Posts Tagged ‘cooking’
Cindy on September 26th, 2010
To feel safe and warm on a cold wet night, all you really need is soup.” — Laurie Colwin
As my closest friends will tell you, I’m your go-to gal if you need a good soup recipe. Come fall, there’s usually something simmering in my slow cooker or on the stove — thick-as-a-brick pea soup, creamy potato porridge, or maybe a savory minestrone.
It’s methodical but soothing, the whole process of making soup.
I begin with fresh produce from the market, then I gather the right combo of herbs and spices from the garden or the pantry. From the moment I start chopping onions and garlic, every muscle and nerve in my body begins to loosen or unwind. Sauteing the vegetables on the stove, I think about the people who’ll receive the first helping when my soup is finished and the flavor has mellowed.
Soup can be a meal by itself — especially if it’s a hearty recipe with everything but the kitchen sink thrown in. I’ll often order soup as my main course in restaurants, and have been known to serve it as an entree at casual company meals. Even the pickiest kid who doesn’t eat veggies will make an exception for vegetable soup laced with alphabet pasta.
The way I see it, soup is a remedy for nearly everything. It’s guaranteed to speed the recovery of a neighbor who’s nursing a broken heart or the common cold. It fortifies the dear friend who’s just returned from her second hip-replacement surgery. Homemade soup has a language all its own, and it’s one of the kindest ways to express sympathy to grieving families who’ve lost loved ones. And sometimes, when words fail, it also works to convey love and appreciation.
Cooking for my mother, for instance, has become a form of communication — especially now that her dementia is complicated by a serious hearing loss. Even with her hearing aids in place, she struggles to hold a conversation. Living by herself in a condo, she doesn’t nurture herself the way she nurtured her own family many years ago. So I try to bring her a pot of homemade soup at least once a week. Nourishing the woman who used to nourish me helps to fill a hollow ache inside me, too. I can’t change Mom’s diagnosis, or slow the sad progression of her disease, but I can make soup.
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The way I see it, soup is a remedy for nearly everything.
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Of course, the soup I make for myself never tastes as delicious as the soup from someone else’s kitchen.
So when I’m feeling cranky or blue or sorry for myself, it’s time to head over to Niki’s, my favorite local diner here in Royal Oak. At Niki’s, the soup is always homemade — the perfect prelude to my favorite Greek salad. I’ve known Donna, the owner and cook, for so many years that I’ve lost count of all the gloomy winter afternoons I spent hunkered down in her back-corner booth with my notebook and a pending column deadline. Those afternoons were totally redeemed by Donna’s chicken noodle, spinach-tortellini, or cabbage soups.
I like to remind Donna that she makes the best soup in town, and that I’ll always be her biggest fan. (Gotta keep that soup on the burner at Niki’s, especially with the long winter ahead!) But what I really want to tell Donna is something I couldn’t put into words until I started writing about soup this morning. When we’re in need of a little mothering — but our own moms are no longer able to provide it — we need at least one Donna in our lives. We all need someone who will ladle something warm, delicious, and comforting into our bowls.
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My favorite slow-cooker pea soup recipe:
16-oz package of Spartan (brand) green split peas
6 cups of water
1 large onion, chopped
5 or 6 small potatoes, peeled and sliced
4 cloves fresh crushed garlic
1 teaspoon dried oregano leaves
1/2 cup chopped fresh basil
1 bay leaf
1/2 cup sliced carrots
1 cup chopped celery
Use a large slow cooker; set it on high. Add the six cups of water. Rinse the split peas, then add to the water. Chop the onion and saute in olive oil with dried oregano and crushed garlic until onions are translucent and slightly brown. Add the cooked onions/garlic to the slow cooker and stir; add the remaining ingredients. Cook on high for five or six hours until the potatoes are soft and the soup is thick. (If you’re pressed for time, you can add a can of sliced/cooked potatoes to the batch during the last hour, instead of the fresh potatoes.) Add salt and pepper to taste, if desired.
I love making this all-day vegetarian soup in the slow cooker; I can leave it alone and let the flavors meld for hours. It tastes even better the next day, and there’s plenty to share. — CL
Cindy on January 11th, 2010
Be aware of wonder. Live a balanced life. Learn some and think some and draw and paint and sing and dance and play and work every day some.” — Robert Fulghum
This year I’m trying to strike a healthy balance between living creatively and being consumed by creative work. All too often, when I’m immersed in an art project or engrossed in a piece of writing, it’s as if I’m living on another planet. I neglect other things I care about. I might forget to brush my teeth or return phone calls or feed my family.
