Stewing In Our Own Juice

Twinkies may soothe some fevered brows, but the rest of us need heftier fare as we seek sanctuary from the relentless drumbeat of bad news.

One friend of mine has made 13 chocolate cakes in six weeks. Another is on a pie-baking binge. A third bought a bread machine and is awash in cinnamon raisin, poppy seed and cracked wheat.

I make stew -- pots and pots of stew. I hunt down ailing friends and force it on them. I freeze it for school lunches. I sneak spoonfuls with my morning coffee. I even share dollops with the dog.

I started peeling potatoes and chopping carrots when I heard about the anthrax letter mailed to Tom Brokaw. I doubled the recipe when Postmaster General John E. Potter said flat-out that the mail isn't safe, the FBI warned us to be alert for more terrorist attacks but couldn't say when or where, and President Bush urged that we "act normal" but kept Vice President Dick Cheney safely tucked away in what Cheney himself calls "the cave."
It cost terrorists 34 cents to shut down the Supreme Court building and God knows what else in Washington, D.C. One more cheap airline ticket or maybe even some frequent flyer miles may soon take out another American landmark. Such events are beyond my control.

What I can do is spend $12.78 on ingredients and head for the kitchen.

I come from a long line of women who submerge their fear, anger and grief in gravy. During the Great Depression my dad shot squirrels with his .22 rifle for supper. My grandmother would fry them up and throw some turnips into the pan. The family counted it a feast because there was meat on the table.

When Dad died, my mother stood with great dignity at the end of the memorial service and invited the mourners back to our house to eat. That's what you do when somebody dies: You drink strong coffee, and you eat.
Through that long afternoon, mother was the consummate hostess, offering more ham here, extra potato salad there, seeking comfort in a familiar role. Her way of coping with the unthinkable was to ply her guests with home-cooked food until they waddled off into the sunset; she postponed her grieving yet another hour by tending to the leftovers.
I am my mother's daughter. My stew is simple: beef chunks dredged in flour and salt and pepper, garlic, celery, carrots, lots of onions, a few mushrooms if I have them, potatoes tossed in at the last minute. There's symmetry to the chopping, the mincing, the stirring. I find reassurance in the routine and the ordinary.

We felt the need for friends, so we invited some to share stew with us. We sat by candlelight and sopped their cracked wheat bread in the juice and counted ourselves blessed to be together. By unspoken agreement, we didn't speak of Cipro or anthrax or the World Trade Center or the Pentagon or the war in Afghanistan.

When the evening was over, we walked our friends to their car. Together, we stared at the stars; one fell to earth in a blaze of fire. Only then did we wonder aloud how, in such a beautiful world, man could foul it up so.

If, as President Bush tells us, living with terrorism is our new reality, I intend to cook a lot of stew.

© 2001 The Women Syndicate

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