Literary Eats: A Big Storm Knocked It Over

Though I don’t like winter much, I do like this chapter from A Big Storm Knocked it Over, by Laurie Colwin. I like it very much, and could well imagine a Christmas like this. So here is the last idyllic scene of winter, as Jane Louise and her husband Teddy decide to do away with the stress and strife of holidays spent with family, and run away to Vermont for Christmas with Jane Louise’s best friends, Edie and Mokie.

In the end they bundled into Edie and Mokie’s old car and drove to Vermont, four very tall adults in a not terrible large space. Mokie and Teddy sat in the front, and since the seats were pushed back to accommodate their legs, Edie and Jane Louise squashed into the corners of the car and stretched their legs out crossways. Jane Louise passed around a thermos of coffee. In the trunk were four pairs of ice skates, and tied to the top of the car were Teddy’s cross-country skis.

They stayed at an inn kept by an old Swiss couple. The four of them were the only guests. The hostess had kept fires going in their rooms and put hot-water bottles into their beds. It was freezing cold.

After they gulped down a few excellent sandwiches, they crawled into bed. Jane Louise woke in the night to see that it was snowing. The fire in the room had died down. At dawn she woke up again to find herself inside a greeting card from another century. Outside the snow fell straight down in large, flat flakes. The room was wallpapered with a print of cabbage roses. The Persian rug was faded. One of the inn cats was asleep on a blue chair. It was Christmas Eve and she was far away from her family.

They went to breakfast…They wore silk underwear, leggings, T-shirts, turtlenecks, heavy sweaters, and three pairs of socks. They ate dozens of muffins, piles of toast, and cups and cups of coffee with hot milk.

After breakfast they ambled into the sitting room, sat in front of the fire, and read the papers.

“Gosh, this is romantic,” Mokie said.

Then it was time for lunch, and then they went up to their freezing rooms and took naps under their down quilts and blankets. If the Schuldes family was celebrating Christmas, there was little sign of it, although the sitting room was full of pine branches in enormous glass jars, and there were wreaths on every door. In the late afternoon the smell of mulled cider wafted up the stairs.

Jane Louise realized that she was exhausted. They were all exhausted. The idea of lying around napping took them by surprise, like a fall on the ice, and they surrendered to it. When they came down for dinner, they were surprised to find a cheerful group of people they had never seen before. Mrs. Schuldes explained that these were friends and relatives who always came for Christmas supper and evening skating. Guests of the inn were traditionally included.

They stood in the living room, drinking hot cider, until the doors to the dining room were pulled back to reveal the kind of table Edie said [her client] would have paid several hundred thousand dollars to have someone fix up for her. On the large sideboard were three roast ducks, a glazed ham, an enormous glass dish containing a mountain of beet and herring salad, greens, roast potatoes, and a giant Christmas cake.

“This is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” Edie said.

As they began their dinner, the front door crashed open, and in walked the three big Schuldes boys and their dogs. They had just come from cleaning off the pond and setting out the flambeaux: huge torches on poles. They sat down and began eating quantities of food Jane Louise found mind-boggling. “Did you and Mokie eat the way when you were teenagers?” she asked Teddy.

“Honey, I still eat that way,” said Mokie. “This is Heaven.”

Here they were, the four of them, at this big table in the middle of nowhere on a major holiday, surrounded by people they had never seen before. Jane Louise was eating her duck and thinking about sex. What was anyone else thinking about?

After dinner they piled on their coats and scarves, gloves and boots, and went down to the pond for an evening skate. The Schuldes boys had lit the flambeaux. Near the benches, where you could sit and put your skates on, they had lit a bonfire. The pale quarter moon hung in the cloudy sky, and the stars peeked in and out of the fleeting darkness.

Teddy was a wonderful skater. It was like dancing to him…He skated over to Jane Louise and led her onto the ice…Skating with Teddy was nicer than any skating she had ever done.

Over on the other side Mokie and Edie were being silly. They looked like a pair of storks…waltzing and twirling and Edie was laughing.

Mr. Schuldes skated while smoking a large curved pipe and wearing a Tyrolean outfit and feathered hat. Mrs. Schuldes wore an old mink coat. One of the guests, who had been a professional skater in her youth, took off her coat to reveal a pink skating costume She glided out in the middle and executed a series of twirls and leaps.

The three Schuldes boys pushed a round wooden table onto the ice and covered it with a cloth. Mrs. Schuldes skated out with a tray of hot chocolate and cookies.

“I have died and gone to Heaven,” Edie said to Jane Louise. “This isn’t really real, is it?”

Jane Louise thought it was like a fairy tale out of the Old World, like a Victorian postcard or the Nutcracker Ballet.