When I first started writing weekly columns, for instance, everything was potential fodder for the newspaper. I couldn’t watch a new TV show or shop for toilet paper without thinking I should scribble some commentary about it. For weeks I carried a notebook everywhere, and would even jump out of the shower to jot down ideas for a column. Thankfully, that ridiculous phase was short-lived. As a photo-journalist friend reminded me: We need to ask ourselves if we’re living from the depth of our lives or merely documenting them.
Then there was the time I slaved for weeks on a book manuscript. I got into the habit of working until midnight, then rising at daybreak to revise or proofread what I’d typed the day before. My husband worked full-time then, so we grabbed most of our meals at local restaurants. Our son was away at college, and I was living the life I’d dreamed about for years — working 24/7 on my writing.
That’s when it hit me: My dream life wasn’t quite as satisfying as I’d imagined. I was exhausted and vaguely disappointed. Something essential was missing. And it’s not that the work wasn’t going well. For the most part, my writing was getting published in places I was proud to list on my resume. With my nest was empty, I’d even found extra hours to teach writing.
And there was problem, hidden in plain sight. Given my newly won freedom from parenting responsibilities, I’d become a woman obsessed. My whole life was about writing, writing, and more writing. I’d become so one-dimensional that I bored myself.
Kitchen lessons
The thing is, I’ve always believed the “good life” is a balanced life. A richly textured, multifaceted life.
After my epiphany, I made a list of “ingredients” that remain as essential to my happiness and well-being as writing. The list includes long talks with my husband and friends; gardening; keeping house; reading for pleasure; volunteering in my community; making art; visiting museums, and more. Of course, I’ve always enjoyed cooking (and reading about food) but my love affair with my computer left little time for the sensual pleasures of the kitchen.
And so, after putting my book project aside for a few days, I spent my first free morning poring over my cookbooks. Shopping for groceries later, I found even more inspiration in the colorful produce aisles at the local market. I couldn’t wait to get home and start cooking again. My mood lifted as I chopped and sauteed onions and red peppers, crafting a simple but satisfying meal with my hands.
“Real nourishment involves our whole being,” writes Anne Scott in Serving Fire: Food for Thought, Body, and Soul (Celestial Arts). “The search for it takes us on a journey into ourselves, confronting us with our inner hunger.”
In other words, my soul had been starving for something more than words and ideas heaped on a page or a computer screen. I was tired of living in my head, and kitchen work provided the physicality I’d been missing. For me, the ordinary arts of daily living are not optional — and I try to remember that whenever I’m off-kilter or obsessed.
Even if cooking isn’t your thing, you have your own list of pleasures to draw from when you need to feel balanced and whole.
“Be moderate in order to taste the joys of life in abundance,” advised the philosopher Epicurus. In the Epicurean view, the hallmarks of the good life include tranquility, freedom from fear, a variety of experiences, and the pure enjoyment of simple pleasures. Easier said than done, of course, but worth aspiring to. – Cindy La Ferle
– Kitchen photos (our kitchen in Royal Oak) by Cindy La Ferle–
Cindy on November 8th, 2009
Tradition is a guide, not a jailer — W. Somerset Maugham
Over dinner with my husband’s brother and his wife last year, my husband and I broached the delicate subject of … The Holidays. I appreciated the chance to have this discussion with my in-laws. Celebrating the winter holidays, after all, is an emotionally loaded topic even among the most cordial and caring families. People-pleasers, especially, get wigged out at the very thought of trying to appease every relative perched on the family tree.
Regardless, the four of us began sharing a few of our favorite memories and traditions — the mother who stuffed the perfect Martha Stewart turkey, the barrel-chested grandpa who played Santa on Christmas Eve; the cookies we decorated with fistfuls of red and green sugar. We agreed that the nostalgic traditions of childhood are vastly different now. And still changing. They no longer involve the proverbial jaunt “over the river 
and through the woods” to Grandma’s house. Our grandparents all reside in cemeteries now, and our kids are making nests of their own.
Complicating the mix, our extended families keep extending — which makes it impossible to fit everyone around the same dining room table, even with an extra leaf in place.
One solution was to meet in smaller numbers on ordinary evenings, just as we’d done that night. Why wait for a major holiday to be a family? There, at a cozy Italian restaurant in Troy, the four of us were enjoying a rare opportunity to share what was on our minds and in our hearts. No other gifts required.
