (I was right; it is partial, and some readers and reviewers  have already gotten huffy about the absence of more esoteric and heirloom bean varieties. And she was also  right; some readers and reviewers have already praised the chart’s inclusion. )

There’s a column in the chart titled “Name(s).”  Under ‘Pigeon pea,’ the following  aliases are listed, parenthesized: “Congo pea, gandule; when split, toor dahl.”  But not goongoo. Congo; goongoo. More  internal rolling around: was ‘goongoo’ a Jamaicanization of  ‘Congo’?

Maybe I could… wait, Crescent. Your book is done. Goongoo is not there.

You see? Provisionally definitive.

Another area I keep discovering things: quotes, which, had I come across them earlier, would have been in Bean by Bean.

I love, love, love finding and using quotes which reference particular foods or dishes; quotes not just from culinary books but from  novels, travel guides, magazine articles, poetry (Rumi wrote a poem called “Chickpea to Cook“; Pablo Neruda wrote about corn, salt, hunger, flour, bread, tablecloths and many other food-related subjects ). Occasionally even a cartoon caption nails it (one that didn’t get used in Bean by Bean but should have, from the New Yorker, shows a boss announcing to a startled-looking room of employees: “Sorry, boys, but we’re cutting back on bean counters till we have more beans.” )

I love material like this, some funny, some sad, all interesting. Some quotes give information, but all offer context and vibrancy, revealing how people incorporate a particular subject — in this case, the bean — into larger life and their understanding of it.

And once I start thinking about something, it is astonishing how often related quotes turn up, often without my even looking for them.

Now,  mind you, there already are lots of good quotes in Bean by Bean. And, it must be said that getting permission to use such quotes, when they are still under copyright, is a royal, time-consuming pain in the butt. It usually entails going not directly to the author but to the publisher.

When you are able to go directly to the author, it’s a different story. It’s easy, even fun. I was able to email the novelist Diane Abu-Jaber, who graciously allowed me to use her sensuous quote on the lentil-rice dish known as Mjeddrah, from her novel Crescent. “The smell of food always brought her father into the kitchen. It was a magic spell that could conjure him from the next room, the basement, the garage… he would appear, smiling and hungry. And if it was one of his important favorites — stuffed grape leaves, mjeddrah, or roast leg of lamb — he would appear in the kitchen even before the meal was done cooking… Sirine thought that this was why her mother cooked — to keep her husband close to her, attached to a delicate golden thread of scent.”

Ah … now that’s context.

And many years ago, back in 1982,  I wrote Maurice Sendak for permission to quote  the line “milk in the batter, milk in the batter, we bake cake and nothing’s the matter!” from his  In the Night Kitchen. (I was able to get his address since we then shared a publisher.) Since the line was cake-related, I sent a sour cream pound-cake along with my request. Somewhere I have his scrawled reply: “Crescent — feel free to quote anything of mine, anywhere, at any time, in return for one of those sour cream poundcakes.”

But when you go through a publisher, things get exponentially more difficult. It takes an absurd amount of time-consuming bureaucratic paperwork, which must most often be done by snail-mail — not email, not fax. This is especially irritating when you consider how blithely everyone quotes everyone else on the internet, without even a thought of permission: as long as you give credit and a link, it’s considered a compliment, and helpful, to all concerned.

Plus, you always wind up going after permissions under an impossible  deadline. Why? Because you can’t get them ahead of time (like when you first discover the quote). Why? The Permissions Departments of all major publishers want to know a few things. How many copies will the first printing be?  How much will the book sell for? Will the quote you are asking about be set aside in bold-face or merely included in a paragraph?  All  perfectly legitimate questions. There’s just one catch: the author doesn’t know the answers. And her own publisher is likely to get tetchy if she asks “too soon.” Too soon is, in my experience, anything more than a month before publication. And, some questions have to be asked of the Sales Department, some of the Art Department, and some of one’s editor, who usually says, “That’s a good question. I’ll get back to you on that.” And may. Or may not.

It’s aggravating. I would never do it if I didn’t deeply believe in how much the right quote gives.

But even so: once the book is completed, turned in, edited, quote permissions achieved, off to the press, printed and bound, and finally, finally in the hands of readers,what is one to do when new unlooked-for quotes that would be perfectly relevant,  still just keep on showing up?

