The light is fading, the sky bleaching from blue to white and then warming to the softest blush pink, like ballet tights, like a rosewater macaroon.
I'm worn-out and the house is ragged, but my mind and heart are full from last night's little celebration for Brannon's baby, the fourth Cooking Club shower in a year.
It was a lovely, wild night—babies everywhere, dishes sprawled all over the kitchen, platters of brisket and plates of macaroons fighting for space among wineglasses and forks and ramekins that used to hold bread pudding.
Brannon insisted it wasn't a shower—she insisted on no invitations, no fuss, nothing formal or showery. But we reminded her that she's not the boss of us, and if we wanted to celebrate her baby boy, we could celebrate all we wanted. A compromise was reached: Cooking Club as usual, with a few extra friends and a special "mini" theme to celebrate the new mini-man who would join our little family in a few months.
The Cooking Club began when Aaron and I moved back to Chicago from Grand Rapids three years ago.
There are six of us—my cousins Melody and Amanda, who are sisters and both teachers; our friend Casey, whom Melody and I have known since junior high; Brannon, my stylish and sophisticated college roommate and dear friend; and Margaret, an actor and screenwriter and friend from church. Our friend from South Haven, Josilyn, was an original member until she moved away.
We meet once a month, and sometimes more, and whoever's hosting picks the theme and cooks the main course, and then the rest of us fill in around that — appetizers, sides, desserts. Or at least that's how we started. It's a little looser now. Amanda tends to remind us of the themes we keep saying we want to do. Melody and Casey cook main courses. I tend toward appetizers and side dishes. Amanda almost always does a salad and a dessert, often an ice cream. Margaret is also a baker, and Brannon always brings cocktails.
True to form, on that night, Melody brought mini-brisket sandwiches on soft white buns, and Margaret made tiny ramekins of chocolate chip bread pudding. I made mini mac & cheeses and cups of tomato soup with little grilled cheese sandwiches balancing on top. Casey poured her famous green goddess dressing into the bottoms of juice glasses, then filled the glasses with raw veggies — slim carrots and celery and cucumber. Our friend Emily came in from Michigan with mini loaves of her grandmother's poppy seed cake, which I requested because I love it, especially with coffee, for breakfast.
There's always a little chaos right when everyone arrives— bringing in hot dishes, shrugging off coats, lifting babies out of car seats.
We bump the oven temp up and down; we go into one another's drawers for knives and cutting boards and platters. We chop herbs, assemble sandwiches, dress and toss salads. The once-empty spaces of our homes become overrun with baskets, coats, shoes, things we've borrowed and are now returning, cake plates, baby clothes, cookbooks. We swirl around each other, hugging hello, opening wine, lifting down glasses from the highest shelves.
Mel and Amanda are always early. Margaret is always late. Mel, Brannon, and I all collect red Le Creuset pans and bakeware, so it can get a little confusing, but Casey has orange everything, so you can always tell what's hers. Brannon is always arriving with what seems like a truckload of furniture and bags—things she's bringing for us to borrow, things she picked up at the store that reminded her of one of us, bassinets and baby slings and bottles.
That afternoon, as I got the house ready for Brannon's "don't-call-it-a-shower" shower, I thought that even though the Cooking Club always, always sits around the table, this time it might be nice to sit in the living room. I moved furniture, made a place for presents, and set up a buffet on the round table in the living room.
When everyone was assembled, when there was a fork or serving spoon on each platter and everything was sliced and warm and ready, I tried to move everyone to the living room, and it just didn't work. I kept urging them toward the buffet, toward the couches and chairs in the living room. Finally, though, I admitted defeat, and we pulled a love seat up to the dining room table for extra seating and settled in happily.
That's where we belong, it seems—around the table.
When Josilyn moved to Haiti, she wrote us a letter to say good-bye. And in that letter she wrote this line: I can't imagine life without a table between us. Yes. Yes. Exactly that. I can't imagine life without a table between us. The table is the life raft, the center point, the home base of who we are together.
It's those five faces around the table that keep me sane, that keep me safe, that protect me from the pressures and arrows and land mines of daily life. And it isn't because we do all the same things, live all the same ways, believe all the same things.
We are single and married, liberal and conservative, runners and adamant nonathletes, mothers and not. Those of us who are mothers do it differently, from cry-it-out to family bed, from stay-at-home to full-time work. Around this table we've mourned the loss of eight pregnancies, and even as I write those words, it seems a cruel and unusual number.
We've gone to funerals and birthday parties together, reported bad test results, gotten advice about sick kids, made trips to the ER, walked together through postpartum depression. We've visited each other's babies in the hospital, and we've brought over meals and sleepers and blankets. We've talked about faith and fear and fighting with our husbands, sleeping through the night and anxiety and how to ask for help when we need it.
