I am writing about food because it seems so much easier than to write about all of the other stuff that is still so close to the surface. That other junk is so close and swirling, I can't even begin to put words to it; too many emotions right now to decipher up from down, in from out.
While my family isn't Jewish or Italian, we do grieve with food—in fact, we do everything with food. My father just passed last Monday, unexpectedly during an abalone dive. He was only 56, though he had lived enough for three lifetimes, and the entire family—not to mention all of his friends—were stunned to hear the news. He had cheated Death on so many occasions, we all just thought he would go on living forever to be a grizzled old man. Last Monday, Mr. Grimm came to collect.
We have a large family, and can hardly ever align our schedules to converge at one location. We all made it for this, though. It was so wonderful to be together, I just wish it hadn't taken such a horrific event to do it. Grandma and Grandpa are Mormons, and my dad is survived by four siblings and their progeny, not to mention his two parents. Grandma had been so sick recently, she had been hospitalized twice in the past few months, so when I got the call I was prepared to say goodbye to a woman who had lived a long and full life—not to hear she would have to bury her wild and wooly son.
The local boys who dived with my dad were the heros who came to his rescue. After three days of Search and Rescue being too timid to go where my dad dove, a crew of four yahoos—just as ballsy as dad—found him with his hand stuck in the cookie jar, so to speak. He was about 20 feet bellow the surface, with his hand caught in a small cave, going for what I want to believe was a big ten incher.
I am part of a woman's circle with my auntie (dad's sister), who meet once a month to perform ceremony and show support to each other through the ups and downs of life. The Monday night he went down, Aunt Kathi suggested I ask for a dream about the whole event (we didn't yet know for sure what had happened to him). I dreamed I had a favorite cat who loved to get in the fish tank. Every chance he got he would get in just to hang out, so when I looked over and saw him in there again, I didn't give it a second thought. As I looked in, I saw he was pinned beneath a rock just bellow the surface, and I saw his body go lifeless. I panicked and pulled him out. After which, he sprang right back to life, and gave me a look—as cats often will—saying, "What's the big deal? I like it in there—Jeez!"
Little did I know how accurate that dream was. We finally got the call on Thursday afternoon that would give us closure, and my boyfriend and I hit the road for Timber Cove. We spent the next few days crying, laughing, and eating. Grandma had bought an entire store full of food, not to mention the typical Mormon stash of three months worth of goodies kept beneath the house. Then there was all the food brought over by the members of the Baptist church my dad and his wife belong to. Oh, and the yellow fin tuna, salmon, and abalone dad had just caught and bartered for that he was planning to have for dinner on his days off.
Saturday night finally came, and two of my cousins had made it in with more adult reinforcements. Adam was the lucky man who bore witness to the wake of women crying and laughing and progressively getting drunker by the hour that night. As the bottles were opened and consumed, I cooked while being serenaded by Grandma's toothless rendition of What Does The Fox Say.
We started with the No. 8 red from Trader Joe's while The Man and I raced each other to peel the most apples, quarter, and core them for some homemade apple sauce. Then a limited release of Schramsberg Brut Rose was popped and I stared in on the breakfast strata. This is a dish that was introduced to me by one of my best friends when I was the breakfast chef at the Inn at Parkside in Sacramento. It's essentially a savory, stuffed french toast. This was made by slicing two day old torta rolls in half and then fit to the casserole dish. Next, the top half of the bread was slathered with basil pesto and placed aside while the other ingredients were layered. Oil soaked sundried tomatoes were laid down first, followed by fresh sliced crimini mushrooms, then artichoke hearts with chiffonade of kale, and all topped with gooey Laura Chenel Melodie. Top all of that goodness with the pesto laden buns, and throw on a heap of fresh parmesan. Finish this dish of deliciousness by mixing a custard of eggs and whole milk (or cream if you really want to be a Hedonist), and soak the whole mess overnight. Bake in the morning for about an hour at 350 degrees, covered with tinfoil for the first 30 minutes. Finally, eat to your heart's—or gut's—content.
