In the Labyrinth

Mountain Beauties

It is such a luxury to live along the Colorado Front Range, surrounded by beautiful high mountains, forests, rivers, and a wide diversity of flora and fauna. We had a great time at a recent family hike up Mt. Brainard, which tops out at a little above 10,000 feet. The forests were full of wild strawberries, and the small streams were full of flowing water. But the real discovery was the abundance of wild mushrooms and lichens we had never seen before. Here are two of them:

 

                               

                                        That beautiful pale pink mushroom creating lovely steps up along its face.

Emily Dickinson: Poetry on the Back of a Coconut Cake

In addition to writing sublime poetry, Emily Dickinson was also an excellent cook and baker. She often baked sweets and cakes for her neighbors and the neighborhood children. But poetry was never far from her mind and she combined her cooking arts with her literary skills. On the back of her recipe for this coconut cake was penned this poem: "The Things that never can come back."

"The Things that never can come back, are several —
Childhood — some forms of Hope — the Dead —
Though Joys — like Men — may sometimes make a Journey —
And still abide —
We do not mourn for Traveler, or Sailor,
Their Routes are fair —
But think enlarged of all that they will tell us
Returning here —
"Here!" There are typic "Heres" —
Foretold Locations —
The Spirit does not stand —
Himself — at whatsoever Fathom
His Native Land —"

Nelly Lambert, a Dickinson scholar at Catholic University, discovered in Dickinson's letters her delight at cooking and how often she referenced it in her letters. Lambert shares her discovery in an article for NPR (which includes the recipe and cooking suggestions for the Coconut Cake and an image of her handwritten recipe):

Dickinson discussed baking in many of her letters — evincing both her trademark wit and a zest for life that belies the common image of her as a depressed figure. Note the animation in her letter to a friend about some burnt caramel rule: "I enclose Love's 'remainder biscuit,' somewhat scorched perhaps in baking, but 'Love's oven is warm.' Forgive the base proportions."

In my own life, I have experienced the poet-cook as my father Emile Snyder published numerous volumes of poetry and was well known among his family and friends as a committed gourmet cook. It is one of the things I miss most about his absence -- I have his poems, but oh how I would love to sit in his kitchen again and watch him prepare something extraordinary, steam rising from the pots with fragrant aromas, the crisp freshness of garlic, parsley, basil under the crush of his knife, the sizzle of olive oils, the hiss of the wine poured into a frying pan with shallots and the whoosh of flame stirred up to release the alcohol -- and me getting tipsy on all the vapors. More than ten years later I still have my father's hand written recipes, stained from laying too close to the cutting boards. And I am reminded of all that reading Dickinson's opening lines: "The Things that never can come back, are several —/Childhood — some forms of Hope —/the Dead —"

For more reading, I recommend the article  "Emily Dickinson and Cooking, from the Emily Dickinson Museum and  "In Praise of the Cook" I wrote for the Journal of Mythic Arts on the mythic powers of the cook in fairy tales and folklore.

Research Notes I: Culinary Arts In the 16th Century

In the process of updating the blog, I was delighted to re-discover an older post on one of my favorite subjects -- food! Especially the culinary arts of the Renaissance which rival those of early Rome. John Varriano's book is a treat for both cooks and artists. 

Researching food is always fun, partially to make to make sure that I won't make any grievous errors putting in a dish that wasn't around until a century later -- or and even more important -- miss the chance to put in a dish that by its very design and substance is more fantastic and magical than anything I could have imagined. Maybe that is part of the allure of research -- discovering that the facts are so much more satisfying to write about than the imagined ones.

So to this lovely little book: Tastes and Temptations, Food and Art in Renaissance Italy by John Varriano -- an excellent examination of the relationship between the artists of the Renaissance and the great chefs of the same period. Varriano demonstrates the ways in which cooks and artists relied more on imagination in the production of their work (and often drawing inspiration from each other), and shared an affinity for ritual and the symbolic value of forms to represent the sacred, nature, and the senses. They were exercises in artifice to make aesthetic statements -- a salmon mousse molded to resemble a goat (so as to confuse and heighten the experience of eating one thing while imagining another) or an exquisite Ovidian scene of diners painted at the bottom of one's soup bowl. And in other ways, the relationship was organically close -- the artists creating still lifes using paints whose binding agents were mainly egg and lard.