Teddy drank his chocolate and kissed his wife…It was dark. It was Christmas. He was on ice skates with his wife in the freezing cold, drinking hot chocolate and eating the kind of powdery nut cookies that melt in your mouth. For an instant life was frozen…This was Heaven.

It had begun to snow fine, needlelike flakes that buzzed and stung. Jane Louise felt her heart open. Maybe everything would be all right after all, and if you worked almost till you dropped, roasting ducks and sharpening your ice skates and planning to move a table out onto a frozen pond, and if you kept your fires burning and picked your friends with care – maybe if you made sure that every single thing was just so, life would not spin out of control and make you sick with anxiety and concern.

“Someday,” Jane Louise said, as she and Teddy took one, last slow skate around the pond. “Someday we’ll get a house with a pond and have a party just like this, except we’ll all do it together and have all our family and friends.”

Teddy held her tighter. He knew perfectly well that in this world few events pop off so well, and few families and friends gather so peacefully. He did not want to say that this evening had been lovely because Mokie and Edie were their family by choice.

But of course he did not have to say it. As they walked arm in arm back to their rooms, he knew perfectly well that Jane Louise realized exactly the same thing.

–A Big Storm Knocked it Over, by Laurie Colwin, Harper Collins, New York, 1993.

Photo Credit: Rafael

Literary Eats: The Fourteen Sisters of Emilio Montez O'Brien

I don’t know how Oscar Hijuelos created a family of seventeen and made each member unique and memorable, but The Fourteen Sisters of Emilio Montez O’Brien is a masterpiece of both writing and food.

Nelson O’Brien is an enterprising Irish immigrant who travels to Cuba during the Spanish-American War in 1898, and there he meets his future wife, the sensitive, aristocratic, poetic Mariela Montez. As they are en route to America in 1902, their first daughter, Margarita is born at sea. The Montez O’Brien’s settle in a in a small Pennsylvania town, where Nelson practices his photography trade and runs the Jewel Box Movie Theatre, and Mariela gives birth to thirteen more daughters and then, finally, a son.

As Margarita looks back on her long and full life, the novel recounts the lives, loves and tragedies of the Montez O’Briens and their always complex relations with one another.

I spotted this book on my basement bookshelves tonight and realized I am very overdue to read it again. Quickly skimming through the pages, I wondered if there was something I could use for the Tuesday post, some good eats in the Montez O’Brien house. And then of course I remembered: Irene.

Better to consider the love of Irene, the seventh of the sisters, with her most elegant name. Cherubic, good-natured, and chubby as an infant and as an adolescent (how she loved it when the butler García would show up with those bags of plaintains that they could fry to crispiness in a large cast-iron pan), she had always been lavished with many sweets and foods and with sisterly affection. As she became a young woman, those beautiful features were swallowed by the moonlike roundness of her excessively fleshed-out face, and she lived for meals and was most happy to sit in her room eating one-cent sweets and spoonfuls of sugar or of honey, the idea of falling in love with a man never occurring to her except when she read magazines and would envy those young women whose boyfriends and husbands brought them chocolates. She would daydream about love, not so much for the sweet kisses and embraces of a man, or the roses that romance was said to bring, but for the boxes of dome-shaped, swirl-topped Belgian chocolates with maraschino-cherry centers, marzipan delights, chocolates with coconut centers, chocolates stuffed with citron and nuts.

Mouth watering yet? Anyway, at around age 20 Irene decides to find herself a man and to do this she goes on a diet, and understandably becomes quite unhappy. Her father tries to help by giving her a bicycle for the sake of exercise, but this has no effect other than to bulk up her already hefty legs. Then one day, out cycling, she collides head-on with a young man.

A young man as immense and porcine as herself, a fellow in a black top coat and schoolboy’s beanie cap, whose pockets, as it turned out, were stuffed with sugar cubes and candies…When they had lifted up their bent bikes, they sat for a time under a tree, more or less pleased by each other’s corpulence, as in this circumstance neither felt shame. His name was Pokapoulos, a Greek fellow, and he lived in a nearby town, and was the son of a butcher, and he, too, confessed that he loved to eat…

He started to visit with the family, always sidling in through the door and bringing parcels of meat with him, to her father’s delight – for Nelson O’Brien loved his steaks thick and juicy – and when he would stroll with her, or keep her company in the kitchen while she helped cook the evening’s meal, he was always attentive and complimentary to her. “My, but you look pretty tonight,” he would tell her, and, as in a fairy tale, made her feel so happy that she began to forget about the troubles of the world…

When he ate with the family, tasting her cookery, his eyes would water with delight and he would look on her with nothing less than complete adoration. And though it would be hard for any of the sisters to think that Irene and this fellow were acquainted with the romance of heated embraces, they, when alone, would engage in long bouts of succulent, tongue-swallowing kisses, tongues tasting of sweets and nut breads and steak, entwined and thick with the blood of appetite and the promise of an all-devouring consummation. That would take place after three years of mealtime conviviality, during a honeymoon which they would spend in a country inn near Lake George, a Swiss-style chalet known for its view of the Adirondacks and attendant waterway and for its quail-stuffed pastries and all-you-can-eat dessert buffet.

