Our Roots Are Deep with Passion

by Lee Gutkind

  “I’ll take two,” I said.

  “Wait,” said the garlic woman. “Let me get you some better looking ones.” She turned on the heels of her Teva sandals and disappeared into the back of her black minivan. A moment later she returned clutching garlic stalks.

  I tucked the wands of garlic underneath my arm, toting them the way Parisians carry their beloved baguettes. I practically ran home, eager to get cooking. That night my husband and I dined on spaghetti con aglio e olio (spaghetti with garlic and oil). The fresh garlic, with its toothsome bite, transformed this basic dish into a dazzling feast.

  I became obsessed, scouring the library bookshelves for garlic history, garlic recipes, and garlic lore. After reading about garlic’s origins in Chester Aaron’s The Great Garlic Book, I began to daydream about the woman at the Greenmarket, with her piercing blue eyes and bright purple flannel shirt flapping in the early morning breeze. I imagined that she was an apparition I’d conjured up out of garlic’s very ancient past. Perhaps she was really a 6,000-year-old Kirghiz nomad who, long ago, gathered allium longicuspis bulbs as she and her tribe roamed across the mountains of central Asia where food historians pinpoint garlic’s origins. Maybe she was a spice trader who transported garlic along the trade routes, spreading it east through China and west through Egypt, eventually bringing it to Europe and then on to North America. Or might she have been among the day laborers who built the Great Pyramid, receiving payment in the form of onions, parsley, and allium longicuspis?

  I also learned how garlic eventually broke through the class barriers. Thanks must be paid to culinary icons James Beard, who in the 1950s proclaimed that a good cook could not live without garlic, and Julia Child, whose traditional French recipes often featured garlic. By the 1970s, Alice Waters, chef and owner of Chez Panisse in Berkeley, California, began slathering roasted garlic paste on bread as if it were butter and creating unlikely desserts like figs poached in wine and garlic, signaling that the garlic revolution was in full swing. Over the next few decades, the American palate became more and more accustomed to other garlic-laden cuisines as immigrants from Southeast Asia, Mexico, and Latin America settled here. The red-checked tablecloth period of Italian dining, with its southern Italian derivatives such as spaghetti and meatballs and chicken Parmesan, made room for new regional Italian restaurants that featured the foods of Emilia-Romagna and Tuscany. In 2002, Italian chef Mario Batali, of Food Network fame, appeared on the cover of Gourmet magazine, his fists bulging with garlic bulbs.

  Today garlic is a common staple in the pantries of America’s most celebrated chefs. In serious food circles, the growers of high-end specialty garlic become famous. There are garlic magazines such as Mostly Garlic and the Garlic Times, garlic newsletters such as the Garlic Press, garlic restaurants such as San Francisco’s Stinking Rose, and dozens of nationwide garlic festivals. The story of garlic, its struggles and its successes, echoes the American Dream.

  My quest for garlic knowledge culminated with the annual Hudson Valley Garlic Festival. The event is held in Saugerties, New York, in late September—the time to enjoy East Coast garlic at its prime. (Garlic is harvested here in July and August, then cured for two months.) I remember my heart pounding with excitement as I entered the festival gates. Many others had made this same trip, and the unabashed crowd displayed their devotion, with garlic logo T-shirts, 18-carat gold allium sativum necklaces, drop-style earrings shaped like delicate white bulbs, and tattoos of fading gray bulbs on forearms. Hobnobbing with garlic growers, garlic chefs, and garlic experts, checking out endless tables groaning with exotic garlic, I quickly grew familiar with names such as Music, Italian Rocambole, Porcelain, Killarney Red, Creole, Red Toch, Georgian, Siberian, and Spanish Roja. I moved from stand to stand sampling raw cloves, filling my backpack with dozens of bulbs.

  The heady scent of frying garlic lured me further and further into this Shangri-la. Suddenly, I felt ravenous. The food concession area presented a smorgasbord of garlic delights; I chowed down on corn on the cob slathered with garlic herb butter, tortilla chips blanketed with warm garlic salsa, and string beans blackened in a garlic dry rub.

