Life From Scratch (44 page)

“I just don’t want you to get hung up on all that … attention.”

“It has nothing to do with that, Mom. People from tiny countries finding the site—Nauru, Tuvalu, the Ivory Coast—are just happy to have their recipes brought to light. And there’s more!” I exclaim. “Right here in Tulsa, a woman who runs a program where kids garden and cook their harvests has asked me to speak.”

Josie’s Global Gardens classroom is literally a garden: 2-by-6s hammered together for raised beds, with an oven fashioned from straw and mud that cranks out perfect, brown-bottomed pizzas. I come prepared to teach the children about food in Japan. But the dozen eighth graders guide me under the wind-battered pergola and instruct me to take off my shoes because, as they proudly share, Japanese people don’t wear shoes in the house.

“And which direction should our guest sit?” Josie prompts them from behind a sweep of short, blond hair.

“Facing the entrance,” a bright-eyed girl tells me.

I am impressed with their preparedness, and on a whim ask them about their favorite foods from around the world. I expect the list of tacos, spaghetti, and pizza; what I don’t expect is the sideswipe of raw emotion. One little boy’s parents work two jobs, and he eats alone a lot. Another child tells me she used to eat more Mexican food when her grandmother was alive, but her mom doesn’t have time to make Grandma’s food anymore. But when
she
grows up, she plans to revive the family recipes.

They over-share with wide eyes, hoping I’ll hear them. I do, for the better part of an hour. After the session, Josie and I talk while our daughters play together. I ask her about the children’s stories, and her eyes sadden as she nods. “They just need someone to hear them. Thank you for listening.”

An unexpected friendship forms.

In February, all of us—Keith, Ava, and I, plus Connor, Grace, and her kids—arrive at Tim’s squat palm-shaded bungalow in Florida the day before Mom is due in. It’s the start of the third year of the blog and our first reunion since it started. Come to think of it, it’s the first time we siblings have been together, under one roof, for a week straight since I was ten—minus Michael, of course.

To keep busy until Mom’s arrival, I buy the groceries for our next Global Table Adventure, this time from the Maldives, an island nation off the coast of India. I’m making curry-crusted fish and the island’s popular honey, ginger, lime drink called
lomi lomi
. The fishmonger helps me select a giant red snapper. The eyes shine like glass marbles, so fresh I wonder if they might blink when I look away.

According to the recipe, the fish is supposed to be grilled, preferably on the beach. But I’ve always had terrible luck grilling fish; the sticky skin fuses to the grate, inevitably tearing the flesh into a jumble of unrecognizable flakes.

That night I find the Twitter handle of the Four Seasons in the Maldives and send them a request for advice about grilling the fish, adding that if they have a recipe for the
lomi lomi
, I’d be forever grateful.

Almost immediately I get a reply. The tweet reads: “250 g chopped ginger blend with 1 litre water, strain. Add 20 ml ginger juice, 30 ml lime & 60 ml honey, lots of ice, to taste.” They send a second tweet: For the fish, I just need to preheat the grill on high for a long, long time and obsessively rub the grate with oil until it gleams.

The next day, Tim leaves to pick up Mom. When he escorts her into the house, we all pop out from behind the wall in the sunroom. She leaps back, squealing with fear, then delight, clasping her hand to her chest and laughing.

She hugs us all and keeps saying, over and over again, with a grin a mile wide, “Oh wow, you’re all here, you’re all here!” and a while later, “I never had a surprise like this before!
Never
.”

A lump forms in my throat as I watch her. I ask Tim if he thinks she ever felt this loved.

“Just wait until she gets all those notes after dinner,” he grins, ear to ear.

That afternoon I ask the family to wait for me while I cook and photograph the recipes from the Maldives. No one complains, but while I chop the onion and grind it together with the curry leaves for the fish paste, I notice the heat for the first time. It must be 90 degrees in the shade. Everyone looks wilted. I regret keeping them from the beach just so I didn’t have to cook alone.

I work as quickly as I can, passing out the lomi lomi drink while I finish up. Next, I ask Tim to preheat the grill, deciding, after all, to go for the true, authentic cooking method. I want to feel the freedom and taste the salt air on the crust. But we forget to oil the grates, and the fish fuses to the metal, shredding as I struggle to pry it loose. I rush to the store to pick up a second $45 snapper, unwilling to let the mangled fish serve as the picture-perfect specimen.

I notice that the family is becoming askance at my obsessive behavior, but I cannot seem to stop myself. I want everything to be exactly right.

I roast the second fish in the oven. In my fourth hour of cooking, it comes out perfectly browned, with no tears. When I pop the snapper, glass eyes and all, onto the table, there’s a noticeable quiet. Everyone’s stomach seems to be shifting in the fish’s unblinking, charred gaze.

I talk about the culture in the Maldives, where no bits go uneaten and the eyes are prized by the most ardent of diners. (Not that I plan on eating them
myself
). After a fair amount of throat clearing and mock eyeball eating, everyone digs in. Eventually we work our way through the perfect fish. Still hungry, we start in on the mangled one and eat it all, too.

After we share a vegan birthday cake—from Whole Foods, not the Maldives—we present Mom with the box. I watch her face as she opens the lid. When she realizes what the notes are, she shuts the box with a click: “I’ll enjoy reading these later. Thank you.”

