Recipes for Trouble

I was pretty impressed with myself.

I’d made lentil-kale-sausage soup with one hand. I’d bookmarked the recipe from the food blog Blue Kitchen, a week earlier. Making the soup had been a messy and tedious undertaking, and it wasn’t the most refined dish I’d ever tasted…but I’d done it.

After a week of packaged tortellini, takeout, and pre-sliced meats and cheeses, it felt like a milestone. I could do this heroic injured heroine thing. I was out of the woods, or at least the weeds.

Nunh-unh. Not so fast, said my body.

The next day, I was back in the ER with some pretty bad pain. The whole routine, all over again - so not like the TV show! There was the usual, bored, listless, gum-chewing triage nurse, old people on stretchers in hallways, and long, dull hours of waiting, this time into the wee hours of the morning. Where was Dr. Kovac , or Nurse Sam Taggart when I needed them?

I felt sorry for myself. I glanced enviously at the people who had family or friends sitting with them, holding their hands, or carrying their coats for them while they trooped in and out of x-ray and examining rooms. A young Portuguese woman with kidney stones lay on a stretcher, her girlfriends perched sleepily but staunchly at the foot of her bed.

How do you ask for help? Who do you ask? What friends will step up and which will find it too hard?

Can’t I just find a way to do it all myself? What’s the fine line between independence and isolation?

A slow, quiet taxi-ride got me home from the ER at 4 a.m. I felt like kissing the floor of my apartment. The next morning, my phone rang at 8. (I was already up. I had a class to teach that day). It was The Queer Organizer. She’d been out of town. She’d heard what had happened.

Can I come over tonight and bring dinner she asked. I promptly burst into tears.

She was a bit embarrassed it wasn’t more fancy. Just takeout she said. Chicken pot pie, potatoes and beans. It was all tasty, but I was most excited by the potatoes (try peeling a spud with one hand). I’d been craving potatoes.

Still, it could have been cheez whiz sandwiches, it could have been porridge. I didn’t have to cook it and it came with a friend. It was fantastic.

We talked and laughed and gossiped and drank wine long into the evening. Turns out it’s the act of friendship, as much as the food, that is the medicine.

Lentil Soup with Kale and Sausage
2 to 3 main course servings
Adapted from a recipe at Blue Kitchen

This soup tasted much better a day after I made it, and becomes quite lovely with a generous sprinkle of grated parmesan, romano, or asiago cheese. It freezes well, so double the recipe and you’re set…

6 ounces sausage or kielbasa, sliced in half lengthwise, then cut into 1/2-inch thick slices [I used plain ol’ turkey sausage)
1 tablespoon or so olive oil
1 medium yellow onion, chopped
2 carrots, peeled and sliced on a diagonal
1 rib celery, sliced
1 garlic clove, minced
2-1/2 cups low-sodium chicken broth
2 cups [1 large can, don’t bother with fresh at this time of year] chopped tomatoes
1 cup water
1 cup dried lentils [brown or green], rinsed
1 tspn. chili powder
a splash of hot sauce, to taste
1/2 tspn. cumin
2 bay leaves
5 cups torn kale leaves—discard thick center stems if you want to be fancy
salt and freshly ground pepper to taste

Heat a large pot or dutch oven over a medium flame. Add oil and sausage. Brown sausage slightly, stirring frequently, about 5 minutes. Transfer sausage to bowl with slotted spoon. If the sausage produced more fat in the pot, pour off all but a tablespoon or so.

Add onion, carrots and celery to pot. Sauté for about 5 minutes, stirring often—you don’t want to brown the vegetables, just sweat them. Add garlic and cook for about 45 seconds. Add broth, tomatoes, water, lentils, seasonings and bay leaves. Bring to a boil, then reduce heat and simmer uncovered for about 20 minutes, stirring occasionally.

Stir in kale. It will quickly wilt and reduce in volume, so don’t panic. Return sausage to pot and simmer for about 5 minutes, until kale is tender and flavors have swapped around. Adjust seasonings, discard bay leaves and serve, with or without a crusty bread and some grated cheese on top.

I’d been in Emergency for 5 hours. I was coming down from the happy drugs they’d given me. i was weepy, and hungry. I begged the grim-faced ER nurse for a sandwich. She said no. Something about waiting for x-rays.

A half-hour later, for no good reason, she changed her mind. A wan hot dog bun filled with Kraft cheese slice appeared in front of me. Prison food.

I. Cannot. Eat. This. I’m. Sorry. I said to Nurse Ratchett. She gasped at my impudence and tossed it into the garbage. But then rummaged around in her secret stash of edible food and found me tuna salad on whole wheat. No doubt she feared mutiny. I scarfed it down and began to feel like myself again.

An hour later I was on the streetcar, my arm in a huge white plaster cast, still woozy, headed home. I’d be in that cast at least a month. I figured I might as well get used to taking public transit as a one-armed gal.

It was rush hour, standing room only. A man with a boyish face and messy grey hair, also standing, sighed with great emotion. In. My. Country. he said, People. Would. See. A. Woman. Like. You. And. Wake. Up.

I looked around nervously.

In. My. Country. Someone. Would. Give. You. Their. Seat. He glared haughtily at all the seated people, who suddenly found really interesting things to stare at out the window. I looked at my arm, hanging woodenly by my side, and realized he was trying to help.

