Animal, Vegetable, Miracle: A Year of Food Life

by Barbara Kingsolver

  We'd long since said good-bye to summer's fruits, in exchange for some that are bountiful in December: antique apples, whose flavor improves with cold weather; native persimmons, which aren't edible until after frost hits the tree. It's also the season of citrus in the Deep South, and if you don't live there, the transfer of oranges across a few states from Florida or Texas still seems more reasonable than some fruit on walkabout from another hemisphere. Our holiday food splurge was a small crate of tangerines, which we found ridiculously thrilling after an eight-month abstinence from citrus. No matter where I was in the house, that vividly resinous orangey scent woke up my nose whenever anyone peeled one in the kitchen. Lily hugged each one to her chest before undressing it as gently as a doll. Watching her do that as she sat cross-legged on the floor one morning in pink pajamas, with bliss lighting her cheeks, I thought: Lucky is the world, to receive this grateful child. Value is not made of money, but a tender balance of expectation and longing.

  How to Impress your Wife, Using a Machine

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  I know you've got one around somewhere: maybe in the closet. Or on the kitchen counter, so dusty nobody remembers it's there. A bread machine. You can actually use that thing to make some gourmet bread for about 50 cents a loaf, also becoming a hero to your loved ones.

  First, get the machine out of the closet (or the box, if it's still in there). Second, I'm sorry, but you'll have to read enough of the manual to know how to put together a basic loaf. Then do exactly that: find a basic recipe for the white or whole wheat loaf and make it a few times, to get a feel for it. Use fresh ingredients; throw out that old flour and yeast and start with new flour milled specifically for bread, preferably organic.

  Now comes the creative part. Visit your local health food store or grocery and find the flour section. Most will stock what might be called alternative flours; these are the key to your gourmet bread. Among these are wheat varieties like kamut, pumpernickel, durum, and other grains such as spelt, oats, or rye. Other flours are made from rice, soy, buckwheat, millet, corn, potato, and barley. Beyond these are less familiar (and less appreciated) grains such as teff, amaranth, or quinoa, tubers like yams or arrowroot ground into flours, and meals made from nuts or seeds: chickpeas, flaxseeds, or almonds. In some regions you may find mesquite or malanga. Pick a few of these you'd like to try, and stock them with your other ingredients.

  When you put together your next loaf of bread, substitute some of your alternatives for the regular flour. Be experimental, but use only a little at first, just 1/4 to ? cup--too much nonwheat flour can compromise the texture or rise of the loaf. Flaxseed meal and buckwheat are especially healthy and successful additions. With practice, you'll find desirable blends, and might be tempted to try out a loaf in your oven. Even the failures will be fresh, warm, and make the house smell great. The successes will become indispensable additions to your good local meals.

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  STEVEN L. HOPP

  On Boxing Day we had friends over for a no-holds-barred Italian dinner made from our own garden goods (chestnut and winter-squash-stuffed ravioli) combined with some special things we'd brought back from Tuscany: truffles, olive oil, lupini beans. Starting with rolling out and stuffing the ravioli, we proceeded through the cheeses and bread brought by our guests, a stunning bottle of Bordeaux that was a gift from a French colleague, antipasto of our dried Principe Borghese tomatoes, salad greens from generous friends with a greenhouse, and several other courses culminating in a dessert of homemade yogurt, gingered figs, and local honey. We managed to stretch dinner into a five-hour-long social engagement in the Mediterranean fashion. It took ten years for Steven and me to work ourselves up to a vacation in Italy, but from there we were quick studies on how to have dinner.

  For most people everywhere, surely, food anchors holiday traditions. I probably spent some years denying the good in that, mostly subconsciously--devoutly refusing the Thanksgiving pie, accepting the stigma my culture has attached to celebrating food, especially for women my age. Because of the inscriptions written on our bodies by the children we've borne, the slowing of metabolisms and inevitable shape-shifting, we are supposed to pretend if we are strong-willed that food is not all that important. Eat now and pay later, we're warned. Stand on the scale, roll your eyes, and on New Year's Day resolve to become a moral person again.

