Minestrone

Minestrone

You can’t control life.  Things happen like a last minute project that requires everyone to stay late and put in extra hours.  It happens.  Your energy is spent and the things you have planned for the evening must be canceled or put on hold.  It happens.  That’s exactly what happened this evening.  I could have been pissed.  But what I was to say or what could I do?  The company required my sacrifice.  My personal time could be postponed, but the roll-out of a new project could not.  Investments have been made, agreements and contracts have been signed, money has exchanged hands.  What was my life but a few sparse hours?  

They ordered pizza.  I had contemplated on making a pot of minestrone.  Grandma like to squeeze her garden tomatoes into her stock pot.  She liked to mash and crush her summer ripened fruit.  Her vines produced plentifully, and tomatoes of various shapes and sizes filled her white-clawed pedestal bowl on the kitchen counter.  The grape tomatoes she kept in a separate container and snacked on those during lazy afternoons when she had time to read.  I never saw Grandma outside of her kitchen very often.  She conducted her life in the kitchen’s arena.  Phone conversations with her friends, her children and grandchildren all took place behind the counter.  She would lean forward propped on her elbows with her rear sticking out.  She didn’t like cordless phones, because she liked twirling the coils and getting them tangled.  I on the other hand could not stand to see tangled coils.  Grandma composed letters and recipes from the kitchen table.  She kept her rosary beads in one of the kitchen drawers, and her refrigerator show cased her family.  If your photo was not displayed on her stainless steal appliance you knew she was put out with you.  She never removed my picture; although Chezy claimed she did I never noticed it missing.  

Chezy was the grandchild that resembled Grandpa the most.  It was a love-hate relationship between Grandma and her.  None of us grandchildren knew Grandpa.  He passed before his youngest child was even married.  Many of the aunts and uncles claimed Chezy bore the brunt of Grandma’s passionate anger.  Chezy had a wild streak, so I never blamed Grandma behaving the way she did towards her.  I was of the opinion Chezy brought that upon herself.  

When we shelled peas Grandma had a specific way of doing that.  It was easy to please her.  Do what she said and all would be well.  Chezy always wanted to do it another way.  

When the evening temperatures began to decline Grandma would collect her canned vegetables from the cellar and restock her pantry.  She always welcomed the autumn season with bean soup.  Her children and grandchildren inherited her love of garlic.  I began my adventure in her kitchen by being her garlic smasher.  To this day the smell of garlic reminds me of comfort and home.  Fresh garlic are not dry, and there are no black spotting.  The paper skin is white, and the cloves are voluptuous.  The juice is plentiful, sticky and powerfully aromatic.  A display of garlic cloves and bulbs are strew upon a white cheesecloth.  The tablecloth is a white muslin.  The lights are positioned, and I stand upon the step ladder looking down at the array, poised to do my job.  Nothing looks good through the lens.  Nothing pops.  There is no drama in this bland scenery.  My assistant must have noticed the look on my face for she positioned a small slab of a wooden cutting board into the shot and rearranged a few of the bulbs and cloves upon it.  Yet, I am not satisfied.  

The aroma of mirepoix as they sauté in oil in Grandma’s old stock pot was enough to make my mouth water.  The carrots, celery and onions coming together to become caramelized and tender worked magic on the stock.  It’s the same base aroma for Thanksgiving dressing; the only item I go back for seconds and thirds.  

I thought I had spotted leeks.  I motioned to my assistant.  Sure enough, there they were.  We replaced the small cutting board with a bigger one and added the leek into the picture with a generous sprinkling of some whole red peppercorns.  It was just enough color to make the eyes want to linger.

Although you can control how fast the beans  cook, if you want the recipe to come out right and the flavors and textures to achieve divinity then you better stick to the instructions and wait.  

Patience is a virtue learned, not acquired Grandma said.  She was very patient with her food and her garden.  She was very patient with me.  She never yelled or got angry with me.  She knew how to calm me when my mother didn’t.  She knew how to get me to smile again when I didn’t want to.  I often wished though that she would have spoke her mind about Rainier.  Maybe if she did things would have been different.  Then again there’s the possibility that I wouldn’t have listened.

There’s nothing wrong with using dried herbs, but there’s nothing quite like tying an herb bundle and inhaling all their earthy, pungent fragrance combined before dropping it like a castaway into a sea of simmering soup.  Then once it is ready to eat and the bowl is before you, all the aromas meld together into a lovely soothing symphony.  With the first bite you savor summer in the hearty tomato base, then the sweetness of the mirepoix, the meatiness of the bean medley capped by the well-roundedness of the herbs and spices.

I asked for springs of thyme and rosemary to be incorporated into the shot.  Make it messy, I told my assistance.  Life often is.