Pablo Neruda, on Food and Water

Ode to Water 

by Pablo Neruda

Everything on earth bristled, the bramble

pricked and the green thread 

bit, the petal fell

until the only flower was falling.

Water is different,

has no direction but beauty,

runs through all dreams of color,

takes bright lessons 

from the rock

and in those occupations works out 

the unbroken duties of the foam.

That we should all have the artist's lens of the late Chilean poet, who found beauty in the simplest things. In his Memoirs, he said he left his native Chile "to go singing through the world." Certainly his odes to various foods (excerpted below) have the power to pique anyone's interest, whether you have an appetite for poetry or not. 

Ode to the Lemon

...In the lemon

knives cut

a small cathedral,

the hidden aspe

opened acid windows

to the light

and drops poured out

the topazes,

the altars,

the cool architecture...

so when your hand 

grasps the hemisphere

of the cut 

lemon above your plate

you spill a universe of gold,

a goblet yellow

with miracles...

Ode to the Tomato

...The tomato

luminary of the earth,

repeated 

and fertile

star,

shows us 

its convolutions,

its canals,

the illustrious plentitude

and the abundance

without pit,

without husk,

without scales or thorns,

the gift of its fiery color

and the totality of its coolness.

Ode to the Artichoke

...and the gentle artichoke 

stood there in the garden

dressed as a warrior

...

Do read the full length versions of these poems and also Neruda's other odes: to watermelon, salt, onion, and the like.

Unfortunately, I think the pieces are too long to include in a single post. Read and/or listen to them in Neruda's native Spanish. Here's a challenge: find a decent Spanish-language version of these poems on You Tube. I, for one, didn't like what my search produced.

(I did, however, come across a video of my beloved Ralph Fiennes reading Neruda's Ode to the Sea. You may have heard this poem in the 1994 Italian film Il Postino, which features a fictitious Pablo Neruda. I'm still deciding what's more beautiful: Neruda's Ode to the Sea, the Italian language, or the gods and goddesses who act in the film.)

***

The text from which I've quoted includes both the Spanish and English versions of the poems.

It is Full Woman, Fleshly Apple, Hot Moon. Selected Poems of Pablo Neruda. Translated by Stephen Mitchell. 

To Repel and Intrigue the French

San Francisco: Circa 2006

Eric and I were at the San Francisco restaurant Le Garcon on the day Eric was to return to his native France. Though the restaurant doesn't seem to offer brunch anymore, we'd been served up something delicious: croque monsieur or croque madame. Je ne me souviens pas ('I don't remember') which it was.

We had a noticeable language barrier. Eric and his friends–he'd been a waiter at Le Garcon–would often speak to one another in French, a language I can only understand in baby bites. I felt left out, embarrassed. I wanted to pretend I was somewhere else yet at the same time strike up a conversation with Eric, so I engaged him about his mother country, which I'd visited nine years earlier with my grandfather. I grabbed his attention by mentioning my train ride from Florence, Italy into Nantes, France.

"...and, you know, it was a big deal to finally be on that train since the railroad workers were striking," I said to him. He perked up in his chair but said nothing, so I carried on.

"I was so proud of and scared for my grandfather. He'd banged his knee while we were trying to climb into the sleeper beds. He was getting old by that point....but he had such wits about him. He'd been to France so many times it was almost as if he knew where we were in time and space without even looking out the window."

And this was where I got confused.

"...You know what else, Eric. He was coherent enough in the middle of the night to tell me we were crossing over Corsica."

He raised an eyebrow at me.

"It means he was with it, mentally."

"I know. But were you?" He asked, laughing. All I could do was chug my iced tea because I knew something bad was coming.

"Corsica is an island," he reminded me.

Of course, I'd mostly known that, but somewhere in my mind a small tip of the island had snuck into our train route. It was just a matter of semantics. I'd meant to say that we'd traveled near Corsica but I didn't want to give Eric the satisfaction of knowing how stupid I felt. We finished our meal in silence and as we were leaving he asked me about my plans for the weekend. If Eric wasn't headed out of the country,  he told me, he'd go hear the L.A.-based metal band Brujeria, playing later that night in San Francisco.