Accept that definitive is provisional? Again?

While working on Bean by Bean, I only found one quote that fit the baked bean section, for instance.  It was from Mary Cantwell’s memoir. American Girl: Scenes from a Small-Town Childhood. ““The kitchen has two stoves, one gas and one coal, and Esther keeps saying, ‘May, don’t you think it’s time you got rid of that old thing?’ Ganny won’t listen. She puts her bread to rise on top of the coal stove and bakes her beans in its oven.”  That one’s in the book.

But after the book went to press, I came across another baked-bean-related quote, in Alex Witchel’s memoir Girls Only.The book’s at a friend’s house, not in front of me now, or, of course, I’d quote it directly here. But, it included the word “Mommy”,  and had a tone of longing; both funny and exquisitely sad. The point is, it would have been a perfect addition to my book. But I found it too late.

Then, I came across this, which the King’s Cake recipe really would have benefited from. It was in the strange, compelling novel  The Madonnas of Leningrad by Debra Dean. It’s 1941, and Leningrad is under siege. A young tour guide at the Hermitage Museum in Leningrad, though  close to starvation,  describes a painting:  “There is a party in progress…a feast to celebrate the Day of the Three Kings. The traditional pie has been baked, and the older man in the middle must have gotten the piece with the bean inside, because he is wearing the crown of the Bean King. He is surrounded by happy, jostling couples, children… “The king drinks!” Glasses are raised… (there’s) the Bean King’s son-in-law… They are boisterous, rollicking. The only stillness… a hound whose eyes are focused with canine intensity on the ham in the Bean King’s lap.”

I do not have such a pie in Bean by Bean, but my King’s Cake with its hidden bean, would have been so much more marvelous with this quote. Why? Because, unclunkily, that quote tells the reader, food and art and celebration are connected; how can it be otherwise? A quote like that changes writing about food to writing  the world through food:  the deep feast.

And, then, going back to baked beans, I found this, in the novel Tracks, by Louise Erdrich: “Every day I took him to the shop and we set to work — sprinkled fresh sawdust, ran a hambone across the street to a customer’s beanpot…” There’s a whole discussion in Bean by Bean about how, to some people,  beans without a hambone or salt pork is unthinkable, while to other people (vegetarians) its inclusion is equally unthinkable. Would not that quote, simple though it is, have been perfect right there?

This was not my first Louise Erdrich / Bean by Bean quote heartbreak, however. I’d already noted and set aside for use one from a short story of hers, Plague of Doves, which appeared in the New Yorker in 2004 (this gives you some idea of how long I work on these things), and which I longed to include in Bean by Bean. It was this: ““ For one whole summer, my great-grandparents lived off a bag of contraband pinto beans.”  What a delicious invitation of a quote that is; it just makes you want to know more, and it also emphasizes, indirectly, beans’ amazing ability to swell and feed many on little.

But, the New Yorker couldn’t give me permission because by 2008, Plague of Doves was a novel. This necessitated going to the book’s publisher, which advised that it required eight weeks to answer permissions requests, which meant that I couldn’t get permission in time for  Bean by Bean‘s publication.

Given how long I work on a book you wouldn’t think that limited time could cause omissions other than in seeking quotes from publishers. But it does.

Like the possible tweak to Julie’s Peanut Butter Cup Brownies. This recipe is in the book, and it should be; these brownies are a great, much-loved recipe. But they do contain both peanut butter chips,  a non-natural foods product containing hydrogenated fats, and cut-up Reece’s Peanut Butter Cups.  I knew, I just knew,  that with enough time to fool around in the kitchen, I could come up with a just-as-good, and considerably healthier, alternative to both, which I would’ve liked to offer as a variation.  But I just ran out of time to do this.

In that context,  imagine with me, if you will, when after I did a 45-minute long interview on On Point with Tom Ashbrook,  a listener, Eric Spears, commented by email, under that brownie recipe, “Surely, there must be a way of making these things without stooping to the candy (Reeces).” To which another listener,  who gave his or her name as “Secretly Likes Reece’s”, added, “You know, I think the pb chips are worse… ” Yowch!  But then “Secretly Likes Reece’s” offered a natural foods alternative: Sunspire Peanut Butter Chips, and noted, “I’ve checked the ingredients on Reeces and at least the regular sized ones don’t have either high fructose corn syrup or hydrogenized oil.” So, there you go. Live and learn; just not always in time, however, to get that new learning into your book.

