To Marion Cunningham, Julia Childs, MFK Fisher and Loula Walker

My grandmother, my mom & my uncle

Today is Sunday and there’s 2 feet of snow on the ground and 4 more inches are coming today. I have a leftover roasted chicken in the fridge and decide, since I am not going anywhere today, I will make chicken soup from scratch. I just begin: chopping onions, carrots, celery. I’ve learned the trick of using a tea ball for the herbs to keep the broth clear, though I really don’t care if it’s not. I don’t have to open a book, I just know what to do because the truth is, it’s not that hard.

I learned this from you. Good cooking is simple, but simple isn’t easy. Simple requires trust that this is enough.

Marion, you taught me to be very careful when adding ingredients. You don’t cook with abandon; you’re cautious, measured. You can always add more, you say, but you can't take it out once it's in. I imagine if I served you a soft boiled egg, lightly buttered toast and a cloth napkin, you’d be thrilled. And grateful.

Julia, you taught me to be fearless. “What’s the worst that can happen?” you say. Don’t take this cooking thing too seriously; don’t take yourself so seriously. Experiment you say; give it a whirl! I would serve you my trifle, Kahlua soaked cake pieces layered between thick sweet cream. When you’re done, you’d dip your spoon into the bowl, “Just one more bite!” We would abandon the plates.

Mary Francis, you taught me to learn the story behind the dish. Is this a peasant’s soup? Then cut the pieces large and rough. Was this chicken dish invented by a chef trying desperately to save his job? Cook it with urgency, fret over it; it’s fussy. Backstory is everything. I would serve you bar-b-que ribs with lots of napkins, but you wouldn’t need them. You would lick your fingers clean and ask for more tea.

Loula, my grandmother, you taught me to cook with purpose. After Rainer died, you told me you would call me every day, just to see how I was doing. It took months, years to be interested in cooking again. Gradually, I came back to it. You sent your recipes to me on 3x5 cards in your angled handwriting: Roux, Gumbo, Pralines, Fricassee. These recipes don’t translate into writing, though; I have to live them over and over. I discover I have to have a reason to cook them. One day, finally, the gumbo comes out right; it’s the gumbo I remember my mom making, dark and smooth. I call you to tell you it worked. “Of course,” you say, because you knew it would. If we had another day together, I would serve you pain perdu with strong coffee. You would take little bites, but a lot of them. You would pat my hand and then squeeze it.

Measured but fearless. Stories with purpose. 

My grandmother's recipe for "rue", which actually means "street" in French. In other places, she did write "roux".