FOOD

Food for Thought

Thanks for the memories

In memory, things are linked. Nothing recalled exists without relations, the raft of memory bobs on an unsettled sea of associations.

This is definitely the case in our remembrance of food. Each of us, if we plumb our reserves, can retrieve images, tastes, smells of favorite foods. Attached are our remodeled versions of the circumstances in which the flame of attraction was kindled — stories constantly altered to fit our purposes, to explain and excuse ourselves.

This is the case, as well, for foods we can’t stand.

For example: me and ham loaf.

I’ve been unable to ingest ham loaf since a stressful, cold early winter day in 1956 when, following three heaping portions of loaf at my Aunt Grace’s house in Central City, I repaired to a nearby mine tailings dump to suffer unspeakable agony, a lesson in projectile vomiting, my nearly lifeless but husky body then carried back to the house by my brother Kurt and my cousin J.R.

My father, the doctor, said I had the flu.

I knew better: It was the ham loaf. In my opinion, the fact no one else who ate it took sick was an example of divine intervention, and the divine intervener merely forgot to include me. This was not the first time the omission had occurred — certainly not the last. But, wait, if the divine agent was omnipotent and all knowing, how could I be forgotten?

Weighty theological question aside, clearly the ham loaf was meant as a test, a lesson—— no, a punishment — and it nearly killed me. To this day, the memory of ham loaf sets my digestive system aflutter, causes a precipitous rise in blood pressure. The salivary glands go into overdrive, bile sloshes upward.

The unsavory reaction causes me to find another, more desirable food to calm my gastric storm.

And to stimulate other memories.

Food is one of the most effective mnemonic devices: the remembrance of foods, of meals and their circumstances bend us back to people, places, situations long gone.

Allow yourself to open up when confronted with a food fact; see what bubbles up from the unconscious. It’s unpredictable, delightful.

What happens when you smell freshly-baked bread? Let your mind go, where does it take you? I am at Ruegnitz Grocery, in old South Denver. There’s Mr. Ruegnitz, sitting on a stool behind the meat counter at the back of the store, a blood-stained apron draped across his considerable gut. Mrs. Ruegnitz is painting porcelain plates at a table next to the canned goods.

How about a roast in the oven’— a brisket at 325 degrees with vegetables and herbs donating fragrances to the mix? What do you remember?

A chocolate cake, still warm, waiting for its frosting? My mother appears: Louie made a cake so dense a spoonful, carelessly dropped, would crush its way through the mantle of the earth and press its way to the earth’s core like a chunk of a collapsed star.

Fresh corn tortillas, frying in lard? I can almost see my boyhood friend Mark Vigil. His cousin with the long, shiny black braid is making dinner in a kitchen in a house on South Pennsylvania Street.

Onions on the cusp of caramelization? A roux one degree this side of mahogany?

Curry? Egad, I’m at the Bombay Cafe in Pasadena or at Anwar’s in London, wondering what kind of meat is submerged in the sauce in the pan on the buffet table.

The odor of a pub? Or of a great breakfast joint?

Fresh-brewed coffee?

A sniff of single malt scotch, a Bordeaux swirled around the inside of the glass? The fermented nuttiness — the wet-fur-of-a-feral-animal overtone — of a high-grade, brewed shoyu?

Have you smelled, much less consumed a classic grilled cheese sandwich lately? Did you focus on the ores the experience pulls from veins beneath the psychic surface? Add a cup of cheap canned tomato soup to the mix. Anything?

The smell of freshly decanted ginger ale? The tickle of the bubbles against the nose?

Where does mayonnaise take you? Herring? Chopped liver, with a serious shot of schmaltz?

