Comfort cooking

In the months before my grandmother's death, my mother cooked.

She bought pork and lamb at the store, glad to take advantage of grocery specials. She marinated beef to roast in a hot oven. She trimmed Chinese greens. She chopped and braised, steamed and stir-fried. She spent time in her kitchen with the television on but often ignored.

My mother cooked not for my grandmother, who by then hardly ate, cancer stealing the best of her appetite. She cooked not for my father. He would be fine with simple soups and porridges. She cooked not for my sisters, brothers or me. Though we dropped by on weekends, we could only eat so much. Imagine the leftovers. She cooked, I believe, for herself.

At the counter or the sink, my mother stayed busy. She prepped chicken perhaps or removed scales from a fish. She gave herself these things to do. Meanwhile, her mind wandered.

She thought about the food she did not have growing up in China and the access she enjoyed when she arrived in California. She recalled years of scrimping to send money back to family across the Pacific and the relief she finally felt when her mother arrived in the United States as well. She cooked and cried.


We talk of comfort food: a scoop of ice cream, for example, or a slice of cake, a barbecued pork bun or an egg custard tart.

Jonathan Reynolds wonders whether the term is redundant. "All food is comforting," he says in the memoir "Wrestling with Gravy: A Life, With Food," "or we'd be eating nothing but hot dogs at Shea and warm tar (indistinguishable in a Times blind-testing), with possibly a few vitamins thrown in.

"Unless you're... undergoing a fraternity initiation or briefly lapse into Joan Crawford territory with one of your sons, there is no such thing as 'punitive food'."

I suspect there is the idea of comfort cooking as well, the notion that kitchen work can help to reassure us, that time in front of a stove can keep us centered. My mother cooked, it seems, for the same reason others might ride a bike or read a book. She needed the diversion.


The moment my mother spied my grandmother in hospice care, the day after my uncle had admitted the woman, she ran to hold her. It was something I had seldom seen my mother do: openly embrace anybody. It felt like a clip from a Chinese-language soap opera.

Outward displays of affection had been rare in our house. Hugs and kisses were things other people traded. My mother demonstrated her love through food instead.

She treated scrapes my siblings and I got playing in the back yard with a little Bactine and a lot of candy. She marked our achievements with dumplings and broth. She greeted our returns from college with dishes we favored: braised eggplant, tofu and beef, vermicelli with egg and barbecued pork. She wasn't about big gestures but small everyday concerns. I realize this now.

"When am I going to get better?" my grandmother asked, her voice a soft but steady whisper. "I don't know when I am going to get better. Maybe this time I won't."

A friend told me once her heart grew three sizes the day her daughter was born; my heart broke into a hundred pieces that afternoon at the foot of my grandmother's bed.

My mother insisted that if my grandmother simply ate more, her health could improve. "If you don't have the nutrients," she reasoned, "how would you ever get well?"

I knew enough Cantonese to understand this exchange. From talks earlier with doctors and relatives, I also knew the truth: That no matter what or how much my grandmother did or did not eat, she wouldn't get better. The disease had taken a toll, wreaking havoc on her pancreas, stripping her body of the energy it required.

My mother punctuated her visits to the hospice with trips to Safeway or Trader Joe's nearby or to Chinatown, recognizing the severity of the situation, I'm sure, but needing still to collect ingredients for her own meals. In this way, she continued to live as my grandmother was about to die.

After all, my mother needed to pay attention to herself, too, did she not? She needed to look to the future and occasions she would inevitably get to spend with the rest of her family. Food - thinking about it, shopping for it, preparing it - provided a way for her to exert control over something when so much around her had been beyond her control. It was the happiness she allowed herself. In this backyard scrape, it was her candy.

The short market trips were also a way, I suppose, for her to fool death personally, to not let it follow her straight home from the hospice. She wanted to open and close car doors, enter and exit other buildings, walk up and down wide aisles, to ditch death randomly. She was superstitious like that.


In the months since my grandmother's death, my mother continues to cook. She shops for exceptional deals and brainstorms menu ideas. Her tears, however, no longer flavor the food.

She tells me about a visit with a friend to their neighborhood Lucky for 99-cent eggs. She wanted to limit herself to a couple of cartons. Her friend, however, dismissed the restraint.

"The people in the store know us," the woman said in Cantonese. "They see us all the time anyway. They know we're greedy. It doesn't matter how much we buy or don't buy." They shrugged, gathered four or five cartons each and headed to the register.

With joy I have not seen in a while, my mother tells me of the day she spent with a nephew from New Jersey. During a last-minute business trip to California, he made it a point to invite her out to eat.

In San Francisco, they came across a Chinese buffet. Though inexpensive, the food they spotted on people's plates seemed unappealing.

He placed his hand on my mother's back and guided her away from the entrance of the restaurant. "The two of us," her nephew said, gently and genuinely, "let's go eat something better. You and I, we deserve something better." She agreed.

My mother tells me these stories, peppered with humor, irony and insight, one night over dinner. I listen and laugh.

(A version of this essay appears on the website for The Atlantic.)

Feeding groupies

Jamie's Italian at Canary Wharf. It is the meal I look forward to. If Jamie Oliver is a rock star, then we are bona fide groupies. Admittedly so. It is the meal on which we conclude this particular trip. We enjoy spit-roasted lamb and pasta Bolognese. We are happy and well-fed.

Flying on faith

The line for dinner is interminably long. But I fly on faith. I trust a recommendation from a virtual stranger: Tayyabs in Whitechapel. I learn to let go.

Inside the restaurant, I examine the sweets on display. I practice restraint and resilience; I dodge servers coming and going. I think also about the granola bar in my purse but do not give in yet to hunger.

