Voracious

by Cara Nicoletti

  Finally, there came a day when the rain was blowing against the windows of my first-grade classroom and, panic mounting at the thought of recess, I worked up the courage to ask my teacher, Miss Walker, if I could please do something else during the movie screening. When we all filed into the library that afternoon, Miss Walker ever so quietly pulled me out of the herd and took me over to the bookshelves. “Pick a book and you can read quietly until the movie is over,” she said with a secretive wink. To this day, that memory remains one of the happiest of my childhood—not only because I had escaped Puff, but because of Miss Walker’s infinite and quiet understanding, and her gift to me of thirty minutes surrounded by books.

  The book I chose that day, and for many, many days afterward, was the first installment of the Boxcar Children series, a book originally written by first-grade teacher Gertrude Chandler Warner in 1924. The series has been continued by various writers over the years, and there are now more than a hundred Boxcar Children titles. The first book remains one of the most beloved children’s books of all time ninety years later, and with good reason—it’s packed with action and adventure and smart, lovable characters. The stories follow the Alden children—Henry, Jessie, Violet, and Benny—who have been orphaned. Threatened with the prospect of being separated, the children set off on their own, creating a home inside an abandoned boxcar beside a river.

  The books caused quite a stir at first. Parents objected to the children’s happy, adult-free world and the tragic backdrop of their story—all very real, scary stuff. Yet somehow I never once felt upset by the Alden children’s misfortune (this coming from a girl who was destroyed by a magical dragon). Warner, like my own Miss Walker, knew children well, and because of that she wrote about them well. The tragedy that the Alden children face is overshadowed by their resilience and never once puts a damper on their adventurous spirit and curiosity.

  The Alden children are hungry for life and for food, and Warner writes about both kinds of hunger brilliantly. The first glimpse we get of the children is of them standing in front of a bakery window, staring longingly at the baked goods and deciding whether to spend what little money they have on bread or cakes. The rest of the book, and all of the books that come after, is full to the brim with food. Between solving mysteries and getting into trouble, the children cook and eat the most tempting-sounding foods: brown bread with cheese, blueberries and milk, fragrant beef stew simmered in a tin kettle over an open fire, and cherry slump eaten underneath cherry trees.

  One treat that comes up over and over in the books is chocolate pudding—a dessert that has always been near and dear to my heart. Every Thursday night when I was a kid, my mom would make us chocolate pudding while we watched The Simpsons. She always used My-T-Fine brand cook-and-serve pudding mix, and I never tired of standing by the stove and watching it turn from chocolate powder and milk to a thick, creamy pudding. My sisters liked to have theirs chilled in the fridge first, and Ande would always put a layer of plastic wrap directly on top of hers to make sure it didn’t form that icky skin, but I liked mine still piping hot, a layer of the ice-cold heavy cream my dad used in his coffee poured generously on top.

  Among many other things, The Boxcar Children taught me that pudding didn’t always come from a package, that it could actually be made from scratch—a notion that bewildered and absolutely thrilled me. Inspired by the Aldens’ competence in the kitchen, I tried for years to make a chocolate pudding from scratch that tasted as good as or better than the boxed version I knew so well. I failed many, many times, scorching the bottom of the pudding, or ending up with raw cornstarch, gluey textures, and scrambled eggs hidden under chocolate chunks. Still, in keeping with the Boxcar Children’s resilient spirit, I pushed on. Twenty years later I finally have a chocolate pudding recipe that I love, and whenever I eat it (still steaming hot and doused with cold cream) I think of the Alden children in their tiny boxcar kitchen, young and hungry and, against all odds, happy.

  THE BOXCAR CHILDREN

  Chocolate Pudding

  Serves 6

  2 cups heavy cream

  1 cup whole milk

  ½ cup sugar

  1 vanilla bean, seeds scraped out and pod reserved

  3 tablespoons unsweetened cocoa powder

  ¼ teaspoon kosher salt

  5 egg yolks

  3 tablespoons cornstarch

  4 ounces good-quality semisweet chocolate, chopped

  2 ounces good-quality milk chocolate, chopped

  In a medium saucepan combine the heavy cream, milk, sugar, and vanilla seeds and pod. Cook over medium heat until steam starts to rise from the surface and tiny bubbles appear at the edge of the pan. Whisk in the cocoa powder and salt until smooth.