  But most of America's excess pounds were not gained on national holidays. After a certain age we can't make a habit of pie, certainly, but it's a soul-killing dogma that says we have to snub it even on Thanksgiving. Good people eat. So do bad people, skinny people, fat people, tall and short ones. Heaven help us, we will never master photosynthesis. Planning complex, beautiful meals and investing one's heart and time in their preparation is the opposite of self-indulgence. Kitchen-based family gatherings are process-oriented, cooperative, and in the best of worlds, nourishing and soulful. A lot of calories get used up before anyone sits down to consume. But more importantly, a lot of talk happens first, news exchanged, secrets revealed across generations, paths cleared with a touch on the arm. I have given and received some of my life's most important hugs with those big oven-mitt potholders on both hands.

  Holiday gatherings provide a category of cheer I especially need in winter after the depressing Daylight Robbery incident. Fortunately, the first one follows right on the heels of the clock fall-back, at the beginning of November: Dia de los Muertos. I learned to celebrate the Mexican Day of the Dead during many years of living among Mexican-American friends, and brought it with me to a surprisingly receptive community in southwestern Virginia. It seemed too important to leave behind.

  The celebration has its roots in Aztec culture, whose Micteca-cihuatl--"Lady of the Dead"--presided over rituals that welcomed dead friends and ancestors back among the living. Spanish priests arriving among the Aztecs were alarmed to find people dancing around with skeletons, making flowery altars, and generally making whoopee with the memory of their deceased. This would never do. The priests tried moving it from midsummer to November 1 and cloaking it in the Roman Catholic aegis of All Saints Day. Surely everyone would get more from this jolly pagan hootenanny if it were renamed and observed with droning in Latin about an endless list of dead saints.

  The date is the only part of that plan that stuck. Dia de los Muertos is still an entirely happy ritual of remembering one's departed loved ones, welcoming them into the living room by means of altars covered with photographs and other treasured things that bring memory into the present. Families also visit cemeteries to dress up the graves. I've seen plots adorned not just with flowers but also seashells, coins, toys, the Blessed Virgin, cigarettes, and tequila bottles. (To get everybody back, you do what you have to do.) Then the family members set out a picnic, often directly on top of a grave, and share reminiscences about the full cast of beloved dead, whether lured in by the flowers or the tequila, and it's the best party of the year. Food is the center of this occasion, especially aromatic dishes that are felt to nourish spiritual presence. The one indispensable food is pan de muerto, bread of the dead, a wonderfully sweet, full-of-eggs concoction that Frida Kahlo raised to an art form. For our own Dia de los Muertos celebration this year we cracked enough eggs to make pan de muerto for thirty. Thus Frida took a personal hand in lifting Lily's debt.

  Anthropologists who write about this holiday always seem surprised by how pleasant the festivals are, despite the obvious connections with morbidity. Most modern lives include very few days penciled onto the calendar for talking and thinking about people we miss because they've died. Death is a gulf we rarely broach, much less celebrate joyfully. By coincidence (or actually, because of those priests again), a different, ancient non-Christian holiday from northern Europe is also celebrated at the same time of year. That one is called Hallowe'en and reinforces an opposite tradition, characterizing death as horrifying and grotesque. Far be it from me to critique an opportunity to dress up and beg free candy, but I prefer Dia de los Muertos. It's not at all
spooky. It's funny and friendly.

  Most of what's known about religious practices in pre-Hispanic Mexico has come to us through a Catholic parish priest named Hernando Ruiz de Alarcon, one of the few who ever became fluent in the Nahuatl language. He spent the 1620s writing his Treatise on the Superstitions and Heathen Customs that Today Live Among the Indians Native to This New Spain. He'd originally meant it to be something of a "field guide to the heathens" to help priests recognize and exterminate indigenous religious rites and their practitioners. In the process of his documentation, though, it's clear from his writings that Father Ruiz de Alarcon grew sympathetic. He was particularly fascinated with how Nahuatl people celebrated the sacred in ordinary objects, and encouraged living and spirit realities to meet up in the here and now. He noted that the concept of "death" as an ending did not exactly exist for them. When Aztec people left their bodies, they were presumed to be on an exciting trip through the ether. It wasn't something to cry about, except that the living still wanted to visit with them. People's sadness was not for the departed, but for themselves, and could be addressed through ritual visiting called Xantolo, an ordinary communion between the dead and the living. Mexican tradition still holds that Xantolo is always present in certain places and activities, including wild marigold fields, the cultivation of corn, the preparation of tamales and pan de muerto. Interestingly, farmers' markets are said to be loaded with Xantolo.