Laughing in the studio with Tom Ashbrook at On Point (you can just make out that there is quite an array of food spread between us).

(Relevant Digression: Sometimes I imagine a kind of hybrid book that new technology could make possible. It wouldn’t be a Kindle-type downloadable book, mimicking the print edition but delivered to the reader in a new form. No, it would be its own thing: it would have links, and there would be a way for writers to incorporate new information and discoveries, perhaps in a contrasting color. I have long regretted that with the advent of writing-on-computer, we are losing the incredibly valuable archives of writers’ drafts; we see only their finished versions, not the process by which a writer got there. By  later addition, clearly visible — hence the second color — we could re-incorporate some feel of the process that those old scratched-over first and second drafts used to give young students of writing. That may seem a long way from Sunspire Peanut Butter Chips; but, speaking as a writer,  it isn’t. End of Digression.)

Another time thing: Bean by Bean does not have a recipe for Gado-Gado, the fantabulous Indonesian main dish salad, which not only has a peanut dressing (peanuts are legumes), but cooked, chilled green beans, tofu, and bean sprouts, making it a quadruple play in bean-world. I really wanted a Gado-Gado recipe in there, but there was one small problem: I had never been to Indonesia. So, what it would have taken, timewise,  because of the admittedly perhaps-over-perfectionistic style in which I do these things, was something like this:

• using my culinary connections to find a native Indonesian who spoke English and was a chef or at least a good home cook
• contacting, then interviewing, him or her about Gado-Gado and its history, background, regional variations
• Googling various Gado-Gado recipes and possibly watching You Tube videos on Gado-Gado making, comparing the recipes with each other and with the information and recipe or recipes I’d gotten from the Indonesian source
• combining what I liked best of all the recipes and narratives with my own sensibilities to develop one or two theoretical working recipes, which would be both traditional but with some twist that made it mine
• testing these recipes, analyzing what I liked and didn’t like, and getting the opinions of a few other trusted tasters
• Then, after doing all this, writing the final recipe in ultra-clear, detailed fashion, putting in all the little fine points only actual kitchen experience would have taught me, and which most internet or chef recipes omit, for what would’ve been Bean by Bean’s unique Gado-Gado.

When I turned in the manuscript, I had many recipes marked TK, which is copy-edit speak for “to come.” Some I had done once but wanted to revisit. And some, like Gado-Gado,  I had not yet had time to do. Same thing with the classic Italian beans baked in a glass flask, in an open fire. I do so little open-fire cooking that I felt this was going to be a big deal to do and get right; maybe it would work the first time (after the same level of research as just described), but maybe not.

And given an unconscionable amount of  wait-wait-wait-wait-okay-now-turn-around-and-get-this-back-to-us-in-24-hours stuff from my publisher (one expects some, but on this book, it was way over the top), plus an eleventh hour out-of-the-blue Oh!-We-just-realized-this-is-too-long-cut-it-by-a-fifth-by-Friday, I realized there was not only not going to be enough time, there was not going to be enough space in the book. I said goodbye to Gado-Gado, and to Beans Baked in a Flask, and a few other things.

But, in the end, I said hello to a good book. Nobody, it turns out, sees the missing Gado-Gado and beans-baked-in-a-flask but me, because it wasn’t missing to them, any more than the quotes that arrived too late. They see. and taste,  the 7-Layer Middle Eastern Mountain, which is a great recipe, and easy, with authentic roots but hybridized in a brand-new way by the author (she said modestly). Or the-so-fresh-it-practically-leaps-off-the-plate  Sugar Snap Pea Salad with Orange-Mint Vinaigrette. Or the CD’s Chile Mole, which, oh Lord,  really is so good, sweet and hot and rich and seductive, impossible to stop eating. “… the recipes,” wrote an amazon reviewer, Richard Stringfellow. “I’ve tried 3 thus far. The edamame, bok choy, and broccoli skillet was first up and it’s a lovely winner. Lemon juice and zest offset the sharp flavors of the broccoli and meld very well with the edamame. The Connecticut Kidney Bean casserole with mushrooms, red wine, and tempeh bacon was a hearty main course that took the chill out of the air and filled it with delicious conversation. Finally, the lentil, mushroom, and barley soup is divine with white wine adding a subtle backbone to the dish.”