  In a large bowl, whisk the egg yolks and cornstarch until they form a thick, smooth paste. Slowly and carefully pour the hot milk mixture into the yolk mixture, whisking vigorously the entire time, until fully incorporated. Return the mixture to the saucepan and cook over medium heat, stirring constantly, until thick and creamy (if you have a thermometer it should be at 180°F).

  Place all of the chocolate chunks in a heat-safe bowl and pass the hot custard through a fine-mesh strainer over the chocolate. Mix and fold until the chocolate melts into the custard and is smooth and shiny. Eat immediately or refrigerate, pressing plastic wrap flush to the pudding’s surface first to prevent a skin from forming.

  Pippi Longstocking

  BUTTERMILK PANCAKES

  When I was six, my older sister and I were playing Dog School and I split my eyelid open. Oh, you don’t know what Dog School is? Dog School consisted, quite simply, of my sister Ande and me pretending we were dogs—crawling around on all fours, barking, panting, and generally irritating my mother to no end. When my sister tired of the game (or, more specifically, of me) she would herd me into the bathroom, otherwise known as “Dog School,” with our real dog, an enormous yellow Lab named Nate, and barricade the door so that we couldn’t get out.

  I had to stay in there for a long time in order to learn all of the doggish things that all dogs need to know—or at least until my mom got wind of the whole thing and let me out. One night, Nate grew restless and, in an attempt to escape, jostled me into a table. I went into it face-first, splitting the skin just below my eyebrow and leaving me banging on the door screaming to get out with blood gushing down my face.

  After some tears and quite a few stitches, I was sent home from the hospital with a big black patch over my eye, looking like the tiniest, saddest pirate ever. The worst part was that my dad had finally gotten us tickets to “Disney on Ice” the next night—an event that my sister and I had been begging to see for months. The TV commercials for it were relentless, airing seemingly every ten minutes. Each time Mickey and Princess Ariel glided past us on the screen we both let out a little whimper of helpless longing, and our determination to see them grew stronger. What a cruel and terrible fate that when I finally got to see this majestic display I could only half see it.

  I squinted with my one good eye all night, trying desperately to see everything. This, combined with all the cotton candy I ate, left me with a searing headache. By the time I got home I was in full meltdown mode, sick and disappointed and overstimulated (so many sequins!). In an attempt to calm me down, my dad found a copy of Pippi Longstocking and, thinking that maybe the stories of her pirate father might make me feel better about my patched eye, tucked me into bed and began reading it to me.

  Some advice for all parents out there: if you have a kid who is already overwrought and anxious, Astrid Lindgren’s Pippi Longstocking is not the book you should read to her. Ande, ever the party girl, was thrilled by the book, laughing aloud and kicking her feet at Pippi’s brazenness and spontaneity, but I was horrified. Her unpredictability bewildered me—her life was an unstructured nightmare, a circus! And I hated circuses. Even her appearance terrified me—those untamed flaming red pigtails, that cavernous gap in her garish smile. In the same way that Amelia Bedelia frustra
ted me with her constant mess-ups, and Guy Smiley’s inability, on Sesame Street, to control his voice sent me into a panic, Pippi’s chaotic existence had me stressed.

  The only thing I found redeeming about Pippi was her cooking prowess. Pancakes were Pippi’s specialty. She even had a song she would sing while she was making them, for which my dad made up a tune: “Here pancakes will be baked now / Here pancakes will be served now / Here pancakes will be fried now!” When Pippi cracked the eggs from high above the bowl and flipped the pancakes way over her head, then topped them with sugar and served them with a side of brown sausages or pineapple pudding, it made me despise her a little bit less.

  The morning after “Disney on Ice” I woke up ravenous for pancakes, which were not often served at our house. There was cereal for breakfast, donuts if we were lucky, and lots of Pop-Tarts and toaster strudels, but who has time, with three young kids, for pancakes? Surprisingly, though, my mother obliged my request and together we cracked eggs and sifted flour, and she taught me how to watch for the ring of bubbles around the edge of each pancake that lets you know that it’s time to flip.