We all urge her on, telling her to read them now, but she shakes her head, puts the box back in the gift bag, and offers everyone a second slice of cake.

But the surprises aren’t over. Tim tells us to leave the dirty dishes: We’re taking a sunset trip to the beach to commemorate Michael’s passing. It’s the 20th anniversary of his death. I am dumbfounded that so much time has passed. Tim brought red balloons. We release just one into the blue—for Michael.

As I watch the balloon float away, I wonder what Michael would think of the last 20 years—if he would feel I’ve spent them well. I wonder what notes he might have put in the box. Quicker than expected, the balloon becomes little more than a dot, then a pinprick, until the vivid red disappears into the transparent ether.

I wish we could be together like this more often. But at the end of the day, we all have to go home to our separate lives and responsibilities.

That night, Keith and I whisper while Ava sleeps.

“Did you see your mom reading the notes?”

“Wait—what? She actually read them?”

“Yeah, when you all were doing the dishes, she sat off by herself and went through every one of them. After a while she even read a few out loud. She
loved
them.”

“Of course she has to do it when I’m not watching,” I sigh, not attempting to hide my irritation. “I don’t get why she always has to hide like that.”

“Maybe she didn’t want to have all eyes on her while she read through the notes. Receiving all that … love … it’s got to be pretty overwhelming, don’t you think?”

He studies me a moment, then links his pinkie around mine. “You seem really tense, Sash. Are you OK?”

“What do you mean?”

“All day you tried to control everything. I think you’re making everyone nervous.”

I roll over without responding. He thinks I’m pouting, that I’m mad at him, but what I’m really thinking is:
I know. That’s exactly what I’m doing. And I don’t know how to stop
.

Fire-Roasted Fish | Fihunu Masa

Spice-encrusted whole fish is often cooked beachside in the Maldives, over live flame. The deep brown crust can be quite the scorcher depending how many chilies are used. The spice paste I offer draws from the best local recipes, using garlic, cumin, curry leaves (available in Indian grocers), black peppercorns, and hot chili peppers (I use habaneros, instead of more traditional dried red chilies). Although Maldivians might grind the paste by hand, I make quick work of it with a food processor
.

Any large, meaty fish holds up well to this spice paste. Locals like a bright-eyed, whole red snapper, grouper, or tuna. When cooked with the skin on, bones in, the end result is impossibly moist. Whatever the choice, I save time by having the fishmonger prep the fish for cooking. They can remove the scales, guts, and gills
.

The traditional way to cook a whole fish is to thread a rod through it and grill over an open fire. For home cooks, I suggest roasting the fish in an oven. For those who prefer to grill: As I learned the hard way, the skin can easily stick. To avoid this, preheat the grill on high and carefully rub the grill grates five times with a folded paper towel dipped in vegetable oil. Then pop on the fish, shut the lid, and reduce the temperature to medium, flipping only once
.

Makes enough spice paste to cover one large whole fish, or several small. Allow one pound a person. Tip: If no whole fish are available, try the paste on a side of salmon. Though not traditional, the flavor is divine
.

A large, whole fish like snapper, grouper, or tuna, ready to cook—about 5 pounds—or a couple small whole fish (1½ to 2 pounds each), ready to cook

Spice paste (makes about ⅔ cup):

Half a medium onion, quartered

4 cloves garlic

5 curry leaves

2 teaspoons black peppercorns, lightly cracked

2 teaspoons ground cumin

2 teaspoons salt

2 teaspoons chili powder (or to taste)

Habanero pepper (to taste)

A touch of vegetable oil

Finishing touches:

1 lime, sliced in half-moons

Add the onion, garlic, cumin, curry leaves, black peppercorns, and salt to the food processor. Spoon in the chili powder and hunks of habanero to taste (for a less incendiary rub, omit the habanero). Puree into a thick paste, scraping the sides once or twice with a spatula.

To prepare the fish, rinse and dry it. Cut diagonal slits along both sides of the body—about every 2 inches—to ensure even cooking. Wearing gloves to protect the hands from the spice, spread the paste all over, being sure to rub it into the crevices and belly cavity. Let rest this way for a good half hour.

Preheat the oven to 375°F.

Roast the whole fish on a lightly oiled rack over a foil-lined baking sheet until the crust is deeply browned, the flesh flakes easily, and a food thermometer placed into the thickest part of the fish reaches 135° to 140°F.

Cooking times will depend on the size and type of fish used; the general guideline for a whole fish is 8 to 12 minutes per inch thickness of fish (take measurements from the girthy middle). The weight and number of fish will also impact things: A 5-pound snapper might take 45 to 55 minutes, whereas two 1½-pound fish might take 35 to 40 minutes. When in doubt, insert a knife and gently try to flake the flesh at its thickest section, down near the bone.

Finishing touches: Serve the whole fish at the dinner table. Lift the upper fillet off of the bone by cutting along the backbone and sides, then slide a spatula between the fillet and the rib cage to lift the top fillet off. For the bottom fillet, do not flip the fish; simply lift off the backbone from the tail end to reveal the fillet below. Be mindful of any bones, but enjoy the spicy skin. Serve with rice and a squeeze of lime.