Preparing dishes from the book "a la carte" to be wheeled into On Point. In the foreground to the left, Julie's Peanut Butter Cup Brownies; beside it, a mini Rose of Persia Cake (made with chickpea flour); peeking out from behind the chips is the 7-Layer Middle Eastern Mountain Dip, and I'm holding the Sugar-Snap Pea & Orange Salad with Orange-Mint Vinaigrette.

And they see, too, the Deep Feast aspect of it…the non-recipe, storytelling, integrate-everything-into-everything approach that is the heart and soul of truly good writing, about food, or the bean, or anything else. I was thrilled by this review in the Denver Post by garden writer Susan Clotfelter; she praises the recipes, the “encyclopedic reach”, the quotes, and “an irrepressible spirit of celebration.” Another amazon reader, Rachel Lamb, was kind enough to describe my writing voice as  “… honest, passionate, life-embracing…” I am almost embarrassed to keep quoting her extravagant  and generous praise, which I only hope I can live up to: “Crescent is the ultimate Girlfriend of all of us who love cooking. SO much more Oprah than Martha… the real deal, she hasn’t been invented by a cable TV mogul (there’s) approachability and empathy, what you see and what you get is trustworthy, real, experienced, improved, shared… In Bean by Bean you learn that you can eat the greatest comforting food on earth AS you save the earth…”

Not a word about the missing gado-gado.

The great New York Times book reviewer, Christopher Lehmann-Haupt once wrote, of a marvelous book about salmon fishing in Scotland, The Spawning Run, “I highly recommend this book to anyone with the slightest interest in anything.”

I can promise you that although I am a vegetarian and have not the slightest interest in fishing per se,  Lehman-Haupt was absolutely right.  William Humphreys, The Spawning Run‘s author, wrote the world (love, sex, culture, fish, geography, human beings in their infinite and quirky variety) through salmon fishing, and I remain enriched for having been right there with him by reading his book.  That is what I aspire to do — to write about small things that reference the largest possible life-questions. Though I may never succeed. Though I get driven crazy by things like getting permissions or unreasonable deadlines along the way.

But this aspiration can be met only by forgetting all about it, laying aside the irritants of publication to the best of one’s ability, and, instead, writing, thinking, and falling in love with both the act of writing (again, as always) and the subject.

As I did with beans. And still am. And will be, I think, for the duration. Provisionally definitive is good enough for me.

It had better be, because if we tell the truth, provisional is really all there is. About anything.

A pot of Jackson Wonder beans, a variety not mentioned in Bean by Bean, is presently simmering on my stove with ancho chile, and coriander seed,  diced butternut squash, and sauteed onion. It attests to this.

As goongoo is my witness.

We interrupt these slow-moving meditations n the largest, deepest nature of food and eating (Part 1 and Part 2 of Will the Circle Be… with Part 3 still to come) o to bring you… garlic.

In Vermont, right around when we gardeners harvest squashes, dig potatoes, beets and turnips, and watch the forecast to get all the tomatoes in before frost — we’re also planting. Garlic.

This is  simple to do: Break apart heads of garlic, put each clove root end down in the chilly soil, with a few inches between cloves. Cover back up with soil. One could do this in September; I rarely get to it until November. Sometimes the soil’s already bladed with small sharp shards of ice. This year, though we had one early snow before Halloween, I could be doing it now, in December.

Each of these garlic cloves becomes, eventually, a head. But not for awhile. Awhile that seems as far away as summer does right now, though I know, cognitively, that it was just 6 months ago that I last harvested garlic, some of it on a hot July day when I’d just come up from swimming in the pond.

All summer long, I swim in our cold, secluded pond. The garden lies between the pond and the house. Coming up from the pond, I wandered through the garden that particular day and did some impromptu harvesting.

It’s almost as hard to imagine, now, swimming in that ice-glazed pond which will soon be solid white, as it is to believe the garlic’s there, vital, hidden below inches, soon to be feet, of snow. In Vermont, there are many years when we may not see bare ground from December until April.