  We talked about the book as we cooked, and I asked my mom how she would feel if a girl like Pippi were to move in next door. She told me she wouldn’t like it very much, and that she understood why Pippi made Tommy and Annika’s mother (and me) so nervous. Lost in the rhythm of my mother’s whisking, all of the anxiety I had felt over the past few days over my eye, and “Disney on Ice,” and Pippi Longstocking evaporated. It’s one of my favorite memories—a moment when I felt very close to my mother.

  Years later, faced with the prospect of having to make fifty quarts of pancake batter for a single brunch shift at the Brooklyn restaurant Colonie, separating hundreds of eggs and whisking quarts of egg whites to stiff peaks, folding them into batter until my arm felt as if it would fall off, I remembered that morning with my mother, talking about a book and finding peace in the rhythm of the kitchen, and I instantly felt calmer. The result was the best pancake I ever made—crisp at the edges and fluffy inside, not too sweet and not too buttermilk-tangy—it’s a pancake that I think even Pippi would approve of. And though I can’t stand her, this is important to me.

  PIPPI LONGSTOCKING

  Buttermilk Pancakes

  Makes 12 to 15 pancakes

  6 large eggs, separated

  3⅓ cups full-fat buttermilk

  2 teaspoons baking soda

  3 cups all-purpose flour

  2 tablespoons sugar

  4 teaspoons baking powder

  1 teaspoon kosher salt

  6 tablespoons (¾ stick) unsalted butter, browned and cooled slightly

  Butter and pure maple syrup, for serving

  In the bowl of an electric mixer fitted with a whisk attachment, whisk the egg yolks on medium until pale yellow and very smooth, about 3 minutes. With the mixer still running, add the buttermilk and baking soda and whisk until well incorporated. In a medium bowl, whisk together the flour, sugar, baking powder, and salt, and slowly begin adding this dry mixture to the running mixer. When all of the dry ingredients are incorporated, add the browned butter and whisk until the batter is very smooth.

  Transfer the batter from the mixer to a separate bowl. Rinse the mixer bowl, dry it, and add the egg whites. Whip with the whisk attachment until stiff peaks form. Gently fold the egg whites into the batter until they are incorporated.

  Let the batter settle for 15 to 20 minutes before frying on a very hot griddle. Serve warm, with butter and maple syrup (or brown sausages and pineapple pudding).

  Anne of Green Gables

  SALTED CHOCOLATE CARAMELS

  When I was six years old, my dad’s dad, my Grandy, passed away after weeks of refusing to eat. He had been sick in a vague and insidious way ever since my grandmother died years before I was born. There was a subtle but persistent ache in his chest that no doctor could diagnose. When asked how he was feeling he always answered the same way—he rolled his eyes back in his head and dragged his hand across his chest until it rested, fingers splayed out over his heart. As young as I was and as sick as he got, my memories of him are still startlingly clear, and in them he is always tall and strong and silly.

  The night of his wake, my parents left my sisters and me at his apartment with a babysitter, a stranger in a floral muumuu who immediately put on a rerun of Donahue and distractedly fed us Apple Jacks from Grandy’s cupboard. Grandy had an upstairs neighbor, a woman named Lila who was around his age and who always brought him peanut butter cookies. Grandy hated peanut butter, but he never had the heart to tell her, so his cabinets overflowed with Lila’s peanut butter–filled, peanut-studded cookies. We ate them whenever we came to his house, armfuls of them. They were good cookies, chewy and salty, each one pressed with fork tines in a crisscross pattern. I think she loved him.

  That night she must have heard the TV on in his downstairs apartment, and she came to the door, knocking gently with her finger, holding a Tupperware container of cookies. When she asked for Grandy, the babysitter announced loudly, too loudly, that he had died. I remember there was a sound of physical pain, like someone being socked in the stomach or a dog getting his foot stepped on, and suddenly the cookies were in the babysitter’s hands and Lila was backing away from the door, glassy-eyed and trembly.

