It's been too long.
Way too long; I've missed you. And I'm not lying when I say I think about you all the time. Usually while lying on the couch watching television
. I've watched a
lot of television recently. It's actually been a little bit
Valley of the Dolls around here lately, but instead of popping pills I've been consuming episodes of
Modern Family as if they were valium. Which, in a way, they are.
But even while lying on my couch strung out on sitcoms, I've been thinking about you. Numerous bl*g posts have been composed. All in my head, and usually comprising episode recaps of
Modern Family. But I've also been planning to tell you that after taking nearly two months to finish
this book, I read
this one in a single day. ON MY iPHONE. (Which I believe means I've graduated from total Luddite to totally desperate yet lazy reader who will not go to the bookstore in the rain.)
I've wanted to describe for you how Chester and I stalked a gang of crows one late afternoon, walking around town at dusk following the birds' baleful chorus until they were suddenly overhead
—hundreds of them, flapping and bawling above us, their bodies barely visible against the darkening sky.
But mostly I've wanted to tell you about my uncle: How much he adored his wife and family, how funny and generous and kind he was, and how beloved. I've wanted to tell you about how sick he became, and how he died: at home, surrounded by people who loved him so much that if love alone could have kept him, he would be here now.
Because my uncle loved to cook, and because this bl*g is allegedly about food, I've wanted to write to you about how well my uncle fed his family and friends; how he was like a chef at America's Test Kitchen, working and reworking a recipe until he'd perfected it; how a simple roasted potato or grilled pizza became a delicacy at his table.
I've wanted to tell you about how even during the last week of his life, my uncle's home brimmed with food and love. How his hospital bed replaced the table in the dining room, and we gathered around him there as we'd so often joined him in that room to eat the meals he'd made to celebrate birthdays and holidays and nothing-in-particular days. How during that week his family continued to be nourished, now by the many people who loved my uncle
—there were crumble-topped muffins dotted with chunks of apple; quiches made from a family recipe, baked in half-century-old pie pans;
Photo by the yachtman and his iPhone
trays of spanakopita and platters of grilled meat and pots of soup; a turkey and a ham and creamy scalloped potatoes.
There were also
Edible Arrangements. Do you know about this phenomenon? At least once a day when we answered the door, we found a delivery person whose face was obscured by an abundance of skewered fruit, arranged to resemble a bouquet of flowers. Which leads me to this piece of advice I've been meaning to pass along: When someone you know is sick and you're wondering how to help, do not pick up the phone and dial 1-877-DoFruit. It will be tempting, almost irresistible
—It's fruit! That looks like a bouquet!
—but you mustn't give in. If not because Edible Arrangements are ludicrously expensive and, in fact, barely edible, than because EVERYONE ELSE IS SENDING ONE. You can count on the fact that at a minimum at least four other people are buying an $80 arrangement of unripe strawberries and melon that tastes like newspaper. Edible Arrangements are a racket. So I recommend that you spend $10-15 to make a pot of soup.
Soup is the ultimate comfort food, whether it's the can of Campbell's chicken noodle your mother heated up when you had a cold as a kid, or the hearty pot of lentil that sustains you on a cold day in February. A bowl of soup is a meal, a cup can serve as a snack, it's easy to reheat, and leftover soup doesn't feel like "leftovers."
The recipe I'm including here is my attempt to re-create a squash soup my Greek stepmother sent over to my uncle's house when he first began hospice. It's warm and nourishing but not too heavy, and it tastes to me like fall: the cider lends a nice tang, which is complemented by the sweetness of the maple syrup, and the pimenton's smokiness reminds me of the scent of burning leaves. It's no Edible Arrangement, but it will do.
Roasted Butternut Squash Soup[If my uncle were giving you this soup recipe, he would have made it five times and could tell you exactly how much of everything to add to produce the perfect result. But instead you're dealing with, um, me. The measurements here are all based on the 3½-pound butternut squash I bought; your squash may be bigger or smaller and you might like your soup sweeter or smokier or creamier or ciderier than I do, so plan to play around with the flavors at the end. Also, this recipe doubles easily, and could be made with a combination of butternut and acorn squashes.]~3½ pound butternut squash
4 tablespoons butter
1 large onion, chopped
1 clove of garlic, chopped
3 cups broth
½ cup whole milk
¾ teaspoon salt
¼–½ teaspoon pimenton (I used picante, or hot, but I think the agridulce would be just as good)
6–8 tablespoons of cider, or more to taste
1 tablespoon of maple syrup, or more to taste
1. To roast the squash: Preheat the oven to 375 degrees. Cut the squash in half lengthwise
and scoop out the seeds and stringy stuff. Place the two halves cut side down on a lightly oiled baking sheet. Cook in the oven until the squash if tender, ~45 minutes. When it's done and cool enough to handle, scoop the cooked squash from its skin and set aside.
2. Meanwhile, while the squash is roasting, melt the butter in a Dutch over or other soup pot over medium heat. Add the onions and garlic and cook, stirring from time to time, until the onions are golden yellow, ~25 minutes. Add the broth, milk, ¼ teaspoon pimenton, ½ teaspoon salt, and bring barely to a boil, stirring frequently.
3. This next part can be messy, so if you're not already wearing them already, it's time to don your frilly apron and do-rag.
4. Blend the squash and soup base together: either in batches in a blender (add the squash first, then the liquid, to avoid splashing, and don't fill it too full), or using your immersion blender on the stove (this method doesn't require hauling out the big blender, but depending on how things go you might find yourself cleaning soup from the walls).
5. Return the pureed soup to the pot and add cider in tablespoons to taste, and 1 tablespoon (or more) of maple syrup, also to taste.
6. Adjust the seasonings (I added more pimenton and more salt). Add more broth if it's too thick or milk if you'd like it creamier; you could finish it with a dash of cream if you'd like, though it tasted plenty rich to me.