Look past America’s Thanksgiving iteration, Pilgrims-Indians-turkey, and you’ll find a praise-song lifted throughout the world: the harvest festival. Look past Christmas, the celebration of the baby Jesus’s birthday, to the pre-Christian time of Solstice. No one knows for sure at what time of year Christ was actually born; it was perhaps the original good marketing, on the part oof the early Christians, to slide it in at the time of the year when the earth turned back toward the sun, and dark was once again eaten by light; a time that was already celebrated in many cultures.

Such festivals always reference not only harvest and religious occasions but time itself. Barren winter becomes fecund spring, riotous summer, fall’s abundant multiplicity. Then, again, winter’s little death. The shortest day and longest night of the year, Winter Solstice, marks the return to the longest day and shortest night of the year, Summer Solstice.

Since I’m a cook and gardener, Thanksgiving comes naturally to me, much more so than Christmas or Chanukah. I easily enumerate the once-a-year Thanksgiving dishes I make: sweet potatoes, which I do with brown sugar and Grand Marnier. Mashed potatoes, which I do with celeriac, mascarpone, an unconscionable amount of butter. A triple-layer torte renowned in my circle: bottom layer, homemade green tomato mincemeat; middle layer, pumpkin custard; top layer; a shatteringly crisp glaze of bruleed pecans.

Too, Thanksgiving falls right around my birthday. About once every 18 years it falls on my birthday. 2010, the year I turned 58, was one of those years. The last time my birthday coincided with Thanksgiving, I turned 40. The next time  will be in 2021. Assuming I am still on this mortal coil, spinning on our green globe — assuming the globe is still here, spinning — I will be  69.

I lived in Arkansas back at the time of my 40th birthday. I was not “just” a writer-cook-workshop leader but also an innkeeper-restaurateur. My co-innkeeper, to whom I was married, was also a hyphenated soul: an artist-writer-historic preservationist. We’d been together since I was 24, he 22. I spent my 40th birthday in our inn’s kitchen; he worked the front. Two seatings, 40 guests apiece, then staff Thanksgiving. Gorgeous food. My feet hurt by day’s end.

Was I happy? I think so, but I may have been too busy to notice. I was grateful, though: our inn and dining room were full of delighted guests; my friends George and Starr were playing hammered dulcimer and fiddle; I loved my husband and he me. Hearing the sounds, seeing the people, inhaling the roasting, simmering redolent layers of the familiar foods, the sage in the apricot-studded dressing, the roasting turkey: the incantatory repetitive power of that, again, in that place, was such that I barely noticed turning 40.

In 2000, five days after my birthday that year, my husband went out for his three-times-a-week bicycle ride. His bicycle and a small pick-up collided. He bicycled far, far away, up and into eternity.

When you get over a loss like this fully is never.

And yet.

I’m no longer in Arkansas, no longer an innkeeper. For the past eight years, I’ve lived in partnership with another hyphenated fellow, David Koff, a filmmaker-social justice activist-writer. I live in Vermont now, as I said. I am here three weeks each month. On that fourth week, I get in the Subaru and drive four hours south and east to Hastings-on-Hudson, New York, to spend time with my mother, who is 96.

Charlotte, half awake and half asleep in her green chair, bundled up and floating in time. When I sneak up and kiss her, she laughs and smiles and says something like, "Nice," or "Again," or "Oh!", or (teasingly) "What's that?" When I check on her in the night, same thing. Always a moment when I know we are in the right place at the right time, together, and I am grateful, so grateful. And astonished. And filled with joy.

“Will the circle be unbroken?” asks the old hymn, the one I have referenced before on this blog. Grammatically a question, it’s is usually sung as a statement.

I wonder a lot about whether life is or isn’t unbroken, unbreakable, particularly around this time of year. Mostly, I think it is both.

Those who sit at our Thanksgiving or holiday table this year may or may not be here next year. I am grateful for them now.

Thanksgiving, 2011, left to right: Corinne, Hawa, Charlotte, me.

I am grateful that I loved Ned in the past, too, and even in the present, though he is no longer around to receive that love. Time necessarily dims memory, a photocopy of a photocopy of a photocopy. But I once loved him undimmed and was grateful then, in the past that was once a now.

