For your edification, shock, and awe, a few links today. Take what you need, want, or like, and leave all the rest.
Start with the execrable Ernest Hemingway who spent a quarantined summer with his wife, his mistress, a sick toddler, and a nanny.
Take a break with Pale Horse, Pale Rider, Katherine Anne Porter’s novel about the 1918 Spanish flu.
Keep going with Luy Irvine’s memoir Castaway (here’s just a sample) or E.M Forster’s short story “The Machine Stops” about a society where people live underground in individual cells and communicate only by screens. Written in 1909.
Console yourself with this one-bowl chocolate sheet cake with fluffy peanut butter frosting (pictured above). CAUTION: This cake requires more than a 9″ x 13″ pan. It overflowed my entire oven and required many minutes of frantic fanning to avoid setting off the smoke detector. The dip in the middle indicates this interrupted baking time (you cannot open the oven mid-bake without consequences), but we are none of us perfect.
But it was, in the end, slathered with frosting and FUCKING DELICIOUS. I made changes, of course. I used my gluten-free flour blend, and the frosting was one stick of butter (really soft), 1/2 cup of peanut butter, a splash of vanilla, some salt, and enough powdered sugar, added a cup at a time. Really, you could use any cake and just add the frosting. Jesus. So good.
And also, before you go, listen to this lovely little song: “I Wish You Love.” The singer might surprise you.
Anyway. Today is Friday, in a long string of what have now become meaningless name markers of days.
What was interesting, infuriating, or rather lovely about your week?
My brother and I have not spoken more than a handful of times since November 8, 2016.
While the final catalyst was his part in the current president’s election, I realized a long time ago that there was a disconnect between us, formed since we could walk. We spent our childhood together, me mostly afraid of him as the object of his ire, scorn, amusement, and anger. Both of our parents worked, and we spent a lot of time alone together. When my brother needed a punching bag I was handy; he routinely delivered punches, smacks, and pinches, along with various projectiles aimed at my head. He broke two windows in our house, one with a walnut and one with a deflated volleyball, as a result of those errant projectiles that veered from me at the last minute and met instead the fragile single panes of our house in the woods.
In terms of missiles, I remember most the Osage oranges, the softball-sized round seed pods that looked like I imagined brains looked. They were all over the base of the hill where our bus turned around. Florida Ropp, our bus driver for my entire elementary career, would pull up to the bottom of the steep hill and let us off before backing into a wide driveway and turning around. I sat in the front so I could fly down the stairs and immediately start running up the hill.
My brother emerged slowly, casually, a few seconds after me, to begin leisurely scanning the ground for the best orange. He would heft several in his hands before finding the perfect missile. My short legs never carried me far enough, fast enough, and the first one nearly always hit me square in the back between my shoulder blades. He had good aim and didn’t often miss.
We don’t agree on politics. We don’t have the same friends, taste in music, or ideas of what is important. Although I think he is a great dad and has a strong work ethic, I am not sure he believes either of those things to be true about me. When I started my own school, I think he envisioned me in a prairie skirt huddled around a kitchen table with a few raggedy unfortunates, not the fully accredited, non-profit private school I actually built.
When my husband died, though, he showed up. He cleaned out the demolished car and returned, silent and somber. He handled Dane’s bill collectors so I did not have to. His whole family piled into their car and drove down to Georgia from Northern Virginia to sit with us, and on that first fatherless Father’s Day in 2013 we spent it at Camden Yards in Baltimore with them.
It is hard for me to rectify what he did in that one time that was so important and vital with the rest of our lives. Even as we don’t speak, I would do the same for his family.
Perhaps we can just come to some peace with each other, where it’s ok that we are related and all, but there is really no obligation. We are guests in each others’ house; our children are strangers to each other. We cannot choose our family, but we can choose who we continue to invite into our lives. It’s hard when the chasm between us is vast and filled with fundamental differences in the way we believe the world should work.
Soup is an odd transition but perhaps just as polarizing. I have never lived with anyone who has liked soup. I do not understand how a person could not like soup. Various reasons have been that it’s sort of a half-meal and not particularly satisfying, or that it’s too, well, soup-y. For this reason, even though I am incredibly good at it (if I do say so myself), I don’t often make soup of any kind.
This recipe was an accident of sorts. Back when I was a public school teacher working with unruly adolescents, I was planning to teach a history unit on Africa and came home one evening – late and hungry – from a team planning meeting. My team decided that I was to design a dish that was quick and easy to share with my class when we started the unit; on that cold and rainy evening, I threw together some traditional flavors from all over Africa and hoped for the best.
After tasting the first batch, I ended up keeping the first to myself and making another for the class. Even the anti-soup faction in the house begrudgingly admitted it was delicious.
These days I make it all for myself and eat the whole batch over several days. It is silky and simple and complicated all at once, and warming all the way down to the bones. I have made my own ras-el-hanout spice blend instead of using the simple ginger/cayenne mixture I first used in this stew (back in 1999). There are various recipes online that include between six and 30 spices in their ras-el-hanout mixes; I chose to go simple for the sake of ease and convenience. The result is a deep, complex, satisfying, and somehow familiar stew that brings everyone back to the table.
African* Peanut Stew
Ingredients
4 tablespoons olive oil
3 cups sweet potatoes or yams, chopped into ½” cubes
1 large onion, chopped
3 cloves garlic, chopped
2 cups vegetable stock (or chicken if not cooking for vegetarians)
2 15-ounce cans of diced tomatoes (or two pints if you preserve your own)
1 large apple, peeled, seeded, and chopped
1 heaping tablespoon ras-el-hanout (recipe below) Optional but highly recommended: 2 T grated fresh ginger
1/2 teaspoon cayenne pepper (more or less to taste)Salt and pepper to taste
1/4 cup unsweetened shredded coconut
1 cup crunchy peanut butter (unsweetened is best)
1 green pepper, seeded and chopped
If you are making your own ras-el-hanout, make that first. Add coriander and cumin seeds to a small frying pan over medium heat. Toast until spices begin to open up (they will smell more…toasty…), swirling frequently to avoid burning. If they burn, start over.
Place toasted seeds in a coffee grinder and allow to cool. Add red pepper flakes and grind until fine and incorporated. You can also use a mortar and pestle if you don’t have a spice grinder.
Combine all spices and mix thoroughly. This makes a little over 1/4 cup of ras-el-hanout, which will stay fresh for about a month in a dark, dry place. Realistically, it will be okay longer but just lose flavor the longer you have it.
Make the soup: In a large, heavy-bottomed stewpot (enameled cast iron is great for this), heat olive oil over medium heat. Add onion and sauté for two or three minutes, adding about a teaspoon of salt and some cracked black pepper. Add sweet potatoes and sauté until just cooked, soft on the outside with a slightly firm center (al dente).
Add chopped garlic, stock, tomatoes, apple, ras-el-hanout, fresh ginger (if using), and cayenne pepper. Season with salt and pepper. Bring to a low boil, and then lower the heat and simmer for 45 minutes.
Stir in shredded coconut, peanut butter, and green pepper and simmer for another ten minutes. Add salt and pepper to taste.
Serve with more shredded coconut and chopped unsalted peanuts.
*Yes, this is a blanket and general name for a stew that takes flavors from all over, most especially Morocco but also in the southern regions of Africa (and western as well). I do not pretend to be any kind of expert in these flavor profiles; I am simply experimenting and combining things that taste delicious, no matter how incongruous. I mean no disrespect.
