Feeding the Hungry Ghost (15 page)

Along with Valentine’s Day and New Year’s Eve, Mother’s Day is a holiday to be spent with those you love, at home — your home, your friend’s home, your relative’s home, anyone’s home. Just don’t go out to a restaurant.

These holidays, where we are called upon to be our truest, most authentic and adorable selves, turn restaurants, even those where the rest of the year they live to serve, into crazed moneymaking gouge machines.

Okay, so perhaps I have issues, especially with brunch buffets. I’m still recovering from the trauma of my first, which should have been a spectacular fairy tale of a feast.

I must have been eight when my parents took me to San Francisco. I fell in love with the sea lions off Fisherman’s Wharf. My mother fell in love with the idea of having brunch at the Fairmont. And so we went. We were greeted, seated at a table with thick white linens, then directed to the food.

Well, you couldn’t miss it, could you? There were tiers of it. Sausages sweating red under heat lamps, whole fish sculpted to look as though leaping from their platters. There were baskets upon baskets of pastries; bakeries had been raided of their breads. Bowls heaped with mayonnaise-begooped salads flanked a tower of pancakes dripping with meringue.

I wonder how it would look to me now. I only know that as a kid, I found it terrifying.

I went through the buffet line, holding my empty plate in front of me with both hands.

My parents offered me food from this platter, that bowl, gave the tooth-baring smiles that signal parental encouragement.

“You can have whatever you want,” they said.

What I wanted was to go home, back to Miami, back to our house, where things made sense and things had scale. I sensed
going home was not an option right then, nor would it go down well if I so much as proposed it.

I proceeded to the end of the line. I went back. I might have walked around for a very long time. By the time I returned to the platter of meringue-topped pancakes — why would you
do
that to a pancake? — they had been picked over, leaving an oozing puddle of oneness; the leaping fishes’ bones were exposed. And sharp. The mayonnaisey things had only grown whiter and wetter.

I brought my plate back to my smiling parents (who, for all I know, had already gone back for seconds), smoothed the napkin over my lap like a big girl, and was about to eat the feast of my choosing, when a man, another brunch patron, bent over me and said, “Is that all you’re going to eat, little girl? You know, your father has spent a lot of money to bring you here.”

I then looked from the small cluster of green grapes and the single red-dyed crabapple on my plate to the man. His voice was kind, though firm, his sport jacket plaid and loud. I burst into tears.

I was a kid. I didn’t understand the ways of food justice; I just knew there was no way we could eat all this food. How hungry could any of us be? Worse, no one truly hungry and in need was going to get any of it, either. A lose-lose situation.

My father drew himself up and said, “My daughter can eat whatever she wants.”

Score one for dad. It was as though he’d lifted me onto his shoulders.

But who was going to stand up for everyone else?

I plucked a green grape from its cluster, sucking it in with an audible pop. But it couldn’t eclipse a new hatred of brunch, a horror of waste, and a wariness of men in plaid sport coats. I have outgrown none of them.

Oh, there’s some tasteful-enough sport coats out there, and some guys can carry the look; but with the waste thing, there’s no question — food is not necessarily a case where more is better, especially when half gets tossed.

The question is, what makes a feast? The answer for my mother and aunt, children of Depression parents, is plenty. They both suffer nightmares of running out of food. This has never, ever happened, and yet that fear is still there. They compensate by serving if not overabundance, then let us say generous portions, and Benjamin and I always leave with bags of leftovers.

The ancient Romans ate until they were ill, politely excused themselves to hurl, then returned to the table. An interesting over-the-top attitude, but they didn’t last as a civilization. Some Japanese practice
hara hachi bu,
eating until you’re 80 percent full. This may seem like it’d do you in, too. But in Japan, food is art. It’s plated to delight the eye. Your stomach gets its fill, but so do your senses.

