by Maya Angelou
SERVES 4
One 2-3-pound capon
Juice of 1 lemon
1 cup water
4 tablespoons (½ stick) butter
Salt and freshly ground black pepper, to taste
1 unpeeled Granny Smith apple, cored and cut into pieces
1 stalk celery, cut into pieces
Preheat oven to 350°F.
Wash capon in lemon juice mixed with water. Pat dry, and rub butter over capon. Liberally salt and pepper capon outside and inside. Place apple and celery in capon cavity.
Make aluminum foil tent, and place over capon. Bake for 1 hour, periodically basting with juices in pan. Remove foil. Reduce oven to 325°F, and bake for 30 more minutes.
T.R. MANSFIELD WAS SHORT and mean and lean. He was mostly bones, with no spare meat anywhere on his body. His lemon-colored skin was pockmarked as a result of childhood chicken pox. He was literate, but just barely.
I was nineteen years old and crazy for him. When I was not occupied fulfilling my duties as a short-order cook or selling jazz music in a record store, I thought of nothing but T.R. Maybe it was his way of walking that captured and held me. He moved as if his chest and upper torso had no connection with the rest of his body and was pleased at the arrangement. Which meant that his hips swung with a giant promise of better things to come.
Or maybe it was his silence that intrigued me.
I had lived with or around my mother and brother who talked all the time. They could, at no notice at all, hold conversations on the Soviet Union, the Supreme Court, race relations, or whether salmon croquettes could adequately compete with fried pork chops.
I cannot remember T.R. ever initiating a discussion, and his rejoinders to my attempts to start a conversation were generally met with a throat clearing:
“Ah-hum. Great.”
Or:
“Ah-hum-rum. Yeah.”
Or:
“Ah-hum-rum. No.”
I visited him in his rented room twice a week and always left happier and more at peace than when I arrived. I thought he was equally pleased. Of course with his inveterate silence, I could not be expected to know otherwise.
One evening, however, when I knocked at his door, a woman answered. I stood in amazement as the door opened and a short, very plain, light-skinned, plump woman twenty years my senior said, “Come in. You must be Maya.”
I walked into the room and remained silent. The woman continued. “We must have gotten our days mixed up. You usually come on Tuesdays and Fridays. I come on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Saturdays. What’s today?” She looked at her watch, “Ooo, I’m running late. T.R. is in the bathroom. Well, we probably won’t see each other again. Bye-bye.”
My brain was in shock; there was a straitjacket around my body. I didn’t think. I couldn’t move.
T.R. came out of the bathroom, surprised to see me. He grumbled low, “What are you doing here?”
I could comprehend, but I still couldn’t speak.
“You not due today. Today is for Daphne. She let you in?”
He had never said that much to me in our nine-month relationship.
“Come on in the kitchen.” I followed him down the hall. He took a dessert from the refrigerator and placed large spoonfuls on two plates.
“Get a fork.” He nodded toward a drawer and began to eat with the serving spoon. He was hard to understand at best, and now with his mouth full of bananas and custard and vanilla wafers I should not have understood a word. But I will never forget what he said or its impact on me.
“Daphne. Ever hear of a Negro woman named Daphne? She makes this for me once a month. Her grandmother was a white woman.”
Everybody I knew had at least one white grandparent or great grandparent. No one thought it was something to brag about.
“I’ve been loving her a long time. She’s too good for me and she’s married, but she comes anyway. You look all stove up like you’re mad. Wait now, I never promised you anything and I’m going to be with Daphne as long as she’ll have me. So just wipe that stupid look off your face.”
He had finished his pudding and was digging for more. I looked at the sweet. The custard was poorly made and was already weeping pure water, the bananas were brown from exposure, and the vanilla wafers were soggy. Then I looked at T.R. He was a slothful, ignorant, and arrogant fool.
I stood up and pushed my plate to him and walked out.
On the street, I realized I had not said one word from the moment I entered that house until I left.
I stopped at the supermarket on the way home. In my kitchen I began to make my own banana pudding. When it was finished and properly chilled, my son and I sat down and ate it.
Poor T.R., he never had—and now never would have—a chance to taste a truly great banana pudding. I ate his portion that night and with each morsel I knew I would never see him again.
Banana Pudding
SERVES 8
¾ cup plus 1 tablespoon sugar
⅓ cup cornstarch
Pinch of salt
3 cups milk
8 eggs, separated
3 tablespoons butter
1 tablespoon vanilla extract
3 cups vanilla wafer cookies
4 ripe bananas, thinly sliced
½ teaspoon cream of tartar
Preheat oven to 350°F.
Combine ⅓ cup sugar, cornstarch, and salt in a large saucepan; stir until blended. Stir in milk. Cook over medium heat, stirring constantly until thickened and boiling; boil 1 minute, then remove from heat.
In small bowl whisk egg yolks, then whisk in about ½ cup of the hot custard until blended. Pour yolk mixture back into custard in saucepan; cook over medium heat, stirring, for 2 minutes. Stir in butter and vanilla until blended.
Place half the vanilla wafers on bottom of shallow 2-quart casserole. Top with layers of banana slices and custard. Repeat layering, ending with pudding.