I started reading this study in part because I needed to know if the roasted peacock I placed in a scene was acceptable -- and then discovered after reading that I had in fact grossly under sold it in the scene. One of the great chefs of the mid 1500s, Bartolomeo Scappi, known for dramatic and delectable skill (a kind of culinary sprezzetura -- a word that needs a post of its own to explain) enjoyed cooking that "vainglorious creature," using an extravagant assortment of spices and a method of preparation that reassembled the bird with metal rods and reattached its feathers  in order to serve it up come se fosse vivo-- "as if it were still alive." So yes -- my peacock is in. With bells and feathers and beak.

But this would have been one of many, many dishes. Consider this "simple meal" prepared by Scappi and his army of cooks -- a modest three course feast on a day of abstinence (meatless Friday) with forty guests, and "the first two courses consisted of fifty dishes served on four hundred pieces of gold, silver, and maiolica tableware," which were then followed by twenty-seven desserts served in two hundred and sixteen bowls and dishes. And..there were "six edible statues" of nymphs, exotic creatures and mythological inventions, "the first made of sugar; the second of butter; and the third, pasta." The meal then ended with scented toothpicks and posies of silk flowers with gold stems for each guest.

The hardest part now of writing that scene is going to be to reign in the desire to over indulge -- as artists and cooks are able to do -- so the reader won't somewhere midway through the scene, throw the book down and go in search of something good to eat. Like a pan of brownies or an entire brie with slices of pear,  or a half a pound of prosciutto and green olives. Sigh...now I am hungry.  

 

Art: Paolo Veronese, Wedding at Cana; Bartolomeo Passarotti, The Baker Prearing Pies; Bartolomea di Giovanni, The Wedding of Thetis and Peleus; Vincenzo Campi, Fruit Seller.

From The Innamorati: The Libertini Create New Work in the Midst of Feasting

 

 

Commedia dell'Arte troupes crisscrossing the country to perform are often at the mercy of events they cannot control, like difficult audience members and lousy weather. Amid rain and misery, the kindness of an unexpected patron in a small village becomes a welcomed gift. Food, wine, and local stories fuel the actors' imaginations.

The actors of the Libertini huddled beneath the archway of a narrow street leading into Camogli's triangular piazza. Slanting sheets of rain splashed down on its black and white patterned stones; a church built on the seaward side sheltered it from the worst of the storm. Next to the church, the fishing boats tied to the harbor wall bounced in the rough sea. All along the landward side of the piazza, a street of tall row houses had closed their shutters against the wind and driving rain. No one was abroad in the streets of Camogli, not even the usual stray cat.

In the archway, the Comedians stared glumly at the rain. The women held their skirts gathered in their hands to keep the hems from dragging in the water that sluiced down the shining black cobblestones. The baby Rosella fussed, her cheeks bright red in the chill. The men, leaning against the wall, wrapped their short capes around them, the feathers of their costume hats drooping with the damp. Alberto was alternately swearing at himself, swearing at God, and swearing at the bad luck that had brought this wretched storm on the day of their first performance.

They had entered Camogli in the early morning when the sky was burning with red clouds to match the intensity of Alberto's temper. He was seething over the loss of the Arlecchino mask. Fabrizio had confessed in stammers to accidentally dropping it into the sea. He was falling into the sea! It could portend disaster for the whole troupe. Silvia fingered her little gold cross nervously, Bruno and Gianni made secret gestures to ward off bad luck, Matteo sulked, Flavio chewed his nails, and Antonio tucked a blue Turkish bead on a string underneath his doublet to protect himself from evil. The damn fool, Fabrizio, just made it worse by stuttering worthless apologies to anyone with the patience to listen.

