the memory of wheat...

old thinking by lucy meskill
the tyranny of cans
that lurk expired
at the back of cabinets
pushing forward
the scent of fear
like rotting carrots,
liquefied and brown
rising tidal from
the bottom of the bin;
remembrances
that live untouchable
under and behind
forcing joy like a jumper
onto a sliver of a ledge
like a jar of golden amber honey
that lurching under pressure,
falls out unexpectedly
and bruises our foot
when we open the door…

I'm cleaning cabinets today, beginning to take out, touch, sort and tend to the thousands of little things that own me. Cleaning the places that never get cleaned.

I'm thinking that it's time to change or at least wipe down with lemon or vinegar the shelves that house my glasses, dishes, pots, pans and utensils. I am certain that the crocks housing my wooden spoons, stainless utensils, cheese planes and the Lazy-Lucy pasta strainer need to be washed.



And how about the spice cabinet and jars that get handled with buttery or olive oil covered hands while I'm cooking. I'm standing in the middle of my kitchen, and everywhere there are things that I touch and move and use every single day that don't get cleaned nearly enough, although it seems to me that I'm always cleaning. Yup, I'm thinking " I work for all of my stuff as much as it works for me" I'm exhausted and I haven't even begun.

Here is the cabinet where I used to store wheat, all kinds of wheat. Wheat, the food I can no longer tolerate, is oddly enough, the yardstick by which I judge so much of what I now consume. Breads I bake: "almost as good as wheat" Pies and Cakes: "not nearly as good as wheat" Gluten-free store bought bread: "can't compete with wheat".

The striving of the gluten-free community to create "wheat like products" is frustrating. I want to let go of wheat, I want to get all primitive, revel in flat breads and interesting crumbly crackers and forget that "wheat the almighty", the symbol of hearth and home and hospitality, ever had a hold on me. I want to stop measuring my success by this thing that makes me feel so terribly ill.

I want to not feel the tug of gluten as I walk by a bakery in Manhattan. Lose the urge to bite into a crusty piece of French bread slathered in butter while slivers of crust fall like crisp rain. I know now how an addict really feels.

Today while cleaning my cabinets I would like to begin anew the purging of my wheat memory, that place where exaggerated and romantic images of thickened sauces, bread and pastries linger and entice. Today I will begin again to let go of wheat, one moment at a time...

Uncle George, the patron saint of little girls, songs and dishes...

As soon as you could reach the sink, while standing on a stool, you were doing dishes in my family.

Every night we girls (there were no boys), would gather around the sink; someone would wash, others would dry and yet others put away. A game we often played after the dishes were done, was to blindfold ourselves with napkins and try to identify herbs and spices and foods by their smell. This game held endless enchantment for me and helped hone my olfactory sense to a high pitch.

Holiday Celebrations in our home meant people (lots of people), laughing, eating, singing and an unbelievably huge mountain of dishes, pots, pans and glassware. We would face this mountainous, messy party hangover with much sadness and trepidation, that much I can tell you.

Unless, of course, my Uncle George was in town; after meals, he would gallop into the kitchen and banish all of us girls with the whisk of a dishtowel that cut the air like a sword. We would sit in the dining room and listen while he washed, dried and completely put away every dish, pot and glass. He would vanquish, nosily, the after-dinner-dragon, whistling the whole time. Georgie's whistling would then turn into singing and everyone would join in. I can still hear all of those beautiful voices crooning old Irish songs, wartime love songs and show tunes.

The next morning amid the bustle for coffee, toast, eggs and rolls, we girls could hear my mother muttering "Now where ever in the world did that man put my...." It always took my Mother days to sort out where my Uncle had stashed all of her favorite kitchen tools. We would smile knowingly and sip our coffee in silence.

These Watermelon days are as sweet and fleeting as the softly slanting late summer sun...

I love painting Watermelon...

I love serving Watermelon plain and simple...

I love eating Watermelon with Lemon...

I love eating Watermelon with Lemon and Basil...

Watermelon, I love everything about it...

The year of the big wind...

My mother's grandmother Kitty O'Shaughnessy did not know how old she was. My mother told me that Kitty was born in the "year of the big wind" in Ireland.

As a young girl the momentum of that big wind blew her over the wide, wild ocean from Ireland on a big boat and landed her right smack in the middle of Brooklyn, New York. She grew up and married an Irish brick layer, they had a daughter and named her Kate. My grandmother Kate was blind from birth and Kitty loved her girl right up. She taught her everything she knew and empowered her in a time when women were not easily empowered. Kate grew up under her mother's mighty wings.

Kate met my grandfather Walter at the Lighthouse International, a gathering place for the blind in New York. Walter was blind and made his living as a musician and piano tuner, the two fell in love, married and had my mother Florence and my uncle Walter. Their love was so strong that they adopted and raised another son Thomas.

Kitty was an ever present force of nature in their lives, their rock, their shelter in every storm, this woman who had survived the biggest wind that Ireland ever had and a trip across the ocean on a big boat.

This is a recipe that I have adapted to gluten-free from a traditional Irish Wheaten Soda Bread. It is deep and dark like Kitty's eyes, rich and delicious like her sense of humor and it's delicate crumb is light like her beautiful and giving heart. This is for you Kitty, Thank you from a girl who is so glad you were born.

Kitty's Buckwheat Soda Bread:

(I really do prefer and recommend Bob's Red Mill flours for this bread)

1/2 cup Buckwheat flour,
1 1/2cup Millet flour
1 cup Rice flour
6 Tbsp. Sweet butter
1 1/2 tsp. Baking Soda
1 tsp. Salt
scant 2 Cups of Buttermilk

~Mix the Buckwheat, Millet and Brown Rice Flours together in a bowl.
~Add the Baking Soda and Salt.
~Cut in the butter until completely worked into the flour.
~Add the Buttermilk and mix together gently. As with any quick bread, do not beat, knead or over mix the batter or the ensuing bread will be tough.
~Gather the shaggy mess into a loose ball and place into a buttered pie dish.
~Cut an x into the top of the loaf with the back of your knife.
~Bake in an oven preheated to 400 degrees for about 45 minutes.

This bread is wonderful when eaten warm right out of the oven. It is also quite scrumptuous cold or toasted and served with butter the next day. Utterly delicious when consumed with a cup of Meskill coffee "strong enough to stand a spoon on it's end" and that's a story for another day!

Have an ever so beautiful gluten-free day!