Hmm. Brujeria.

"Gotcha," I said to myself. Whereas I'd just fumbled the ball with Corsica, and, frankly my world geography was a bit lacking, my word recognition was pretty decent.

He wouldn't leave my country thinking I was stupid!

In Spanish, brujeria means witchcraft, which one may blame for getting embroiled in some political brouhaha. Of course, a long, crappy workday is always ameliorated with some creme brule. Some folks may go for broiled egg sandwiches. The French may put their meat in un brulure. They may also have to brule un feu rouge (run a red light) in search of food.

These conversations with Eric didn't all happen on the same day and I kept most of my linguistic revelation to myself. And though it's fair to say I had zero promise as a European Tour Guide of any stripe back then, I could easily navigate my way around different languages, even ones I haven't mastered yet.

"Je me debrouilles," I said to myself as my friend left the country.
In French, it means "I manage." Because I will; I have since high school.

**Another note on failure: I owe the French words their proper accents, which I'll add later**

Whole Foods Tuna Salad Re-mixed

I was never a huge fan of relish in my tuna salad, so I finally borrowed a recipe from the New Orleans Whole Foods, circa 2004. I later tweaked it to make it cheaper to replicate.

I'm sort of loose about the quantities. If I'm making the tuna salad for my sister, it gets more mayonnaise. If I'm feeling puffy, I go lo-fat. I fold in onion until it all tastes right.

My recipe, briefly

• Canned Albacore tuna
• Canola mayonnaise
• Red onion, finely chopped
• Dill
• Fresh squeezed lime juice*
• Salt and pepper and/or Tony's Chachere's seasoning

If you're not sure how to combine these various things, please beg your roomate or significant other to show you. Then, sit for five minutes in a dark corner and worry you'll never make a good parent. Just kidding. I know a bunch of kids who won't go near the stuff.

The big secret to my tuna salad is that I haven't used fresh dill in years. I never quite mastered not water-logging it in the strainer. I use freeze dried herbs from a company called Litehouse. Their online prices seem fairly comparable to what you'll find at the market. Though I've only prepared my tuna salad in a household kitchen, I'll bet freeze dried dill is great for camping, and even better for the Alaskan Iditarod, should you fly that way.

I bought my jar at Whole Foods, about as long ago as I face-lifted their recipe, trading out lemon for lime, and going cheap and practical on the dill.

Back in college, I babysat the children of a New Orleans heath and fitness expert. His personal chef substituted olive oil and vinegar for the mayonnaise. If you're feeling skilled–which I rarely am–go for it. And let me know what the outcome is.

Going Whole Hog in the Foothills

When Sous Chef Edgar first started at Rumbo Al Sur­ in Oakland, CA, it was serendipitous that his boss, Executive Chef Matt Colgan, had begun a tradition Edgar knew from back home. That is, smoking a whole pig and leaving little to waste. In Yucatán, Mexico where Edgar’s from, all the smoking is done underground. The pig is first covered in spices, wrapped in banana leaves, and then eased into a casing of metal sheets that are perforated to let in air­. No flames are visible above the surface. Stone and wood keep the fire going. 

Inherently, the roasting process looks a bit different on busy Park Boulevard in the Glenview District. Is there some sort of regulation against cooking underground? I’m not sure. Whatever the case, Rumbo plays it safe with their above-ground outdoor oven or Caja-China, available for about $300. Or, let’s call it $150 each if we go Dutch on it.

Pig in the oven

The afternoon of the roast, I’d walked by the parking lot several times before I found out what was in the big wooden box. I’ll be honest: I had to blink once or twice to get Wilbur out of my mind. But somehow, all my pseudo-vegetarian neurons pardoned me and I went for it. After all, what was in the Caja-China had been marinating for two days in more than twenty juices, spices, and herbs. And it’s true that a whole pig roast is far off the beaten path. I, for one, endorse this kind of big-picture-dining: I’m a waste-not kind of eater these days.