  The babysitter, unfazed, poured milk into jelly jars and placed the container of cookies in front of us. My mouth was watering from the warm smell of them, but there was a pain in my throat, an actual lump that made the thought of eating unimaginable. I kept thinking about Lila alone upstairs in her apartment, the sound she had made, and the wild, stricken look of sorrow that had washed over her face. My throat felt so tight, the lump in it so enormous and painful, that I started to panic, and I cried until the babysitter tucked me into bed in Grandy’s guest room, where I stared at a smudged chalkware bust of the Virgin Mary—her eyes crazed with grief—until I fell asleep.

  I had no idea how to process the choking sadness I had felt that night until I started reading Anne of Green Gables two years later. In the third chapter, Anne, who is grappling with the reality that Marilla and Matthew don’t want her, tells Marilla that she can’t eat breakfast because she is “in the depths of despair.” Her explanation of this phenomenon was so strikingly similar to what I had experienced the night of Grandy’s wake that I remember actually gasping aloud as I read it. “It’s a very uncomfortable feeling indeed,” Anne says.

  When you try to eat a lump comes right up in your throat and you can’t swallow anything, not even if it was a chocolate caramel. I had one chocolate caramel once two years ago and it was simply delicious. I’ve often dreamed since then that I had a lot of chocolate caramels, but I always wake up just when I’m going to eat them. I do hope you won’t be offended because I can’t eat. Everything is extremely nice, but I still cannot eat.

  Realizing that your emotions and experiences aren’t yours alone is one of the great powers of reading, especially when you’re a child. The feelings that I hadn’t been able to pinpoint or understand were there on the page in front of me, and I was both awestruck and comforted. As melodramatic as Anne often is, her feelings here are real, and they speak to the incredible power that grief has over appetite.

  L. M. Montgomery’s food writing is legendary, especially in the Anne of Green Gables series—which includes raspberry cordial, vanilla ice cream and lemonade, plum pudding with vanilla sauce, pound cake and raspberry tarts, coconut macaroons—but these unswallowable chocolate caramels are, to me, the most powerful. In a book that so often tumbles toward the slapstick and ridiculous, this scene is a tiny glimpse into the tragedy and sadness that this eleven-year-old girl has experienced—tragedies not dissimilar to those in Montgomery’s own life.

  On Wednesday afternoons when I was in elementary school, my neighborhood friends and I would walk to Andrews Pharmacy and sit on the carpet beneath the magazine racks, doing quizzes from teenybopper magazines and eating chocolate until our stomach
s cramped. Christie always chose milk chocolate buttercreams and I always picked the gold-wrapped cherry cordials that gushed liquid so sweet it stung my throat. When our friend Lisa came she always chose chocolate caramels, big, chunky squares sunk deep in paper wrappers. I can still hear Lisa’s laugh as she bit down on one end and pulled the sticky sugar up, up into the air, thin spiderwebs of caramel clinging to the tip of her turned-up nose.

  It was right before Christmas 2012 when my sister called to tell me that Lisa had passed away after battling cancer for a little over a year. In what was either a massive cosmic coincidence or some kind of comforting wink, I was in the middle of rolling and enrobing a thousand chocolate candies for a wedding when I got the call. The restaurant was too warm to roll truffles without melting them, so I had been standing in the walk-in refrigerator, shivering under a puffy parka for hours, melted chocolate stuck deep beneath my fingernails, cocoa powder coating my hair and eyebrows in a dull mist. I felt that familiar lump in my throat, that choking, alarming sadness, that stomach-twisting gut punch. I cried with my whole body alone in the fridge, my hands still working in a flurry of angry energy. I cried until my throat loosened and my mouth uncramped, thinking about Grandy and Anne and those Wednesday pharmacy visits, about Lisa and Lila and grief so palpable it sticks in your throat like burned sugar.

  I left the walk-in and set up an induction burner. I unwrapped the good salted butter from its gold foil wrapper and cut it into even cubes. I weighed dark brown sugar and measured the thick, heavy cream. I warmed my hands over the pot, watching as the mixture thickened and boiled to a creamy fragrant amber, stuck my spoon into the caramel, and pulled it away from me, up, up into the air.