Starting a project...

A Sandwich Without Avocado Isn’t Worth Eating
by Betsy Banks Epstein

Introduction

David has encouraged me to write personal essays and weave in my recipes. I rarely make complicated dishes. In fact, mostly I make things up and carry the list of ingredients in my head. When the world is out of control which is far too often, when people near and dear to me are ailing, or when I’m just overanxious, creating a meal in my kitchen is a way to relax, to do something positive. I guess I’ve resisted this project because I see so many published collections from celebrities. But the truth is, as a woman who was mostly at home raising my three as well as providing a safe haven for many other kids, the kitchen was the center of our life while our family was growing. Once we moved to Cambridge, it was easy for parents to drop off their first graders on snow days.

I remember one daunting blizzard when Jay was six. He and two other little boys had spent hours building a fort in our back yard. When they finally came indoors, I put their socks and snow pants directly into the dryer before preparing their lunch. Later in between bites, one of them looked me in the eye and said: “You’re the good kind of mom…you dry our clothes and make grilled cheese sandwiches!” I know I’ve loved that guy ever since. If I ever had to question what I was doing with my days, he validated me with that one innocent comment.

Chicken soup with rice seems like the right way to begin. When Aron was small, he loved a collection of four little books that had been mine as a child. This “Nutshell Library” by Maurice Sendak had a few titles he enjoyed, but his favorite by far was “Chicken Soup With Rice”. The book featured each month of the year with a poem about chicken soup. In January, there was: “…sipping once sipping twice sipping chicken soup with rice…” He could never get enough of these poems or of chicken soup for that matter.

Yesterday I made a pot of soup for David. He’s been complaining of what he calls a “low grade” cold for days. I’ve joked and asked him what exactly a low grade cold is compared with a high grade cold, for example. He says it is terminology left over from his mother and it actually makes sense. A “low grade” cold is lurking in your system enough to run you down but not quite evident enough to be a full-blown coughing and sneezing extravaganza. Even though he’s an adult living in the big city, it’s impossible not to hear Aron’s five year-old voice or see his thick brown curls when I mix that chicken soup with rice.

Chicken Soup With Rice (serves 6)
In a 5 and 1/2quart casserole, sauté one sliced onion, 6 sliced celery sticks, 1/2 lb. sliced mushrooms, 18 baby carrots, in a few tablespoons of olive oil. Sprinkle in ground black pepper, oregano, and garlic powder. Add the meat from 2 whole chicken breasts, without skin or fat. When meat is white on all sides, add 10 chicken bouillon cubes and 9 cups of water. Bring the casserole to a brief boil, add one cup of basmati rice, then cover and simmer for several hours. After refrigerating overnight, skim off the fat and then reheat. It’s even better the next day.

1-24 Musings

I’m not used to moving faster than she can. After her birth, she looked me in the eye as if to say: “when does the party start?” Until she could pull herself along the carpet at five months, she was restless and fretful. An avid outdoorswoman, she still loves activity and adventure, so it must be hard for her to slow down, but she tells me she has a higher purpose. And of course, she does. Her belly grows by the day, as she is already 31 weeks pregnant.

Sometimes I get emotional, tearful as I watch her. The idea of my daughter having a baby is almost unfathomable. How did I get to this moment so quickly? Wasn’t it not too long ago that we were blowing out three candles on a Mickey Mouse birthday cake, waiting for the kindergarten bus, scrubbing the mud off of soccer cleats, shivering at ski races, lugging duffels bursting with clothing to her dorm room? It wasn’t actually that long ago; it just passed by in a flash.

I feel blessed and lucky to have my daughter and her husband living so close by. It amazes me to think back on that teenage voice telling me not to expect her to live my life. And it’s not that she’s living my life, but I do see her handwriting notes, phoning to check on family and friends, trying new recipes for small dinner parties, enjoying arranging her collection of vases on her livingroom mantle, and settling down by the fire with a good book.

With over two feet of fresh snow, she had a snow day today as probably most teachers and students in Massachusetts did. From her infancy and toddler years, I’ve saved my favorite blankets, sweaters, and dresses. This was the moment to pull the box down from a third floor closet shelf so we could take a look at lacy hand-smocked pinafores, and the afghans and hooded sweaters that her great grandmother lovingly knitted for her. Since she doesn’t know if she’s having a boy or a girl, we carefully folded the dresses away but kept out Great Nanny’s knitted pieces so I could freshly wash them.

The little zippers and buttons work perfectly; the few stains came out just fine. My grandmother would be pleased that after 29 years, we still have the things that she made and are even thinking about using them. My daughter knows that she’s incredibly lucky to have had her great grandmother in her life until she was 21 years old, and to now have these special heirlooms to pass on to her own baby.