Life From Scratch (31 page)

1½ pounds catfish fillets

Salt

For the crust:

¾ cup flour

¾ cup Jiffy Mix (or substitute ½ cup yellow cornmeal, 3 tablespoons sugar, and 1 tablespoon baking powder)

Enough Tony’s Creole spice blend to make the flour blush (about 2 teaspoons) (or substitute ½ teaspoon cayenne pepper, ½ teaspoon black pepper, ½ teaspoon garlic salt, and ½ teaspoon chili powder)

Vegetable oil, for frying

Cut the fish into 2-inch-wide sections. Sprinkle both sides with salt. Refrigerate overnight (no more than 24 hours). The next day, whisk together the flour, Jiffy Mix, and creole spice. Rinse the salt from the fillets, and dredge their wet flesh with the flour mixture. Deep-fry at 350°F until golden brown, turning once after 3 to 4 minutes and cooking for 6 to 8 minutes total. Drain on paper towels and eat immediately.

Enough for 4

There’s something mandatory about experiencing a buffet in Oklahoma. Aside from the depressing chain restaurants, of which there is no shortage, every small town seems to have at least one quiet gem. Although I wasn’t specifically seeking one, I did find it in Talihina, a town of a thousand in the hills of southeast Oklahoma, 150 miles from Tulsa.

Keith and I planned the motorcycle ride with a dozen other members of Tulsa Sportbike Riders. We’d been dating almost a year; it was our first getaway since I began my new, laid-back job as a marketing coordinator for the Girl Scouts. The group would stay two nights at Queen Wilhelmina, a lodge founded in 1898 and once dubbed “Castle in the Sky.” Keith reserved the King’s Suite, assuring me with a wink that we’d have plenty of alone time. During the day, we’d rev along ribbons of cloud-capped roads, flanked by lush forest. At night, we’d sink into the lodge’s extensive buffet. As we packed, Keith described green bean casserole (topped with crunchy onion strings), biscuits cloaked in woolen sausage gravy, and a tender slump of roast beef or ham. I could almost hear the steam table hissing, beckoning.

But the morning of the trip, I woke up with a pounding, clogged sweatiness between my temples. When I told Keith I didn’t think I’d be able to make the ride, his eyes darkened.

“Do you think some medicine would help?”

Between his allergies, high blood pressure, and atrial fibrillation, he had a full medicine cabinet.

“I’m sorry.” I shook my head. “Are you upset about the room fees?”

“No, no.” He patted my leg. “You need to rest. I’m sure we can get our money back.”

While he retreated to the kitchen to make me a cup of tea, I dragged myself to the bathroom and splashed cool water on my face. I got dressed slowly, through bone-deep shivers, hoping to hide my misery.

“I think I can make it, Keith. I just
—
”

“Great! I’ll get the bikes ready.” He grinned and squeezed me tight.

I winced, but when Keith looked at me again, I made it into a smile.

We zigzagged through the countryside for two and a half solid hours. The long line of motorcycles ahead shimmered and blurred. I lifted my visor, but still had trouble seeing. Even over the engine, I could hear my breathing, short and shallow.

When we arrived at the lodge mid-afternoon, I slumped over the bike, my head on the gas tank, helmet and all. My limbs continued to vibrate, as though the road was still moving beneath me. Finally I hauled myself off the bike, leaning on the metal frame for support. The next thing I knew, I was on the ground with the bike on top of my legs. Keith rushed forward.

“Are you OK? You forgot to put the kickstand up.”

He half-carried me to our room; I had a 102.6-degree fever. He filled a champagne bucket with ice and sat by my side, holding my hand.

As my eyes fluttered shut, I heard him whisper, “I’m so sorry, Sasha. This is not what I planned.”

I woke up a few hours later. My temperature had dropped to 101.4°. After the afternoon’s inferno, the fever now felt like a cool breeze. I could hear the group outside, laughing. I felt badly that Keith was missing the fun. “Let’s go outside to get some air,” I offered.

Once outside, Keith waved but led me past the group, toward a weathered bench at the top of a remote, grassy slope. We sat side by side looking out across miles upon miles of forested hills.

“Sasha?” he asked, a slight strain to his voice.

His eyes were cast downward, toward a black velvet box cupped in his palm. He held it toward me, his temples tinged with red. “Would you do me the honor of spending the rest of your life with me?”

Suddenly, I knew that his hasty behavior that morning had nothing to do with lost deposits, and everything to do with this moment. I didn’t need to ponder my decision. “Yes!” I cried, hugging him. “As long as you do one thing …”

“What’s that?”

“Get down on your knees,” I laughed, pulling him down off the bench and letting myself tumble down into the grass with him. I lay my head on his chest, listening to his heart beat.

“Your heart is racing, Keith,” I murmured.

He smiled and brushed the hair out of my eyes. “I guess I can get nervous after all.”

We lay there a long while, watching the sun dip quietly into the darkness, serenaded by the rising chatter of crickets and winking fireflies.

“Did you talk to my mom, your parents … Ryan?”

“Yup.” He smiled. “I called your mom first. She wanted to know what
my parents
thought. I told her that I had to get by her first.” He chuckled. “She liked that. Everyone else was good.”

“Even Ryan?”

“Really.” He squeezed my shoulder. “They want us to be happy.”

I took a deep breath and smiled.

“I love you.” I pressed my lips against his, as I had so many times before. This time, though, my kiss became a laugh.

That night, when we approached the much anticipated buffet, the ring gleaming on my finger, I found something much sweeter than the green beans, gravy, and roasts I’d expected: hot peach cobbler. Hundreds of wedges, deep orange like the sinking sun, nestled in the hotel pan beneath buttery rubbings of crust.

