by Liz Hickok
I lift the ancient Le Creuset Dutch oven of enamel cast iron from the bottom cupboard– no small achievement because the pot weighs eleven pounds, more than a ten-pound sack of potatoes. I purchased this magnificent cauldron in the early 1980’s, when the Emporium Capwell department store on El Camino and Highway 85 was going out of business. I was thrilled to purchase the pot on clearance. Even with imperfections in the enamel, the pot cost $30. Nowadays, you’d have to pay $300 for a Dutch oven like this– ten times more. Since then, Le Creuset has discontinued the pumpkin orange color. The enamel over the cast iron has been worn away by 30 years of use. Even so, I salute the French craftsmen who made this magnificent pot every time I use it. Not many things last a lifetime any more.
There are as many soup recipes as there are cooks on this planet. Like the plot of the legendary Stone Soup folktale, my soups evolve from chance ingredients. Unlike the Stone Soup story, I don’t acquire the ingredients from strangers, but rather use what’s in my refrigerator and pantry. This time, after assessing my choices, I decide to make minestrone.
I first learned about minestrone from a cookbook gifted to me by my sister Sonia for my first wedding in 1969. She was generous to me in so many ways before she passed on the very eve of the millennium. I miss her every day but feel especially connected to her whenever I open this cookbook, now battered and stained. The Pleasures of Italian Cooking, by Romeo Salta, published in 1962, coincided with those years when Julia Child and James Beard were encouraging Americans to become cosmopolitan in their tastes.
Salta’s minestrone recipes include two thick heavy soups containing vegetables and strands of pasta, to distinguish them from minestra, or light soups. Most familiar in America is the Genovese southern style of minestrone that contains tomatoes, leeks, kidney beans and spinach with macaroni; the northern Milanese version features white beans and zucchini and rice instead of pasta. These ingredients exemplify the Italian regional rivalry between north and south. Both versions include onions, carrots and potatoes plus garlic, parsley and basil. My adaptation also relies on a San Jose Mercury News clipping from the early 1980’s where the contributor felt that minestrone should use at least 17 different vegetables to be acceptable. I may or may not reach that high ingredient threshold today.
Of all the influences affecting this ever-evolving recipe, the South Bay Florentine’s restaurant probably most inspires my minestrone. Our family happily frequented Florentine’s for as long as I have owned the Le Creuset pot. Unfortunately, when I drove by the Cupertino location earlier this month, I noticed it had gone out of business and has been replaced by a crab establishment. Change is relentless here in Silicon Valley so we must adapt. There may still be a Florentine’s in Saratoga; if I need to satisfy my nostalgia, perhaps we’ll go there one more time for bread sticks and cheese dip, the old school red checkered tablecloths, and hearty lasagna. In the meantime, I’ll recreate the tastes of yesteryear myself to secure the memory.
“The secret to a good minestrone is plenty of olive oil,” said my ex-brother-in-law who used to own a restaurant in Cincinnati. Although the family lost him to divorce, he taught us to make several classic Mediterranean dishes and so remains in our lives. John insisted you must sauté each vegetable separately to insure that it is infused with flavor. “Use as many vegetables as you can, to get a rich array of colors in the soup,” he said.
Even if I’ve been away awhile, I can usually find fresh onions, carrots, and celery (the holy trinity) as well as potatoes in the fridge, and frozen broccoli and peas in the freezer. Canned chickpeas, kidney beans, and tomatoes, a handful of macaroni and quart of chicken broth will round out the basics. For spicing, lots of garlic (five or six cloves, minced) is nonnegotiable, and a good Italian seasoning blend to complete the spicing. Today, I can happily add fresh parsley and basil from my newly planted herb garden.
