Feeding the Hungry Ghost (27 page)

Serves 6

2 tablespoons olive oil

1½ teaspoons ground cumin

1 teaspoon ground coriander

½ teaspoon turmeric

Pinch of red pepper flakes

2 large onions, chopped

6 cloves garlic, minced

1 thumb-size piece fresh ginger, minced

1½ cups red lentils

5 cups Stone Soup (see
page 84
) or other vegetable broth

One 28-ounce can diced tomatoes

Juice of 1 lemon

2 handfuls fresh spinach or kale, chopped — add another handful if you’re a greens freak like me

1 bunch fresh cilantro, chopped

Sea salt and freshly ground pepper

In a generous-size soup pot, heat the oil over medium heat. Add the cumin, coriander, turmeric, and red pepper flakes. Cook, stirring often, until the oil darkens and the spices turn fragrant, about 1 minute. Add the onions, garlic, and ginger, and cook, stirring occasionally, until the onions soften and turn translucent, a few minutes.

Add the lentils and cook, stirring, for a few minutes more, until the lentils deepen in color and glisten with the spiced oil.

Add the broth and the tomatoes and their juice, and bring to a boil. Cover, reduce the heat to medium, and simmer until the lentils are tender and have become one with the soup, about 30 minutes. Stir in the lemon juice.

If you want the soup to be silky and smooth, you may puree with an immersion blender, but really, it’s not necessary. Jacob didn’t. The lentils are small and soft and have coalesced into the soup.

Gently stir in the spinach and cilantro. They will wilt into the soup. Season with salt and pepper.

The soup keeps several days in the fridge.

I get that death is humankind’s own sort of renewal — out with the old lot, in with the new. Still, I think the process is flawed, and can’t believe no one’s come up with a better way.

I missed Patrick. I still miss him, but something strange happened. The terrible ache for him gave way to life, to people bearing food, and to Patrick himself. Being dead was no impediment; he just nudged it aside. He moved through me, he moved into me. He haunts me in pleasing ways. When I tell a funny story and people laugh, I know it’s because of Patrick, and I know he’s laughing, too. I can smell his coffee breath. He hasn’t supplanted who I am — I will always be nervous. But he has become the best parts of me.

The ghosts I hang out with were wonderful to me in life. They’re still good company, even dead. We talk to each other. It doesn’t take a séance; it just takes me in the kitchen. Olives, capers, anything salty brings David, my father-in-law. Cookies conjure Marcella, who loved to bake them, and Patrick, who loved to eat them and was forever brushing sugar out of his beard.

Maybe your ghosts can be bought off with food offerings and such; mine tend to stick around, especially Marcella and Patrick. They still love a party.

I look around our Thanksgiving table, and the ghosts are there, really no different than they were in life — Patrick is saying
outrageous things out of the corner of his mouth, just loud enough to make Marcella snigger and swat his arm. My grandfather Aaron harrumphs and cadges bits of turkey from the platter; my mother-in-law, uneasy, lips pressed, pushes food around on her plate as though it were suspect. David eats quickly, waiting till he and his second wife, the love of his life, can, politely, leave. She, slender, eats as though she hadn’t in days, blinking and beaming, utterly amazed by the food. “I’ve never had this before. What do you call this? Stuffing? It’s superb.” All of them are dead. How is that possible?

There are new faces at the table, new friends, along with family like our niece Nikki, and beneath the table, our dog lies by our feet, praying for a morsel to drop. As the people we love become ghosts one by one, it seems there is less laughter at our holiday table but, perhaps, more tenderness. We, or at least I, recognize that even though we sometimes annoy the hell out of each other, our time together is precious. Finite. And we don’t want to blow it.

Turkey I could do without, but I have a soft spot for Thanksgiving, where the food traditions come from your culture, your family. The corn-bread dressing my mother and I make together has its origins in the corn-bread dressing she used to make with Marcella. Over the years, we’ve added more vegetables to the dressing and enlisted the aid of a food processor.

I’m the heretic who put new twists on family favorites. I’ve introduced kale to our Thanksgiving table and enlisted Nikki to add the walnuts at the end. That is her holiday role. As she gets older, I’ll have other things in store, to make her feel invested, to show Thanksgiving depends on her.

It depends on all of us. It’s about remembering all we have and about remembering each other; it’s about celebrating with the foods of the season. It’s about getting together whether we
feel like it or not, so we get a remedial lesson in our tribal ways. I suppose some people feel this way about the Super Bowl.

Thanksgiving Kale with Fennel, Cranberries, and Walnuts

This dish can be made a day ahead and can be served hot or at room temperature. It’s easy, it’s a gem, and cranberries add their own gemlike glam factor.

