A Love Story of Comfort,

Desire, and the

Art of Simple Cooking

ELISSA ALTMAN

A Love Story of Comfort,

Desire, and the
Art of Simple Cooking

ELISSA ALTMAN

Pr o lo g u e

There is poetry in food, kindness in the act of preparing it, and peace in
sharing it.
There are gray areas: years ago, Id heard about a restaurant where
hundreds of samurai swords hang, point down, from the ceiling, directly
over the heads of the diners while they eat.
This is not kind; this is sociopathic.
But in the act of preparing the most mundane grilled cheese
choosing the cheese, buttering the bread, warming the pan, pressing
down the sandwich with the flat of your grandmothers spatula so the
cheese melts and the bread tightens and crackles and smooths like solid
silklies an inherent and basic subconscious attention to detail that
exists almost nowhere else in our lives, except in the small daily rituals
that we all have. You squeeze your toothpaste onto your toothbrush in
exactly the same manner every single morning and every single night.
When you step out of the shower, you towel dry your hair before putting your makeup on. You shave one side of your face before the other,
and thats the way youve done it since you were in college. Mundane
though they may be, these are the rituals that make us who we are. But
they dont necessarily make us kind. The act of preparing food for ourselves, and for others, does. And the act of conviviality, of sharing it with
othersMarion Cunningham called it modern tribal fireis what makes
us human, whether it is tarted up and tortured into vertical excess, or
nothing more than butter spread on a piece of bread.
I did not grow up in a home that valued conviviality; my mother
and grandmother cooked our mealsplain but hearty, filling, sometimes
delicious and sometimes immolated, they were not experimental or contrived until the mid-seventies, when my mother went on a fondue binge
like the rest of middle-class America. Generally, we ate in silence drowned
out by the presence of a small Zenith black-and-white television that sat,

P OOR MAN S F E AST

like a dinner guest, at the end of our table. While eating, we would watch
Name That Tune!, my mother calling out between bites of limp, canned
asparagus, I can name it in three notes! while my father sipped his
Scotch and I picked at the flecks of onion in my meat loaf. After I was
done, I climbed down from my chair and went into my bedroom, where I
turned on my own television set and watched as reality and make-believe
converged. There were fake families sitting around their own fake tables,
eating fake dinners: there was the Brady Bunch, with its gay father and
wing-nut maid and libidinous eldest son. There was the Partridge Family,
with its catatonic little sister who played the tambourine like a methadone addict, and a lead singer who looked more like a lady than his sister.
There were the simpering, unsmiling Waltons, with their fake farmhouse
that always looked filthy, and a commie grandfather living upstairs in the
attic.
See him, my grandmother, Gaga, once said to me, tapping her long
Cherries in the Snowshellacked fingernail on the round glass television screen after barging into my room with the last potato latke. The
man was a commie, blacklisted by McCarthy. And then she slammed the
door behind her.
They were all convivial, casserole-passing people, even though they
didnt actually exist; for me, the line between television family dinners
and reality was blurred like a picture taken from a shaky camera, and
when I saw in the news that Ellen Corby had had a stroke, all I could think
of was whos going to make biscuits for John-Boy now that Grandma cant
move her arms?
One night, after a silent dinner of what was marketed as chicken
rollchicken pieces that were deboned and then mechanically compressed into a loaf shape for easy slicingI left the table where my parents were watching Lets Make a Deal!, went into my room, and turned
on a local television station. A Southern Prayer-a-Thon had interrupted
regular broadcasting, so instead of seeing The Brady Bunch, there was a
greasy, black-haired, slick-suited man marching across a stage, sobbing
like a baby, and telling me that if only Id call and offer money, that Jesus

PR O LO G U E

Pr o lo g u e

There is poetry in food, kindness in the act of preparing it, and peace in
sharing it.
There are gray areas: years ago, Id heard about a restaurant where
hundreds of samurai swords hang, point down, from the ceiling, directly
over the heads of the diners while they eat.
This is not kind; this is sociopathic.
But in the act of preparing the most mundane grilled cheese
choosing the cheese, buttering the bread, warming the pan, pressing
down the sandwich with the flat of your grandmothers spatula so the
cheese melts and the bread tightens and crackles and smooths like solid
silklies an inherent and basic subconscious attention to detail that
exists almost nowhere else in our lives, except in the small daily rituals
that we all have. You squeeze your toothpaste onto your toothbrush in
exactly the same manner every single morning and every single night.
When you step out of the shower, you towel dry your hair before putting your makeup on. You shave one side of your face before the other,
and thats the way youve done it since you were in college. Mundane
though they may be, these are the rituals that make us who we are. But
they dont necessarily make us kind. The act of preparing food for ourselves, and for others, does. And the act of conviviality, of sharing it with
othersMarion Cunningham called it modern tribal fireis what makes
us human, whether it is tarted up and tortured into vertical excess, or
nothing more than butter spread on a piece of bread.
I did not grow up in a home that valued conviviality; my mother
and grandmother cooked our mealsplain but hearty, filling, sometimes
delicious and sometimes immolated, they were not experimental or contrived until the mid-seventies, when my mother went on a fondue binge
like the rest of middle-class America. Generally, we ate in silence drowned
out by the presence of a small Zenith black-and-white television that sat,