  Licking a shockingly tasty garlic ice-cream cone, I continued my stroll until I came upon a small crowd surrounding a man wearing a black cowboy hat festooned with garlic bulbs, an “I Love Garlic” T-shirt, and boxer shorts with bold garlic-bulb print. With scraggly white hair and skin crinkled by age and sun, he actually resembled a head of garlic. He looked at me and reached out his hand.

  “Hello there,” he said. “I’m Mr. Garlic.”

  Suddenly a camera crew from a local news station was on the scene, and Mr. Garlic was on his mission, enthusiastically proclaiming, “I have been growing garlic for over 25 years, and I travel all over, telling people about the health benefits of garlic. Garlic lowers blood pressure and cholesterol, prevents cancer, improves circulation, and can even enhance your sex life.”

  During my research, I had unearthed a Middle Eastern folk belief that a bridegroom who pins a clove of garlic to his lapel ensures a happy wedding night. I’d also come across a Web site for the Garlic Centre of Sussex, England, which touted garlic as a cure for penile dysfunction. Garlic, it seems, can improve blood circulation and stimulate the enzyme nitric oxide synthase, two essentials for obtaining and maintaining an erection. Why take Viagra when there’s garlic, a less expensive, over-the-counter drug?

  My thoughts drifted back to Mr. Garlic, who still held the media in rapt attention. I wondered what kind of sacrifices Mr. Garlic had made in order to spend so much time on the road, touring North America as an apostle for garlic. Did he have family? Was there a Mrs. Garlic? My own passion seemed quite pale in comparison. At that moment, I realized that I simply don’t have what it takes to renounce all else in the name of garlic. My journey would have a different climax.

  In bed that night, I tossed and turned, unable to stop thinking about my new garlic stash. Careful not to wake my husband, I crept out of bed. At the dining room table, I set up my own private taste test, laying out slivers of each bulb, along with water and crackers to cleanse the palate. Like wine experts, garlic growers use a specific vocabulary to describe the taste of garlic, defining it in terms of hotness and aftertaste. Is the garlic hot or mild or bitter at the back of the throat? Does the clove’s spiciness mellow, linger, or clear?

  Until recently, it was believed that over 200 varieties of garlic existed. However, new studies involving DNA tests confirm just six: rocambole, porcelain, Asiatic, purple stripe, marble purple stripe, and artichoke. The endless taste variations of exotic garlic have more to do with environmental factors such as soil and climate than true genetic differences.

  I broke open a bulb of Spanish Roja, chose a plump clove, and peeled back the papery skin to reveal flesh shining with juice. I nibbled on it, savoring its sharp tang. The Killarney Red left a warming aftertaste that lingered on my tongue like a fine Cognac, and the Palermo tasted mellow and smooth, like sweet butter.

  I carefully labeled each bag of garlic and jotted down some cooking notes. I constructed a small shrine, lining up the small paper bags of garlic on the middle shelf of my dining room hutch, a cool, dark place that would keep the bulbs fresh for months. I fell asleep dreaming of steak with chimmichurri, shrimp with garlic sauce, bouillabaisse, and chicken stewed with forty cloves of garlic.

  The next night I made garlic soup by simmering a whole bulb of spicy German-White in chicken broth. I crushed a handful of longicuspis cloves underneath the broad side of a knife—a technique that heightens garlic’s potency by breaking down its sulfur-rich cells—and stuffed them into the cavity of a roasting chicken, along with lemon and rosemary, and nestled the bird into a 425 degree oven. Then I sautéed minced Spanish Roja cloves in olive oil, watching to make sure they didn’t burn and turn bitter. I folded baby spinach leaves into the garlicky oil, wilting them until they glistened an emerald green.

  When my husband walked through the door, a strong, seductive
aroma pervaded our apartment. Sulfur compounds in garlic release endorphins, which may have been the reason behind our heightened sense of well-being. Before he could speak, I handed him a thick slab of bruschetta, toasted bread rubbed with the Palermo, then dipped in a mixture of olive oil and coarse salt. He took a bite and sighed with pleasure.

  We proceeded to the candlelit table, took our seats, and bowed our heads over the bowls of steaming soup. The flavor was rich yet mellow, bewitchingly good for such a simple dish. The chicken had beautiful crisp skin, tangy with garlic, and meat that fell off the bone. The savory whipped potatoes dissolved on the tongue, and the spinach tasted lush in its silky bath of garlic and oil.

