Feeding the Hungry Ghost (5 page)

For a long time, I thought the only way I could serve humanity was by running off and joining Doctors without Borders. Just how I, with no formal medical training, was going to help them was a little hazy.

So I started doing small, specific things that didn’t require a
visa or medical degree. I joined a massive volunteer effort to help kids plant an organic garden in their public school. We dug up the patchy sod — hard, hot, hand-blistering work. We planted the seeds. We grew fat, red tomatoes, glossy eggplant, and a tangle of greens including callaloo, a green gift from the Caribbean. I showed kids how to cook it. I watched them eat it — a vegetable!

The kids liked it, not because it was good for them, but because they made it happen, from planting the seed to harvesting it and braising it with chili and garlic. It’s that sense of ownership, of hey, I’ve got a personal stake in this, that makes food taste good, that gives it value. It’s all about connecting with how our food is grown and sourced, with the planet, and with that great big, mystical thing beyond it. The schoolkids discovered fresh produce; I discovered my own community and that I’m better at working and playing with kids than I’d led myself to believe.

Hanging out at the farmers’ markets, belonging to our local community’s shared agriculture program, working with some amazing chefs and organizations and initiatives that bring what our farmers grow to the people who need to eat it — this is my idea of a good time. I can’t promise it brings me to salvation. But it helps bring me back to myself, plus I get to write about it and turn readers on to a good thing or two.

That’s how I met my friend Marcel, genius of soup, specifically soupe joumou, the beloved soup with which Haitians start the new year. It’s not enough for Marcel to make it; he has to feed everyone he knows. So he makes a vat of it on a hot plate in his studio and serves it up all day. Even in dark times.

The 2010 earthquake devastated his homeland. He lost his auntie, uncle, and cousins, all with a shake of the earth. This is when the fetal position comes in handy. Instead, Marcel wanted to make soup. He
needed
to make soup. When I arrived, his place
was flooded with afternoon light and was so jammed, I couldn’t see the host for all the guests clustered around him, cradling soup bowls, talking, eating, laughing.

Finally, I found Marcel in his makeshift kitchen, holding court and presiding over the soup pot.

I gave him a kiss and picked up a bowl.

“It has meat,” he warned, remembering I’m a meat-free kind of girl.

“I’ll eat around it.”

We looked at each other. He beamed and ladled it, rich and golden, like liquid sunshine, from a battered aluminum pot.

Soupe joumou is the triumph of spirit over tyranny, heart over privation, and a damn fine way to warm body and soul. This is a soup tapping into the collective unconscious of a people, evoking stronger feelings than Proust’s madeleine. I wasn’t going to let some bits of beef get in the way of that.

We all love to ring in the new year with its promise of new beginnings, but in Haiti, it’s especially cause for joy. New Year’s Day is Independence Day, the celebration of that New Year’s Day in 1804 when Haitians ended over a century of bloody rule by the French and were no longer colonial slaves, but a free people in their own country.

Haitians celebrated by eating what had been forbidden them — meat, cabbage, and squash, the latter two grown on their own island. Haitian slaves had grown and cooked these foods for their French masters, while they themselves had survived solely on rations of salt cod and lemonade.

Soupe joumou sustains and is sustainable. It’s made from what is local and available. The Haitians adapted the soup from their French masters, heating it up with habaneros and ginger and making it their own. Some eat it on New Year’s Day for good
luck. Others, like Marcel, eat and serve it knowing its history. It is his connection to place and to people, his source of sanity and serenity.

As with all things Haitian, there is some myth involved. The soup is said to honor Papa Loko, the vodou god of the ancient African spirit. Yellow is his favorite color, the one that summons him. Soupe joumou summons everyone. It’s belly filling and soul lifting all at once. It epitomizes for me the people of Haiti, who take what little they have, make it delicious, and offer it to you with all their heart.

It isn’t that life hasn’t lobbed a lot of crap Marcel’s way or that he’s weatherproofed against it. No one is. It’s how we bear up that matters. And Marcel, on the anniversary of losing home and family, somehow managed with grace and made soup. That’s enough of a superpower for me.

Haitian Soupe Joumou

I have swapped traditional winter squash for sturdier sweet potato and have taken the meat out of Marcet’s soupe joumou. I have not, I hope, taken the heart. This Haitian dish is filling and satisfying. You need only add some nice crusty bread like No-Knead Whole Wheat Oatmeal Bread (
page 182
) or even Flatbread from a Starter (
page 214
) and you’ll have a meal to make you happy.

Serves 4

1 tablespoon coconut oil

1 onion, chopped

¼ cup minced fresh garlic (yeah, ¼ cup — got a problem?)

¼ cup minced fresh ginger

1 jalapeño chili (or ¼ habanero chili), minced

1½ teaspoons ground allspice

1 sweet potato, chopped

2 carrots, chopped

1 bunch collard greens or callaloo, chopped into bite-size pieces

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

1 teaspoon fresh thyme leaves

1 bay leaf

1 lime, halved

Sea salt and freshly ground pepper

Heat the coconut oil in a soup pot over medium-high heat. Add the onion, garlic, ginger, and jalapeño. Sauté, stirring occasionally, until the vegetables soften, about 8 minutes. Add the allspice, sweet potato, and carrots. Add the collards, a handful at a time, and cook until they just wilt, about 3 minutes. Add the broth and raise the heat to high. When the broth comes to a boil, add the thyme leaves and bay leaf. Reduce the heat to low, cover, and simmer for 30 minutes, or until the vegetables are tender. Squeeze the juice from the lime over the top and season with sea salt and pepper.