Not long after, I talked with a grieving friend who lost her mother and is struggling with a different holiday dilemma. As the eldest daughter, she inherited the tradition of hosting a Christmas Eve dinner that typically included up to 30 guests. As my friend explained, her mother was “a generous cook” who’d invite every known relative within reasonable driving distance, plus a few stray neighbors and friends who had no other plans for the evening.
“Having the house crammed with people was my mother’s idea of a perfect holiday,” my friend said. “I feel guilty, but my house is smaller, and I’d much rather have a quiet celebration.” So my friend decided to trim her guest list to a manageable 14. To honor her late mother’s memory, her siblings will bring a favorite family dish to the potluck.
Tradition is a good thing when it keeps us connected to people and places we love. It’s the essential ingredient in our most treasured family recipes. Baking shortbread, for instance, is a comforting ritual that links me to my Scottish ancestors, and it’s the only time I use pounds of real butter without flinching.
But tradition is not a good thing when it’s a futile taskmaster.
“It is my opinion that Norman Rockwell and his ilk have done more to make already anxious people feel guilty than anyone else,” wrote the late Gourmet magazine columnist Laurie Colwin. “The fact is, family is variable, but our stereotypical image of it is not.”
For the record, the family life of Norman Rockwell, “America’s painter,” was colored by three unhappy marriages, including one to a long-suffering alcoholic. All said and done, we can’t possibly replicate our nostalgic past, nor should we feel obligated to remain frozen in someone else’s sugarcoated holiday vision. Ideally, we can combine the best of both worlds — the cherished recipes and rituals we’ve inherited, along with a few newer customs that have meaning to us.
As we mature, we’ll likely have to negotiate some holiday changes with our families. This might require that we welcome a sibling’s new spouse and step kids, or a gay cousin’s partner, to the table. We might have to learn how to bake our mother-in-law’s pumpkin pie from scratch. Or, we might decide to throw in the dishtowel, turn off the oven, and host the whole flock at the local diner. Meanwhile, I’ve decided to relax and count my blessings — which include several festive restaurants within a three-mile radius of home. Here’s to a happy, stress-free holiday season for every woman! — Cindy La Ferle
– This essay originally appeared in Strut magazine–
Cindy on February 7th, 2009
“The shifts of fortune will test the reliability of friends.” — Marcus Tullius Cicerco
By the time we reach midlife, most of us have splattered several dozen pages of recipes during our attempts to find the One True Cookbook. Mine is the Joy of Cooking, a household staple as dependable as milk and bread. In an era of celebrity chefs and flash-in-the-pan domestic divas, Joy proves over and over again that basic is best.
I’m also awed by the history of this old standby, now in its 75th anniversary edition. It’s a testimony to the pluck and perseverance of its original author. Irma Rombauer was exactly my age (54) when her husband died, leaving her a modest legacy of $3,000. The year was 1931, and despite the Great Depression, Rombauer decided to use the money to self-publish her first edition of Joy of Cooking.
Later, her attempts to sell the cookbook to a traditional publisher were rejected, but Rombauer refused to give up. She reworked the manuscript and re-submitted the book, and in 1936, Bobbs-Merrill released the first commercial edition of Joy with a print run of 10,000 copies. It has earned stellar reviews and a devoted following ever since.
My own copy of Joy has a history, too. It was a wedding present from Roe, an old family friend who was often described in reverential tones as “a gourmet cook.” At the time, I’d just begun my career with a publisher in Detroit, and my own culinary skills were limited to scrambling eggs and scorching chicken tenders. Opening Roe’s gift at my bridal shower, I never imagined that Joy would play such a fundamental role in future family celebrations. I tossed it carelessly under my new stash of kitchen towels and cooking gadgets — and probably didn’t express near enough appreciation to its giver.
Splashed with 28 years’ worth of stains, its yellowed pages redolent of savory spices, my 1980 edition now occupies a shelf crammed with more than 20 cookbooks. But like an old best friend, Joy of Cooking is the one I turn to first. It has followed me to four different kitchens, seeing me through countless dinner parties, family feasts, and just-plain-ordinary meals.
The chapter titled “Entertaining,” for instance, is hopelessly wrinkled from overuse. Though my mother had tried, years ago, to instruct me on the art of setting a proper table, I hadn’t paid much attention. (Do we really need bread plates?) And so, when my husband Doug and I started entertaining in the dining nook of our first apartment, I often turned to pages 18 and 19, which illustrate several variations of socially acceptable table settings.
