Lisa Richter

05. Tend to the bones

Lisa Richter
05. Tend to the bones

First and foremost—and always—there is broth.

Says Ada: Taking in to account that la minestra  (soup) is an essential element in the kitchen, one needs to prepare broth in abbondante (copious!) amounts. Any cut of meat will suffice, placed in cold water already salted, for it is the salt, Ada confirms, which draws out the nutrients and dissolves the proteins, bringing clarity to the broth. 

Bones, meat. Salt. This is not just about taste. There is chemistry at work here. Alchemy.   


Clarissa Pinkola Estes, in Women Who Run With the Wolves, recounts the story of La Loba, the mythical wolf woman, who assembled the bones of wolves, breathed over them, and brought forth new life: creatures who transformed into wild women, laughing and running free.

I too have long collected bones. Simmering them in water with pungent herbs until they wilted, I extracted their hidden juice, their savory gelatin core.

Several years ago, during a time of nearly inconsolable sadness, I prepared broth daily, its thick, nourishing aroma filling the empty space within my home, soothing my broken spirit. For awhile, its warmth was all I could swallow. Somehow I sensed that in drinking the golden elixir I might become strong again. Was it La Loba watching over me, encouraging this bone magic?   


BUSHARD'S PHARMACY WAS AN HISTORIC PLACE, an original Laguna Beach haunt with aisles of tourist hats and beach towels, greeting cards, toiletries, cosmetics, and white-haired male pharmacists standing elevated behind a half-wall. As I entered, Beth prowled behind a display of neon lipsticks, her auburn hair sleek in a black head scarf, her cream skin a striking backdrop for heavily shadowed eyes. She was a large, robust woman, and as Bushard’s cosmetics diva, owned the perch behind the long narrow counter from which she surveyed the comings and goings at the two pharmacy entrances. She and I had spoken on several prior occasions during the year, though she never fully remembered. She watched intently as I approached, then a hesitant nod, yes, she knew me from somewhere. She stared at my complexion, the folds below my cheeks, the ripples across my forehead. “You’ve lost someone,” she said. I nodded. Lynda had died a couple weeks before. The face oil I was coming to buy had been her favorite—Clarins Blue Orchid—and had become mine as well. In the wall mirror behind Beth, my anemic reflection shocked. Beth considered my fate. She placed a couple drops of Blue Orchid onto a thin sponge, and leaning over the counter, pressed it to my cheeks and chin. I could feel her breath as she tapped a few spots below my eyes. She stood back, her expression critical, though I already felt my skin warming, expanding. The delicate scent enchanted. She wrapped my boxed oil with a white ribbon and handed it to me. “Well,” she said, still scrutinizing my appearance. “You’ve got great hair.”