  I'm drawn to this celebration, I'm sure, because I live in a culture that allows almost no room for dead people. I celebrated Dia de los Muertos in the homes of friends from a different background, with their deceased relatives, for years before I caught on. But I think I understand now. When I cultivate my garden I'm spending time with my grandfather, sometimes recalling deeply buried memories of him, decades after his death. While shaking beans from an envelope I have been overwhelmed by a vision of my Pappaw's speckled beans and flat corn seeds in peanut butter jars in his garage, lined up in rows, curated as carefully as a museum collection. That's Xantolo, a memory space opened before my eyes, which has no name in my language.

  When I'm cooking, I find myself inhabiting the emotional companionship of the person who taught me how to make a particular dish, or with whom I used to cook it. Slamming a door on food-rich holidays, declaring food an enemy, sends all the grandparents and great aunts to a lonely place. I have been so relieved lately to welcome them back: my tiny great-aunt Lena who served huge, elaborate meals at her table but would never sit down there with us herself, insisting on eating alone in the kitchen instead. My grandmother Kingsolver, who started every meal plan with dessert. My other grandmother, who made perfect rolls and gravy. My Henry grandfather, who used a cool attic room to cure the dark hams and fragrant cloth-wrapped sausages he made from his own hogs. My father, who first took me mushroom hunting and taught me to love wild asparagus. My mother, whose special way of beating eggs makes them fly in an ellipse in the bowl.

  Here I stand in the consecrated presence of all they have wished for me, and cooked for me. Right here, canning tomatoes with Camille, making egg bread with Lily. Come back, I find myself begging every memory. Come back for a potholder hug.

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  Food Fright

  BY CAMILLE

  When I travel on airplanes I often indulge in one of my favorite guilty pleasures: trashy magazines. Nothing makes the time fly like most-embarrassing-first-date stories and completely impractical fashion advice. And of course, always, the diet dos and don'ts. Which ten foods you should eat to melt fat and have more energy. On a recent trip I came across an article warning about the Danger Foods for Dieters: the hazards of hidden calories and craving triggers, revealed in a tone I'd thought was reserved for shows like Unsolved Mysteries. Would I even be able to sleep that night for fear of an 800-calorie smoothie (disguised as a healthy fruit drink) jumping out from under my bed and pouring itself down my esophagus? Yikes!!

  Can we really be this afraid of the stuff that sustains human life? Of where our food comes from, and what it might do to us? We can, we are. TV dinners and neon blue Jell-O are unsolved mysteries. As far removed as most of us are from the processes of growing and preparing our food, it makes a certain kind of sense to see food as the enemy. It's very natural to fear the unknown.

  The first step toward valuing and trusting food is probably eating food that has some integrity. People who hold their traditions of food preparation and presentation in high regard don't tend to bargain-shop for cheap calories. Associating food with emotional comfort can lead to a life of scary habits and pitfalls, if the training ground is candy bars for good report cards and suckers for bravery during a booster shot. But there are other ways to go. Some of my happiest family memories involve making and eating elaborate meals for special occasions. Food turns events into celebrations. It's not just about the food, but the experience of creating and then consuming it. People need families and communities for this kind of experience. Kids need parents, or some kind of guide, to lead them toward the food routines our bodies need. Becoming familiar with the process of food production generates both respect and a greater sense of calm about the whole idea of dinner.

  This Thanksgiving corn pudding goes with one of our roasted turkeys, baked sweet potatoes, steamed Brussels sprouts or braised winter squash, and more than enough stuffing. Here, also, is a recipe for pan de muerto, the traditional food for Day of the Dead celebrations. Finally, I've included some recipes we developed for our preserved tomatoes. Dried tomatoes are one of many foods that are ridiculously expensive to buy, inexpensive to make. If you have (or can borrow) a food dryer, you can save a hundred dollars fast by purchasing five extra pounds of small tomatoes every time you visit the market and dehydrating them. In winter we toss them into soups and stews as well as making this antipasto and pesto, which we often pack in fancy anchovy jars for holiday gifts.

