Barnett Weekly

My mother is a superb cook, an absolute natural in the kitchen with a talent for turning whatever is available into an elegant repast. She once visited me while I was young and penniless…all we had in the refrigerator were lemons, and I’ll be damned if she didn’t whip up the finest lemon sauce for a piece of chicken that I have ever had.

Growing up, dinner was a three-course affair for five. First the salad course, served in small wooden bowls from a much larger wooden bowl; we each used a proper salad fork. Next the main course and side dishes would be served. One night might be Chicken Cacciatore with egg noodles and broccoli; another might be lamb chops served with wild rice and Brussels sprouts; red snapper, ratatooie and spinach would also make an occasional appearance. Plates cleared, dessert followed; ice cream and cookies, or baked apple brown Betty…chocolate cake, perhaps. So it went night after night. Accordingly, I not only grew up, I grew out. I’m still trying to lose the weight I gained before turning 18.

I loved hanging around the kitchen with my mother. When I was ten, she replaced our stove with a six burner, two-oven WOLF restaurant range, sporting an enormous grill-top. It was on this behemoth that she worked her daily miracles, and it was at this stove I learned to cook. In those days pans were basic; either cast iron, copper, or enameled. Heavy is an understatement. Taking care of the pans properly was my first lesson: NEVER wash cast iron pans with soapy water, which removes the essential surface “seasoning.” When it came to her pans, my mother was as fierce as a tigress protecting her cubs.

I began by cooking eggs with cheddar cheese stirred over medium heat in a buttered enameled pan until just set, still moist and tender. I’d cook them for my brother and sister on Saturday morning. From there I graduated to omelets, which on a 15,000 BTU restaurant stove taught me to pay attention. Thus I learned the first law of the kitchen: do not divert your attention from something cooking on the stove. The smoky price for breaking this rule was an early morning, pre-coffee vociferous and high amplitude red-faced visit from my mother yelling, “What’s going on in here? Stand back!”

I learned by watching: how to sear short ribs before braising, when to stir food and when to leave it alone; how to properly use a knife and chop an onion; the right dusting of flour before frying a veal cutlet. I also learned about presentation: an appropriate portion and how to plate it. My mother was not precious about food, but attention to its aesthetics, like all that surrounded her, was an essential transmission.

Neither of my two daughters had interest in learning to cook when they were young. My wife has let me run the kitchen for 34 years. I was afraid there would be nobody to teach, but then my friend Stanley said he’d like to learn to cook. On Tuesday morning we play baseball catch and discuss the menu for lunch. He buys the food and I teach him to prepare it.

In a photo sitting on the kitchen counter, meanwhile, my mother smiles.

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In their desperation for reliable food and sustenance some ancient peoples turned to human sacrifice. The shedding of blood was viewed as a way to satisfy the spirits or gods, who would then, they believed, provide food from the land. If a poor harvest ensued, caused by drought or heat, the assumption was made that the gods were unhappy, and people – including children – were sacrificed for the sake of a good harvest.

Today we view such behavior as primitive and cruel, the result of ignorance, superstition and fear. While we condemn such barbaric behavior, we simultaneously exalt our enlightened modern wisdom, considering ourselves to be civilized and humane.

Few of us grow our own food any more, and understand that it’s weather and soil, not gods, that grow food. Agriculture’s a business, one of the largest in existence, and a global market has brought us blueberries in December. Whatever harvest meant to people in the past, today it’s money we harvest, which we call profit.

The harvest of profit goes well beyond food. Virtually every segment of modern life has been monetized. Air, sunshine and space are almost all that remain free of charge. The love of money clouds ethical judgment and in our rush to find fortune great harm has been done. Among the worst harm is done to our children.