Sardines transport me to the banks of the Upper Taylor River. It is noon and clouds rise over the mountains to the west of the high mountain valley. I hear the water; there are cattle a couple hundred yards away. A pine-rich breeze stirs the hot midday air. Uncle Jack cracks a can of sardines and pulls a pack of Saltines from his pocket. Our fishing poles are on the grass next to us. My ear hurts where I hooked myself with a yellow-body gray hackle while trying to cast around a pesky willow. The same associations would flower if I ate Vienna Sausages or potted meat.

Bolognese sauce, simmered slowly on a stove. It is warm and humid indoors, bitter cold outside. I’m seated alone at a table in a little restaurant on Greene just off Bleeker Street. I haven’t eaten in two days. Finally, I’ve got enough cash together to go a la carte. One choice, nothing extravagant: maybe a half order of ravioli, lovingly smothered with an incredible, garlic-riddled, fleshy and complex sauce. Then, back to the Hotel Albert to explain to an increasingly surly manager why I haven’t produced my share of the month’s rent. A dilemma that will be solved by a change of locks, not by me.

Double-cooked French fries. Or are they Belgian fries, or Dutch fries? I’m just past the Red Light District in Amsterdam, wandering away from the waterfront, hopelessly lost after a visit to a coffee house. Extra-crispy, puffy sticks of hot spud wrapped in a cone of heavy white paper, dipped in mayonnaise. Who cares where that tacky canal house I call home base is located? As long as the fries hold out, I’ll walk to Rotterdam. They are the greatest fries ever made. In this solar system, surely, if not the entire universe.

Brown rice. A daffy hippie from the Haight named Shrinking Violet and her German shepherd Steppenwolf. She makes a brown rice casserole every night. She feeds me. She has large feet. Violet loves everyone and wants them to be healthy. She eventually marries an ophthalmologist and drives her kids to soccer games in a Volvo station wagon.

Roasted goose. I am at the Kid’s Table with my siblings and my cousins, barely able to see over the edge of the table top to the food before me. My Grandmother Mabel brings a piece of goose to each child, with a helping of red cabbage and some herring. Without these additives at the New Year, Swedes too numerous to count would die senseless, early deaths.

Raspberries. I walk with my Aunt Hazel on the tram road that goes from the English side of the mountain in Central City to a place called Castle Rock. Cornish miners planted raspberry bushes next to the roadway 75 years before. We carry large metal buckets and we pick the ripe berries. We eat the berries for breakfast, in a bowl, with heavy cream. We finish dinner with raspberry tart and whipped cream. Hazel lets me help make raspberry jelly and jam. I stand on a stool at the old heavy stove, stirring the fruit for what seems to be hours, my every pore saturated by the berrified steam.

Pastrami, knishes, kreplach. It’s the sadly defunct Chuck o’Luck Deli on Krameria Street in Denver. I watch my beloved friend Pierre inhale a Howie’s Heartburn in less than two minutes. Complete with pickle and a side of slaw. The sandwich is a monster, a four-inch tower of corned beef, pastrami and salami, lovingly contained by mustard-slathered dark rye. A slab of kugel to finish things off. The man was a master eater.

I cook nearly every night, so I try to break the boredom with an occasional memory-rich dish — something to make dendrites multiply and grow, to accelerate the pace of the neuron circus, all three rings. I need to compile a list of foods rich in associations to use as a guide when I shop.

Where to start?

Gobo, cut into thin sticks, simmered in mirin and shoyu, with a touch of sugar.

Cassoulet.

Pierogi.

Corned beef hash.

Oxtail soup.

Sauerbraten.

Brown sauce, demi-glace. Sauce epagnole.

Kibbeh.

Blini.

Morels.

Gnocchi.

Veal Marsala.

It goes on and on. And with each word, each bite, each moment of preparation, flickering images flash on the brain screen at incredible speed.

Right now, I’m considering baking a whole salmon, with aromatic veggies and herbs. It reminds me of my friend Fabby’s wedding in 1980. It was her second or third wedding, but it was a doozie, foodwise. I’m sure she’s enjoyed similar treats at the weddings she’s had since.

