musings.schelley.org

Several years ago, I mentioned to my mom that I wanted a dutch oven (which for those of you who don't know much about cooking, "dutch oven" is a fancy name for a cast iron pot). I'm not sure why I wanted a dutch oven, but it seemed like a good item to own. Mom suggested that I ask my grandma for hers - Grandma was very generous and hadn't used her dutch oven in quite some time. A few months later, when I went to visit, I became the owner of Grandma's cast iron dutch oven.

Grandma acquired the dutch oven in either 1942 or 1944. I think she paid $2.50 for it, maybe $5, at the Sears Roebuck. My grandma was an excellent cook; in fact, as a teenager, she worked in a logging camp as a cook and after her daughters (my mom and aunt) were old enough to take care of themselves, spent several years as a cook at a convalescent hospital. I'm not sure that Grandma ever measured everything. I distinctly remember that she'd throw stuff together, mix it up until it felt right, and then toss it in the oven or put it on the stove. While I believe that cooking is an act of precision, she must have believed it was an act of touch and feel.

While Grandma's dutch oven doesn't register in my memories, my mom and aunt remember it being used in their childhood and teenage years. Grandma made her famous fried chicken (flour, salt, pepper, love?) in the dutch oven on camping trips. She made pot roasts. Most likely, several meat pies. And probably several other dishes that I will never know about.

In the past year, I've used the dutch oven for risotto, chicken with balsamic vinegar and polenta (that I can remember). Clearly, the cuisine that I use the circa 1944 dutch oven for is quite different than that Grandma spent almost her entire life cooking. In fact, at Christmas in 2003, Grandma was amazed at how much time Eddie and I spent composing Christmas dinner. But the why of how the dutch oven is used remains so similar - to feed those that we care about, the best that we can.

Food is often used as an emotional release. I can think of at least a dozen friends who reach for the chocolate when depressed. From another emotional center, food is a way to show love and compassion for those around us. When I host a Sunday dinner, or offer to cook for friends/family, it's because I care and believe that creating the perfect meal is a way to show my feelings for those around me.

I don't know how my grandma felt about the food she cooked and its relation to those around her. A good portion of her childhood was spent during the depression, when food was not always plentiful. She married young, worried over my grandpa while he was fighting the war and raised a family when he returned. Even after she went back to work, she continued to make meals every night, can vegetables and fruit (including excellent pickles), bake pies and cakes. She even made her own laundry soap - this was the mid-1960s, after all. She did it all, before "doing it all" became a difficult and almost unattainable task in the 1990s.

Looking back into my childhood, I believe that my grandma showed love for others through her food. When we were children, my brother and I would spend at least a week each summer with Grandma and Grandpa. We were completely spoiled - while Grandpa would play countless games with us and tell us stories (why was it always a little girl named "Schelley" on the hill in front of their house?), Grandma would cook us our favorite foods. Some of my favorite childhood food memories surround Grandma's cinnamon rolls, fried chicken, meat pot pie, berry pies and homemade ice cream.

Pie and ice cream for breakfast probably upset our parents, but it delighted the very spoiled Olhava siblings. She loved us very much - and by cooking us our favorite dishes, I think she showed us love and caring. I hope that I can continue the tradition over the years. While my life has taken a very divergent path from hers, the ties of cooking and food remain. Whenever I use her dutch oven, which is a certainty throughout my life, I will always think of my grandma.

My Grandma, Alberta Lorraine Graham Luttrell, passed away on January 15.

Posted by Schelley Olhava at 11:03 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Thanks to Gabe's organizational skills in the area of trips and travel, I found myself traveling on Christmas day to Marrakesh, Morocco through January 3. I'll leave out the gruesome details of the getting there and getting home, although it is fair to point out that I had the fortune to sit next to interesting and cool people on many of the flights (in contrast to the weird/lechy/rude people I usually end up next to).

Morocco is an amazing tour in culinary adventure. Situated in a convenient spot along the spice route, Moroccan cuisine has benefited from an influx of good spices throughout its history - cumin, paprika, pepper, cinnamon, turmeric, ginger, saffron, just to name a few. Or in other words: spices that rate high in Schelley's culinary palette. (And yes, I bought enough that if the customs people had actually checked, could have violated some regulation about bringing outside foods into the country).

A group of 8 (winnowed down to six after the third day) rented a riad, a Moroccan condo built with an open courtyard in the center, and rooms branching out on all four sides. The riad came with Amena, the cook extraordinaire, and houseboys Ronnie (modified from his real name, which we had difficulties remembering) and Mohammed. Both catered to practically our every needs.

On New Year's Eve, Amena made us my favorite meal in Morocco: couscous with meat and vegetables. No American-style instant couscous; rather, it was made by steaming three times, including a few with braised meat and vegetables (zucchini, squash, carrots, cabbage) added. She even made a caramelized onion, golden raisin and chickpea topping. It was amazing.

In Essourria, we picked out fish and shellfish from a colorful display, sat down to crusty bread and tomato and onion salad, and within a few minutes, the grilled fish (which was practically alive when we picked it out) began to arrive. Flounder, bass, crab, giant prawns, shrimp and calamari were fabulous. Marty's very colorful phrase used to describe the meal will not be repeated, but was very apt.

We spent several nights eating in the main square, Jemna al-Fna (or something like that). The FDA would have shut down the square within a matter of seconds in the U.S., I happily enjoyed as much as I could eat. Grilled meat (with a piece of fat for flavor) with spice in flat bread. Fried pieces of fish with fresh tomato sauce, deep fried eggplant smashed just before serving with lemon juice and bread. Lentil soup. Navy bean soup. Egg and potatoes with flavored oil in bread. I didn't have a chance to enjoy sheep heads or sheep brains. Someday.

Morrocan mint tea is a wonderful sweet, almost syrupy concoction of sugar and mint. We also ended meals in the square with ginger tea, served from a giant pot and with some sort of sesame paste dessert. Tea is such a dignified tradition.

Morocco was simply amazing. Writing about the food doesn't quite include everything that we experienced or saw. Or as well, all of the funny inside jokes and stories that we shared with one another over margaritas (yes, I brought tequila and triple sec along), tea and Moroccan wine.

For those of you wondering why this is titled "Infidel Tour 2004"? Well, unfortunately, the real reasons for this must remain in Morocco. As the saying goes, what happens in Morocco/Amsterdam/Ibiza/Dublin, stays in Morocco/Amsterdam/Ibiza/Dublin ;)

Posted by Schelley Olhava at 3:17 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)