  HOLIDAY CORN PUDDING A NINE-YEAR-OLD CAN MAKE

  3 cups corn kernels

  2 eggs, beaten

  1 cup milk

  1 cup grated Gouda or Jack cheese

  2 tablespoons parsley (dried)

  1 tablespoon marjoram (dried)

  Salt and pepper to taste

  Combine ingredients and pour into greased baking dish. Bake at 350deg for 45 minutes or until top is puffy and golden.

  FRIDA KAHLO'S PAN DE MUERTO

  This recipe makes 30 small breads. The hard part is making them look like she did: shaped like skulls and dancing whirligig bones. Just making it tasty is not complicated, but you do have to start the dough the evening before your party is scheduled, then bake them just beforehand.

  71/2 cups white flour, sifted

  2 cups sugar (or 11/2 cups honey)

  11/4 cups butter

  2 packages active dry yeast dissolved in 5 tablespoons warm milk

  12 eggs

  2 teaspoons cinnamon

  2 teaspoons vanilla extract

  Put flour into a large bowl, cut in the butter, make a well in the center, and pour in the yeast and milk, eggs, sugar or honey, cinnamon, and vanilla. Work it with a spoon, then your hands, until it pulls away from the sides of the bowl. If dough is too soft, knead in more flour. If using honey, more flour will be necessary. Shape into a ball, grease and flour it lightly, and let stand in a warm place for 2 1/2 hours, until doubled. Refrigerate overnight. Shape chilled dough into balls the size of a peach. Then shape or decorate them in any way that makes you think of your deceased ancestors. Place on greased baking sheets and let rise until doubled, about 11/2 hours. Dust with powdered sugar and cinnamon, and bake at 350deg for 30 minutes, until the bottoms sound hollow when tapped.

  ANTIPASTO TOMATOES

  Lots of tomatoes

  This step involves thinking ahead. Small tomatoes work best for drying--Juliets, Principe Borgheses, Sun Golds, or cherry types. Cut in half and arrange skin-side-down on trays in a food dehydrator, or the sun if you live in a dry climate. Dry until they feel between leathery and brittle.

&
nbsp; Vinegar

  Dried thyme

  Capers

  Olive oil

  Place dried tomatoes in a bowl. Heat vinegar in a saucepan or microwave, then pour enough into the bowl to cover the tomatoes. Soak for 10 minutes, then pour it off and save (it makes a great vinaigrette). Press off excess vinegar with the back of a wooden spoon. Then toss the damp tomatoes with thyme, or other spices that appeal to you. Pack loosely in glass jars with capers and enough olive oil to cover. They will keep on the shelf this way for several weeks, but taste so good they probably won't last that long.

  DRIED TOMATO PESTO

  2 cups dried tomatoes 1 cup coarsely chopped walnuts

  3/4 cup olive oil

  1/3 cup grated Parmesan

  1/4 cup dried basil

  4 cloves garlic

  2 tablespoons balsamic or other good vinegar

  1/2 teaspoon salt

  Puree all ingredients in a food processor until smooth. Add a little water if it seems too sticky, but it should remain thick enough to spread on a slice of bread.

  Download these and all other Animal, Vegetable, Miracle recipes at www.AnimalVegetableMiracle.com

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  18 * WHAT DO YOU EAT IN JANUARY?

  "January brings the snow...," began the well-thumbed, illustrated children's book about the seasons that my children cleaved to as gospel, while growing up in a place where January did nothing of the kind. Our sunny Arizona winters might bring a rim of ice on the birdbath at dawn, but by midafternoon it would likely be warm enough to throw open the school bus windows. Tucson households are systematically emptied of all sweatshirts and jackets in January, as kids wear them out the door in the morning and forget all about them by noon, piling up derelict sweatshirt mountains in the classroom corners.