Rumbo’s servers don’t present the whole pig on a platter,­ as is done in say, a luau. Instead, the chefs plate both dark and light meat­–shoulders, thighs and all­–along with moist corn tortillas. Garlic, oregano and epazote black beans jibe nicely with coconut rice. Fresh chicharones­–or fried pork skins­–round out the offering, along with pineapple salsa. It’s a savory, spicy, and mildly sweet dining experience, and if you’ve never eaten the thigh of a pig, a mysterious one as well.

Everything but the tortillas

After such a hearty meal, most people would be satisfied and skip dessert. But I just couldn’t leave without trying their Margarita Pie, which is better than any Key Lime I’ve ever had. I even offered some to a new neighbor seated at the bar. Some. Not all. A final sip of a margarita and I was on my way home after my first pig roast. It was an education.

The night before, when I was still reluctant to dive in, a front-house manager named Erin put me at ease. “I’ve seen my fair share of smoked pigs,” she said, “and [Matt Colgan’s] is definitely the best.”

If you won’t take her word alone, I’m sure her colleagues Elmer, Rick, Ali, Patrick or Matt B. would back it up. Even at their busiest–with customers like me asking for a drink, a meal, and dessert to go–the staff fulfilled my wishes with a smile. It's the food and the service. No wonder they're so packed Tuesday through Sunday. (They're closed on Monday).

Enjoy Rumbo's 'southbound journey'
4239 Park Blvd
Oakland, CA

Visit their Facebook page.

Dessert First Tonight

I've just been to a pig roast at the local Rumbo Al Sur! Tomorrow, I'll have the story up, along with a photo or two. As I continue to salivate over Rumbo's Margarita (Key Lime) pie that I'll shamelessly finish for tomorrow's breakfast, I've become nostalgic about eating with family back home. I've only been gone a month, and already I miss them.

Friday night, I read Joyce Maynard's beautiful and poignant "Pie," an essay about how baking transformed a tense mother-daughter relationship and so I'm inspired to share a found-photo. I have no idea what the pie was–I'm guessing Cheesecake or Lemon Merengue–and I'm not sure of the occasion, but I do know the dessert was a loving gift from my mother. She takes such good care of everyone around mealtimes.

We're all well past thirty now, but still at Christmas brunch my mother and stepfather offer us grapefruit halves they've delicately cut the night before so we have less work to do with our grapefruit spoons. They even individually-wrap our bowls in Saran Wrap. In the morning, they often add a Maraschino cherry. Perfectly centered, by the way. How I love their finishing touches.

Is there a certain meaningful dessert in your family? One longstanding recipe on my mother's side is frozen fruit salad, a sort of sherbet-tasting dish of cream, peaches, bananas and nuts with a dollop of lemon curd. A perfect combination of creamy, tangy, cold and chewy. I hope you'll try your hand at it some time.  Happy baking, cooking, freezing. All that jazz. 

Frozen Fruit Salad (circa 1950?) 

Ingredients:

• 2 small packages (3 ounces each) cream cheese
• 1 cup mayonnaise
• 1 cup heavy cream, whipped
• 1/2 cup maraschino red cherries, quartered
• 1/2 cup green maraschino cherries, quartered (or use all red)
• 1 can fruit cocktail (16 or 20 ounce size), drained
• 2 1/2 cups diced marshmallows, about 24 marshmallows

Preparation:

Beat together the cream cheese and mayonnaise. Fold in whipped cream, cherries, drained fruit cocktail, and marshmallows. Pour into a 1-quart freezer container. Garnish with additional maraschino cherries.
Freeze fruit salad until firm.
Frozen fruit salad serves 8.

Note: This isn't my mother's recipe, but I think you'll get the gist.

When a Widow Gets the Party Started

It seems every party has at least one mysterious couple. You know, that handsome '007 who passes up refills of the house wine, treating his own drink as if it's liquid gold. His willowy guest, of course, shares his champagne flute. Her long dress sweeps the room like a decorative train for a private ceremony they're about to hold in the corner. He feeds her finger-food. She begins to rub his back. The flustered host points insistently to a bedroom, but the pair simply walk out the front door, the sun bouncing off a champagne bottle in the woman's purse. Everyone in the room is aghast. Dialogue becomes stilted and many guests complain of thirst. And then, it dawns on you. The couple was drinking Veuve ("Widow") Cliquot, otherwise known as the champagne that made bubbly famous.

