Put that in 'frid'

I am totally hopeless recently, and ignoring that this undoubtedly means that my prayer life is out of joint. Wonderful feasts have dotted the calendar these past few weeks - the Easter season, Ascension, Pentecost, and now Trinity Sunday. It does not get better than that, I'm sure. Yet I have not written a blog entry on a one of them... so off to a bit of trivia, just not to get completely stale.

If you are with me this far, by now you are wondering who or what is 'frid.' My dad, a grocer descended from a long line of farmers, had a love for fruits and vegetables which bordered on (or perhaps was) reverence. He would not just eat an apple, for example. First, he would hold it up to be admired, turning it so its beauty and symmetry might be appreciated (not that Sam had any taste for the aesthetic, as his musician daughter here knew well). Second, he would be sure to let anyone present know not only of its quality but, depending on whether the item was bought or home grown, either what a wonderful price he paid or how much benefit there was from whatever new compost he was compiling. Lest my readers picture vast acreage, I shall note that Sam's garden was about the size of a small sitting room, but that, had all the earth he owned fit into a teacup, he'd have planted a tomato there. Unlike me, a dreadful gardener but one who loves wild-looking, multi-coloured flower beds, Sam would have considered it a total waste to plant anything one could not eat.

Sam's English was not the best, and his word for a refrigerator was 'frid.' With his respect for food being what it was, he constantly reminded us to 'put that in frid.'

My mother (Chip) was basically a terrible cook. (For some reason, the only thing she could make well were manicotti shells, which tended to come out thin as crepes.) I think the problem was a total lack of confidence - she would be puzzled that I was an innovative cook, or that I could make a dress in a different colour from that of the pattern illustration. As well, her fate was sealed when someone gave her a dreadful cookbook (of the 'gift for a bride who cannot boil an egg' category) as a wedding present. Chip never seasoned anything - she cooked pasta (which was her favourite food) till it was of the consistency of a damp rag. (When I fixed it for her, she'd wrinkle her nose and say, 'it's... good... al dente,' as if that were the worst of insults.) Her idea of a meat dish (which is not to say that meat dishes were ever her idea) was 'drop it in the pan and just let it cook.' Herbs, gravies, spices - were not in her vocabulary.

Whether the two are connected I would not say, but in a bizarre fashion Sam was a good match for Chip's cooking. His inherent frugality made him praise cooking which did not 'waste' (that is, add anything that was not absolutely necessary.) He'd become annoyed if I cooked, complaining that, if I added anything, I was 'wasting.' I was puzzled, considering it is not as if I fixed an item then poured it down the drain... it took me years to realise his definition of 'waste.' (Odd definitions, I suppose, are to be expected of someone who puts everything 'in frid.')

Years ago, when I saw the play The Fantasticks, I suddenly had an insight. The fathers in that play sing about 'plant a radish, get a radish, never any doubt. That's why I love vegetables, you know what you're about.' At least Sam's vegetables were predictable. A firstborn who was passionate about the aesthetic, had jars of spices in every spare inch of the cabinets and a few on the stove next to the collection of Twining's special edition teas, was mad about the English language, and had a weakness for recipes where one drops in a bit of Grand Marnier and serves the product next to truffles... well, was not in the 'plant a radish, get a radish' category.

I love to cook. (I have a sister who also loves to bake, a talent which she has in good measure and I lack. For all my enjoyment of meat pies, I always end up making stews because I cannot bother with a crust.) Trouble is, many dishes just do not work when one lives alone.

This past week, one of my recurring odd actions was inevitable. When it has been raining, chilly, or both for any period, I have to get out my crockpot and whip up one of my 'pies sans crust.' This often tends to be oxtail stew. My crustless pies are (if I must say so) actually delicious, but unusual for some reason (maybe it's obvious.) I think that, when it is well made, English food is perfectly delicious. (I'll save comments about when it is not well made for another thread.) But I always have to add an Italian fillip. My steak and Guinness version contains both garlic and basil.

Well, this week the oxtail stew simmered all day, filling the kitchen with a lovely scent. I do not like potatoes much, and prefer zucchini, eggplant, and other Italian staples to what others put in stews, so I included turnips, zucchini, carrots and more, and wonderfully succulent portabello mushrooms... port in the gravy, yum! It is only after these pots stop simmering that it strikes me (one would think I'd have caught on by now) that, unless I have four good-sized men drop over for dinner unexpectedly, I shall be eating oxtail stew with no crust for the next week. (Leeks, which I adore, were on sale this week, as were 'baby' portabello mushrooms. I'm trying to ignore it, but know with a horrible certainty that, by week's end, I may be confronted with a massive pot of chicken, leek, and mushroom... stew.)

Though pasta, salads, and other Italian staples are popular today, most people I knew when I was young (who were not of Italian background) rarely ate them. I love Italian food, if one is speaking of veal, salads and such, but loathe pasta. (The only thing funnier than pasta's being a current 'gourmet' treat, which we ate four times a week because it was so cheap, is that polenta is carried in posh restaurants. Polenta was even lower on the social scale.) I'm afraid I'm going to have to clue everyone in on a fact of life which I knew at age 2 but is ignored today, when everyone is 'eating healthy' and, I hear, gaining so much weight. The much lauded "Mediterranean diet" is terrible! It means being ravenous for at least 21 out of 23 hours... because eating starch when one is hungry is comparable to drinking salt water to ease thirst. (Ask your waiter friend why restaurants place bread on the table before meals are served. Yes, to stimulate appetite.)

The kids I knew who ate meat three times a day (and perhaps even junk food, though fast food did not yet exist in my childhood) did not have weight problems. Our 'healthy', constant hunger diet led many of us to have weight trouble, though we seldom had sweets and a can of tuna was Friday dinner for four.

Lord have mercy, I have gone on many a tangent today! Yet there is one secret to attractive meals which Chip, with her fear of seasoning, and Sam, who thought everything was a waste, would never have known. A combination of flavours can make even a poor table seem rich. Mixing in an olive here and there, a bit of goat cheese, mustards, whatever - having a little pickle on the cheddar, and odd greens on the side - can make one feel like a gourmet... even on a budget akin to, or less than, Sam's.

Without variety, everything can seem barren and boring. Which finally leads me to the point I've been trying to ignore... I need to get back to the richness of my prayer life...:)