I lack the patience — and knife skills — to carve a carrot into a rose but don’t mind spending time in the kitchen preparing food or at the table enjoying it. Time is a crucial ingredient to creating a feast. It may be no more than a pot of jasmine tea shared with a friend. It’s less about the food you eat than the spirit and attention you bring to it. Taking time to eat can seem like a luxury, but the alternative isn’t pretty.

Our first two years of married life, Benjamin and I lived in Tokyo. Lunchtime in the business district was observed with a sort of brief, frantic horror. Tokyo businessmen slurped down their soba in seconds. They flipped their ties aside, raised bowls to their mouths, and emptied the broth — still steaming — and the tangle of noodles in one rapid go. Delight the eye it did not. It probably didn’t do much for their digestion, either.

You don’t want to look like that. And you don’t want to feel like that. Slowing down rather than speed-eating invites you to become aware of the physical sensation of eating, one of life’s great unsung pleasures. So why rush it? Indulge in feeling the silky soba noodles slip around in your mouth, contrast that with the thin, crisp disks of carrot, the meaty chew of shiitakes. Feel the heat of the broth, taste the brininess from the soy, the gentle bite from the ginger, the gauziest overlay of fermentation from the miso.

Eating slowly also makes you recognize that moment of fullness, poised between
hara hachi bu
and ancient Roman excess. That is the beautiful moment of
enough,
when you feel that happy
ahh
in the belly and the soul and need nothing more. The “more, more, more” urge will set in soon enough. For now, try to enjoy the moment. Breathe. It helps.

The technical word is
satiety,
or fullness, and it sounds to me very like the Arabic benediction said at the beginning or end of a meal —
sahtayn,
wishing two healths to you. You deserve at least two healths. So does your mother. So does Mother Earth. So make Mother’s Day meaningful, mindful, a day of celebration, not waste. A simple (meatless) meal prepared with a whole heart beats a more-than-you-can-eat and more-than-you-can-afford buffet.

Show Mom the love. Show her the lunch. Make it yourself.

KAMUT FOR MOTHER EARTH

Here’s a whole grain dish I created that earned the seal of approval from my mother and aunt. It’s made with Kamut, or khorasan wheat. It’s ancient whole grain, so ancient it’s believed to have originated in the Fertile Crescent, and takes its name from a hieroglyph. It’s got all its ancient goodness intact and even wheat-sensitive folks seem able to enjoy it. There’s much to
enjoy — a rich, nutty taste and terrific chew. You’ve been meaning to eat more whole grains anyway. It can be made a day or two ahead, so it makes things easy for you. And it’s organic, so it makes Mother Earth happy, too.

Kamut for Mother Earth

Kamut needs to be soaked in water overnight and requires slow cooking. Don’t fuss about it too much, just factor in a little time.

Serves 4 to 6, doubles like a dream

3 cups Stone Soup (see
page 84
) or other vegetable broth

1 cup Kamut (also known as khorasan wheat)

1 clove garlic

2 bay leaves

4 to 5 carrots, coarsely chopped

2 onions, coarsely chopped

2 tablespoons olive oil

2 tablespoons Dijon mustard, plus more as needed

Juice of 2 lemons, plus more as needed

1 bunch Swiss chard or a good handful fresh spinach or arugula leaves, chopped

1 bunch fresh flat-leaf parsley, chopped

1 tablespoon chopped fresh tarragon (if you’re a big dill fan, swap it for tarragon)

Sea salt and freshly ground pepper

In a large pot, bring the broth to a boil. Meanwhile, pour the Kamut into a sieve and rinse with cold water. When the broth boils, add the rinsed Kamut, the garlic, and bay leaves. Cover, reduce the heat
to low, and simmer for 1½ hours. I know, it’s a long time, but the Kamut keeps its own company. When the grains have plumped up enormously and are tender and chewy, the Kamut is ready.

Meanwhile, you can do other things while the Kamut cooks. For instance, you can preheat the oven to 350°F.

