Come for Supper: Food and Books

“We could do pot pies,” I say hopefully. “One of each: chicken and beef. I could make that perfect pie crust recipe from my student who was a chef and a white sauce and use asparagus with the chicken.” I think of Dan who refers to it as “little trees” and revise, “or green beans.”
“We could do a rib roast,” my husband answers.
“We always do a rib roast.”
“And people always enjoy it. Why change what works?”
I think of the Forsytes’ inevitable saddle of mutton, appearing at every family dinner, varied only by geographic origin or sheep type, and push my imagination into flaky piecrust, thick pie contents steaming with carrots, potatoes, meat, green beans. Dinner rolls homemade.
“I think that’s a great idea,” he reinforces himself. “When do you want to have people over?”
Dinner with company is a time to share food with friends, a time to catch up on what’s new. Maybe what we serve should have some newness to it also.
Joe searches the Internet for recipes showcasing what’s in season and showcases the food: We’ve watched him toss heaped yellow, orange, and red peppers mushrooms and onions, over the gas flame, anticipated the broccoli soup in our bowls and held our hands out for his grilled shrimp skewers. Keith renews his engagement with the knife and gives us chop salad dense with carrots, peppers, and crunch. When we visit them for dinner, we demand what we’ve loved before. Support for Bob’s rib roast argument.
Tina spends November and December inside the magazine features on holiday food, or newspaper Entrée sections (where I found a marvelous fruitcake recipe once I modified it). I used to bake twenty-five kinds of Christmas cookies and give most of them away. [Maybe I should return to the tradition this year?] More argument supporting rib roast.
In one of my stories, the characters reminisce about great food scenes which also advance the plot. They, and I, are rebelling against the inept writing teacher who claimed that writing about meals is always boring. Handled well, food enhances stories and relationships. Handled ineptly, food preparation gives us boredom, humor, sometimes tradition (and enhances stories).
My mom’s Waterloo proved to be Shrimp Elegant (accent on the last syllable to distinguish it from ordinary shrimp). The woman who could make a perfect pie, give her company unparalleled dinners, and turn out family meals every day for years, had one set of shrimp that refused to sit up and behave. Conscienceless children that we were, we reminded her of that debacle. I think she shredded the recipe, in an era before professional shredding machines.
Reading Julie’s recipes is just like listening to Julie [“whomp the cream”; “I had a cloves disaster, but didn’t matter much”], and I know the results from her recipes will be delicious. Marinated cold vegetables glisten orange, pale green, ivory, red, chartreuse under their light oil and wine dressing [“don’t spend money on the expensive olive oil”]. Tina, Bob, and I ate our first Linzer cookies at Schreiner’s in Fond du Lac, and the woman who brought grape salad to the dog rescue reunion was extolled and hounded, until she provided the recipe. Come to think of it, I have been threatened with unpleasant consequences by coworkers if I did not share the recipe for Beth’s Nut cookies. Recently, we and our company enjoyed the chocolate espresso cake from Eat Cake.
Back to what we will serve. Rib roast, he maintains. Perhaps Marge’s Lasagna recipe? One of the desserts from my mom’s recipe collection? Tradition acknowledged, if only we are not always sitting down to saddle of mutton.