Maybe it’s the effect of foraging, or some deep program derived from ancient ancestors who gathered for the tribe. Or maybe it’s wielding my old Henckel kitchen knife, chopping and mincing each vegetable, stirring the steamy suspension of familiar fragrances. As I assemble ingredients, chop, and stir, my senses come to life. The bouquet of garlic and herbs wafts through the kitchen. Circular motions with the old wooden spoon seem to connect my heart chakra to emotional memories within my brain. By making soup, I have once again gathered the disconnected pieces of myself. Our old marmalade cat Augie swishes around my ankles as I stand in bare feet on the kitchen mat. I feel fully present. From this moment, I can assess the rest of the day. While soup is simmering, I’ll buy a crusty country loaf from Panera, and we’ll uncork a red Sangiovese wine to accompany the soup for dinner. I have truly arrived now, and I am home.
Mealtime Rendezvous
By Nancy LaRonda Johnson
My stomach rumbled like the sound of rolling thunder. I looked at the guy in front of me and was mortified when he faced me and smiled. Being in a crowded elevator, I knew others around me must have heard the call of my hunger.
“Thank God it’s lunch, right?” he said, chuckling.
Maybe he was trying to make me feel better, but I felt all the worse. “Not for me,” I said.
He turned back to face the closed doors of the slow-moving torture chamber. He was gorgeous. Deep, dark eyes set within a richly brown manly face and a chin with a slight cleft. He had dimples when he smiled too.
At the twelfth floor, the doors spread apart so teasingly slow, people moved forward as if meaning to pry them apart faster with their fingers. About a quarter of the crowd got off there. “Thank God,” I muttered softly, copying the “calmer’s” words, still thinking of his mesmerizing eyes.
He turned to me again and, instead of moving away to give the people left more room for air, he leaned in close to me and said, “Not lunchtime…? I was thinking of asking you to show me where the good places are around here for a bite to eat.”
Even more humiliated when a drop of sweat rolled from my forehead to the corner of my eye and downward, like I was crying, I took a small step back. I tried to appear as feminine as I could, using my index finger to wipe away the trail of sweat. “No. For me it’s dinner time. Crazy schedule.”
The doors finally closed again, and the elevator continued its maddening pace downward. I checked him out again. He wore a pale gray suit, dark tie, shiny shoes, close-cut hairstyle. And he smelled good. Why would he be asking…?
He smiled again, cutting off my train of thought when he said, while pushing the button for the tenth floor, “Come with me for something to eat. We can take the stairs. It’ll be quicker and cooler even, I’m sure.”
“You can’t be new here,” I stupidly said.
“Well, yes. About two weeks at Fosters & Kipling.”
A broker or lawyer. The elevator started its anticipatory slowdown that would eventually lead to a full stop at the tenth floor. I couldn’t get myself to agree to a meal with him, so instead I said, “In two weeks you haven’t found a good place to eat or someone else to go with?”
His stare was intense. “No one and nowhere I’d like to. I’m Jace. Can I get your name before we go down the Tombs together?”
“I haven’t agreed to eat with you.” But I was smiling, and before I knew it, the doors were open. He took me by the fingertips and led me out.
“I’m Lara,” I said, following along, a bit wary. The Tombs was a code name for the dank stairway that was cooler than the elevator, but creepy as well, with not enough light and a musty concrete smell that I actually liked. I often took the stairs, but today I had been too tired.
I was grateful to be out of the elevator casket and could feel myself cooling a few degrees already. No one else got out on this floor that housed a few single-man attorney offices and had several vacant spots.
“Jace, what’s your last name?” We were making our way toward the end of the hallway to the door leading to the stairs.
He suddenly stopped, forcing me to either bump into him or stop myself. I stopp
ed. “I totally understand,” he said, looking serious. “I’ll give you time to text a friend that you’re out with me. I’m Jace Williams, newly hired at Fosters & Kipling.”
I was touched and embarrassed, because I hadn’t even thought of texting someone who I was with. It’s just that Jace was such an interesting name, I wanted to know if his last name matched it. Not wanting to seem callous about my safety, I composed an email to myself.
“A photo too?” I brazenly asked. He gave a mock GQ pose, and I clicked a photo with my phone. I figured if something did happen to me, my people would at some point be able to hack my email and see this. Or, I’d have something interesting to look at later.
After it’d sent, I nodded to him. “I emailed a friend that we’re going out to get something to eat.”
