Cooking Memories
It had rained all day and night, yesterday. The gentle rain lulled me into a peaceful sleep. It was like a mother’s lullaby to my ears. When I got up this morning, I felt no pain in my body and my bones were not creaking. It was just half past three in the morning. The night bird was softly singing to himself. I lay in bed listening to him and the gentle rain, forcing myself not to get up. Finally, through one of the windows I noticed the skies lighten. I no longer had any excuse to stay in bed. I trundled down the stairs to make myself a cup of tea. As an afterthought, I decided to put out food for my outdoor cats as well. There were puddles of rain everywhere, on this Saturday morning. The puddles brought to mind my mother’s cookery book, for some reason.
After putting out food for the cats, I headed towards my special shelves of cookery books tucked in an alcove off the kitchen. I have perhaps two hundred of them. I was looking for a certain book. It is called Bien Cuire, Bien Manger. My father gifted it to my mother her in 1949. He sketched a likeness of himself on the fly cover and dated it 7/11/49. He signed it as he did all his business letters, J. D. Tawfik. There was no personal sentiments expressed, except for that likeness. I wondered what the occasion had been. I appropriated the book when I got married in 1965. I loved browsing through the book. The comments are so old fashioned and so quaint. They fascinate me.
The puddles of rain that morning reminded me of the directions on how to wash lingerie in that book. It comes under the heading of “L’Art Ménager.” Preferably collect rain water, as it is the purest of water, it directs the reader. I smile to myself. Nowadays we do not have the luxury of such a thing as pure rain water. Our rain water now is comprised of pure acid rain. Moreover, it also directed the reader to use only a bar of Lux soap and not to use the same bar of soap for whites and coloured lingerie. I suppose it makes sense. In those days not too many fabrics were colour fast,
Then there are sections on how to clean silver and gold, and another on how to clean fur coats, shoes and carpets. Fur coats? Really? You can clean fur coats at home? I’ll have to look into that later. There is another section telling you how to remove grease from your tablecloth. One lazy autumn weekend, when Peter was away from home, I was leafing through the book and I came across a recipe for candied chestnuts. Since I had just bought chestnuts, I made them. They were infused with liqueur and they were delicious! We enjoyed them tremendously, but I never made them again.
I have many cookery books. I enjoy reading them. I love their descriptions. Each one has its own character. This one reminds me of times gone by. The way of life was so much more leisurely…
I put the books back into the bookcase. I bring this one up to the bedroom. I browse through it and dream of days gone by.
Then there is my Aunty Semha’s recipe book. That was published in 1946 in Baghdad with an introduction by “Her Majesty the Queen of Iraq.” It’s called, “Recipes From Baghdad.” The society ladies and the various embassy ladies had contributed recipes. This book also has many pencil scribblings. I suspect some of them were mine, as a little girl. You could tell which recipes were contributed by whom. For instance, Welsh Rarebit calls for 8 rounds of bread, 1 tin grated cheese, 2 tbsps. beer and 1 egg yolk, English. On the other hand, Baqlawa, call for 6 kilos flour, 15 eggs, 1/2 kilo fat, 4 kilos cornflour, 3 kilos sugar, 4 kilos almonds, so on and so forth, definitely Iraqi. Iraqis cook for large families. As a young girl this book fascinated me. I loved it’s recipes and I loved its illustrations. My aunt allowed me to borrow it. I used to pore over it for hours on end. I never cooked any of it’s recipes, but I felt very attached to it. When my aunt passed away, I asked about the bbook. I was told that my cousin Mira had it. Years passed and I still was thinking about the book. Mira did not feel as attached to it by then. She sent it to me in lieu of a donation to the School for Jewish Deaf Children in London. I opened the parcel with great excitement.
“Oh!” I sighed with dismay. It was in tatters. Peter was looking over my shoulders. He saw the look of disappointment on my face.
“Don’t worry Stella. We will have it re bound for you,” he said kindly. I do not know how he found the place. On some narrow alley off Delancey Street, there was a tiny little store, a few steps below street level. The windows were grimy. Inside the tiny story was a pleasant, young Hasidic man busily working. We showed him the book and I explained my attachment to it. With a thick Yiddish accent, he assured me he would do a good job. A week later, we picked it up. He had indeed done a very good job. Less than a year later, my kind and caring husband was gone. Then the book now held an even deeper sentimental meaning for me.
The two books stand side by side on my cookery bookshelf tucked in that alcove off the kitchen. They remind me of the love that was poured on me from by mother, my father, my aunt and my Peter.
As I write this, tears sting my eyes. I feel a tight band of sadness around my heart. I am sitting on the porch. It is almost the end of the day. The birds in the garden are winding down with their birdsongs. I feel so desolate, so melancholy, so forlorn sitting here alone with my memories…