On the hardest days, when Brannon's daughter Emme had surgery, or when Casey's stepdad passed away, when something breaks apart or scares us, we send around a quick group email, even as our hands are shaking, even while the pain is slicing. We fill everyone in, ask for prayer, let everyone know how they can help with meals or with the kids, and at the end of the email, someone always says, Thanks for being my people.
Or, Glad you're my people. Or, What would I do without my people?
That's what this is about. This isn't about recipes. This is about a family, a tribe, a little band of people who walk through it all together, up close and in the mess, real time and unvarnished.
And it all started around the table, once a month and sometimes more. We bump into one another in the kitchen, sliding pans in and out of the oven, setting and resetting the timer. We know one another's kitchens by heart — where Casey keeps her knives and how many pans will fit in Brannon's oven. It seems like we've been meeting together forever, but we realized last night that it's been three years this month, and that's worth remembering for me—that it doesn't take a decade, and it doesn't take three times a week.
Once a month, give or take, for three years, and what we've built is impressive—strong, complex, multifaceted. Like a curry or boeuf bourguignon, something you cook for hours and hours, allowing the flavors to develop over time, changing and deepening with each passing hour on the heat.
You don't always know what's going to come of it, but you put the time in anyway, and then, after a long, long time, you realize with great clarity why you put the time in: for this night, for these hours around the table, for the complexity and richness of flavors that are so lovely and unexpected you're still thinking about them the next day.
That's how I am today, still kind of mesmerized by last night, by the taste of Amanda's butterscotch budino and the little pile of baby clothes for the boy who will be born later this month, by the laughter and the baby noises, by the faces of my people, feeling like this is what life is for, this is what Sunday nights are for, this is what the table is for.
Mini Mac & Cheese
This is a mash-up of Grace Parisi's three-cheese mini macs from Food & Wine and another Food & Wine macaroni & cheesecalled, appropriately enough, Macaroni and Cheese.1
Be generous when you dust the Parmesan, both in the empty cups and on top, because that's what holds them together—that and the egg yolk.
These can be made gluten-free, obviously, by using brown rice or corn pasta, which is usually what I do. Watch the cook time on the pasta, as gluten-free pastas seem to be a little more unpredictable than conventional pastas.
Ingredients
½ pound elbow macaroni (or 4 cups cooked)
2 cups sharp cheddar cheese, shredded
2 tablespoons butter, plus more for pan
1 tablespoon Dijon
2 dashes Tabasco
½ teaspoon salt
1 egg yolk
½ cup grated Parmesan cheese Smoked paprika
Instructions:
In a pot of boiling water, cook the macaroni for about 5 minutes, to just al dente, which is just a touch firmer than how
you'd like to eat it. Drain.
Brush mini muffin pan with melted butter, then sprinkle half the grated Parmesan into the muffin cups.
On medium-low heat, warm butter and cheddar cheese, and whisk till smooth.
Off heat, add Dijon, Tabasco, egg yolk, and whisk again.
Add macaroni and mix until well coated with cheese.
Spoon into muffin cups, making them slightly rounded and packing them lightly. Top with grated Parmesan.
Bake at 425 for 12 to 14 minutes, until golden on top.
Let cool at least 10 minutes before serving, because they will set as they cool. Sprinkle with smoked paprika.
Serve warm or at room temperature.
MAKES: 24 mini macs — the perfect amount for an appetizer at a dinner party for 8. For a cocktail party, double the
recipe, using a whole box (1 pound) of pasta.
"Three-Cheese Mini Macs" recipe, first published in Food & Wine magazine, December 2007; "Macaroni and Cheese"
recipe; first published in "Quick from Scratch Pasta," 1996.
Bread and Wine is a collection of essays about family relationships, friendships, and the meals that bring us together. Written by well-loved writer and blogger, Shauna Niequist, this is a funny, honest, and vulnerable spiritual memoir about our life around the table—the celebrations, traditions, and experiences that we share, and the ways God teaches and nourishes us as we nourish the people around us.
Shauna Niequist is the author of Cold Tangerines, Bittersweet, and Bread and Wine. Shauna grew up in Barrington, Illinois, and then studied English and French literature at Westmont College in Santa Barbara. As an author and blogger, Shauna writes about the beautiful and broken moments of everyday life—friendship, family, faith, food, marriage, love, babies, books, celebration, heartache, and all the other things that shape us, delight us, and reveal to us the heart of God. Shauna is married to Aaron, who is a pianist and songwriter. Aaron is a worship leader at Willow Creek and is recording a project called A New Liturgy. Aaron and Shauna live outside Chicago with their sons, Henry and Mac.
No comments:
Post a Comment