food therapy

Just before Christmas, my mom and I flew down to Albuquerque to spend a few days with my grandfather surrounding the one-year anniversary of my grandmother's death. This trip was a homecoming, but to a home that is different without Granny B around. I was born in Albuquerque and spent much of my childhood at my grandparents' home, so when I stepped off of the airplane and into the house, I was struck with how similar it felt...and how different. The house smells the same and my grandmother's imprint is felt almost everywhere as her crafts and thrift store finds - including a stuffed duck that quacks at eerily random times - are scattered around every room. Walking in, I expected to see her wander out of her craft room and greet my mom and I with her distinct southern accent (ever-strong, though she hadn't lived in the South since her early twenties). The craft room had been turned into a guest room and the southern accent was sadly absent.

After the initial shock of seeing the house without 2/3 of its former inhabitants (my grandparents' long-time dog, Bernie, also passed away this year), I began honoring my grandmother in a way that, for me, seemed fitting. While I don't believe she would have considered herself a chef, my grandma's food has had a profound effect on my life. I can trace much of my early love of food to her hand - boiled peanuts at her dining room table, fried fresh-caught catfish for breakfast, her famous Velveeta macaroni and cheese (I know, I know, but I stand by this one), pimento cheese sandwiches, and garden fresh tomatoes eaten like apples with salt (come on, this makes up for the mac & cheese, right?). She even taught me great life skills like how to peel grapes before eating them (not one I've kept up, but I'm sure this will be very useful when preparing those gooey "eyes" on Halloween) and how to store gravy for later use (Ice trays! I swear, she could have marketed this one).

The first day we were in Albuquerque, I spent a few hours pouring over her many cookbooks, searching for a few remnants of her to take home to my kitchen. I chose a South Carolina cookbook with check-marked recipes and page numbers of favorites on the front cover, a book of New Mexican cooking, and a few handwritten recipes (she didn't write down many, but I managed to find a few scraps of paper here and there). Then, of course, I ate. Lunch one day was BLT's, a sandwich I had countless times at her home. The day of the anniversary we ate posole, cooked with pork she had purchased just before her death (frozen!) and earmarked specifically for this purpose. I know this probably seems a little strange and maybe, to some, morbid, but it felt truly right to turn this meat into soup - a way of following her wishes, I suppose.

While silently toasting my grandmother with foods that reminded me of her, I felt periods of sadness. But, writing this post I can't find myself feeling anything but joy. I am so grateful that I lived near her as a child and that I saw so much of her as I grew older. And, I am eagerly looking forward to trying out some of the recipes that she cherished, as if in some small way to get closer to my memory of her.

***

Of course, I could not have returned to New Mexico without sampling the quintessential meal, at least once. A bowl of green (chile, that is), warm, fresh flour tortillas and a sopaipilla for dessert. This is the New Mexico that I long for and that I cannot quite re-create, no matter how many "hatch" style chilis I buy at the Portland farmer's market. It's comfort food at its finest, despite the fact that the green chili burns the tip of your tongue and everywhere else as it makes its warming trek through your body. In New Mexico, I find satisfaction in the ever-present burn. The distinct spiciness of a bowl of green brings me back to a womb-like state of calm and delight the way that chicken and dumplings or mashed potatoes may transport a more northerly American (though, of course, I do not deny these foods their virtues).

I had my bowl of green at Cervantes, a family favorite blocks from my grandfathers' house. The video below is already my favorite video of all time - instructions for all who may wish to properly eat a sopapilla. Isn't my granddad amazing? Notice the elegant camera shakes as I can't help but laugh...


How to eat a sopapilla from stumptownpanda on Vimeo.

I stumbled onto jars of Cervantes hot green chile sauce at a grocery store in Albuquerque and cradled my own jar home with me. P and I tried our hands at making a bowl of green a few nights ago and, while it was delicious, it did not totally measure up to the original. Not quite spicy enough, not quite rich enough. I am starting to check our calendar for dates to return to the Land of Enchantment. Besides, P has never been and who am I to deny him this unparalleled satisfaction? I think my grandmother would agree with me there.

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