I was tired this past weekend, and I gave myself permission to be tired. I am not certain that this was so much a physical tiredness, as it was a physical manifestation of a basic introverted sort of emotional and psychological tiredness. I needed to be quiet, to be still. I needed the house to be quiet and be still as well.
The stonemasons were here early Saturday morning laying bluestone on the back patio and walk in preparation for the rain that was supposed to come on Monday. The rain did indeed come and the masons returned yesterday, but that is another story, for another day. While they were working on the back patio, I trekked downtown to the Market Square Farmer's Market. I came home with this haul:
I returned home just as the masons were leaving, for which I was grateful. I needed to work in the studio, hard pressed against a deadline, and did not look forward to traipsing back and forth across their workspace. But before I could get to work I needed, at a minimum, to unpack. I was too tired for my normal wash and prep work, tired enough to worry that I would make my deadline, even without the added kitchen work.
I did however, also need to eat. In my bag were some chanterelles and some lobster mushrooms (upper right corner, on the paper bag). I saw the lobster mushrooms first, and initially turned down the chanterelles because I had already purchased the lobster mushrooms. But I went back, my mind filled with dreams of a late breakfast of eggs and chanterelles. Initially I planned an omelet, but by the time I sautéed the chanterelles I was so needy for sustenance, that I just turned down the heat to its lowest setting, and scrambled the eggs slowly in the butter and mushroom juices. No regrets, just deliciousness.
I didn't even fret about not doing my usual round of food prep and cook-up. I accepted that I was tired, that my schedule was actually pretty open, and I could allow myself to do as much or as little as I wished. I gave myself permission to putter....
And somehow instead of cooking I felt like organizing cookbooks. Slowly: about 16 linear feet of shelf space over three days. As I sorted, I would pick up a book and glance through its pages, perusing volumes that have become like old friends, and when I was tired I would walk away to return later. No added pressure to do anything. In many ways it was like an extended visit with old friends; with a few new acquaintances thrown in as well. I still have my first cookbook. I still cook form it, although only occasionally now. But my collection isn't exactly about recipes, although that is part of the story. I have books that I love for what I have learned from them, how they have changed my attitude and understanding about food and cooking, and my skills, whether or not I follow the author's recipes or not. And of course there are new books in there as well, new friendships to be formed perhaps, although I realize that some of the new cookbooks will not mesh, and will be replaced.
I also spent part of the weekend rereading Lidia Bastianich's first cookbook, La Cucina di Lidia which was written before her PBS show, before she became a celebrity chef. It remains one of my favorite books. The food is simple and true to its nature and source, It is filled with memories for me, but also with inspirations and things I still want to cook. It is delicious to read. I spent a lovely afternoon knitting and reading, also remembering, but not in a clinging nostalgia-ridden way. I remembered going to the Italian Market in Poughkeepsie, the one that would have baskets of fresh snails and I remember buying them and cleaning and cooking them, I remember learning to cook tripe. Well, I had always loved the flavor tripe gave to a broth -- my parents made a good tripe soup -- but until this book I had disliked the tripe itself (I studiously tried to pick the tripe out of the soup). Lidia taught me how to cook tripe in a way that enhanced the flavor and texture. I grew up eating tripe because my parents would buy a side of beef, or did they buy a whole cow, before it was trendy, but because it was an economical way to feed a family. I don't remember eating heart, which I now like, although I do remember struggling with the liver. But the book is not only about snails and tripe, although Lidia Bastianich's cooking in this book leans toward the Istria cooking of her childhood. It is about an approach to food that embodies simplicity in terms of integrity toward the materials, to the act of cooking, and feeding others as an act of love and sustenance, in all the many forms sustenance can take, but not necessarily simplicity in terms of ease of use. But we confuse ease and simple sometimes. This book stays in my library because it is a part of my own evolving understanding of the world and life and my own place in this world. This book stays in my library because it makes me want to walk into the kitchen, even when I am tired.
And yes. I did get back into the kitchen, even that same day, although most of the prep-work was put off until Sunday and Monday. As I had shopped I had imagined one of the lobster mushrooms, sautéed until just soft, with a little caramelization along the edges, with warm spices, served over a bed of little gem lettuces. I ended up adding merguez as well. Lobster mushrooms look large and sturdy, and one would think they would keep, but they do not. It was the perfect, simple dinner for a lazy day. Sunday morning the last lobster mushroom was turned into a hash with shallots and sweet potatoes.
The books have all been put away and I am now slowly organizing the kitchen, again only in fits and starts, while also cooking my way through my haul. There is no expectation here, no pressure to finish by a certain time. The outside of the house is madhouse of work, but inside there is just time and peace. When I am hungry I can just open the refrigerator door and allow inspiration to light the way. Need satisfied with a bit of play.