P OOR MAN S F E AST

like a dinner guest, at the end of our table. While eating, we would watch
Name That Tune!, my mother calling out between bites of limp, canned
asparagus, I can name it in three notes! while my father sipped his
Scotch and I picked at the flecks of onion in my meat loaf. After I was
done, I climbed down from my chair and went into my bedroom, where I
turned on my own television set and watched as reality and make-believe
converged. There were fake families sitting around their own fake tables,
eating fake dinners: there was the Brady Bunch, with its gay father and
wing-nut maid and libidinous eldest son. There was the Partridge Family,
with its catatonic little sister who played the tambourine like a methadone addict, and a lead singer who looked more like a lady than his sister.
There were the simpering, unsmiling Waltons, with their fake farmhouse
that always looked filthy, and a commie grandfather living upstairs in the
attic.
See him, my grandmother, Gaga, once said to me, tapping her long
Cherries in the Snowshellacked fingernail on the round glass television screen after barging into my room with the last potato latke. The
man was a commie, blacklisted by McCarthy. And then she slammed the
door behind her.
They were all convivial, casserole-passing people, even though they
didnt actually exist; for me, the line between television family dinners
and reality was blurred like a picture taken from a shaky camera, and
when I saw in the news that Ellen Corby had had a stroke, all I could think
of was whos going to make biscuits for John-Boy now that Grandma cant
move her arms?
One night, after a silent dinner of what was marketed as chicken
rollchicken pieces that were deboned and then mechanically compressed into a loaf shape for easy slicingI left the table where my parents were watching Lets Make a Deal!, went into my room, and turned
on a local television station. A Southern Prayer-a-Thon had interrupted
regular broadcasting, so instead of seeing The Brady Bunch, there was a
greasy, black-haired, slick-suited man marching across a stage, sobbing
like a baby, and telling me that if only Id call and offer money, that Jesus

PR O LO G U E

would give me whatever I wanted. I scribbled down the number with a

chewed-on number two pencil, crept across the hallway into my parents
room, picked up the phone, and called.
A male voice answered with, Hello! Have you taken Jesus Christ as
your Lord and savior?
I cupped my hand around the mouthpiece and whispered, No, I
havent. Im a Jew.
I could hear him light up like a pinball machine, all the way from
Mississippi.
Well, do you want to? he asked, hopefully.
Not really, I said.
Then what can I do for you? he asked, suddenly all business.
You said that if I offered some money, then Jesus would give me
what I want.
Thats right, he replied. Do you have money to send us?
I do. About $6.
And what do you want Jesus to help you with?
I want a big family and a big table where everyone sits down
together, like the Waltons, I thought for a minute, but without the commie grandfather. And I want everyone to be happy.
The man cleared his throat, promised to send me an envelope for the
cash, and hung up.
You have a good night, he said. And God bless.
I lusted after conviviality, and was drawn like a moth to the modern
tribal fire; I yearned for the poetry that food writes. But I was also lured
to the kitchen, to the standing there and the cooking and the serving
and the feeding, because, I was certain, it would bring magic and happiness. Everything begins and ends for me in front of my stove, and if
D-Day were to strike me down where I stood, where I stood would likely
be right there, in my kitchen.
Ultimately, I found the poetry, and even the fire. But until I shared
my kitchen with Susan, I hadnt found the peace.

P OOR MAN S F E AST

10

It grew in the black mud.

It grew under the tigers orange paws.
Its stems thinner than candles, and as straight.
Its leaves like the feathers of egrets, but green.
The grains cresting, wanting to burst.
Oh, blood of the tiger.
I dont want you just to sit down at the table.
I dont want you just to eat, and be content.
I want you to walk out into the fields
where the water is shining, and the rice has risen.
I want you to stand there, far from the white tablecloth.
I want you to fill your hands with the mud, like a blessing.
rice, by mary oliver

PR O LO G U E

11

would give me whatever I wanted. I scribbled down the number with a

chewed-on number two pencil, crept across the hallway into my parents
room, picked up the phone, and called.
A male voice answered with, Hello! Have you taken Jesus Christ as
your Lord and savior?
I cupped my hand around the mouthpiece and whispered, No, I
havent. Im a Jew.
I could hear him light up like a pinball machine, all the way from
Mississippi.
Well, do you want to? he asked, hopefully.
Not really, I said.
Then what can I do for you? he asked, suddenly all business.
You said that if I offered some money, then Jesus would give me
what I want.
Thats right, he replied. Do you have money to send us?
I do. About $6.
And what do you want Jesus to help you with?
I want a big family and a big table where everyone sits down
together, like the Waltons, I thought for a minute, but without the commie grandfather. And I want everyone to be happy.
The man cleared his throat, promised to send me an envelope for the
cash, and hung up.
You have a good night, he said. And God bless.
I lusted after conviviality, and was drawn like a moth to the modern
tribal fire; I yearned for the poetry that food writes. But I was also lured
to the kitchen, to the standing there and the cooking and the serving
and the feeding, because, I was certain, it would bring magic and happiness. Everything begins and ends for me in front of my stove, and if
D-Day were to strike me down where I stood, where I stood would likely
be right there, in my kitchen.
Ultimately, I found the poetry, and even the fire. But until I shared
my kitchen with Susan, I hadnt found the peace.

P OOR MAN S F E AST

10

It grew in the black mud.

It grew under the tigers orange paws.
Its stems thinner than candles, and as straight.
Its leaves like the feathers of egrets, but green.
The grains cresting, wanting to burst.
Oh, blood of the tiger.
I dont want you just to sit down at the table.
I dont want you just to eat, and be content.
I want you to walk out into the fields
where the water is shining, and the rice has risen.
I want you to stand there, far from the white tablecloth.
I want you to fill your hands with the mud, like a blessing.
rice, by mary oliver

PR O LO G U E

11