26. Pull from the earth
They mature in the dark underbelly of our world. Immune-strengthening and cancer-reducing, roots are some of nature’s healthiest bounty. Beets, potatoes, radishes, turnips, onions, rutabagas, garlic, turmeric, ginger. And, of course, the common carrot.
Flipping through Il Talismano, I land on Carote al Latte. “I’ve never heard of carrots cooked in milk,” Paul says when I show him the recipe. “It sounds good. Try it?” I nod, eager to read the details.
Carote al Latte Carrots in milk
For 6
1 kg carrots (one kilo is about 2.2 pounds and one pound of carrots equals 3 to 3 1/2 cups sliced, or about 6-8 medium or 4 very large carrots. So for 1 kg, I figure that’s about 12 medium or 8 very large carrots.)
2 cups milk
1 egg yolk
50 grams butter (one stick, half cup, is about 113 grams, so about a half stick of butter)
Fried bread crostini (chunky, home-made, fried bread bits)
Salt
Lightly scrape the carrots, cut away the thinner part and the stemmed end [I’m assuming so the slices can be of somewhat uniform diameter] rinse them, reduce them (riducetele ...what a perfect verb here...) into not very thin slices [which means? 1/8 of an inch rounds?] and dip them in slightly salted boiling water, leaving to cook for five minutes.
Out of curiosity, I randomly checked several online recipes for carrots in milk (yes, they are out there). Few suggested Ada’s initial blanching. Most had the carrots immediately tossed into a milk and water blend, then allowing the water to evaporate. Some included flour to thicken the sauce. But why? Vegetable blanching is quick and a chef’s magic tool: a shock to soften the outer membrane yet seal in the flavor.
Strain the carrots and put them in a pot with the butter, a cup and a half of milk, and a pinch of salt. Place on a light heat and finish cooking. When the liquid is reduced, dissolve the egg yolk in the remaining half glass of milk and pour onto the carrots. Reduce the heat, give it a good mix with a wooden spoon, and wait until the yolk si accremi.... becomes creamier. Without letting it boil, return the pot to the heat and after a couple (five) minutes put the carrots on a plate and garnish with (surround them!) contornatele with fried bread bits.
I tried the recipe. The carrots were perfection.
ALMA WAS LATINA, BEAUTIFUL, AND FERVENTLY SPIRITUAL. Visions and dreams directed her writing and her life. She had been my mentor my first semester in the graduate program. I liked her immensely. She had an occasional, unfortunate stutter when put on the spot such as by the chair of the program during a faculty Q & A. But she was an exceptional poet and when reading her own work, the stutter was nonexistent; her words sang forth, a melodic purity.
We nearly collided in the doorway of the ladies room the evening of my senior reading. When she saw me, her eyes lit in recognition.
I’d completed all the MFA requirements. The performance that evening—a reading from my manuscript in front of colleagues, writing professors, and a mob of guests—was the last task before graduation. I’d practiced numerous times the week before, solidifying the pacing, the enunciation, the projection of my voice. Lyn helped me, recording me and playing it back, suggesting well-placed pauses to make the speech more captivating. By all accounts I should have been ready. Only I wasn’t. Or I didn’t know if I was, which is about the same thing.
“Nervous,” I said to Alma, my breathless voice leaving no doubt.
Across the hall was the stage. Lights. A podium with a microphone. And lots of chairs. The piece I would read was my own. I knew every word. If only the shrill buzz in my head would quit.
Alma led me into the small ladies room. She stomped her feet, pulled back her shoulders, shook her thick, dark hair.
“The earth has all the energy you need,” she said.
And then she began: “Earth, sky. Earth, sky” repeating the phrase four or five times, her hand moving with a flourish from her gut straight up above her head, her breath sucked in with each “earth,” blown out with each “sky.” Pulling strength, power, up from the ground beneath her.
She nodded for me to join her.
Earth breath Sky. Earth breath Sky.
*
Standing on the stage, it was impossible to see the audience in the black beyond; the bright lights focused on the podium blinded everything except the papers I held. It was just me, my words, and mother earth. I paused … breath … and began.