The “Shellfish” section always stirs memories of New Year’s Eve — especially the first one Doug and I celebrated as newlyweds. Inspired by a scene in Woody Allen’s Annie Hall, I decided to cook live lobsters, using the directions on page 386. Later on, we established a new tradition of spending New Year’s Eve with our longtime friends Laurie and Dan, both of whom share the belief that every year should be begin with fabulous food. Over time, Joy has provided unforgettable recipes for many of those feasts — including the most impressive Beef Wellington we’ve ever sampled.
There were a few lean years when Joy collected dust on the kitchen shelf. The arrival of our infant son left little time or energy for anything but warming baby formula. Meanwhile, Doug and I survived on pizza and carry-out cuisine. But I didn’t completely neglect my old pal, my favorite cookbook. Even in the late 1980s, Joy outlasted our family foray into vegetarianism. (I still turned to it then for terrific dessert recipes, including the one for Brandied Peaches on page 846.)
Eventually tiring of fried tofu and wild rice, Doug and I brought a little meat and poultry back to our dinner table. Last month, for instance, we bought several pounds of spareribs, which neither of us had ever attempted to prepare.
“Should you boil spareribs before grilling them, or what?” Doug asked. Before I could take a guess, he was on his way over to the bookshelf. I was impressed, but not at all surprised, that he knew exactly which cookbook to consult. Turning to page 481 in Joy of Cooking, he rolled up his sleeves, filled the kettle, fired up the grill, and got to work. And the spareribs, by the way, tasted just right. — Cindy La Ferle
Cindy on January 6th, 2009
The key question isn’t “What fosters creativity?” But it is, why in God’s name isn’t everyone creative? Where was the human potential lost? How was it crippled? I think therefore a good question might be not why do people create — but why do people not create or innovate? — Abraham Maslow
Lately I’ve been feeling stuck, burned out, immobilized. And it’s not just because I’m worried about the so-called print media crisis. I’ve been working long enough to know that periods of fallow time are part and parcel of the writing life. I know that all writers go through days or weeks when the work feels off, or never good enough — when self-doubt is a faithful office companion. And I know that it passes soon enough.
In her new book, Stuck: Why We Can’t (or Won’t) Move On, Anneli Rufus talks about why so many of us struggle to make necessary career changes when we know it’s time to move on. Or why we can’t seem to mend relationships that aren’t working. She details some of the things that keep us stalled — living in the past; holding grudges; the need for instant gratification; bad habits; perfectionism; consumerism. I recognize my “stuckness” in many of Rufus’s pages.
Thankfully, I’ve learned over the years that my best antidote to writer’s block is focusing on different creative projects that have little or nothing to do with writing or publishing. Cooking a beautiful meal, for one example, satisfies my need to work with my hands and to offer something that will nourish others.
But I’ve found my greatest satisfaction working on mixed-media collage or constructions in the art studio upstairs. This art form requires that you use “found objects” or whatever else you have at hand — sort of like rustling up dinner from the pantry when you haven’t had time to grocery shop. It’s imaginative and messy and challenging. (The piece of art shown in the photo above is an example of mixed-media construction, recently created by my husband Douglas.)
When my life feels like a series of disparate parts that don’t make sense, mixed-media collage is also wonderfully therapeutic. Crafting a collage, like writing an essay, requires that I look at my world in new ways. I hunt for beauty in places I’ve overlooked before: tool boxes; hardware stores; the recycle bins in my garage. I’m compelled to hunt for possibilities in thrift shops and my own junk drawers. Every object is sacred in the mystical-ordinary sense, and even junk mail is worth a second look. Everything has a story waiting to be told — not necessarily in words, but in shape, form, texture and color.
I’ve been writing steadily and professionally for nearly 30 years, and I don’t imagine that I’d ever stop altogether. Keeping a journal and posting these essays is my way of making sense of the world. But this year it’s likely that I’ll devote more time to artwork and look for new ways to explore my creativity. Shifting the balance feels a little risky now (change always does) but that’s what makes midlife fresh and exciting. This could be the year I take the leap — and get unstuck. — Cindy La Ferle
– Original artwork, “Dad’s Younger Brother,” by Douglas La Ferle –
As my closest friends will tell you, I’m your go-to gal if you need a good soup recipe. Come fall, there’s usually something simmering in my slow cooker or on the stove — thick-as-a-brick pea soup, creamy potato porridge, or maybe a savory minestrone.