“Good,” he said, and we started again toward the stairs in silence.
Jace paused at the door, then opened it and turned to me. “We’re good, right?”
“Yes,” I responded, and stepped through. I tried to inconspicuously take in a deep whiff of the dank, cool air, getting pleasure from the scent. Jace came in behind me. “There are two places that I go to a lot,” I said. “But that’s me. I like quick, simple and close.”
“Well, Lara, I’m not sure if that’ll do for me. I’m not one for quick…or simple. But what would those places be?”
I held onto the railings as I stepped down the concrete stairs. “Subway Sandwich,” I said with a smile on my face, “and Chipotle are my quickies.”
“Okay…” he drawled out. “And if you’re not in a quickie mood?”
“Then there’s Alejandro’s or Tempo’s Diner, which has more of a variety.”
“Then, I say it’s time for Tempo.” He laughed at his own play on words, and I let myself bump into him as he walked along side me down the stairs. “That’s good you’re wearing flats,” he said.
“My job calls for it. It’s not practical for me to wear heels.” Which was good, because I hated heels and had never worn anything over half an inch in my life, though I didn’t tell him this. How many men dreamed of authoritative women wearing red high heels?
“You haven’t told me what you do.”
“No, I haven’t.” My phone signaled that I had a message even though it hadn’t rung. I took the cell out of my clutch to see who the message was from.
“Everything okay?” Jace asked.
“I’m sure,” I said, though I had no idea who it was since it was a blocked number. “Got a message, but it can wait. My shift’s over.”
“So, what is it that you do, Lara?”
I looked at him, wondering what he did at Fosters & Kipling, and I nearly tripped over a step. Jace slipped his hand under my arm and balanced me. His hand was rough as if he worked outdoors, but warm against my skin. Three times embarrassed in front of this beautiful man…so far. I was sure there would be more times before it was all over.
“You okay?” he asked.
I nodded, telling him thank you. “Being new and all, don’t you have to be back soon?”
“No, I’ve got time because of some meeting with a client they’re ending it with. Which is why I was able to ask you to join me.”
“Where’d you move from?”
“Oh, I’ve been here all my life. I changed fields, got my certificate, and after two months of searching, got hired. But I’d never come out to this side of town too often.” He was still holding my arm, though at a farther distance than when he balanced me.
I was looking at my feet and stairs, but peeked at him as he answered and noticed him checking out my legs. No one’s slender gal, I’d say my legs were my best features.
By the time I told him the area I was raised in and that my family’s no longer around, we were at the exit. The door opened to an alleyway at the side of the building and a partly cloudy and humid afternoon.
Jace came out after holding the door for me and said, “Where to, my dear?” He stood still, focusing on me. “Oh…now I see,” he said. “You don’t just have brown eyes. They’re flecked with green and grey. Beautiful.”
I blushed, though he may not have been able to tell. I was glad he wasn’t still holding onto me, because even if he couldn’t see the blood rushing to my face, he’d surely have felt the heat soaring through my arm. I turned toward the main street, ignoring his comments, and said, “This way. It’s not far.”
Before I started off, my stomach gave a traveling growl, as if a roaring lion were on the prowl within. Jace laughed and said, “Well, let’s hurry up and get you fed.”
Tempo wasn’t far, and we got there right when Jace was getting to the subject of my work for the third time since we’d met. I led him to a back corner table. The waitress didn’t seem to mind me taking on that part of her job. She left two menus and walked away.
Jace looked at me as if trying to figure me out. “What’s good here?” he asked, eying me with an undercurrent of curiosity.
“Everything,” I answered. “At least everything I’ve tried.” His lips were full and shapely, but at least his teeth seemed to need some work. He wasn’t totally perfect.
He put down the menu and lowered his voice, “You know what I’d like to do?” I didn’t say anything. “If you’re okay with it, I’d like to order something for you that I would love to watch you eat.”
I laughed out loud. “What does that mean, exactly?”
“You have a sexy mouth and beautiful eyes. I’d like to see how you work your food.”