Softened from cooking in their own molten juices, the wedges sang of brown sugar and cinnamon. They whispered of the tender pink blossom and rich earth from which they sprang. The hot peaches sank into our shared scoop of vanilla ice cream, their warm nectar flowing like honey.

A Quick Peach Cobbler

I’m of the mind that a cobbler should be “cobbled.” There’s no peeling of peaches or fancy equipment here; just fruit passed quickly from bushel to table with a touch of cinnamon and a generous crust. Look for peaches with good blush that give slightly—but if they are hard or tart, there’s no shame in using frozen. I don’t care for candy-sweet cobbler, but I’ve known many who would add more than a half cup of sugar to this recipe
—
especially if the peaches need a little coaxing to draw out their natural sugars. Although I like my cobbler wet (the better to sauce my ice cream), very juicy peaches will want a tablespoon of flour to thicken the mix
.

For the crust:

1½ cups all-purpose flour

½ teaspoon salt

1 teaspoon sugar

8 tablespoons (1 stick) unsalted butter, cubed

A little ice water

For the filling:

2 quarts fresh or frozen peach slices, from 8 peaches

A couple heaping tablespoons brown sugar, more if peaches are tart

A couple good pinches cinnamon

1 tablespoon flour for thickening (optional)

Finishing touches:

1 egg white whisked with 1 teaspoon of water

1 teaspoon sugar

Make the cobbler dough by whisking together the flour, salt, and sugar, and then cutting in the butter with a pastry cutter (or two knives held like an
X
and drawn across each other). When the butter is mostly pea-size, switch to a large fork and drizzle on the ice water, tossing until a shaggy dough forms (6 to 8 tablespoons usually does the trick). Press the dough together and form a disk. Wrap in plastic wrap, and refrigerate while prepping the peach filling.

Preheat the oven to 350°F.

Slice the peaches in eighths and add them to a 2-quart baking dish (such as an 8 × 8 inch). Sprinkle with brown sugar and cinnamon. Toss with flour, if using. Roll out the dough on a clean work surface with a bit of flour to prevent sticking. When it is an inch larger than the baking dish, drape it across the peaches and roll the edges under, tucking them against the inner edge of the dish. Cut three vents in the center, and brush with just enough egg white to lightly glaze the crust. Sprinkle with sugar. Bake 45 minutes to an hour, or until the fruit is tender and bubbling, and the crust is browned. Serve under a softened ball of vanilla ice cream.

Enough for 6 to 8

Six months before the wedding, I asked Mom and Wanda to send me their guest lists. Wanda’s had come back with about 30 people on it. Mom mailed me a list of 300, seven pages long.

“I have three hundred family members?”

“And friends.”

“Mom, I only have a hundred stamps!” I drew a red line through the name of my childhood therapist. The next five names on the list were the Dumonts. My hand began to shake.

“Mom, the Dumonts aren’t going to come.”

“You
have
to invite them Sasha. They took care of you. They paid for your college! Let
them
make that decision. You might be pleasantly surprised. If not, you made the gesture. Are you really trying to cut family because you don’t have enough
stamps?
I can
buy
you more stamps.”

“It’s not that.” I swallowed hard. “Mom, who’s going to walk me down the aisle?”

“Things like this have a way of working themselves out.”

“Mom, a father isn’t going to show up out of thin air.”

I knew my brothers Connor and Tim would do it in a heartbeat. But that felt contrived. And every time I saw a photo of a bride in a magazine, her escort was gray haired. Leaning on the older generation seemed proper. “Do you think your dad will come?”

“At 95, I think a cross-country wedding is a bit much for him.”

“What about you, then?”

“Me?” She laughed. “I don’t think that’s my pl—”

“Well, whose place is it?” I stamped my foot impatiently. “Can’t you just do this
one
thing for me, Mom?”

She paused. “Let’s just wait and see what the Dumonts say, OK?”

Toni responded first, sending warm wishes but sincere regrets. She’d just switched jobs and moved into a new apartment. She signed the card for her two sisters; they wouldn’t be able to come, either.

A few weeks later, Patricia and Pierre’s regrets came in the form of 13 boxes. Each battered, musty container held long-forgotten memories from my time in France and Luxembourg, stored for a decade. I’d now lived as long without the Dumonts as I had with them. And yet, I still missed them.

As I peeled back the flaps, yearbooks, photos, and the trinkets of a teenager piled up in my living room. Then my hand touched something soft and fuzzy. I reached in farther and squeezed. I knew what it was even before I unearthed him: my old white teddy bear, that cotton friend from all those foster homes, all those transitions, all those goodbyes.

I sat down on the floor and held the bear for a good while, forgetting for a moment that I was nearly 29 years old. I closed my eyes and imagined walking down the aisle. The grass was emerald, the sky aquamarine. Each of my two fathers held one of my arms, but when I turned to look into their eyes, they’d vanished.

Once I released the idea of Pierre attending my wedding, I considered my birth father. For the first time in my life, I hungered for his presence. But I knew that even if I could find him, there’d be no connection, no reason for him to walk me down the aisle.

The next time I spoke with Mom, I told her that it was time to face reality: She was the only parent I had. I asked her one more time to escort me. In the lengthy pause that ensued, I lost my cool.

“You know what, forget it! I’ll just walk myself down the aisle.”

“No, I’ll walk with you,” she said quietly. “I want to do it.”

Finally
, I thought, relief washing over me.

But all I said was, “Thank you.”