And I know that though I lost Ned, I did not lose love itself. (Can love itself, not love of someone, be lost? How? Where would it go? I know that this is inexplicable, but I know, too, with the deepest gratitude and amazement, that it is true. )

Conundrum: I could not know and love David (and be known and loved by him) had Ned not died. I am grateful that somehow, I’ve been able to accept this unacceptable fact. Which makes possible an undimmed now. Not a now without troubles, challenges, difficulties (and plenty of them, to be honest) but still undimmed.

David. Me. Vermont. 2009.

Conundrum: a relationship — that of me and my mother, the children’s book writer-editor Charlotte Zolotow —that has always been loving but, equally, difficult, at cross purposes, irritating, and largely unsatisfying  has come to peace in her extreme old age.

You don’t have to go live in a cave in India to “be here now.” Just live long enough. My mother has now mostly lost the past, so she can no longer pick over the scabs of all the real and imagined wrongs done to her by me and everyone else in her life. She has lost the future, so she no longer worries about what will happen, if there will be enough money, will everything be alright, will everyone get along. She resides in the present. She is one person now — not one for family, another for friends, another for professional associates. And that person feels what she feels and shows it, transparently. Most of the time, she is happy. She laughs and makes jokes easily. She teases and allows herself to be hugged and kissed and hugs and kisses back and is just… herself, without the wariness or vigilance that used to dog her (and drive me crazy).

I am amazed that we have lived long enough for this to happen: for us to simply love each other and hang out without any emotional impediment.

I am so grateful for that.

I am grateful, too, for friends, whom, I have heard it said, are life’s reward for family. Longtime friends like Starr and George, newer ones here in Vermont, like Gaelen and Rich, with whom David and I often share Thanksgiving (and for that matter Halloween and sometimes Christmas), at a table full of beautiful food.

Those tables full of food, often much of it I have made and fussed over, some of which I have probably grown (this year I did a turnip gratin, with my own garden’s Vermont gilfeather turnips, that was beyond over the top; everyone, and I mean everyone, went back for seconds and thirds). I am grateful for my gillies. I am grateful for all that sustenance and nourishment, for the sensual pleasure it gives the celebrants, that it can serve, for them, as the medium of benign connection… with each other, with me, with the earth and life itself.

Grateful, but always, simultaneously, with an inward kink: Who can forget that so many on this same earth have no food at all? Who can forget how many threats hang over this same earth, and not wonder how long life can be sustained?

We live with unanswerable questions like these because there is no other way to live. This being so, can we live in gratitude, anyway, no matter what?

I am grateful to my friend Shelley Olson, a composer-artist with whom II have been friends since we were in ninth and tenth grade respectively.

Shelley and I, a couple of years back, on the grounds at Tanglewood, which is just a few miles down the road from the now-defunct Stockbridge School, where the two of us met in 1966.

I am grateful for last Christmas. Which found me with my mother, and my mother without any of her regular and trained caregivers, when I had to take over with only the slightest idea of what I was doing physically. I am grateful that I could and did call Shelley. She and her husband Dilip, at fairly last-minute notice, hopped on the Metro North train from their home in the Bronx, and spent three days with the two of us. Together, we took care of Charlotte, and we did it well, though Shelley had even less knowledge than I did about how to do this (we watched You-Tube videos on how to safely do transfers, from bed to wheelchair, wheelchair to toilet, and so on).

Together, against all odds,  the four of us had a ball. It was one of the more improbable holidays I have experienced. But when my mother, who pretty much has to be feed, spoonful by spoonful, and who drinks only when cups or glasses are held to her lips, sat at the table, she engaged. All four of us had a real conversation. She teased and laughed and conversed — from an altered reality, true, but one anyone with a poetic bent could grasp.

And when it was time for a toast, her crumpled, arthritic hand, her arm, its flesh spotted and its thin tendons visible, rose slowly from her lap, a ghost of celebrations past. Somehow she reached for her wine glass. On her own. Unprompted by us, in any way. Somehow she gripped the stem of the glass. Somehow, tremblingly, she brought it to her own lips, and sipped.

I am grateful for that sight, which will stay with me, I believe, forever.