Serves 6 to 8

2 tablespoons olive oil

1 fennel bulb, cut into bite-size cubes

2 big bunches kale, chopped

¼ cup sherry

Pinch of red pepper flakes

cup dried cranberries

cup walnuts

Sea salt and freshly ground pepper

In a large pot, heat the oil over medium-high heat. Add the fennel to the pot. Cook, stirring occasionally, until softened, about 10 minutes.

Add the kale, a handful at a time, and cook until it just wilts but is still bright green, about 8 minutes. Stir in the sherry, red pepper flakes, and cranberries. Remove from the heat. (The kale mixture can be stored in an airtight container in the refrigerator for a day; bring to room temperature before proceeding with the recipe.)

Preheat the oven to 350°F.

Pour the walnuts into a shallow ovenproof pan and toast until they just turn golden brown and are fragrant, about 10 minutes. Remove from the oven and chop coarsely.

Gently reheat the kale in a large pot over medium heat until heated through, about 8 minutes. Get a friend or family member to stir in the walnuts with love. Season with salt and pepper.

GENTLE NUDGE
the
ELEVENTH: SLOW FOOD

Sitting down to a meal has always been a way to celebrate. It says nourishment, it says abundance, it says delicious. And it shouldn’t be reserved for Thanksgiving or Christmas; you can do it for a simple meal of soup tonight and get the same thrill. It may be the only part of your day when you relax.

Relaxing does not come naturally to me. I am much better at hunching my shoulders and clenching my jaw. But relaxing is as important to health as a workout, so I sit down, unlock my jaw, breathe deeply, and eat. It’s better for digestion and ups the odds I’ll actually taste my food. Eating at my desk or having a “working lunch” with colleagues leaves my brain and stomach feeling like the victims of a drive-by.

Factor in a little time in your day to do the same, to let go, to breathe, to slow down and eat. If you don’t, you’ll wind up producing quarts of cortisol. This is the fight-or-flight hormone your adrenal system pumps out in crisis mode. In a calamity situation, cortisol is what you want. It speeds up your response time and your heart rate. As a regular diet, however, cortisol drives up your blood pressure, increases your risk of heart attack, winnows
your bone density and muscle mass, and — here’s the especially charming bit — increases abdominal fat. Um, thanks, no.

Slowing down dials down the cortisol. It also ramps up the mindfulness, which is excellent in the grand scheme of things, leading to enlightenment, serenity, and all that. It also increases sensuality, which makes everything more fun right now.

Really. Stick out your arm. Excellent. Bring it back to your side. Now, take five whole seconds to raise it again. You may have more suppleness in your arm this time, rather than keeping it stick straight, as before. Observe the beauty in the languorous movement, feel the way your breath becomes deeper and more rhythmic. It’s the same action as before, seasoned with just a little time. And appreciation. And sensuality.
As James Baldwin wrote,
“To be sensual, I think, is to respect and rejoice in the force of life, of life itself, and to be
present
in all that one does, from the effort of loving to the breaking of bread. It will be a great day for America, incidentally, when we begin to eat bread again, instead of the blasphemous and tasteless foam rubber that we have substituted for it.” Well, that seems to call for a bread recipe, does it not?

No-Knead Whole Wheat Oatmeal Bread

Healthful and homemade, this is about the easiest yeast bread going. It gets its grainy goodness from whole wheat flour and oatmeal and needs no kneading. That’s right. As with many no-knead bread recipes, this one owes its origins to Jim Lahey, mad genius bread baker and owner of New York’s Sullivan Street Bakery.

Makes 1 loaf

One ¼-ounce packet active dry yeast

2 cups lukewarm water

1 tablespoon molasses

4 cups whole wheat flour

1 tablespoon olive or canola oil

¾ cup old-fashioned oats (also known as rolled oats)

¼ teaspoon sea salt

Pour the yeast into a large bowl. Add the warm water and molasses, and stir gently until the yeast dissolves. Let the yeast proof on your kitchen counter or a similar warm environment for 10 to 15 minutes.

When the yeast is frothy, add the flour. Mix well by hand, or with a mixer on low speed for 2 to 3 minutes, creating a smooth, moist, not sticky dough. Using a big spoon, work in the oil, oats, and salt until the dough just comes together. Do not obsess or overmix. Less is more.

Cover the bowl with a kitchen towel. Set in a warm spot to rise until doubled in bulk, about 1 hour. Lightly oil a 9-x-5-inch loaf pan or a 9-inch pie pan.