A Walker in the Suburbs

Once a month or so, Celia and I work at a food bank. We sort cans, shelve food, or make up boxes called “As and Ps.” “A” boxes contain cereal, peanut butter and jelly plus the usual complement of dried pasta, canned meats, vegetables and soups. “B” boxes hold more fruit and fruit juice, more meat and tuna, and, if possible, canned milk. I have a new appreciation for canned milk since we’ve worked there, will always give it to food banks if I have a chance.

Coming home after one of our expeditions I debate what to make for dinner. It shouldn’t be steak or lamb chops, not that we have those much anyway. And it shouldn’t be based on fresh fruits or vegetables. Something simple, whipped up from a can or a jar. Spaghetti with sauce. A simple salad from a bag. French bread. We eat well. We eat in solidarity.

Photo: Free-Extras

My sister, Ellen, joined me in Chincoteague at the end of the week and we spent a lazy day together talking, walking the beach, riding our bikes and sitting in the hot tub. After dinner Friday night we started talking about Smith Island cakes. Ellen had tasted a couple and as she described the many light layers, the delectable frosting, the overall wonder of the thing, we decided we had to taste one.

So we went by a place that advertised the cakes. They were out. The town bakery was closed. As we looked through menus in our motel lobby, the ladies at the desk overheard our conversation. We would be driving home the next day through Salisbury. Did they know of anyplace?

Salisbury, asked one, with a faint smile and a faintly arched brow. Yes, she did. Which is how Ellen and I found ourselves in a little strip shopping center off Milford Drive in downtown Salisbury, Maryland, buying ourselves each a slice of a fresh strawberry Smith Island cake.

Yes, the layers were lighter the air. And there were seven of ’em. The strawberries were ripe and full-bodied. The frosting was divine. No wonder the cake is Maryland’s official state dessert. It was a sweet way to end a vacation.

Photo from smithisland.org

A few days ago I chopped two onions, peeled three potatoes, assembled a soup bone and stew beef, canned tomatoes, celery, carrots, beans and corn. I set about making vegetable soup the way I learned to as a girl. It takes the better part of a day to do this — but it’s not concentrated time, of course, just whenever you can edge it into whatever else you’re doing. When you’re done, your refrigerator may look a bit like ours above, empty and used up.

I boiled the meat and the bone first, skimmed the broth, then added vegetables according to texture and flavor — onions and celery for seasoning, potatoes, then tomatoes, carrots and so on. It takes a couple hours before it’s bubbling on the stove and the vegetables begin to soften and blend into each other. To become less themselves and one with the soup.

Because I started making the soup in the evening I knew we wouldn’t eat it till the next day. And more importantly, I knew that the soup wouldn’t be at its best until we’d cooled and reheated it several times. There must be a chemical or gastronomical explanation for this but I don’t know what it is. I do know that vegetable soup is at its best about three days after you make it. And in fact, soup is one of those slow foods, and making it harkens back to an earlier time when things worth doing took time and patience.

One of our most coveted possessions is an electric tea kettle (not pictured; it’s too grungy to photograph) that automatically shuts off once the water has boiled. And one of my favorite sounds of the morning is the steady crescendo of boiling water the kettle produces. It’s barely perceptible at first, a quiet hiss, but 20 seconds later, it’s rumbling enough that I can hear it from the top of the stairs.

It’s a friendly, promising sound. It doesn’t demand immediate attention, as a whistling tea kettle does. The boiled water will stay hot for several minutes if you don’t reach it right away. Or if you’re a purist (as I am), you simply switch it on again to heat the water to the proper just-boiled temperature before warming the pot and making the tea.

I could pick our tea kettle’s sound out of a aural lineup any day. It says: you are not alone on this cold winter day. Soon you will curl your fingers around a mug of hot tea, sweetened with a splash of milk and way too much sugar. You will sip, you will wake up, you will take on the day.

Like everything else, cooking has its seasons. Fall is the time for hearty soups and stews, for roasts and root vegetables and, of course, for pie. I’ve never been too interested in the fillings; for me, the point of the pie is the crust.

I use Crisco. No butter. No margarine. And when in doubt, I use more Crisco. I sift two cups of flour with one teaspoon of salt, then cut in three-fourths cup (or slightly more) of Crisco. Once that’s blended into a pebbly mixture, I add six to eight tablespoons of ice-cold water and lightly stir (just until blended) with a fork.

At this point I barely touch the stuff — I just quickly turn it out onto a floured board, roll, shape and slide into the pie pan. The more I fiddle with it, the tougher it gets.

Pie crust, like so many things in life, is best approached with a full heart and a light hand.

For most people, a blue Monday is what we have today in Washington, D.C., a rainy start to the week. But for me a Blue Monday will always be a candy bar, a most scrumptious treat — melt-in-your-mouth cream candy on the inside and thick semi-sweet chocolate on the outside. It’s a regional specialty, sold only in Kentucky as far as I know.

Given that the closest Blue Monday is hundreds of miles away, I will scrimp on the description. Were I to explain how it tastes to bite into one of these confections, the slight bitterness of the chocolate, followed by the exceptionally creamy and sweet innards of the bar… well, I might start climbing the walls. Instead I search through my files for a photo. It’s not of a Blue Monday; that’s probably copyrighted by Ruth Hunt Candies. Instead, it’s a photo Suzanne took at a candy shop in Bratislava. A chocolate fountain par excellence. So for chocolate lovers everywhere–from Kentucky to Slovakia–here’s to Blue Mondays.