I haven't seen the movie "Eat, Pray, Love", but I don't need to. I have lived it--just not in those exotic locals--just here in our boring old USA.
Nourishment is the first gift from our mothers, and thus we associate it with a mother's love at a very primitive level. What we are fed is our first lesson in socialization. Thus one of the best ways to connect with a different culture is to learn their cooking.
I have always had a complex relationship with cooking. I started as sou chef and dishwasher for my mother and my older sister. Mom was a good cook, but her heart wasn't in it. She did it because it was needed. She wanted it simple, nourishing, and to the point. Sis was the experimenter; she later majored in home economics and specializes in child nutrition. Winters were spent in the small town in Montana where my father was a country lawyer; summers on the wheat and cattle farm where he satisfied his heart. It worked because we had Pete, the Norwegian bachelor farmer who had left his native land when the government tried to force him to go to sea. Pete made the farm run so Dad could come play.
When I was 14, Dad sold that farm and bought a smaller, irrigated hay place. We had moved to the nearby city, and the first place was too far from the city. Sis had graduated college and gone off to build her own life. My younger sister, I'll call her "Bee" and I were designated the cooks, and I took over the responsibility for feeding the crew during the summer. Problem was that Bee never has liked being second in command and I had never really been trained to be head chef. Chaos ensued. I, being a fairly sensitive person, was traumatized. It was years before I wanted to even attempt cooking.
Then at age 29, I fell in love with a yacht captain (CB) and the only way to stay with him was to be his mate and chef on the boat. I met some other women who did it by having taught themselves from a good cookbook. I told him, "Sure I can do this."
I finally got the opportunity to take some French cooking classes in New York City. I signed up for "La Cuisine Sans Peur" or Cooking Without Fear. M. Henri taught the lessons in his upper West Side apartment. We cooked a lunch and then shared it. He taught more than technique; he taught the French philosophy of food and "La Bonne Vie."
When I returned to medicine, we found ourselves in the American South, where CB had grown up, where my father had grown up, and where my oldest brother, "Bubba", when Dad gave him a one-way ticket to anywhere and told him to come back when he could afford it, had settled. "I thought that this was my side of the Mississippi!" he growled at me.
Yet,the Sunday afternoon tradition of barbecue at Brother Bubba's quickly emerged--and my cholesterol went to 270. We also made friends with a couple who were starting up a winery. CB had worked as a sommalier and taught wine tasting in his earlier life, so we had a great time--gathering grapes, sampling the outcomes, sharing the fun.
We also visited "Mina's Indian Restaurant and Pizza Parlor" in Hickory, NC, which CB remembered from living there once. Mina was from Karola, and taught Indian cooking classes. We drove up each Monday night for lessons similar to those given by M. Henri, just around dinner and with Indian flavors. Learning "अच्छे जीवन"? (that's a machine translation, my Nepali friends)
Next, I moved next door to a lovely woman of Italian descent, "Sophia". We would be gone on a trip, and as we returned, she would be leaning out her back door, yelling "Come, come, Mangia! Mangia!" How did she always have the food ready at that moment? Never figured it out. And I started learning the Italian philosophy of "La Dolce Vita."
Sophia also has been a major supporter through the next 20 years as the relationship with the yacht captain collapsed and I journeyed to find real love. But that's a different story.
During this time, I worked as the medical consultant to an eating disorders treatment facility. As I participated in that treatment, I began to understand my complex issues with food, and some of the underlying conflicts that I had.
I moved back to Montana, and threw myself into cooking big meals. I loved to dress the table and plan the elaborate menus--even staying up all night to peel and carve out the centers of onions and apples. A famous dish from the time was a pork mixture stuffed in apples and baked, which my nephews and niece dubbed "Pig Apples." The house had a Damson plum so for Christmas Eve dinner I did duck in plum sauce. I was in hog heaven! Unfortunately, it again created conflict with Bee. Her husband,"Hive" on disability for work injury, was the cook, and it was his claim to fame. He cooked the simple New York Italian and German fare of his family. It was good, down to earth food, and she felt that I was showing him up. I felt that there was room for both and ignored her hints that I should stop. Most people wouldn't have even picked up on them. I was creating love in the only ways I knew how;cooking was one, buying presents was the other. He was loving his family in his own way. The kids would know. Mom knew--and it was the relationship to my mother which was my primary concern.
The day came that I had to again attend to my career. So I packed up and moved to Portland, near Sis and my father's family. I would go and attend church with her. We soon were recognized to be much like the Biblical Martha and Mary. We already referred to her as the "Martha Stewart" of the family, and my first name evoked Mary. I met and fell in love with a Hindustani-American man who was vegetarian. Had I used chicken broth in my famous Caribbean pumpkin soup? Yes, so he wouldn't eat it. I decided to see if I could be vegetarian. I lost thirty pounds and began Indian cooking in earnest. Then his parents didn't approve and he exited stage right. I held out for a few more months, thinking that he would come around. Three days after I put my head down on the table and bawled in recognition that he wasn't going to make a new decision, I met a smiling, death metal-playing, tattooed, long-haired Nepali engineer. Time for some FUN! and the rest, as they say, is history.
So I am a cook of many cultures: some French, a lot Italian, and Indian--with smatterings of other countries and a Montana country foundation. This soup is made of left-over soup from the Indian restaurant, roasted red pepper hummus, left-over rice and a can of Campbell's Tomato Bisque, and garnished with fresh cilantro. I thought it was quite good, but I wanted a dollop of Greek yogurt under the cilantro. None in the fridge. Drat!
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