There was no shame in him after saying this. If I shocked easily, I could have been offended and left, but I was more curious than anything. “I’m sorry, are you saying you’d like me to order a hotdog?”
He smiled leeringly and scratched at his sideburn. “I hadn’t thought about that.” He chuckled, and added, “But no. I’m thinking more like,” he picked up the menu and glanced over it. “Look here. If this spaghetti Alfredo is the long, saucy kind, I’d love to see how you handle the fork, twirl the pasta around it and study how it would work on your lips before you get it under control.”
“I never thought of spaghetti as sexy food.”
“One of the best. But that’s just one suggestion. Then there’s…” he scanned the menu more. “Oh, here it is,” he said, tapping on a selection. “Crab with garlic butter sauce!” he exclaimed. “And look here, they’ve topped the crab with chili flakes. My gawd, how delectable it would be to watch you take that on.”
His eyes appeared to glaze over in rapture. Then he sat up tall and shook his head a little. “What do you think?”
I laughed at him, while yet a little turned on by his boldness. “I think I’ll go out on a limb and order the crab.”
He managed to get ahold of himself and said, “Good.”
“What about you? What should I order for you?”
“Now, that wasn’t part of the deal,” he said teasingly.
“But you’ve given me ideas.” Though I knew the menu by heart, I looked it over with new eyes. “I think I could probably tell more about you if you get…” I threw him a mischievous grin, “a slab of ribs with chili fries.”
“You want to kill me off so soon?”
“Okay. What about shrimp bisque and Asian glazed chicken drumsticks? I could get some real intel by how you tackle those.”
“We’re on,” he said challengingly. He stared above my eyes.
“What?”
“Your hair.” He smiled adoringly. “Not many women wear their hair natural anymore.”
“You’re squirming around like you want to touch it.”
“Come on now, I’m not like that.” I knew what he was talking about. “It suits you well; highlights your facial features beautifully.”
“Thank you, Jace.”
“What is your last name, Lara?”
“McAllister.”
“Lara McAllister. Isn’t that a white girl’s name?” he said with a mocking grin.
“I got that a lot growing up. My mom named me
after my nurse.”
The waitress brought the appetizer Jace ordered for us, sautéed calamari with orange spice sauce sitting on a bed of pickled salad, and set down two pomegranate iced teas. I waited on Jace.
He lifted a calamari with a fork, dipped it in the sauce and took up a few strands of the salad. The fork hovered in midair, his taunting look entrancing me in an ambience of light that could have been my imagination.
“Open,” he said seductively. I did. He laid the food on my tongue. When I closed my mouth, a curly leg of the calamari stuck out from between my lips. He stared at it, captivated. I chewed slowly and swallowed.
“How is it?” he asked in a husky voice.
“Delicious.” His smile said it all and I could feel heat rising from my pulsating heart to my head. “Your turn.” I did the same for him. He moaned in delight, slightly closing his eyes.
We continued with the appetizer, laughing at each other’s manner of handling the tentacles. Once the last bite was completed, Jace moved in close to me and used his thumb to wipe a splatter of sauce from below my bottom lip. He closed his eyes and placed his thumb to his lips, quietly sucking it clean.
When he opened them, there was no pretense of ecstasy, but an intensity that bore into me. “What do you do, Lara? Why have you been avoiding this question? And why is your dinner at lunch time?”
The waitress appeared with my crab and Jace’s soup. She placed a plate in front of each of us and a shell collection dish in the middle of the table. After ensuring there was nothing more she could bring us at the moment, she left with Jace staring expectantly at me for a response.
I looked at the steaming crab and considered his questions, not quite sure if I understood why it mattered to him. I lifted my hand to get a leg, then lowered it again. Hands in my lap, I tilted my head and gazed at him sideways. “I’m not sure if dinner time, or your lunch time, is a good time to talk about my work.”
Ignoring the spoon, Jace lifted his soup bowl and silently sipped the broth. My eyes smiled; he was not a slurper. “Go on,” he said. “I can’t recall anything surprising me enough to not eat.”