Beat egg whites and ¼ cup sugar in large mixing bowl at low speed until frothy. Add cream of tartar; increase speed to medium and gradually beat in remaining sugar. Beat until whites just hold stiff peaks.
Immediately spoon meringue over hot custard, being sure that meringue touches baking dish on all sides (this helps prevent it from shrinking). Transfer to oven and bake until golden, 20 minutes. Remove from oven and cool 1 hour. Refrigerate at least 4 hours before serving.
MY FRIEND SAM FLOYD was the most dapper, eloquently dressing man I ever knew. Had he lived during the flapper days, he would have been one of the first to wear spats. In another age, he would have sported a foulard or a four-in-hand. He certainly would have owned a derby and a fedora. In fact, somewhere in his crowded closet in his crowded apartment in New York’s Greenwich Village, he did have a beret from Paris and a top hat for formal evenings out on the New York town.
In the 1960s, he wore Brooks Brothers suits, Van Huesen shirts, and Sulka silk ties. His shoes were custom-made.
In 1969, Sam and I flew out to California to visit my mother, who was the most elegant-dressing woman I ever knew. She wore Dachê hats and Lilli Ann suits, Lillie Rubin dresses, and Daniel Green slippers. They admired and even liked each other. They were a match.
Sam and I were invited to dinner by a friend of my mother’s, who declined to go. The date started to go bad from the first minute. Our host opened the door and invited us directly to the bar in his den. He told Sam that he shouldn’t have dressed up. He added, “There’s no one in my house you have to impress.”
I knew he was being friendly. Sam was offended. Sam wouldn’t have thought that what he was wearing was dress-up. He said, “I didn’t really have to try to achieve this just to come to your house.”
I knew Sam was just being Sam, but now the host was offended. Just as he was preparing his rejoinder, I stepped in.
“May we order drinks? I’ve got dust in my throat.” That was the height of the evening.
In a half hour, the host had stopped speaking to Sam who retaliated by trying to dri
nk the bar dry. Sam ordinarily drank one or two whiskeys before dinner and some wine with the meal. On that particular night, Sam had whiskey after whiskey, and when dinner was served he refused the wine, saying he would go out with whom he came in. He ordered another scotch.
I don’t think he tasted the food, and as quickly as I could, still being courteous, I said our thanks and good-byes.
Just before he passed out in my car, Sam said, “I drank because that jerk bored me.”
He lurched into my mother’s house and straight into the guest room. In the morning I was having coffee when he came into the kitchen holding his head. “I drank everything I could to get back at our host.” I said, “And he’s feeling it this morning, poor thing.” Sam said, “Don’t add insult to injury.” Mother entered, saying, “Only if it is deserved.”
I looked at both people whom I loved and thought how much alike they were. They were separated by a generation and by gender, but at 9:00 A.M. both had showered and chosen expensive dressing gowns just to come to the kitchen.
I asked Sam to recount for my mother what he could remember of the night before. I headed back to my room. When I returned, my mother was laughing heartily.
“What you need is a cold beer now, and as soon as I can make it, some tripe. Some good red-hot tripe and white rice! Or I can make the Mexican menudo.”
Sam said, “I only know how to cook tripe à la mode de Caen.” He pronounced the dish with a French accent.
My mother asked, “What?”
He started to tell her.
She said, “Wait, let me change. I’ll be right back, and I’ll cook my kind of tripe and you can tell me your recipe.”
She went back to her room. Sam took his beer and disappeared, and I returned to my room.
I smelled onions frying and I followed the aroma to the kitchen. My mother, dressed in white, was stirring onions in a skillet.
Within minutes Sam entered, also in white. They looked at each other and laughed.
Sam said, “The beer saved my life. I’ll have another.”
Mother said, “Why don’t you make us a few dry martinis? We’ll eat soon.” I asked, “You cooked tripe that fast?”
“I used my pressure cooker, but it doesn’t take as long as it used to now that they process tripe. They clean it and then precook it.”
We sat at the table suffused in delicious aroma. Suddenly Sam’s sleeve was caught on the martini glass and it tipped into his plate of tripe; then his plate slipped over onto my mother’s lap. We all jumped. Sam apologized. Mother went to the sink.
I said, “Let’s go to your bathroom and get some water on it immediately.” We rushed to her room. When she had immersed her slacks and shirt in the basin she chose another white set and we walked back into the kitchen.
Sam Floyd had cleaned the table and put on a fresh tablecloth. We all had new plates.
Sam said, “I’m rarely clumsy enough to ruin someone else’s clothes. And on only one other occasion have I spilled tomato sauce on my own self.”
We sat down and enjoyed the food. Mother said, “This is good hangover food. Never fails.”
Just as we finished eating, Sam tipped his plate. Red sauce spilled onto his summer white outfit.
My mother said, “You clever thing, you did that on purpose.”
Sam swore he didn’t plan to pour tripe on his clothes and maybe he didn’t, but I know with that accident he made my mother his friend for life.