  After dinner we moved to the living room, both reeling with happiness. We sank into the couch. My husband brought my hand to his lips. “That was one of the best meals I’ve ever eaten,” he said, then slowly nibbled his way up my arm. His lips trailed across my shoulders, sending a sweet rush of desire through my core. We undressed each other, slowly peeling off each layer of clothing. I pushed his naked body down on the couch and climbed on top. We pressed into each other, finding the perfect fit. He buried his face in my neck. “You smell terrific,” he whispered.

  “You, too,” I replied, running my fingers through his hair.

  Our bodies rocked back and forth, and we fell to the floor. Both breathing hard, we continued making love, lost in time and enveloped in garlic’s celestial perfume.

  Lovers’ Garlic Feast

  Garlic Soup

  INGREDIENTS: 1 head of garlic, 1½ quarts chicken broth, four slices toasted Italian bread, salt and freshly ground pepper, Italian parsley, and extra virgin olive oil.

  DIRECTIONS: Peel the garlic. Poach the cloves in simmering broth for ten minutes. Add salt and pepper. Ladle the soup into four bowls, top each with a slice of toasted bread. Sprinkle with parsley. Serve hot.

  Perfect Roast Chicken

  Adapted from a recipe that appeared in the New York Times, this is a perfect Sunday supper dish. The secret to roasting chicken is to start roasting the bird at a high temperature—this makes for crispy skin and seals in the juices.

  INGREDIENTS: 4-pound roasting chicken, 4 lemons, 1 head garlic, fresh rosemary sprigs, and olive oil.

  DIRECTIONS: Heat oven to 425 degrees. Wash chicken thoroughly under cold running water. Pat dry inside and out with paper towels. Cut lemons into quarters. Roll garlic on hard surface to separate cloves. With flat side of a heavy knife, smash garlic cloves (skin need not be removed). Stuff lemons and garlic inside the body cavity. Tie legs together. Tuck rosemary between thighs and breast. Rub chicken lightly with olive oil. Place in roasting pan and bake 30 minutes; reduce heat to 375 degrees and cook about 45 minutes longer or until juices run clear when chicken is pricked with a fork. Serves 6 (or 2, with plenty of leftovers).

  Best-Ever Garlic Mashed Potatoes

  INGREDIENTS: 4 pounds russet potatoes, peeled and quartered, 5–7 peeled garlic cloves, 3 tablespoons unsalted butter, ¾ cup milk, salt, and freshly ground pepper.

  DIRECTIONS: Place potatoes and garlic in a large saucepan and cover them with cold, salted water. Bring to a boil. Lower the heat and cook until potatoes are tender. Drain. Return potatoes to the pot and mash along with the garlic. Stir in milk and butter. Season with salt and pepper to taste.

  STEPHANIE SUSNJARA’s essays have appeared in Brain, Child and Women Who Eat: A New Generation on the Glory of Food. A graduate of the MFA program in Creative Nonfiction at Goucher College, she lives in Katonah, New York, and is currently working on a collection of essays about food.

  Jealousy, or The Autobiography of an Italian Woman

  . . . . . . . .

  GINA BARRECA

  I

  I was born jealous.

  Just as some people know how to sing from the moment they open their mouths, I was able, from the first breath I took, to wonder why somebody else had it better than me. Why was somebody else’s layette set more frilly? Why did their mothers get more flowers? Why did the nurse coo more frequently over the bundle in the next crib than over me?

  I’m sure I kept track. Somewhere in my infant brain was inscribed a primitive cry at—and for—injustice: “Ignore them; choose me!”

  It’s still there, that cry, indelible as a tattoo. It was woven into my DNA, right there alongside the love of opera, the distrust of government officials, and sixteen recipes for eggplant.

  Maybe I was my mother’s favorite, my family’s favorite, maybe even my doctor’s favorite, but what did they know? Those foolish enough to prefer me did not count—that was automatic. I am certain that what I wanted was to be valued by those who saw no particular difference between me and other one-day-olds. If only they hadn’t been so busy admiring those ridiculous lesser babies, I might have won.