Cancer causing agents and hormone disrupters, BPA (Bisphenol A) and pthalates, are used in the manufacture of polycarbonate plastics, plastics used in baby bottles, formula and baby food containers. There is no more vulnerable population than babies, whose bodies and brains rapidly develop after birth. The European Union banned these chemicals in food packaging years ago, but in the United States their use has been widespread. Only now have the major manufacturers decided to stop selling such products in the U.S., though callously, they will continue to sell them in other countries.

Many of the tens of thousands of chemicals used in manufacture may pose risks to children. The effects of long-term exposure to these chemicals are unknown, because they have been introduced without long-term testing. Our regulatory system tends to deem these chemicals safe until proven otherwise, and such proof is found among its unwitting victims. Children and babies are the least capable of complaining and by the time danger is discovered, the damage is done. Asthma, diabetes, and auto-immune diseases are increasing in children; exposure to untested toxic chemicals certainly is suspect.

There are those who believe that government regulation is bad, that business should be self-regulated. The argument goes that the public should choose what it wants to purchase, and that caveat emptor (“let the buyer beware”) and free unfettered markets work best. If this is true, then it is just as true that the purveyors of products that harm babies and children are criminals, and they should be brought before trial. If the buyer must beware, then so must the seller.

Shopping for baby food for our granddaughter Isabelle, my daughter emailed me recently, “I cried standing in the baby food aisle while looking at the ten shelves of baby food in plastic #7 tubs.”

So it seems modern civilization has not changed very much after all. For the sake of a good harvest, sadly, we continue to sacrifice children.

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Over the past several years I have become enormously fond of drinking tea. My father used to drink tea each morning, and I remember as a boy joining him at breakfast with a cup. I didn’t really enjoy the tea, but I enjoyed sitting with him sipping Lipton’s and feeling grown up.

My mother discouraged soda drinking and all we had around the house was Canada Dry Ginger Ale and Quinine water. To my boyhood palate, neither was tasty and by young adulthood, soda held no interest for me at all. Lucky me.

My tea drinking days ended when left home at eighteen and I rarely if ever drank tea. As the 60’s and 70’s arrived, chamomile tea became popular, as did a number of strange herbal teas. Lipton’s was banished along with the rest of the “never trust anyone over 30” accoutrements. 
 
I never particularly liked coffee, and heavy caffeine does not agree with me at all. In short, my beverage of choice has most always been ordinary plain cold water. Some people I know can drink liquids just short of boiling; I don’t know how they do it. I have burned my tongue so many times I’ve lost count. Does the tongue get calloused? Someone must explain to me how to avoid burning my tongue while drinking boiling liquids. If you have insight on this, please let me know.

In any event, as I entered my fifties, I began to drink tea again – not boiling hot tea, but pleasantly hot tea. I began with green tea, and progressively found one favorite after another; gunpowder green, Japanese sencha and matcha, green and white blends. We must have 20 different boxes of tea in the pantry by now. But my absolute current favorite is a tea picked by trained monkeys.

Monkey Tea, as it is called, comes from China and in broken English the can says that the tea is grown on hillsides so steep that the delicate leaves can only be picked by trained monkeys. The front of the can features an illustration of an attractive white monkey with a long tail hanging from a branch by one hand, stuffing leaves with his other hand into a leather pouch hanging from a strap around his neck. He looks happy but well focused, and the research I’ve done on the web about this these monkeys says they are treated like members of the family. Given how some members of the family are treated, this does not entirely reassure me, but all this is happening on the other side of the world, so I choose to believe that the families are sweet and lovely. Some websites say the whole story is sheer baloney, but the web is filled with cynics.

The tea itself is an Oolong variety, very dark and smoky with a complex finish. It has a slight tannic bitterness which I find rather pleasing.

When I mention my Monkey Tea to my tea drinking friends they don’t believe me, so I show them the can. That stops them a bit, but then the comments about where monkeys scratch begin. I concede that highly trained and loved though they are, these tea picking monkeys most probably don’t wash their hands every time they scratch, but frankly, I prefer not to think about it.

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