I am grateful that my mother now has caregivers I adore and trust. I am grateful for the memory of Shelley and Dilip’s extraordinary loyalty, work, and sense of adventure last year, and that, when they come out again this year, we will be able to eat together, giving and caring, certainly, but not caregiving (which, for my mother, who is non-weight-bearing and has a daunting number of medications, eye drops, and inhalers, is complex, and really does require people who not only love her but know what they’re doing).

So. Here I am, by luck, grace, karma, or chance. Here is my mother. Here are her caregivers. Here are my friends. At the feast.

We break. Yet the circle itself will forever be unbroken. That is a mystery which we can resist or accept, but with which we must live. Inherent in love is loss. Inherent in summer is winter. Inherent in endings are beginnings. Life’s terms are impossibly poignant.

And yet.

Tall, pale green spikes will poke up in next spring’s messy, sodden garden. The first thing! There will probably still be snow on parts of the garden, and the mulch out of which those green stalks arise will be soggy and much worse for the wear of the winter it’s come through, blanketing the soil, and what lays hidden beneath it.

But will be, this spring, hidden no more.

I am grateful for garlic.

Think about food and you think, sooner or later, about circles. About cycles, and roundness.

Whether we ever consciously know and acknowledge it or not, by being born on this round globe we sign a contract. We initial it with every drop of our blood, and renew it with every breath: I will participate in the circle; I will eat while I am here, and eventually be eaten. For as long as we live, if we are among the fortunate ones who have enough to eat, we will round our bellies as we grow hungry and then sate that hunger, again and again and again (often, in the developed countries, with bellies that are, or seem to us to be, too round).

We do this, all of us, until we leave physical life. The poet Wislawa Szymborksa, in the poem Nothing’s a Gift, expresses this:

“… I’ll have to pay for myself
with my self,
give up my life for my life…

I move about the planet
in a crush of other debtors.
Some are saddled with the burden
of paying off their wings.
Others must, willy-nilly,
account for every leaf.

Every tissue in us lies
on the debit side.”

But the solemn, sobering circle drawn by the tissue of physical being is just one circle.

We human beings also form a circle with each other, around the table. Around the food on the table. Around the flat circular moons of plates, the rounded bowls. Each meal is a twist of the kaleidoscope, the design of our human circle changing continually yet composed of the same basic pieces. This is, in the old phrase, breaking bread together. This shared nourishment is both physical and social.

That table we’re around: It might be covered with starched white linen (which arrived at the back of the restaurant earlier that day, from Peerless Commercial Laundry Service, a neat, paper-wrapped, string-tied package, a transaction to which, as restaurant-goers, we probably give less than no thought). The “we” who are seated around that table might be friends, or business associates; we might be gathering to make plans, make a deal, propose marriage, celebrate the birth of a child or grandchild, remember an absent friend.

Here, another person, perhaps several others, come and go, attending our needs. They are waiters; they “wait” on our pleasure. At a time when few people have servants, they “serve” us. They are both part and not part of our circle, usually considered only nominally more than the linen. “How much dill is in the cucumber sauce that comes with the poached salmon? “ we might ask them earnestly. “And is that salmon wild-caught or farmed?” Also outside the circle of the table and our consideration, but truly with us: the chef, in the kitchen, who is poaching that salmon, the farmer who grew the cucumber or dill, the person who caught that salmon, and countless others.

There are many other tables, of course.

There is dinner at home, in the “eat-in kitchen”, at least for those families fortunate enough (in our fast food discombobulated over-scheduled world), to eat together sometimes. This table’s bare wood, possibly covered with oilcloth; we ourselves will sponge it clean later. Or, perhaps we use place-mats, the ones we bought in Cape Cod that summer. Paper napkins, likely. There may be juice glasses if it is morning, wine glasses if it is evening, Sippycups if there are young children. The mashed potatoes (or rice or pasta), the sliced beef (or tofu-vegetable stir-fry), the salad and condiments, each in their own round bowl or platter, the round basket of bread — whatever’s being served is probably passed hand to hand. We freely help ourselves to seconds, an option we would not dream of at a restaurant table.

We may be eating in our pajamas at this second table. And there, too, more than eating takes place at other times: homework or bill-paying may be done, tearful conversations late at night with voices kept down so the children won’t hear. As we eat, the black-and-white tuxedo cat may wander into the kitchen and try to jump on the counter. “NO!” Down she jumps, and skulks away. The golden retriever may sit, patiently, longingly, by the person most likely to palm a sliver of roast to him. “How was your day?” “What did you learn in school?” “Could you pass the corn?” The kaleidoscope has turned. Bread is broken again. Another circle is formed.