Once they had arrived in Camogli, Isabella urged Alberto to set up the show early and begin with some short pieces to advertise the evening performance. "Give them something to do so they don't fret," she advised. "Applause is the best cure!"

They set up the wagon and the trestle stage on top. They had hung bright yellow drop cloths from the trestle to form background walls. Fiammetta played her mandolin, and Silvia danced the saltarello to attract the villagers. As a crowd gathered, Arlecchino and Pulcinella appeared amid snickers and light applause. The two masks argued over a piece of cake that Arlecchino was happily eating, but Pulcinella wanted. When Arlecchino refused to share even a morsel with his companion, Pulcinella decided to trick Arlecchino into believing he was ill. Before long poor Arlecchino was staggering and moaning while Pulcinella expounded on his pallor. When Pulcinella finally declared him dead, Arlecchino obediently lay down and surrendered the cake to his greedy tormentor. It was left to Colombina to convince her beloved Arlecchino that he wasn't dead after all. Everything was going well. The crowd was small but enthusiastic, standing attentively before the stage, their tasks temporarily forgotten as everyone watched the performance. Alberto knew that if the troupe could hook them now, the audience would return in the evening to see the full performance and pay out a few of their hard-sweated coins. The crowd had just begun to loosen up when a thick bank of dark grey clouds settled heavily above the piazza. Read more > > >

 

Excerpt from The Innamorati: The Libertini Rehearse, I, The Innamorati: The Libertini Dine and Create, II.

Research Notes II: Culinary Arts

When I was in Italy, I happen to read a murder mystery set in the 16th century -- the same time period I was using to set The Innamorati. I read the first 100 pages which took place over a two day period in the story and not once had the characters eaten anything. I mentioned this to my Italian friend and she answered with shocked horror, "Not even pasta??" It was unthinkable. A reviewer once complained that my novel would have been better if I hadn't bothered writing so much about the food -- or sex -- which I think missed the point of the novel.

Sophia Loren (from Life Magazine) "Everything you see, I owe to spaghetti."

Death and Dinner, Mais Oui.

I am a wee bit past Bastille Day, but in the spirit of that revolutionary and rather bloody event, I would like to offer a meal fit for Death. The Old Foodie, is a brilliant blog devoted to providing readers with 400 words a day on a historical food topic, along with recipes. This offering was a splendid piece on the infamous "mortuary dinner" given by eccentric French gourmand Grimod de la Reynière in 1783. Here's the first paragraph of the article:

"The eighteenth century French gourmand Grimod de la Reynière hosted a most unusual dinner party in 1783 which has gone down in history as 'the Mortuary Dinner’. Grimod was known to be eccentric, but even for him, this dinner was a little over-the-top. The invitation to a 'collation-supper' was in the form of an obituary notice, and guest were advised 'The arrival is fixed for 9 o'clock and supper will take place at 10 o'clock. You are requested not to bring neither dog nor lackey as there will be enough servants. Neither pig nor oil will be missing from the supper. You are requested to bring this invitation, without which admittance will be refused.' ”

The whole event is terrifically weird and worthy of a Tim Burton cinematic moment (who could forget the shrimp cocktail in Beetle Juice?) -- plenty of black crepe on the walls, coffins to lounge in, and a silent audience in the balcony to observe the spectacle. The Old Foodie also provides a tasty recipe for Ragout of Pork Chops -- just in case you, like me, have no idea what "plenty of pig and oil" might actually mean. You can read the whole piece here.

And better yet, here is a wonderful video of a "Black Meal" from the British show "Supersize Eaters" that examines the eating habits of different historical periods and then spend a week living, cooking, and eating in a version of that period. The results are very funny, and very fascinating. In this video -- a celebration of Grimod's "Mortuary Dinner" -- you get a clear, first hand look at this peculiar feast.

And while the article is from 2009, this piece "Liberty, Equality, Gastronomy, Paris via the 19th Century Guide" is a hoot to read.