What strikes me as most interesting about the rise of Veuve Cliquot is that a 19th-century woman was behind it. Barbe-Nicole Ponsardin married Francois Cliquot and when he died of typhoid fever–for which champagne was, ironically, a popular antidote–she was left at the young age of 27 to operate a business alone. Never mind that the embers of the French Revolution were still settling: the Widow went whole hog. In fact, after Napoleon's reign came to an end, she arranged for boats to push through a naval blockade in what was then Prussia to ensure that Cliquot was drunk by as many celebrating soldiers as possible. Whereas the American Revolutionary Tea Partiers said, "No taxation without representation," the Widow may have said, "No toasting the end of terror without the real deal, and that's from my winery." When Cliquot reached St. Petersburg in 1811, Czar Alexander gave it a ringing endorsement. And so grew the Widow's empire.

With the numerous male-dominated vineyards in nearby wine country, it's refreshing to learn that a woman actually got things started for bubbly. What we hear is that the only authentic champagne comes from those sacred grapes in France and that Dom Perignon created the drink. But, as the Widow reported, bubbly was actually stumbled upon. When many winemakers were trying to get their product to stop fizzing, the British were drinking still wine with Bourbon, the precursor to the sparkling kind. Nobody invented champagne. It was a glorious accident. 

Not only was Barbe-Nicole a fearless businesswoman, she had excellent advice for her granddaughter: Be bold and let intelligence direct your life, she said. 

Indeed. And though I have a night of writing ahead of me, and I wait tables tomorrow morning, a large bottle of bubbly smiles down on me from my bookshelf. I've had it for six months now. What's another few weeks? Mardi Gras is around the corner, and no one will be sober enough to notice that what we're drinking isn't the Widow. Except me.

Endorsing the Sweet Potato Odyssey!

The Sweet Potato Lover's Cookbook will soon arrive at a postal box that my sister kindly shares with me for large orders. This book has over 100 recipes! It will be nice to have on hand, as one of my goals is to expand my student diet to include more than just carrots, hummus, Nilla wafers and Club crackers. 

Perhaps more interesting than my own journey is that of the sweet potato. NPR reports that although Cristoforo Colombo–yeah that's how they spell it in Italian–likely helped introduce tomatoes to the Italian foods we eat, and hot peppers to Chinese and Indian repasts, he was less integral in the sweet potato's international debut than we'd previously thought. 

Sweet potatoes originated in Central and South America. Captain Cook's sweet potato remnants (which are housed in a London museum) are linked by DNA to the root vegetables in Ecuador and Peru. But, some Polynesian sweet potatoes date back several hundred years prior to that, meaning that Polynesians likely went by boat to South America to get them. Proof's in the language. The Polynesian word for sweet potato, "kuumala" is very close to "kumara," or "cumal," the words for sweet potato in Quechua, the native Andean tongue. 

This gives me an even greater  respect for those orange root veggies, traveling countless miles between Polynesia and South America before so-called civilized people braved the treacherous waters. I find myself on my own odyssey for the vitamin-rich tuber. Had I my druthers at the restaurant where I work, we'd replace the Idaho or Russet Burbank with the sweet potato.

But, folks like their salt and I have a feeling price is partly to blame. Restaurant Depot's San Francisco Produce associate tells me that Idaho potatoes cost $6.95 

for a five-pound bag whereas sweet potatoes ring up at $14.95 for the same quantity. 

In my wildest fantasy, I walk into a McDonalds and say, 'it's the economy, stupid.' But, the cashier would probably be in their early twenties and not get the reference or care about my health. 'What's your order, stupid,' I'd hear back from them. I'd then have to sulk over to Burger King for sweet potato fries or just order a cone of McDonalds soft-serve. I can never turn that stuff down.