If I can’t get a whole salmon (why would that be?) I’ll try for one of those major-league hunks of salmon carcass you occasionally find at the market. No head, no tail, gutted, skin on.

While the oven preheats to 375, I’ll reduce a cup or so of sauvignon blanc in a sauce pan, not too hot, at a simmer. I’ll toss some fresh herbs into the wine — tarragon is good, a sprig or two of rosemary — as well as a stalk of celery, a couple of lemons sliced with peel on, minced shallots, a bit of salt and a touch of white pepper.

When the wine is reduced by more than half, I’ll put the hunk of fish on a sheet of doubled foil, pour the wine and goodies on the fish and close the foil, folding and crimping the edges. Into a large baking pan the package will go and I’ll bake the beauty for nearly two hours. I’ll let the delectable finny thing cool, then I’ll chill it in the fridge.

A yummy accompaniment will be a mayonnaise, with parsley, or a standard green sauce.

As I eat, I’ll remember Fabby, stubbornly clad in white, as she took a header down the steps leading to her mother’s garden where minister, besotted groom and well-wishers waited. It was an omen, but the salmon was delicious. There was a smell of rain in the air and a car drove up and down the street at the front of the house, “It’s a Family Affair,” by Sly and the Family Stone blaring from the car’s sound system.

There seems no end to the recipes, the dishes, the associations. Memories blow through the mind like dry leaves across a November lawn. Nothing is off limits.

Except that accursed ham loaf.


What's Cookin?

OBITUARIES

William Allen Goddard

William Allen Goddard, “Grandpa Bill,” was born in Pryor, Okla., on Nov. 16, 1942, to Alberta Kathryn Jenkins and William Richard Goddard. He was fond of saying that he escaped at the age of 2. He spent most of his early years in Idaho and Oregon. After high school, he enlisted in the Marine Corps.

Bill was 14 when his grandmother taught him to make strawberry jam. That was the beginning of a love of cooking that would last the rest of his life. In 1995, Bill came to Pagosa Springs and determined that this was the ideal place for a produce stand. He enjoyed the produce and the customers so much, and it was a difficult decision for him to give it up.

His customers were his life. Nothing was too good for them. He would spend hours trying to find that one special product that someone had asked for. Nothing gave him greater pleasure than to visit with his customers.

Several people over the years asked Bill if he would be able to breathe better at a lower elevation. The answer was always the same. “Probably. But I like it here.” He loved Pagosa and did whatever he could to help the community.

He is survived by his longtime companion, Connie Bunte; a daughter, Tina; a son, J.T.; brothers, Rex, David, Tuffy, John, George, Tom and Wally; a sister, Gladys; and three grandchildren. He was preceded in death by his parents, and a son, William.

Contributions can be made to the Humane Society of Pagosa Springs, Archuleta County 4-H, or the charity of your choice.

A graveside service will be held at 2 p.m. Friday, May 30, at Hilltop Cemetery in Pagosa Springs.

A celebration of Bill’s life will take place at the Pagosa Springs Community Center following the cemetery service.


Aurora “Dora” Martinez

Aurora “Dora” Martinez, 92 years old and a longtime resident of Pagosa Springs, entered into eternal rest at her home Saturday, May 24, 2008, at 6 p.m.

Dora was born July 28, 1915, in Salida, Colo., to Juan and Maria Archuleta, and was the oldest of 12 children. In 1933, while living in Pagosa Junction, she met and was courted by Arthur J. Martinez, from Monero. They were married June 28, 1935, in Trujillo, and together they raised four children. Together, they endured both good and bad for 73 years until Arthur passed away in December 2007.

Dora is survived by three children: Arthur N. Martinez, Carson, Calif.; Delilah Ortega (John), Aztec, N.M.; and Roosevelt Martinez (Barbara), Stratford, Conn. Also surviving her are two brothers, five sisters, 12 grandchildren and 19 great-grandchildren, as well as numerous nieces and nephews.

