My paternal grandmother, Maria Elena, was my everything while growing up. At the age of seven, I went to live with her for a year, and it was the most memorable time of my youth. Mamita Elena loved me fully. By her side I felt safe. She taught me so many things, but most of all, she allowed me to be a child and blossom with loving guidance.
Though she was well into her seventies at the time, she lived on her own in a small but pleasant apartment. She only needed help with grocery shopping, a task taken on by either one of my aunts or her eldest son, my uncle, Augusto, a beautiful soul. He visited her often and sometimes surprised me with a fresh pastry. As soon as he walked through the door, Mamita Elena would dash into the kitchen to cook him a meal which he ate from the comfort of the living room couch while watching cheesy Spanish talkshows.
Unfortunately, I cannot remember much of what Mamita cooked, though one dish remains firmly etched in my memory: her scrambled eggs with rice. It was an easy, simple and humble dish. Nothing more than white rice, a little green onion and some chopped tomatoes stirred into a couple of scrambled eggs seasoned with just the right amount of salt. Try as I may, I have not succeeded in recreating that same taste. And it makes sense, as I do not have my grandmother’s magic touch. I suppose I will have to retain its taste in my memory and close my eyes if I want to experience it anew.
As my grandmother’s pace grew slower and heavier, she could no longer cook for herself or those she loved. Yet she continued to spoil us by having the fridge permanently stocked with all of the things she knew the family enjoyed most. For me, that was Entemann’s pound cake in all its rich and buttery glory. I would come in, give her a kiss and before even getting a chance to sit down, she would instruct me to go to the kitchen and cut myself a slice, only to ask as soon as I had polished off the last crumb if I was still hungry. “There’s also yogurt, if you want. And there’s a tin of cookies on top of the cabinet over there.” No matter how much I thanked her, she continued to insist. “How about some crackers with coffee? Your aunt just brought me some chicken soup, and it’s still on the stove.”
Years later when I moved to the Netherlands, I would find my grandmother’s love and generosity in my mother-in-law Miep, whose greatest joy was laying the table full of food and gathering the family for a meal. Her weekend breakfasts with boiled eggs, Dutch rusks (beschuit), spice cake (ontbijtkoek), warm rolls and freshly-squeezed orange juice were something to look forward to. I will never forget how she welcomed me into her home that first afternoon I met her, with one of her crisp apple turnovers (appelflap), and the many tea breaks that followed throughout the years with typical Dutch cookies such as stroopwafels.
In 2007, a stroke left one side of her body paralyzed, robbing her of the joy of cooking and caring for those she loved. Her final years were spent at a nursing home. There was little she didn’t need help with, and though she tried not to let it show, we could sense her despair. The woman who used to start her mornings off with a swim and hopped on a train halfway across the country to visit us was now confined to a wheelchair. She could no longer welcome us with homemade soup or invite us to stay for dinner, but there was always store-bought cake in the fridge when we visited and the coffee (which she managed to make herself) was ready, filling the room with sweet aromas. And like my grandmother, that one slice was never enough. “I can’t eat what’s left all by myself, so have some more if you want. Oh and if you want, there’s sausage and cheese in the fridge, too. And don’t leave without taking a bag of chips. It’s a long trip, you know.”
Both my grandmother and mother-in-law lost their husbands much too young. These wonderful men, husbands and fathers were in their fifties when they passed away, and though I never met them, I knew they were close by. They were in happy stories told with teary eyes and in the prayers they said every night.
Mamita Elena was born in Colombia in 1914, and Oma was born in the Netherlands in 1930. Despite the blows life dealt them, these strong and inspiring women never grew resentful and their faith never crumbled. Their lessons, love and determination to never let you go hungry (in body and spirit) have nourished my soul immensely.
In this week’s third installment of my “Cooking with Vegetables” series, I’ve shared a recipe taught to me by my friend’s mother Bernadette: her hearty soupe au chou. Like my grandmother and mother-in-law, Bernadette became widowed at a young age, yet she never stopped cooking and caring for others.
Before signing off, I’d like to share this salad of summer fruits with you. The recipe was inspired by the market in Saulieu and an old French cookbook I recently purchased at a vide-grenier, which was sold to me by a sweet, elderly gentleman. Perhaps it belonged to his wife. I can only wonder how many souls she nourished with her cooking… and her love.
Salade de Nectarines
No need to give exact measurements here. Just find the ripest nectarines, slice them and arrange on a plate. Top with raspberries, cured ham, mozzarella and mint, and finish with a drizzle of balsamic vinegar.
Bon week-end!
The women who nourished my soul