The original circle of our forebears was not, of course, around a table, but a fire. Over it roasted a joint of yesterday’s hunt, if that hunt were successful. Food, shelter, story, as I always remind students when I teach a Deep Feast Workshop: human beings went out and killed the mastodon, gathered the roots, nuts and berries (food); dragged it back to the cave (shelter); and then painted what had happened on the ceiling of the cave (story).

Human beings are meaning-making animals. It is that need for meaning, for story, that separates us from the rest of the animals.

We need narrative, for human beings are filled with uneasy questions: who are we? why are we here? how do we fit in? why did what happened, happen? What becomes of us or those we love when we die? The attempt to answer these questions makes narrative. And narrative, I believe, created  and continues to create) not just philosophy, but  art, literature. And religion. And the holidays and meals that celebrate all these, as year after year cycles again and again, around and around.

Each holiday meal is also a circle, with elements both unique (to the holiday, the family, the religion) and universal.

The circle at the Thanksgiving table: traditional harvest foods which express gratitude and thanks, in the contradictory face of family love and tension. The need for connection and autonomy. For history, and for forgetting history; looking forward and backward yet being in the somewhat messy right here, right now.

The circle at the Passover table: ritual, reenacted bite by bite and page by page with food and story, commemorating liberation and survival; again in the contradictory face of family love and tension, connection and autonomy, past, present, future.

Christmas, He is born; Easter, He is risen — death and resurrection. And ham, crisscrossed with knife cuts, crucified with cloves. Sun-yellow round rings of cored canned pineapple slices. Unnatural cherries, red as blood. (And then there is the cake, remember? That Mrs. Nichols used to send over every Easter? Baked in a special mold, it was shaped like a lamb, with white icing and coconut to look like wool, and a bell tied around its neck with a pale blue ribbon? We still call that “the Nichols house” even though five or six families have lived there, have bought and sold that house, since the days the days when the Nicholses lived there…) Again: the contradictory faces, love and tension, connection, autonomy. History, and its opposite, forgetting.

The kaleidoscope turns and turns, “sailing in and out of days and over a year,” in the words of Maurice Sendak, “to the land where the wild things are.” Family love and tension; are we the wild things? Or is it life itself which is untamable?

The know-it-all uncle, such a pain in the ass, who picks all the cashews out of the dish of mixed nuts; the brother who borders on sociopathy, sowing dissent by barbed word and glower every Easter; the cousin who drinks too much and, with each emptied glass, tells us more and more about an ominous “they” who are trying to take away our rights. The one who will only eat cranberry jelly; the one who will only eat cranberry sauce. The one who will only eat pecan pie; the one who says, “Thanksgiving wouldn’t be Thanksgiving without mincemeat pie,” even though she’s the only one who likes it.

I think, as you can tell, that ceremonial family feasts are usually ambivalent at best, the tensions of every day amped up by the increased expectation of Joyous Noel (or whatever). I think almost anyone who is honest would admit that holidays are rarely as perfect as the food photographs in Bon Appetit or the table-settings in Oprah Magazine.

Yet could today’s pain-in-the-ass become, in absence, a pain in the heart? Maybe. Maybe not.

Given that such difficulties, familial and otherwise, are almost always part of the circle, we usually do not ask the large questions: who, of those present here this year, will be here next year, and who will not? Perhaps this is because they’re not ours to answer; according to Jewish tradition, it’s already recorded in The Book of Life, presumably authored by God. “On Rosh Hashana it is written and on Yom Kippur it is sealed. How many shall leave this world and how many shall be born into it, who shall live and who shall die.”

But I think it is worth asking questions we cannot answer.

And again and again and again, food gently suggests that we do, if only within ourselves. For food is always (even for vegetarians) about life, death, and how we participate in both. I called this participation, earlier, a contract. And it is. But it is also a sacrament, a deep feast, each bite of which confirms our connection to each other and the earth, our partaking, hungrily, of the mysteries which we cannot understand.

And dinner, which we can.

In Part 2, we’ll look at how the circle of particular foods and foodways lets some in and keeps some out, and why.