We exchanged smiles. I’m. OK. I’m. Fine. I said. I was channelling all the noble or slightly crazy injured heroines of 40’s/50’s Hollywood cinema. Johnny Belinda, or Magnificent Obsession.

He got off at Ossington, but before he did, he turned to me and said grandly, proudly, sadly:
I. Am. From. Cuba.

Still every bit the plucky heroine, I managed to pick up some basic food items at the corner grocery. Mushrooms, salad greens, milk and eggs.

My mother’s perogies and cabbage rolls, sitting in the freezer since they were sent home with me at Christmas-time, were waiting for me. As they sizzled in a pan, I made a simple mushroom sauce. Wine, cream,chicken stock, and mushrooms, of course. They were chopped roughly. I’m still getting the hang of cooking with one hand.

Mushroom sauce is what my mother determinedly cooked up when she was sick. Maybe I was channeling some of her courage, too.

It was the most delicious meal. I thought about my mom as I ate. How she’s taught me chutzpah and resourcefulness in the face of adversity.

How I’d have to tell my ma we couldn’t go to Cuba in February as planned. How badly I’d wanted to take of her on that trip, show her a good time and most of all, spend time together.

How my mom was taking care of me, with her food, across the miles.

How food becomes a story you tell yourself, if you live alone - like singing in the shower, one part bravado, one part glorious independence, one part survival.

What is a food blog?

A place? A home? A conversation? A monologue?

A formula: a cheery anecdote, a recipe?

A salty restaurant review? A sweet story?

Who reads a food blog?

Do these words fit together: food, relationships, politics, queer?

Is Facebook the new blog?

What is a food blog? Where is it going?

You don’t always get a second chance with someone. The conversation might not flow like it once did. Or, they might not be around anymore.

The funny thing is, though, she didn’t sound at all surprised when I called.

Marus! How long has it been, like, fifteen years? she asked, cheerfully enough.

Ah, maybe more like ten I said, uncomfortably. Guess. I. Got. A. Bit. Preoccupied.

I’d googled her. She was living in Brooklyn, and busking in the New York subway. That was all I knew.

She was the daughter of a woman I’d met in art school, we’ll call her Judy. Judy was wild and smart, wore vintage 50’s dresses, and had a five-year-old daughter who rode her tricycle in mad arcs and had a brilliant smile. It was really the first time I’d had a friend who was a mother and I loved the different rhythms a friendship like that creates. Judy and I stayed friends for years across different cities and time zones but then we drifted apart as long-distance friendships sometimes do. But her daughter stayed in my life, and claimed a place in my heart. We agreed upon the term “non-biological niece”, but mostly she just thought of me as her aunt. And so I remained – until ten years ago, when the travails of a low-income artists’ life, the distance between the east and the west, and family crisis pulled me away.

I was living out east now. I was coming to town. We arranged to meet up.

Well, it wasn’t quite as simple as all that. We emailed. She texted. Fifteen minutes after we were supposed to meet at Beast, a shabby bar with decent brunch that a food blogger had recommended, she called.

Marus I. Don’t. Know. I’m. Still. Miles. Away. It’s. So. Late. Her voice trailed off, childlike and sad. Hop in a cab I said firmly. Should. I. Just. Come? she asked plaintively. Yes. I said. Just. Come.

I burst into tears when she strode into the bar. Something about all those years. Family members who had died, and this one, chosen, but family nonetheless, back in my life.

Order. Whatever. You. Want. I said , recovering my composure, and waving my hands grandly, like Aunt Mame. It was easy to say that since it was prix fixe and everything was eleven dollars (ah! American prices! And the Canadian dollar at par!) and you could get mimosas for an extra three bucks.

She had something fancy with scallops, which she savoured with hungry delight.. I had a poached eggs with Hollandaise on spicy chorizo hash : not enough chorizo and the spice gone AWOL, but the sauce tasted homemade and the potatoes and salad were fine. It was actually nice to have brunch in a place so casually hole-in-the-wall, so not cutting edge.

We talked about the busking life. It’s something I know a little bit about.

People. Kind. Of. Look. Down. On. Buskers. she said. I nodded.

But. Then. There’s. People. Who. Stop. You. On. The. Street. Cuz. They’ve. Heard. You. Sing.

I knew about that, too.

She told me it’s illegal to busk in the New York subway. That she had to spend a night in jail once. That it wasn’t nice. But. she brightened, I. Know. The. Cops. Now. They. Know. Me. It’s. Easier.

I got choked up again and Busker Girl tilted her head and watched me curiously while I rubbed saltwater out of my eyes.

I told her about my brother, a busker most of his life, who’d died five years ago. I didn’t tell her that I’d been kind of judgmental about his life. That I didn’t get to know him until after his death. She was intrigued, wanted to know more. Asked for details about his busking, nodded calmly in recognition.

She told me about her plans for her music, the CD she’s recording, her eyes alight.

That’s the thing about buskers.

They came en masse my brother’s memorial and I got to know a couple of them after that. They are a such a pure kind of artist. They subsist on crumpled dollar bills and a populist kind of recognition. With a visceral need to make music every single day, they’ll do it whatever way they can.

We left the bar and emerged into the grey winter light, walking together past beautiful, stoic brownstones. I was headed to the museum, she back to her loft to do some songwriting. We hugged goodbye.

Love you! she shouted out as she ran to the subway, like she always used to.

Uh. Love. You. Too! I replied. It sounded awkward: love isn’t a word I use casually. But I meant it.

You don’t always get a second chance with someone you love.