(Gulp)…Check, please!

Literary Eats: At Home on the Range

While unpacking boxes of old family books recently, author Elizabeth Gilbert rediscovered a dusty, yellowed hardcover called At Home on the Range, originally written by her great-grandmother, Margaret Yardley Potter. Having only been peripherally aware of the volume, Gilbert dug in with some curiosity, and soon found that she had stumbled upon a book far ahead of its time. Part scholar and part crusader for a more open food conversation, Potter espoused the importance of farmer’s markets and ethnic food (Italian, Jewish, and German), derided preservatives and culinary shortcuts, and generally celebrated a devotion to epicurean adventures. Reading this practical and humorous cookbook, it’s not hard to see that Gilbert inherited her great-grandmother’s love of food and her warm, infectious prose.

The excerpt below, from the chapter entitled “Egg Yourself on in Emergencies,” is, in my opinion, one of the most perfectly perfect things written. Ever.

The second inexpensive assistant to have in your icebox for quick meals is cold boiled potatoes, dull as it sounds, but their variations are almost as endless as those of eggs.

Hashed browns are my first thought, probably because I spent most of my young summer days on the New Jersey coast and a plate of crusty potatoes, soft inside and turned omelet-fashion from the sizzling pan always brings back memories of numerous fishing picnics and I can almost smell the driftwood smoke and see the sun setting over the water. The party generally consisted of three or four young sportsmen and the fortunate (so we thought) girls of their choice, and we started early and eagerly planning and providing food for our Izaak Waltons.

First, we’d have two stuffed eggs apiece, made as I have told you, each half carefully clapped onto its mate and the whole wrapped in wax paper. Then a quart jar or so of whole peeled ripe tomatoes and a smaller one of sharp French dressing, thick with slices of onion and chopped celery, and perhaps a washed, chilly head of lettuce, well wrapped. One of the embryo housewives would produce a cake or a pie, for in those days girls thought their swains were impressed by their culinary skill, and with a great paper bag of cold boiled white potatoes and a pound or two of sliced bacon we were ready to go, accompanied by rattling frying pans, plates, cups, cutlery and a coffee pot.

A trip by canoe or sailboat to the beach, and the boys busied themselves building a fire and then vanished with their fishing rods while we got ready for their return in what we felt was a truly domestic fashion. Coffee and water were measured into the big pot and set aside. The tomatoes and dressing were put in a shady, cool place, bread was sliced and buttered, and all hands began peeling and dicing the potatoes. At dusk, just before we expected our fishermen back, we started all the bacon frying and then put the brown slices to drain on a bit of paper. Some of the grease was saved for the fish that seemingly never failed to appear with the boys and into about ½ inch of the grease that was left went the diced potatoes and a few pieces of chopped onion and lots of salt and pepper. The whole mass was well pressed down into the hot pan and then moved to a “medium” corner of the fire, there to remain for about half an hour.

When the fishing had been unusually good and we needed no extra meat, the bacon was broken up in the potatoes just before we served them, otherwise it went in between our buttered slices of bread. How good the ice-cold tomatoes with their spicy dressing tasted with the broiled fresh fish we basted with the bacon drippings, and how we argued over who should get the last crumb of brown potato before the pan was taken to the edge of the beach for its scrub with sand and sea water! Then big cups of strong black coffee and huge pieces of cake or pie and, while the sun set, someone stirred up the fire and a young voice started ‘Be My Little Baby Bumble Bee’ or maybe a newer song like ‘By the Beautiful Sea.’ Is it any wonder I like hashed brown potatoes?

But even without my memories, try them made just the same way on a prosaic stove. Let the boiled potatoes be cold and dry and have the bacon grease and skillet hot. For home consumption a few chopped onion tops or chives are better than the lustier sliced onion, and a dusting of chopped parsley makes them more delicate. The finished product, with some of our faithful poached eggs resting on top and the bacon curled about the edge, is a one-dish luncheon that any man, particularly, will relish. Sliced tomatoes in sharp dressing just like that made at the picnic, hot coffee, gingerbread from a good package mix, topped with marshmallows when it’s half baked, fruit—and how long has it taken you? Not more than half an hour, including setting the table.

—At Home on the Range by Margaret Yardley Potter. McSweeney’s, March 2012