  Winning has always been important to me. Even when I don’t know what it is that drives me, blind and ruthless. This remains true even though the ferocious presence of jealousy I felt in my youth is no longer quite as palpable.

  When I was five and my brother was ten, I tore into confetti the valentines he received from sweet, innocent little girls in his fourth-grade class. They had, I am quite certain, no intention of provoking the fury of a grubby, chubby miniature Medea. They were just being nice.

  But “nice” is not what I felt when faced with glittery hearts in pastel colors directed to my one big brother. Once he discovered what I’d done, he ran to my mother and demanded to know why I was so rotten. My poor confused and worried mother didn’t know what to say in defense of her daughter’s indefensible act. I remember that climactic moment, forty-three years after the fact. I made a decision to suck my thumb and not answer.

  What I don’t know is whether I was prompted to viciousness by a wish to have my brother all to myself, or by the wish to have the valentines all to myself. No doubt a good shrink would declare it a combination of both. And when my good shrink asks, “Why do you compare yourself to other people? Why aren’t you content?” I bite my tongue, as I once thrust my thumb into my mouth, and am silent.

  She knows I still struggle with a desire to triumph over my rivals—or my imagined rivals.

  Jealousy defies sophistication. “Choose me!” isn’t what you’d call a refined request.

  We torture ourselves with jealousy, true, but the world makes it easy. A girl hears “Why can’t you be as sweet as Ann-Marie? She never cries.” And instead of choosing to emulate Ann-Marie, you decide to tie her to railroad tracks. You cry “Not fair! If I always got my way, I’d be sweet too!” You embed this in your fierce six-year-old heart. The emotion sits there, knitting itself into the core of your emerging self, forming a web.

  If my father kissed my mother before kissing me after he returned home from work, I would throw myself down a short flight of stairs to manifest my disapproval. This was the story recited to the hilarity and approval of family members on Ocean Avenue in Brooklyn. Nobody suggested that we go to a counselor; it would have been more likely that they’d suggest an exorcist. So there I was, flinging myself down the steps on a regular basis and being regarded as a real Barreca for doing so. It was seen as evidence of an appropriately passionate nature. How my mother—my poor French-Canadian mother—felt about this I don’t know. She might not have found it so funny. What could she do? Her voice was drowned out by the much louder, livelier, more persuasive voices of my father’s family. And after all, she was the one who had moved in under their roof. No doubt they felt she had very little right to exert any influence. Conspiratorial women, my aunts and grandmother—her other rivals for my father’s affections—saw me as one of them. It could not have been easy for her.

  We learn to slipcover jealousy with contempt. “You won’t catch me brown-nosing” we say when we get a B. Archly we sniff, “I could have done everything she did if I didn’t have to work after school, live so far away, deal with inherited self-loathing.”

  We occasionally attempt to fool ourselves by camouflaging jealousy as c
ompassion: “Poor thing; she tries so hard to look glamorous. I don’t care if all the guys look at her all night long. Personally, I feel sorry for her.”

  Once in the web, it’s tricky to get out. Jealousy is self-sustaining; it feeds on itself, chewing on details and imagination the way you tear at your cuticles and draw blood but somehow find the act satisfying.

  Don’t wave self-esteem around as if it’s a solution, either, however well meant. I have whole closetsful of self-esteem, right behind my winter clothes and my self-respect. Also, don’t get me wrong in terms of the Italian American thing, either. I don’t think that we’re the only ones who get jealous; we don’t have a lock on this emotion. But we do it better, like cooking with garlic or writing sonnets. We’re not ashamed of it, where non-Italians are embarrassed by the fact that they want to bury their rivals. They giggle when inventing plots of revenge.

  “Without jealousy there is no love” declares an old Italian saying. Italian American women love deeply, and we’re deeply jealous. It’s an emotion that comes from the heart; why hide it?

  Since I too come from that passionate, ungovernable, inexplicable part of the world, you couldn’t expect me to be any different. All life begins with passion. You wouldn’t want to live without it.

  Not that it’s so easy to live with it, either.

  Italians inhabit the Lower East Side of emotional life: messy, loud, and confusing to outsiders.