Trípe à la Mode
de Caen
SERVES 4 TO 6
2 pounds fresh tripe
Bouquet Garni (p. 8)
3 carrots, peeled and diced
3 Spanish onions, diced
2 stalks celery, diced
3 cloves garlic, diced
¼-pound diced salt pork, cut into large pieces
4 bay leaves
10 black peppercorns
1 pig’s foot
1 soup bone, pork, cracked
1 teaspoon salt
1 cup water
2 cups dry white wine
2 jiggers gin
Preheat oven to 350°F.
Wash tripe, and cut into bite-size cubes. Put all dry ingredients into large earthenware pot. Pour in water, wine, and gin. Cover tightly and bake for 5 hours. Remove from oven, and discard pig’s foot, soup bone, and Bouquet Garni. Serve with crusty French bread.
Red Tripe with
White Rice
SERVES 4 TO 6
2 pounds fresh tripe
2 tablespoons vegetable oil
1 small onion, sliced
Two 28-ounce cans tomatoes
One 6-ounce can tomato paste
2 cloves garlic, minced
Salt and freshly ground black pepper, to taste
Red pepper flakes, to taste
4 to 6 cups hot cooked white rice
Wash tripe and cut into 1-inch pieces. Put in pot with water to cover, and simmer for 1½ hours. Drain, and pat dry.
In large skillet, sautê oil, onion, tomatoes, tomato paste, and garlic. Add tripe. Simmer 1 hour, or until tender. Season with salt, pepper, and red pepper flakes. Serve with rice.
Menudos
(tripe stew)
SERVES 8
5 pounds tripe
1 large beef soup bone
4 cloves garlic, chopped
3 teaspoons salt
2 cups chopped onions
1 teaspoon ground coriander
2 tablespoons chili powder (or more, to taste) or one 4-ounce can chopped green chilies
1½ quarts water
One 29-ounce can whole hominy
Juice of 1 lemon
1 tablespoon chopped fresh cilantro
Wash tripe, and cut into Y2-inch-wide strips.
Place tripe, soup bone, garlic, salt, onions, coriander, chili powder, and water in a large pot. Simmer for 6 hours, or until tripe is tender, adding more water if necessary. Add hominy, lemon juice, and cilantro, and cook over medium to high heat for 30 minutes. Remove soup bone, and serve immediately.
THE HANDSOME DOCTOR CARED inordinately for tamales, and my friend-sister, the beautiful Mary Jane, called M.J., cared for the doctor. He had been the senior surgeon when Mary Jane was taken into a hospital with a life-threatening emergency. In hours, following the diligent application of his medical know-how, her life was saved and her principal savior was a handsome, young, dashing, unmarried doctor.
She returned home and used gargantuan control to keep herself from calling the doctor. Much to her delight, after a week he telephoned her and telephoned her and telephoned her until she agreed to go out with him. The courtship started slow and remained slow. The doctor was steady, but his ardor never heated up to the degree that M.J. wanted so that she could know the level of his commitment.
One day she invited me to visit. She lived in Santa Monica on the ground floor in a generous apartment of a building she owned. Her living room was rich with antique furniture, and the paintings of John Biggers, Elizabeth Catlett, and Samella Lewis hung on her walls.
M.J. was a rich-cream-colored woman with green-gray eyes and an electric personality. She told me that the doctor was coming for dinner and that she had an incredible recipe for tamales. Her smile of satisfaction was just comfortably one grin away from a smirk.
When I probed, she said her suitor loved Mexican food and he thought only some California Mexicans and a few Texas Mexicans could prepare tamales properly. She said whenever he was near a Mexican restaurant that served tamales, he was like a runaway horse. She had seen him pull up and halt and all but paw the ground at its door.
M.J. had bought all the ingredients to make dozens of her beloved’s delight. She knew I cooked Mexican food often and she wanted me to see that everything went off well. I sat on a kitchen stool as she made arroz con pollo, refried beans, guacamole, salsa, carne Colorado, and, finally, the vaunted tamales. Her entire house was filled with the culinary perfumes of Guadalajara and Oaxaca and Jalisco.
The docto
r entered the living room, but when we were introduced he could hardly concentrate enough to complete the simplest social pleasantries of “How are you?” and “Well, and you?”
I watched as his nostrils twitched from side to side, trying to ascertain if the aromas he thought he encountered were really there. He asked M.J. if she had sent out for Mexican food. She told him she had cooked the dinner. He asked what was on the menu. She answered, “Guacamole, chips, salsa, arroz con pollo, ” and so forth. She listed all the dishes except the much-adored tamales.
With each mention of food his smile widened and his body seemed to wave. He said, “If you had told me, I could have picked up some tamales. I was near the cafe.”
She said, “Maybe we’ll make do tonight. Maya is eating with us. Will you make drinks?”
The doctor surprised me. He was familiar enough with M.J.’s house to know where the liquor was kept and where to find highball glasses. She had not told me everything.
M.J. had set the table with colorful linens and Mexican plates. When she served the beans and rice, the carne Colorado, and the chicken and rice, the doctor spoke from the depth of a deep enchantment. “You made this? You yourself?”
As she headed toward the kitchen, she motioned me to sit down. I did so.