An hour later, seated finally, with food, glorious food on the table, with lamb, chicken, okra and naan before us, I understand the wait.

No foolin'

What I would do to eat at 10 Downing Street, where Jamie Oliver, among my favorite rock star chefs, and a crew from Fifteen London prepare dinner for politicians and world leaders the evening before the G-20 economic summit.



The menu:

Baked Scottish Salmon with Seashore Vegetables, Broad Beans, Herb Garden Salad, Mayonnaise and Wild Garlic-scented Irish Soda Bread

Slow-Roasted Shoulder of Welsh Lamb, very first of the season Jersey Royals, first of the season Asparagus and Wild St. George Mushrooms, Mint Sauce and Gravy

Hot Bakewell Tart with Homemade Custard

(The image is from www.jamieoliver.com.)

Vegetarian options include:

Childwickbury Goat's Cheese with Roast Shallots, Seashore Vegetables, Herb Green Salad and Wild Garlic-scented Irish Soda Bread

Lovage and Potato Dumplings with first of the season Asparagus and Wild St. George Mushrooms


I am going to have to figure out what lovage is exactly. The lamb, however, reminds me of a terrific recipe from "Jamie at Home: Cook Your Way to the Good Life":


Incredible Roasted Shoulder of Lamb with Smashed Vegetables and Greens

for the lamb:

1 (2.2-lb.) shoulder of lamb
extra virgin olive oil
sea salt
freshly ground black pepper
1 large bunch fresh rosemary
1 bulb garlic, unpeeled, broken into cloves

for the smashed vegetables:

1 1/2 lbs. peeled potatoes, cut into large chunks
3 large carrots, peeled and cut into small chunks
1/2 a large rutabaga, peeled and cut into small chunks
6 Tbsp. butter

for the sauce:

1 Tbsp. all-purpose flour
2 cups good-quality hot chicken or vegetable stock
2 Tbsp. capers, soaked, drained and chopped
1 large bunch fresh mint, leaves picked
2 Tbsp. red wine vinegar
1 lb. lovely greens, such as white cabbage, savoy cabbage, Brussels sprouts tops or cavolo nero, leaves separated, stalks finely sliced

for the lamb:

Preheat your oven to full whack (450 to 500 degrees F).

Slash the fat side of the lamb all over with a sharp knife. Lay half the sprigs of rosemary and half the garlic cloves on the bottom of a high-sided roasting pan, rub the lamb all over with olive oil and season with salt and pepper.

Place it in the pan on top of the rosemary and garlic, and put the rest of the rosemary and garlic on top of the lamb. Tightly cover the tray with aluminum foil and place in the oven.

Turn the oven down immediately to 325 degrees F and cook for 4 hours - it's done if you can pull the meat apart easily with two forks.

for the vegetables:

When the lamb is nearly cooked, put the potatoes, carrots and rutabaga into a large pot of boiling salted water and boil hard for 20 minutes or so until you can slide a knife into the rutabaga easily.

Drain and allow to steam dry, then smash them up in the pan with most of the butter. If you prefer a smooth texture, add some cooking water. Spoon into a bowl, cover with foil and keep warm over a pan of simmering water.

for the sauce:

Remove the lamb from the oven and place it on a chopping board. Cover it with foil, then a kitchen towel, and leave it to rest.

Put a large pan of salted water on to boil for the greens.

Pour away most of the fat from the roasting pan, discarding any bits of rosemary. Put the pan on the stovetop over medium heat and mix in the flour. Add the stock, stirring and scraping all the sticky goodness off the bottom of the pan. You won't need gallons of gravy, just a couple of flavorsome spoonfuls for each serving.

Add the capers, turn the heat down and simmer for a few minutes. Finely chop the mint and add it to the sauce with the red wine vinegar at the last minute then pour into a pitcher.

Add the greens and stalks to the pan of fast-boiling salted water and cook for 4 to 5 minutes to just soften them. Drain and toss with a knob of butter and a pinch of salt and pepper.

Place everything in the middle of the table, and shred the lamb in front of your guests. Absolutely delish! Makes 6 servings.

Irish eats

I must have a bit of Irish (ingenuity) in me after all.

Bored with the usual corned beef and cabbage, I decide to try a sort of stew. I use lamb, which I love but do not cook often enough. I use broth for further flavor. And I use parsley for that requisite splash of green.

For dessert, of course, there is Baileys Irish Cream on (or in) anything.

Irish Lamb Stew

2 lbs. boneless lamb, trimmed and cut into 1-inch pieces
1 tsp. salt
1 tsp. freshly ground black pepper
1 Tbsp. olive oil
3 medium yellow onions, peeled and cut into 1-inch chunks
3 to 4 medium carrots, peeled and cut into 1-inch chunks
3 to 4 cups chicken or vegetable broth
1 tsp. dried thyme
1 bay leaf
3 to 4 medium russet potatoes, peeled and cut into 1-inch chunks
1/4 cup packed fresh parsley leaves, chopped

Salt and pepper the boneless lamb. In a Dutch oven over medium-high heat, heat the olive oil until just smoking. Brown the meat. Remove pieces to a plate lined with paper towels to soak up the fat. Set aside. Pour out most of the fat from the pot.

Saute the onions and carrots in the Dutch oven for 3 to 5 minutes over medium-high heat, scraping up any browned bits, until the onions are translucent. Return the boneless lamb to the pot.

Add enough broth to cover the vegetables and meat, about 3 cups. Add the thyme and bay leaf. Put the lid on. Bring to a boil then simmer for 1 to 1 1/2 hours. Add the potatoes and cook another 20 to 30 minutes. Remove the bay leaf and stir in the parsley. Makes 8 servings.