Feeding the Hungry Ghost (9 page)

I had, alas, worked myself into such a nervous state, I was running a mild fever. It didn’t hamper me any and, what the hell, gave my cheeks a bit of a glow. Gentle heat came off the candles and came off me. The white petals of the daisies fell one by one.

I could barely eat, but I didn’t need to. Watching him do so was nourishment enough. The way his eyes widened with pleasure or sometimes closed told me plenty. He didn’t speak much
because, well, he didn’t. So when it seemed appropriate, I chattered on about God knows what. Otherwise, I let him be.

Afterward, I set the crystal serving bowl brimming with tender berries on the table, no plates, no spoons. We reached in, our fingers touching by accident. Or not.

He reassessed me. He kissed me. But then he started dating this girl named Debbie, which pretty much tells you everything.

I got the menu right; I got the guy wrong.

Next on the list, a guy with naughty, twinkling eyes, a badboy pout, ass cheeks as taut and curved as two halves of a plum … and breath that smelled like something evil washed up in the tide. His hello, while enthusiastic, stopped me in my tracks. Rather than tell him, I fed him hillocks of tabbouleh, bright and cleansing, with parsley and mint, mesas of ginger cookies, and rivers of peppermint tea — flavors to delight the palate and neutralize the breath.

“Wonderful,” he’d moan, popping another cookie in his mouth. Having grown up in a household where the only seasonings were salt and garlic powder, he’d gladly have followed me down any culinary trail. Alas, kissing him remained a problem, and I had to give him the boot.

I made another beau soup when he was ailing and presented it to him, the pot swaddled in a red-checked cloth.

“What is it?” he asked, sitting up in bed, his blue eyes bright with fever.

“Lentil soup. I made it.”

“Why would you do that, baby?”

This requires explanation?

Lentils are the most easily digested of the legumes and therefore excellent for infants and those infirm or feeling off their feed.
Like their beany brothers, though, they’re still protein rich. The little disks, slightly convex, not only are delightful in the mouth but inspired a whole scientific field — optics. Optical lenses get their design and name from lentils (whose botanical name is
Lens culinaris).

Lentils require no presoaking and cook quickly, going from dried to ready to eat, bing, bang, boom. So you can make a nourishing soup with ease. Being mild tasting, they gladly take to any sort of spin. When you’re feeling spirited, you can spike them with cumin and turmeric as they do in the Middle East and India (see Red Lentil Soup with Indian Spices,
page 176
) or with chili and mint as they do in Turkey. These flavors unlock something deliciously primal in me. But if, as with my blue-eyed love, you’re in need of deep, basic comfort, simply cook the lentils with a mirepoix — finely diced celery, onions, and carrots, which act as a little bouquet for your food. Then eat. You can feel the healing course through you.

“Just taste it,” I said, spooning some into his mouth.

Deep, Basic Comfort Lentil Soup

This soup is simplicity itself. I’m always tempted to embellish it with spices and vegetables, which makes it lovely but also turns it into another soup (see Red Lentil Soup with Indian Spices,
page 176
). Sometimes, life requires a little restraint. When it does, this is your soup.

While I normally prefer largish vegetables in my soup, here the goal is for all the vegetable bits to be roughly the same size as the lentils, hence the finer chopping.

Serves 4 to 6

1 tablespoon olive oil

2 cloves garlic, minced

4 carrots, finely chopped

3 stalks celery, finely chopped

1 cup lentils

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

1 bay leaf

Sea salt and freshly ground pepper

In a large saucepan, heat the oil over medium-high heat. Add the garlic, carrots, and celery. Cook, stirring occasionally, until the vegetables are fragrant and softened, about 5 minutes.

Pick through your lentils and remove any pebbles or odd bits. Pour into the saucepan with the vegetables. Add the vegetable broth and bay leaf and bring to a boil.

Cover, reduce the heat to low, and simmer until everything has become tender and fond of each other to the point of coalescing, about 1 hour.

If a smoother, more velvety soup appeals, feel free to puree using an immersion blender, taking care to avoid splatters. Otherwise, simply season generously with salt and pepper. Feed to yourself, an invalid, an infant, or anyone who needs more from less.

Blue Eyes improved quickly. Our relationship did not. A man with no appreciation for homemade lentil soup will have no appreciation for the kind of person who makes it.

The intensity, inexperience, and angst of youth are, happily, behind me. The angst of adulthood, alas, is not. But still, if I meet you and I like you, I want to cook for you, to feed you what best satisfies your own particular hunger. I can’t help it.

It seemed to me perfectly natural at the end of interviewing a Pulitzer-nominated novelist, to invite the man to dinner. Along with his wife and two young children. It was only a few days later that it dawned on me — I did not know these people, I had not met these people. And vice versa. This novelist is famous and acclaimed — what would he want with me? And now he and his entire family were coming to our house to eat. What the hell was I thinking? But plans were already under way, and besides, I had already concocted a menu too good to miss: champagne, kalamatas, pistachios, and toasted pita with Greek pea spread to start; moving on to fig, fennel, and arugula salad, served with a paella — fish-free, made with vegetables and quinoa and scented with a dizzying amount of saffron — and a lusty zinfandel; and for dessert, almond cake with roasted pears and a golden Sauternes. All served by a cook whose only desire was to please.

The pleasure, it turns out, was mine. Good food, good wine — they help an evening along. Dazzling, charming company like the author and his family helps, too. But that’s nothing you can count on.

