Revised memoir

(here it is! )

There are a lot of meals I remember having with my family. We almost always ate together, and we all always participated in the making of the meal. This tradition became very valuable to me, especially in hindsight, and I can think of one particular meal that shows why. This meal actually started to be made the day before it was eaten. It started, with a bowl.

I open the off-white fridge door, and spot 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. Even then, at age 13 I had quite the love for pie, especially homemade. My father’s pie starts here the day before it is cooked. He gently goes about making the dough, balling it up, and then refrigerating it. Slumbering within that covered bowl now is a large sphere of pie dough, a wondrous promise of tastiness to come.

            The next day rolls around, and the menu is already decided upon. Not for any occasion other than our shared 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; the ingredients gathered and mixed by my father. The process is easy enough, but in its simplicity, the sheer act of creation, joy is found. My father takes the bread dough; kneading pressing it into the bread machine, to be further stirred, mixed, and then cooked.

            Now comes the first real involvement for me. I stand in front of the kitchen sink with a small soft green plastic and metal peeler in one hand and apples, carrots, 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 as things move along at a steady pace, and the slow rhythm of shearing off the outer coats of these fruits and veggies becomes almost calmingly hypnotic.

            Soon, though, it comes to an end. I pass along each white, naked piece of food to be chopped up into shards, chunks, or in the case of the carrots, coins. Apples and pears, sliced just so, get tossed together by my father with a mixture of sugar, cinnamon, corn starch, and a happy smile binding them together. A lovely, handmade crust settles on top, and my mouth can’t help but water at the sheer beauty of it. My father slides it with great care into the oven, and then 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 marjoram. A master of spices and cooking in general, my mother always smiles when she makes stew, and those who eat it can’t help but smile as well. Then chunks of potato, coins of carrots, a tumbling golden cascade of corn, one after another, each ingredient leaps into the vat-like pot on the stovetop. Finally, my mom turns to cans of crushed tomato and tomato puree adding both before 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 play a game. But after a few hours, the scents have become to strong to ignore. As festive and as inviting as any parade, these scents march through every corner of the house. The scents of cooking meat, the warm, almost fluffy scent of bread, and a deeper, sweeter, indescribable scent of pastry and sweet fruit; homemade pie fill the house. 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 by my father and eagerly examined by my sister and I, 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.

            My sister and I set plates and napkins around the table.. 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 pears 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. Despite how the week may have gone for any of us, this meals has made it a good week. Simple, delicious, and made by us all, there’s no better meal then this.