Comfort food exists because food comforts so deeply. In the belly of harder times I see a yearning for carbohydrates growing, never mind the cruel and foolish diets that preach otherwise. I have noticed my freelance friends, some unemployed for months at a stretch, brown bagging it more and more, doing the rounds of job interviews and go-sees with home-baked scones in their satchels. Quite often we’ll invite each other over for tea, cake, and a spot of Craigslist: putting things we don’t use up for sale, looking through the Free lists for furniture (pianos are often given away for the cost of the move), or we’ll make cookies and polish our résumés while the oven hums. If the days of the three-dollar latte are numbered, the return to basic baked food is on the rise.
When you are not raking in the bread, it’s a fine time to bake a loaf. Making home-made food together is a sweet alternative to going to a bar or a restaurant, and no one goes home empty-handed or hungry. I have never baked so many pies as I do right now, and I do it for a sense of plenty and an even deeper sense of connection and creative energy. The best way to see a silver lining is with a full stomach.
In some ways the simplest food holds the deepest magical powers and, when served to those we know well, expresses trust rather than pretension. Few people these days will ask the host of a dinner what’s on the menu. Who’d dare? It’s much better recession etiquette to bring a little potluck gesture or provide your own special-needs diet goodies (for example, gluten-free carbs or sweets). Everything we cook with heart casts a spell. Here are some stories of my favorite, very basic, foods.
Magic Bread
When the budget gets skinny set the oven to 350° and bake for a miracle.
When I was twenty-six I baked a lot of oat bran, pear, and walnut muffins. If I could afford it I added honey; if not, applesauce. I was an intern/coat check girl/radio journalist/waif, but my railroad apartment in NYC on Spring and Bowery always smelled like a farmhouse. When I couldn’t afford wine I’d take those muffins to parties, in a basket, like Little Red Riding Hood. When I couldn’t afford dinner I’d chew one savagely, like the big bad wolf. The muffins were bland but they tasted like my mother’s Irish soda bread, hot from the tin with a square of butter melting into their heart. It was my mother who gave me the habit of baking for no particular occasion and always having something warm coming from the oven on a dreary weeknight. The raisin bread we were raised on was made of water, salt, baking soda, white flour, butter, and naturally, raisins. We’d serve it hot in the middle of a movie with milky tea. We’d eat it cold the next day for breakfast. And when it got a bit stale, we’d dip it in cocoa after school. The best bits were the burnt raisins on the crust and the smell wafting down the hall on a cold night, with someone yelling “get that before it burns!” Mum would always say the same thing when we’d eat the bread: “It’s nothing much but it’s what we all grew up on” and “Is it too plain? If it’s too plain there’s jam in the fridge.” We never added jam. It was just so good the way it was. Here is her recipe, given to me over the phone and, apparently, never written down in more than a few hundred years:
Ingredients
½ package self-raising flour
3 sticks of butter
½ cup raisins
½ to 3/4 cup milk
Generous pinch of salt
To make
Take the flour and slightly softened butter and knead together until it forms a crumbly dough. Slowly add cold water until the mix becomes moist and yields together, but don’t add enough for it to become soggy. Add the raisins and salt when the dough is a nice big ball. Let the dough sit for an hour or so.
The Power of Pasta
Always serve pasta to snobs, because, frankly, they’ve eaten everything else on earth.
I have only ever thrown one dinner party to deliberately impress and be “social” in the right circles. Like a cut-rate Elsa Maxwell, I thought that the best way to get ahead in my husband’s brutally impenetrable industry (bloody film!) was to lure over a few kingpins and stuff them like feudal lords. The plates and linen were bought new. The wine was expensive. The flowers were rare and unseasonal. The candles were sage green. And the cheeses alone cost over a hundred dollars. It was a flop. No one at the table knew each other very well, there were not enough men for the women or red meat and controversy for the men. I served fussy shellfish and spent the night trotting round the table like a Roman slave, holding an enormous finger bowl full of sliced lemons. To top it off, the VIP guests felt a little bit cornered and possibly bored. Simply put, I tried too hard and the intention was not pure enough. The best thing to offer people you want to impress, seduce, or simply love is plentiful wine, romantic music, very dim light, and very basic food.
Spoiled people love simple food because they have already eaten everything else. Often all they notice at a table is the height of the candles, so these days that’s where my money goes. I light my dining table like a Greek Orthodox church. I apply the same code to serving Moroccan mint tea at midnight or a whole leg of lamb on Christmas Eve. Candles cost next to nothing, and a forest of light has a sensual dignity that is both welcoming and calm. The second time I had to entertain a snob, I ended up handing him an apron and a big wooden spoon and flattered him into preparing his own dinner. “You are from Roma”—I oiled his vanity with cunning—“Please show me how! You make the best al dente pasta!” I flung on some Puccini and held most of the dinner in the kitchen, letting novelty replace formality and basically not sweating it. At the end I presented a gourmet cake and decadent dessert wine, egos and bellies distended in proper bliss.
Pie Is for Lovers
A word to the lonely—If you want someone on your doorstep within an hour, send word of a freshly baked pie.
Food connects, nurtures, and brings people home to themselves. When feeling lonely and broke (and I’ve found these two are apt to follow one another), I bake a pie and watch my friends drop everything to come over, bearing vanilla ice cream and silly smiles. I place a patchwork quilt on the living room floor, lots of old floral cushions, and a tray for tea. The smell of baked apples and jam makes everyone feel warm, especially in March when the New York winter lags on spitefully. My pie is not for purists and takes fifteen minutes to hash together, then an hour to bake. I buy the pie shells frozen and often in bulk; spelt crusts when I’m richer and plain old supermarket butter crusts in a pinch. All you need is the following, and this recipe is completely, guiltlessly sugar free:
Ingredients
8 large apples (any kind)
1 lemon, grated for zest then cut in half for juice
4 tablespoons blackberry or blueberry jam
½ jar applesauce
1 handful frozen strawberries or black berries
Love!
To make:
Take pie crusts and defrost for about an hour make sure they are soft. Cover base with blueberry, strawberry, or blackberry jam (unsweetened is best); choose jam to match your fruit. Slice and core the apples, cut chunky but not too thick. Cover jam with a layer of apples (? of those sliced, as there are three layers) then spoon on some applesauce. Grate some lemon rind onto the mix, squeeze on some lemon juice. Layer on more apples (repeating above ingredients twice) then pop in some frozen strawberries or blackberries.
