Some days are just meant for leftovers. Today is one of them. Just a putter-around-the-place kind of afternoon taking care of the minutia of daily life in the midst of autumn’s precipitous fall toward winter. Cloistered in our separate tasks, neither of us really feels like cooking. We’ve worn out the poor kitchen by this point of the day anyway, munching this and that, canning this year’s hot pepper sauce, and doing yesterday’s dishes. The busiest room in the house, our kitchen rarely lacks for company. Besides being the hub of all things delicious, it serves as the launching pad for most of our social life, foodies that we are, as well as the runway between Betsie’s office and the rest of the house.
But we are hungry, so… Betsie opens the fridge, shuffles through a few things and comes out with a jarful of homemade chanterelle soup from three days ago, a loaf of sourdough rye that needs finishing, and the makings of a salad – the last of a head of romaine lettuce, cold cooked beets and garbanzo beans, some feta cheese to crumble on top, green olives to chop into it, some lemon tahini dressing and a cup of toasted sunflower seeds to sprinkle on. She puts the soup in the microwave and returns to her bookkeeping while I get the salad ready. Thirty odd years of togetherness yields efficient kitchen protocols – we know how to stay out of each other’s way.
At last the soup is hot. We’ve toasted and buttered the rye. The salads are ready. Seats are found on the couch and chairs in the living room where the best view of the fields and garden are. Little formality here. The food awaits.
The soup is rich and hearty. Chanterelles, shallots, garlic, basil and oregano, and salt and pepper sauteed together and blended with a broth distilled from one of our homegrown chickens and a good deal of half-n-half. Did I mention the cup of wine that went in at the end while it was simmering? But like I said, that was three days ago when we had energy for such things.
We sit in companionable silence while we eat, letting the wealth of flavors, aromas and textures melt into us, sharing the fruits and woes of our respective thoughts and deeds from the day and perhaps for the future. Afterwards, a long languid walk in the brisk late afternoon air to encourage proper digestion, the waxing gibbous moon slithering in and out of the wispy clouds, birds finding their way to roosting spots on the tall firs up the hill. Upon winding up back in the house with the same chores and tasks on our minds, we return to where we left off. Me writing and Betsie bookkeeping.
Yet for some reason, I find myself musing over mealtimes from long ago. A post-repast pondering of past repasts, as it were! I remember how growing up, dinners were formal affairs everyday. Sitting around the table together, proper manners enforced, civil conversations. Ritualizing the meal, socializing us kids. “This is how it’s done.” I wonder, did Mom ever let that go in her own house later when we were gone? Did she find it more comfortable and relaxing to eat in her recliner watching the news? (Note: There was a short period of time – I was about ten or twelve years old – when we acquired TV trays and were allowed to watch the 6:00 cartoons or championship bowling from the couch as we ate dinner from the trays. But that ended when my father moved out and Mom needed to establish new rhythms. A story for another time.) Certainly, whenever we visited Mom as adults, we reverted to the formalities of now sixty years ago to mark the occasion. But it was an “occasion” and so deserved marking. I actually can’t remember staying with her long enough for the formality to wear off sufficiently to bring about a more relaxed meal time.
All these thoughts bubble under my calm and focused demeanor. Mom passed six years ago. No more opportunities for casual occasions there. But I sincerely hope she did relax, because that is how we are. She taught us kids well.