memory of a meal

         The first memory that springs to mind is actually one of the day before the meal itself. It’s of opening the off-white fridge door, and spotting a large, ceramic bowl that is brown on the outside and white on the inside. The top is covered with a clouded plastic wrap to keep the contents safe, but I already know what lies within, and what it signifies. Pie. My father’s pie starts the day before, as the dough is made, balled up, and refrigerated. Slumbering within that covered bowl is a large sphere of pie dough, a wondrous promise of tastiness to come.

            The day rolls around, and the menu is already decided upon. Not for any occasion other than the desire to make something different and nice for this weekend, the meal will be warm beef stew, bread machine bread, and apple/pear pie the fate of the dough glimpsed yesterday. Things kick off with the bread, ingredients mixed, stirred together by my father. The process is easy enough, but in the simpleness of it, the sheer act of creation, joy is found. Bread dough now is kneaded and pressed into the bread machine, to be stirred, mixed, and cooked.

            Now comes the first real involvement for me, standing in front of the kitchen sink, a small soft green plastic and metal peeler in one hand, apples, carrots, and potatoes in the other. My small, but vital job, is easy enough. Never have I nicked myself with the peeler, so I stand there, peeling away the skins of apples, and the rough, bumpy coats of potatoes. There’s a calming sense to it. This is not writing an essay, doing math homework, studying complex biology. This is simple bliss. There’s no pressure, things are moving along steadily, and the slow, calming rhythm of shearing off the outer coats of these fruits and veggies becomes almost calmingly hypnotic.

            Soon though it comes to an end, each white, naked piece of food passed along to be chopped up into shards, chunks, or in the case of the carrots, coins. Apples and pears, sliced just so, are combined with a mixture of sugar, cinnamon, and corn starch, binding them together. A lovely, handmade crust settles on top, and one’s mouth can’t help but water at the sheer beauty of it. It is slid with great care into the oven and the focus moves elsewhere.

            Now the only thing to be finished is the stew itself, which is made by my mother. The meat is first, slashed and sliced deftly into manageable pieces, and placed in the pot to brown and sizzle along with spices: basil, bay leaf, sage, and margoram.  Then chunks of potato, coins of carrots, a tumbling golden cascade of corn, one after another, each ingredient tumbles into the vat-like pot on the stovetop. Finally, cans of crushed tomato and tomato puree are added and the lid comes down. Things are left to cook for hours, peacefully bubbling away..

            It is funny almost; the waiting game is always easiest at the start. We’ve finished all this, I’ve had lunch, and I settle in to read or game. But after a few hours, the scents begin. As festive, and as inviting as any parade, these scents march through every corner of the house. Cooking meat, the warm, almost fluffy scent of bread, and a deeper, sweeter, indescribable scent of pastry and sweet fruit; homemade pie. There is no escaping these scents, and the desire they incite.

            Despite the wait, the end result is always worth it. The stew over the course of the day becomes a thick, luscious broth of meat, tomatoes and veggies that practically melt away in your mouth. The bread, pulled from the bread machine, radiates warmth and the promise of both a fluffy center and a crisp, crunchy crust. Lastly, the pie is pulled free, shimmering with heat, almost too beautiful to eat.

            Places are set, and things cleared away, clean, swept and put in place. Drinks are poured and napkins placed at each spot, as my mother lights the candles one by one. Once again, the simplicity of the day shines through. Nothing has to be stressed or rushed, just a peaceful calmness so rarely present in our hectic lives. Everyone sits down before this lush panorama of food; it is time for the meal.

            Now the meal itself begins, and we all dig in with great eagerness. The meat has been cooked to perfection, in a melody of flavors, from potato to tomato. Homemade bread, is either dipped in stew, or enjoyed on its own, and either way is incredibly satisfying. In this world of fast food, easy fat fried or grilled to death, there is something lost. The simplicity and satisfaction that only making your own dinner can provide seems to surpass all.

            Stuffed as well as any turkey, we sit back and rest for a long moment, letting things settle, and chatting happily. Then someone rises, the pie is fetched, along with fresh, cold vanilla ice cream. To each still-steaming, warm slice of pie, a large scoop or two of cool ice cream is added. The sweet, warm taste of pear and apples flows well with the smooth, lovely flavor of vanilla ice cream. The whole sweet concoction is intoxicating, both warm and cold at the same time, each bite is savored till it’s all finally finished.

            This meal comes to mind easily, yet is only really representative of something very important to me in my life. My family rarely ate out; we preferred to almost always make our own meals. This not only helped draw us together as a family, it was also a rich, and fulfilling experience everyday, and provided a quality of tastes and satisfaction that fast food can never match.  These meals were about being together, as a family, and about enjoying good, well-made food, both things to be cherished.