FEEDING FAITH

I think you can find faith in a temple or a mosque or a church, but you can also find it in a garden or a school or studio, or in a kitchen, like Marcel. That’s where I find faith, too. Prayer is
attentiveness — what the yogic call mindfulness — and it’s what happens to me in the kitchen.

Cooking is its own meditation. If you can sit on your ass, breathe deeply, and find balance and serenity, honey, I salute you. Me, I’ve got to move, and cooking is something I can do to keep my brain from spinning like a centrifuge. It helps me deal with the day-to-day crazies and still keep my eye on the prize, whatever the prize is. The converse applies, too. When work or life conspires to keep me out of the kitchen for a while, I get a little wiggy.

When I’m cooking, I know I can’t cure cancer, can’t impose my will on an unruly coworker or politician, can’t make a deadline go away. Even on a bad day, though, I can make a big batch of something that pleases, comforts, and nourishes the people I love or that somehow connects me to them. Like when I make soupe joumou.

Everything must be done in a certain order. First, I chop the vegetables. Then I sauté them. I stir and watch as the garlic, onions, and ginger are gilded with oil and grow tender. I breathe in a smell both sweet and pungent. Focusing on each step and the physical action required brings me back to my core, to that teensy little place where I am sane and whence flows my belief that the universe is still a good place to be. And since you’re here, stick around; I’ve got a great pot of soup in the works, too.

I have a religious fervor for another winter dish. It’s nothing posh — just rice, black-eyed peas, and collards — but it’s as satisfying as anything I’ve ever eaten. It whispers, “There, there, honey. Dinner’s ready,” while offering antioxidants, calcium, protein, and, thanks to the power of collard greens, outrageous amounts of vitamins K, A, and C. This New Year’s Day tradition is cheapish to make and rich in fiber and folklore.

Just why it’s called hopping john is sketchy. I’ve heard the
dish got its name from a child dancing around the stove, eager for supper. I’ve also heard the recipe came from a man named John with a limp. They both sound like stories concocted after too much alcohol.

Most food historians believe the dish itself originated with the slaves who brought black-eyed peas and rice from west Africa. What started as a slave dish was livened with a little pepper and pork, and made its way into plantation kitchens.

Some say black-eyed peas look like coins and collards or other greens represent paper money; therefore, you’ll make as much money as the hopping john you eat. Black-eyed peas also fit an old superstition that if a dark-eyed man is your first visitor on New Year’s Day, love and luck will be yours.

Good luck, great fortune, and hot romance — I believe in all three. I don’t quite believe a plate of rice and beans will make that happen. But just in case it will, I have a pot of hopping john ready every New Year’s Day.

It fills us up yet opens up our hearts just the wee-est bit so we can let go of the hurt, the anxiety, the tightness, the meanness, all the dark, heavy things that were so last year.

Make it New Year’s Eve or even the day before. The flavor improves over time, and hopping john reheats like a dream. And there’s a bonus — the sturdy rice-and-beans dish sops up any hangover.

Dishes like hopping john and soupe joumou sustain the body because they’re made with ingredients that are humble but whole, nutritious, and recognizable. They sustain the soul because they have a rich cultural and culinary history. They connect us to our past and to each other. This is the real meaning of soul food. It’s food that’s meant to be shared, that lets you know you’re not alone in the universe. And if that’s not religion, I don’t know what is.

Hopping John

Hopping john makes a comforting one-pot meal, and with its lure, lore, and luck, stands alone. However, a green salad makes a nice, fresh counterpoint.

Traditionally, hopping john is made with pork. This version is pig-less. Like it spicy? Me, too. Enjoy with a splash of your favorite hot sauce.

Serves 6

1 cup dried black-eyed peas

3 cups water

6 cloves garlic

1 dried red pepper, crumbled, or a pinch of red pepper flakes

1 bay leaf

1 cup brown rice

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

1 tablespoon olive oil

1 large onion, chopped

1 jalapeño chili, minced

3 stalks celery, chopped

1 bunch collard greens, chopped into bite-size pieces

1 lemon, halved

Sea salt and freshly ground pepper

Black-eyed peas, like most dried beans, benefit by overnight soaking. It makes them tender to eat and easy to digest. Start with my master plan for cooking dried beans. Pour beans into a bowl, cover with cold water and just leave them alone until the next day. Drain the beans and rinse.

In a large pot, bring the 3 cups water to a boil over high heat. Add the black-eyed peas, 2 cloves of the garlic, the dried red pepper, and the bay leaf. Skim off and discard any peas that float. They’re duds. Reduce the heat to low and simmer, uncovered. The peas can be left alone. Don’t stir them. Cooking time varies for dried beans. Let them cook until tender, not mushy. In the case of black-eyed peas, it’ll take about 1½ hours.

Add the brown rice and the vegetable broth. Cover and simmer for 20 minutes more. Don’t lift the lid. Turn off the heat, leave the pot on the stove top, and let the hopping john sit while you prepare the collard greens.

Mince the remaining 4 garlic cloves. Heat the olive oil in a large skillet over medium-high heat. Add the onion, jalapeño, celery, and minced garlic. Sauté, stirring occasionally, until the vegetables soften, about 5 minutes.

Reduce the heat to medium. Add the collards, a handful at a time, and cook until they just wilt, stirring occasionally, about 10 minutes.

Fluff the rice and black-eyed peas and fold in the collards mixture. Squeeze the juice from the lemon halves over the top, season with salt and pepper, and stir to combine.