Dora was preceded in death by her husband, Arthur; two daughters, Sadie Marie and Virginia; one brother, three sisters, one granddaughter and one great-grandson.

Dora was a devoted wife, mother and grandmother who always knew just what to say or do if you were sad or not feeling well. She had a smile for everyone, whether you knew her a long time or had just met. She devoted her life to making a loving home for her husband, children and grandchildren.

She will be missed by all who knew her and those who knew her best will always remember no matter how she felt or how sick she may have been, she would always say, “I’m okay.”

The viewing and rosary services will be held at the Immaculate Heart of Mary Church in Pagosa Springs, Friday, May 30, 2008, at 6 p.m. Funeral services will be at the church Saturday, May 31, 2008, at 10 a.m., followed by graveside services at Hilltop Cemetery in Pagosa Springs.

The family requests that, instead of flowers or gifts, you make a donation in her memory to the American Alzheimer’s Association in order to further the research and someday find a cure for this terrible disease.


Elias Romero, Jr.

Elias Romero, Jr., was born Nov. 23, 1919, in Altura, Colo. He lived in Durango, Colo., prior to moving to Arizona in 2004.

He was born to Elias Romero and Cirella Romero Supulvuda. He is survived by his wife, Cora Romero, children and numerous grandchildren and great-grandchildren, and three sisters.

Surviving children are Leon Romero; Dan Romero (Margret); Lucille Storts (John); Gloria Sublett (Bill); SSG Richard Romero (Debra); Randy Romero; Debra Thorn (Layton); Tana Romero (Jose); Cindy Kennemur (Max); Becky Romero Lu (Michael). He was preceded in death by a son, Tommy Romero, and a daughter, Loretta Romero.

He served in World War II from 1942 until 1944.

Our father foremost loved his family. He loved to hunt, work in the yard, build, and was kind to everyone. He had a great sense of humor, was never selfish, was very witty and made everyone laugh. He was a great husband, daddy, grandpa, uncle, brother, “in-law,” friend, and he loved the Lord.


CELEBRATIONS

Gillian Berrich and Michael Boehner

Ed and Esmeralda Berrich, of Pagosa Springs, would like to announce the engagement of their daughter, Gillian Berrich, to Michael Boehner. Michael is the son of Kent and Pam Boehner, of Greeley, Colo. Mike is the owner and operator of Clear Creek Masonry and Landscaping, and is a Greeley area native of 30 years. Gillian graduated with a bachelor’s degree in communications from Colorado State University and is a Colorado native of 27 years. Their wedding is set for June 21, 2008, in Estes Park, Colo. The couple will reside in Greeley.

Erica Albers

Erica Albers of Pagosa Springs has graduated from the Pueblo Community College Police Academy, passing her Colorado peace officers’ exam.  She is the daughter and stepdaughter of two exemplary police officers: daughter of Tom Albers,  Arlington, Texas, P.D., who “was dispatched to Heaven” at age 48; and stepdaughter of George Daniels, formerly an Arlington officer, a Pagosa Springs town officer, an Archuleta County sheriff detective, and now the local DA investigator. Albers currently works as an animal control officer for the sheriff’s department. “Others can verify,” said her mother, “that Erica is dedicated, like both her dads, and will always do a professional and courteous job to serve the public.”

Shaylah Lucero

Shaylah Lucero, of Pagosa Springs, and her horse Blue. Shaylah is the Overall Grand Champion of the La Plata County 4-H Rodeo Series, Intermediate Division, ages 11- 13. 

Bruce and Nettie Trenk

Bruce and Nettie Trenk are celebrating 50 years of marriage June 7, 2008. They were married in Madison, Wisc. They lived in Newburgh, Ind., for over 30 years. They retired to Pagosa Springs in 1999.
They have three daughters married and living in Seattle, Galveston and Littleton. Bruce and Nettie have six grandchildren.


ARTS