You don’t have to be famous to be at my table. You don’t even have to be human. I did the same thing when I babysat a friend’s pet rabbit, preparing a feast of shaved carrots, a few raisins, and tender celery leaves. The raisins were well received, but rabbits are easy. People are the puzzle and altogether harder to woo.

Unconventional but Seductive Veggie Paella

Paella, Spain’s iconic dish, is traditionally made with rice, meat, fowl, and/or seafood. I’ve substituted quicker-cooking, higher-protein quinoa for the rice and lighter, brighter veggies for the animal bits. But I’ve left some tradition intact. As with true, classic paella, this vegetarian version is heady with saffron and feeds a crowd.

Serves 6 to 8

1 mild dried chili, such as ancho

4 tablespoons olive oil

6 cloves garlic, chopped

1 tablespoon sweet or smoked paprika

Generous pinch of saffron

One 15-ounce can diced tomatoes

4 carrots, chopped

1 fennel bulb, chopped

1 bunch scallions or 1 spring onion, chopped

8 ounces mushrooms, sliced

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

2 cups quinoa, rinsed

Sea salt and freshly ground pepper

One 15-ounce can artichoke hearts, rinsed, drained, and quartered

2 roasted red bell peppers (jarred are fine), cut into strips

12 cherry or grape tomatoes, halved if large

Chopped fresh flat-leaf parsley for garnish

Fennel fronds for garnish

In a small bowl, soak the chili in enough hot water to cover until softened, about 20 minutes. Drain the chili and chop.

In a large, deep skillet or Spanish cazuela, heat 2 tablespoons of the olive oil over medium heat. Add the chopped chili and garlic. Cook, stirring occasionally, until the garlic turns golden, 4 to 5 minutes. Add the paprika, the saffron, and the canned tomatoes and their juice. Cook, stirring occasionally, until thick and fragrant, about 2 minutes.

Transfer to a blender or food processor, and puree until smooth, about 1 minute.

No need to clean the skillet. Use it to heat the remaining 2 tablespoons olive oil over medium-high heat. Add the carrots, fennel, and scallions. Cook, stirring occasionally, until the vegetables relax and are gilded with oil, about 5 minutes. Add the mushrooms and cook until the mushrooms darken and become tender, another 5 minutes. Return the chili-tomato sauce to the skillet and stir to combine. Add 1 cup of the vegetable broth and stir for just a few minutes, until a thickish sauce forms.

Add the quinoa and an additional 1 cup broth to the skillet. Stir gently, reduce the heat to medium, and cook without stirring, rotating the skillet occasionally to distribute the heat evenly. After 10 minutes, add the remaining 2 cups broth and cook until all the liquid is absorbed and the quinoa grains have popped and expanded, about 10 minutes. Taste and give it a good seasoning of sea salt and freshly ground pepper.

Gently press the artichoke hearts, red bell pepper strips, and cherry tomatoes into the top of the paella. Be artsy. Remove the paella pan from the heat and cover with a lid or wrap tightly with aluminum foil. Let rest for 10 to 15 minutes.

Garnish with parsley and feathery fennel fronds.

Experience has taught me coaxing out someone’s inner aphrodisiac means coupling the familiar with the exotic — scenting homey apple crumble with earthy cardamom, leavening a typically heavy meal with an ethereal soufflé. It means giving someone the welcome of the known, but giving it a twist, so you taste something familiar in a whole new way. It is discovery, it is revelation, it is like falling in love with what you already know. Having a warm heart in the kitchen counts, too. Seduction in the bedroom or the kitchen is harder when you’re feeling pissy.

In some ways, I still cook to seduce. Or please. Or comfort. I’m a married woman, after all. Benjamin eats what I cook every day and loves what I feed him, whether it’s lentil soup or cardamom-scented apple crumble or ripe, naked berries. This is not why I married him. But it’s nice.

I still love cardamom and add it to dishes from curries to crumbles. Because you never know.

Amorous Cardamom Apple Crumble

Admit it, you were waiting for this recipe. It’s wonderful eaten warm and naked, by you and your love, clothing optional.

Serves 6 to 8 — or 2 very turned-on people with lots of leftovers

Oil for the pie pan

¾ cup plus 2 tablespoons unbleached all-purpose flour

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

1½ cups brown sugar

Zest and juice of 1 lemon

2½ teaspoons ground cardamom

½ cup (1 stick) vegan margarine, such as Earth Balance, softened

6 apples, preferably a combination of tart and sweet, peeled and sliced

1 teaspoon ground cinnamon

Preheat the oven to 375°F. Lightly oil a 9-inch pie pan.

In a medium bowl, combine ¾ cup of the flour, the oats, ¾ cup of the brown sugar, the lemon zest, and 1½ teaspoons of the cardamom. Stir together until the mixture is combined. Work in the vegan margarine until the mixture just turns into a crumble. A food processor can do the job in less than a minute — be careful not to overmix. Using a wooden mixing spoon gives you greater crumb control and lets you put extra heart into it — it’ll take a couple minutes. Set the crumb mixture aside.

Put the apple slices in a large bowl, pour the lemon juice over all, and toss together. Add the remaining ¾ cup brown sugar, the remaining 2 tablespoons flour, the remaining 1 teaspoon cardamom, and the cinnamon. Stir gently until just combined.