Cold Comfort Food

I'm expecting a phone call in about 20 minutes.  It will be the ambulance guys, calling to let me know that my mom is on her way to a board and care facility with hospice services.     With this call, three days of nearly continuous bedside drama will come to an end.

A steady stream of social workers, clergy, doctors, nurses, psychiatrists, blood specialists and hospice reps have come through with professional counsel. All of them have urged her to get treatment.   Mom responded by thanking them for coming.   Accepted their prayers and good wishes, seized on scraps of information that suited her, then ignored their advice.   Instead, she regaled them with amusing, proud anecdotes about her grandchildren and her deep admiration for Dr. Oz.   Mentioned that she drank her milk that day and asked for something to help her sleep.    Smiled benevolently and wished them a happy holiday with their families.

A drawing by my niece. My sister's note:  "Mom is on the 5th floor of the hospital, Fiki is near the window meowing to her from your house (the one on the left) - and our house is the one on the right with hope written next to it.   All we can do is hope."

A parade of grieving, confused and frightened relatives descended.   They berated her, prayed with her, cried with her, out and out begged her, listened to her attempts to dispense wisdom (To a niece: I hope you find a good person to take care of you, and that you have beautiful home and a wonderful life).  She relived fond memories of childhood and early days, sighed with regret over things she's not proud of (I could have handled the divorce so much better) and marveled at things that amaze her (how does Hallie Berry look so good all the time?  Her stylist really does a great job!).    Siblings caught flights, her phone rang off the hook.    She reveled in the attention, seemed to thrive on every new face that came around the door.  She beamed.  She teared up.  She asked for some water and maybe a little turkey leftovers?  If it's not too much trouble?  My 90+ year-old great aunt told her in no uncertain terms that she had gotten out of line, and that she (my great aunt) was supposed to go first.

She toyed with the idea of the transfusion.  She seemed to consider it.  She was so grateful for her family.  For the care she was getting.  For everything.   Let me sleep on it, she said.  Let me imagine what it would be like to get well.  I'll do that.  I will.

And then today, she decided.

No.

I drove home through the dark, empty freeways.  I stopped at the store.  I got heavy cream.  I got cheese.  I got bacon*.   I got tonic and limes.

Even piping hot from the oven, it's all cold, cold comfort at this point.  But it felt good going down.

Potato Gratin
from Around my French Table by Dorrie Greenspan
A good dish to have when you've been to hell and back.

Pancetta...not in the original recipe, but required tonight

I break out the mandoline I bought a year ago.  I am an instant convert.  

My perfectly sliced taters are layered with garlic-infused heavy cream, salt and pepper.  

Every other layer gets a little Italian bacon

The book says "dust with the cheese".  I say "blanket with the cheese"

Yes, it is just as tasty as it looks.

I balance out the heart stoppage with a green salad.  I balance out the salad with a heavy dose of gin (not pictured)

* I didn't need to buy potatoes because Mom reminded me last week that they were on special at Ralphs: 10lbs for 99 cents.  I stocked up.

Cream of Wheat: It's not just for breakfast anymore

When our family first moved to San Diego, my sister was about 9 and I was 11.  We'd been uprooted from our home in DC, driven miles across the country in an old Volvo station wagon loaded down with luggage, pillows, and guinea pigs, then plopped down in a strange town full of palm trees, surfers and a lot of bald guys in sailor hats.   Perhaps sensing that some form of transition plan was needed*, our parents devised "Sundays".

The rules were simple.  Every Sunday, a different member of the family was in charge for the entire day.    You got to pick the meals.  You got to pick an outing.  And everyone else had to go along for the ride.

It was kind of genius.   We went all over town in the first few months, horseback riding (my sister), beach combing (me), apple picking (my mom), and antique car racing (my dad).

But it was also an opportunity for two sisters to exact cruel and unusual punishment on each other.

My Sundays:  Oatmeal for breakfast, every single time.
Her Sundays:  Cream of Wheat for breakfast, every single time.

To this day, she hates oatmeal.  I've come around on Cream of Wheat.

Especially now that I know you can have it for dessert.

Caramel-topped Semolina Cake

This is the first of many from the new cookbook Around My French Table, by Dorrie Greenspan.  The book has already inspired nearly 1000 fans to join together to try and cook their way through it, a different recipe every Friday.  Given my miserable record with the Daring Bakers, don't count me in for the full marathon, but if I had to start somewhere...

Unfortunately for my visions of a warm, buttery, slightly nubby cake dripping with thick, rich caramel sauce, it turns out that the title is actually in code.

Caramel-topped means Syrup-soaked
Semolina means Cream of Wheat cereal
Cake means Pudding


If you put the whole thing together, the recipe was actually for...
Syrup-soaked Cream of Wheat Cereal Pudding.
And that I might have skipped.  But like our family Sundays, I went along for the ride.

The recipe couldn't have been easier.  Cook the cereal in milk until thickened, add sugar and vanilla.

While that's cooling, make caramel** and put it in the bottom of a baking pan.     

Beat eggs and, in my case, chopped fresh cranberries tossed with a little sugar and orange zest, into the cooled cereal mixture.

Pour batter over caramel sauce.  Bake.  Watch it puff in the oven, then fall flat the minute you take it out.   Turn upside down on a plate.

Pray.  Lift.  Ooh! Ah...Um.  Hmm.
I think I made flan*** by mistake.

Oh well.  I like flan.  In this instance, the caramel flavor has soaked through completely, and the contrast with the bright berries and the smooth vanilla pudding is oddly well matched.    The stuff melts in your mouth.  Not something most cakes do.

Let's just say that while I might not choose to make this again when my Sunday comes around, I never left my plate this clean when my sister fed me Cream of Wheat.

* The reason we moved to San Diego in the first place was that the White House was going through a transition plan of its own back in DC, and my dad and the rest of the political appointees from the prior administration  had been summarily swept out of town.
** Just sugar, water, and a bit of corn syrup.
*** A nicer way to say "Syrup Soaked Cream of Wheat Pudding"