It was the only way I knew to feed my grief. I allowed myself to pour my love, despair, guilt, and unspeakable angst into that dish, in order that it might nurse our inevitable hangovers and nourish our reluctant souls.
While my family isn't Jewish or Italian, we do grieve with food—in fact, we do everything with food. My father just passed last Monday, unexpectedly during an abalone dive. He was only 56, though he had lived enough for three lifetimes, and the entire family—not to mention all of his friends—were stunned to hear the news. He had cheated Death on so many occasions, we all just thought he would go on living forever to be a grizzled old man. Last Monday, Mr. Grimm came to collect.
We have a large family, and can hardly ever align our schedules to converge at one location. We all made it for this, though. It was so wonderful to be together, I just wish it hadn't taken such a horrific event to do it. Grandma and Grandpa are Mormons, and my dad is survived by four siblings and their progeny, not to mention his two parents. Grandma had been so sick recently, she had been hospitalized twice in the past few months, so when I got the call I was prepared to say goodbye to a woman who had lived a long and full life—not to hear she would have to bury her wild and wooly son.
The local boys who dived with my dad were the heros who came to his rescue. After three days of Search and Rescue being too timid to go where my dad dove, a crew of four yahoos—just as ballsy as dad—found him with his hand stuck in the cookie jar, so to speak. He was about 20 feet bellow the surface, with his hand caught in a small cave, going for what I want to believe was a big ten incher.
I am part of a woman's circle with my auntie (dad's sister), who meet once a month to perform ceremony and show support to each other through the ups and downs of life. The Monday night he went down, Aunt Kathi suggested I ask for a dream about the whole event (we didn't yet know for sure what had happened to him). I dreamed I had a favorite cat who loved to get in the fish tank. Every chance he got he would get in just to hang out, so when I looked over and saw him in there again, I didn't give it a second thought. As I looked in, I saw he was pinned beneath a rock just bellow the surface, and I saw his body go lifeless. I panicked and pulled him out. After which, he sprang right back to life, and gave me a look—as cats often will—saying, "What's the big deal? I like it in there—Jeez!"
Little did I know how accurate that dream was. We finally got the call on Thursday afternoon that would give us closure, and my boyfriend and I hit the road for Timber Cove. We spent the next few days crying, laughing, and eating. Grandma had bought an entire store full of food, not to mention the typical Mormon stash of three months worth of goodies kept beneath the house. Then there was all the food brought over by the members of the Baptist church my dad and his wife belong to. Oh, and the yellow fin tuna, salmon, and abalone dad had just caught and bartered for that he was planning to have for dinner on his days off.
Saturday night finally came, and two of my cousins had made it in with more adult reinforcements. Adam was the lucky man who bore witness to the wake of women crying and laughing and progressively getting drunker by the hour that night. As the bottles were opened and consumed, I cooked while being serenaded by Grandma's toothless rendition of What Does The Fox Say.
We started with the No. 8 red from Trader Joe's while The Man and I raced each other to peel the most apples, quarter, and core them for some homemade apple sauce. Then a limited release of Schramsberg Brut Rose was popped and I stared in on the breakfast strata. This is a dish that was introduced to me by one of my best friends when I was the breakfast chef at the Inn at Parkside in Sacramento. It's essentially a savory, stuffed french toast. This was made by slicing two day old torta rolls in half and then fit to the casserole dish. Next, the top half of the bread was slathered with basil pesto and placed aside while the other ingredients were layered. Oil soaked sundried tomatoes were laid down first, followed by fresh sliced crimini mushrooms, then artichoke hearts with chiffonade of kale, and all topped with gooey Laura Chenel Melodie. Top all of that goodness with the pesto laden buns, and throw on a heap of fresh parmesan. Finish this dish of deliciousness by mixing a custard of eggs and whole milk (or cream if you really want to be a Hedonist), and soak the whole mess overnight. Bake in the morning for about an hour at 350 degrees, covered with tinfoil for the first 30 minutes. Finally, eat to your heart's—or gut's—content.
It was the only way I knew to feed my grief. I allowed myself to pour my love, despair, guilt, and unspeakable angst into that dish, in order that it might nurse our inevitable hangovers and nourish our reluctant souls.