Spread the carrots and onions on a large rimmed baking sheet. Drizzle with 1 tablespoon of the olive oil. Roast until fragrant, slightly darkened, and just tender, about 30 minutes, giving the vegetables an occasional flip or stir so they roast evenly.

In a small bowl, whisk together the 2 tablespoons Dijon mustard, the remaining 1 tablespoon olive oil, and the juice of 2 lemons.

Transfer the cooked Kamut to a large bowl. Add the chard, herbs, and roasted vegetables along with their liquids. Pour the mustard-and-lemon dressing over all and mix again.

Season with salt and pepper. Taste and zing up with a little more mustard or lemon juice, if desired.

Serve at room temperature or hot. The Kamut for Mother Earth can be stored in an airtight container in the refrigerator for several days; reheat just before serving. To reheat, bake covered at 350°F for about 30 minutes, stirring occasionally.

GENTLE NUDGE
the
FIFTH: GO OLD-SCHOOL

Kamut, farro, spelt, quinoa, millet, barley, amaranth — this isn’t a magical incantation. Or maybe it is. The words are names for ancient grains, whole grains that have been around for centuries. For centuries, whole was how we ate grain, too. Then we discovered milling.

Milling, or grinding, grain removed the husk. It rendered the grain softer, easier to chew, easier to digest. Milling was originally
done by hand, a difficult job that made processed grain expensive. It became the food of the privileged, a status symbol — refined grain for refined people.

Over the centuries, it became more affordable, more available, and still we processed. It’s only been within the past half century that we’ve realized just how nutritionally neutered refined grain is. Whole grain has its kernel and bran intact, and that’s where the hard-core nutrients are. That’s where the fiber, the fun-for-the-mouth chew, and the nutty, earthy flavor are, too.

We are a nation absorbed by youth, radiant health, and beauty. And yet the majority of us are fat, sick, and not hot. This was nothing we flash-mobbed. It’s the result of what we eat. And it’s not entirely our fault. Many of us have been raised on processed, refined white flour, white rice, white bread. They’re fluffy, cheap, bland, and some nutritionists believe they’re the reason so many people are suffering from wheat intolerance. What’s for sure, though, is refined grains contribute to the triple threat of diabetes, heart disease, and cancer. Not too yum.

We’re so taken with foods that claim to be natural and healthful on the label, we overlook foods that really are. Give ancient grains a try. They’re your age-old sources for great energy, nourishment, flavor, and satiety (that’s that happy, full-belly feeling). Even without a label that says so. Rediscover ancient grains. Eat them in all their robust, unrefined glory.

Farrotto with Greens, Pine Nuts, and Currants

Traditional risotto gets its luscious, chewy, creamy texture from short-grain arborio rice and constant stirring. This dish gives you the same terrific result with less effort and whole grain goodness, too. Call it farrotto, call it Fred, this is a cheaty version of risotto made with farro.

To soak or not to soak, that is the question. Many chefs go straight ahead and cook the farro without soaking. I soak it overnight, and it comes out tremendously creamy and cooks up quickly. Try it both ways.

Serves 6

2 cups farro

¼ cup pine nuts

4 teaspoons olive oil

3 cloves garlic, minced

1 dried red pepper, crumbled, or a couple of good pinches of red pepper flakes

1 bunch Swiss chard, spinach, kale, or other hearty winter greens, chopped into bite-size pieces

5 cups Stone Soup (see
page 84
) or other vegetable broth or water

¼ cup currants

Sea salt and freshly ground pepper

Pour the farro into a sieve, rinse with cold water, and drain. In a large bowl, soak the farro in enough cold water to cover overnight (or not — your call).

Preheat the oven to 350°F.

Pour the pine nuts in a shallow ovenproof pan and toast until they just turn golden, about 6 minutes. They can go from golden to black in a matter of minutes, so watch the time carefully and zip them out of the oven as soon as they’re ready. Transfer the pine nuts to a small bowl to cool.