Wrestling the Unmaker

Anyone who has ever spent a holiday in my presence knows how highly I consider food. Food--a basic necessity that sustains life but often offers more than just physical nourishment. It can, at times, feed our emotional needs. Food, like a good book, can be comforting. Today, for instance, over a bowl of yellow thai curry with potatoes, carrots and chicken, I remembered single days, working on a Master's thesis and enjoying the tenacious connection I had with my roommate, Kaydee. At a Vietnamese restaurant in Logan, Utah (a restaurant that no longer exists), we often discussed life, the future, and trivial bits, like what Pink was wearing in her latest video. Today, with a mouth full of rice paper, crunchy cucumber, shrimp and peanut sauce, I felt those bygone days reach down and swipe my face like a brush (Dillard, "New Name" posting).

So, there you have it. The sensory act of eating can traverse whole canyons in our lives--and food plays the part of bridge. When my former marriage counselor/current grief (relief?) counselor reiterates, "You are the most important person to you, so you need to take time for yourself!" I think, "Fine. Let's eat!" Seriously, though, I understand that I need to do something each day, and perhaps multiple times in that day, to rejuvenate my soul. Am I shallow if gardening and constructing something from the harvest does that for me? It's an act of creation, one where we get to fulfill our status of designers and architects, battling types of destruction that persist in the undoing all around us. I remember a book teaching the same principle (though not with food) years ago. In it, Orson Scott Card's prophet, Taleswapper, relates:

"War is the Unmaker's ally, because it tears down everything it touches [...] fire, murder, crime, cupidity, and concupiscence break apart the fragile bonds that make human beings into nations, cities, families, friends, and souls."

[...]

"Sposing I believe you," said Alvin. "Sposing there's such a thing as the Unmaker. There ain't a blame thing I can do."

A slow smile crept over Taleswapper's face. He tipped himself to one side, to free up his hand, which slowly reached down to the ground and picked up the little bug basket where it lay in the grass. "Does that look like a blamed thing?"

"That's just a bunch of grass."

"It was a bunch of grass," said Taleswapper. "And if you tore it up it'd be a bunch of grass again. But now, right now, it's something more than that."

"A little bug basket is all."

"Something that you made."

"Well, it's a sure thing grass don't grow that way."

"And when you made it, you beat back the Unmaker."

"Not by much," said Alvin.

"No," said Taleswapper. "But by the making of one bug basket. By that much, you beat him back." (128-29)

Alvin does with grass what I do with food. He creates. How do we contend with destruction in our lives? How do we wrestle those Unmakers who would tear down all we've built? We continue to create in whatever manner we can.

Therefore, I offer two dishes for your consider-ation, made with my own hands, with as many base materials as I could muster. The first I'm including because honestly, it took me the better part of a day to fashion into being. The taste, though earthy and hearty and satisfying, didn't last that long--so I have to show something else for my efforts: Mozzarella Pizza Bombs. Homemade dough, homemade tomato sauce, buffalo mozzarella, fresh garden basil, and hot oil to fry the delectable combination.

Every once and a while, the food that comforts is not heavy. Think of those times when your body craves water--something pure, something cleansing, refreshing. This was my latest experience with the neighbor's garden salsa. They hauled me into their home for dinner, after babysitting my three rug rats--and I'm so glad they did. I was still thinking about the nachos and salted cucumbers hours later, and since then, I determined to make my own salsa--no recipe.

Fresh, plump, sweet, garden tomatoes, garlic, cilantro, green peppers, onions and lime, salt and pepper. Heaven on a plate and beauty in your mouth. Wholesome, I could feel it beating back that Unmaker--at least until next mealtime. :)

Works Cited

Card, Orson Scott. Seventh Son. New York: TOR, 1987.

Divine Polenta

There is life after divorce. How do I know? Yesterday night I devoured the smoothest, slightly salty yet also creamy--and most comforting--bowl of polenta (with braised chicken and vegetables) you can imagine. At everything else yesterday, I failed miserably... but the polenta was perfect.

After expressing my frustrations with the kids for waking up early, after throwing Eden's pee-soaked sheets in the washer for the up-teenth time, after Eden jumped into the baby's crib, awaking a very sick and tired Liam, after missing a counseling appointment because I failed to locate a babysitter, and after rushing through a relatively important online meeting, I took a deep breath, went out to the garden with Sydney to pick fresh cherry tomatoes and zucchini, went back inside with a clear head, pulled out a heavy-bottomed pot from under the counter, and saddled up to my stove to make the best polenta of my life.

What's the secret? Use regular corn meal--not corn grits (no offense to Bob's Red Mill)--and chicken stock in the place of half the water, for extra richness. Stir in a couple tablespoons of butter and some parmesan cheese at the end for both creaminess and saltiness. Have a garden-fresh broth, with thinly sliced garlic and bursted tomatoes to pour over the top... and pray for a little divine intervention.

That's right. I titled this post "Divine Polenta" for a reason... not just for the divine intervention in its creation. Remember I said that bowl of polenta (complete with the broth, of course) tasted unbelievably smooth and comforting? It was--and here's the key: Despite overwhelmingly unwelcome discoveries in life--(that you've been lied to for years by the person who committed to share his life with you, that you've devoted seemingly endless time and effort in a fruitless cause of choosing to love someone who skips out on work breaks to "meet with colleagues" behind darkened glass, that you have to answer heart-wrenching questions posed by wide-eyed four-year-olds and two-year-olds)--despite all this--death, disease, and decay--life also holds comfort. The divine smooths out our path, even when we should be stumbling over mountains of rocky terrain.

This may sound completely bizarre, but God spoke to me as I devoured that polenta: "Yes," he whispered, "life continues, and perhaps even a better life." I gorged on the thickened cornmeal like I hoped I could now gorge on life; I savored it with relish. Does passion still exist after divorce? Certainly. The polenta taught me that as well.

By the way, the kids did think this was Good Eats (better than the veggies, anyway)! And yes, Liam is wearing a pink bib. It was the polenta that worked out, folks, not anything else. :)