by J. L. Newton
I thought of Lorna once again, of the weariness on her face when it had dawned upon her that a long, hard migration lay ahead. Since Peter hadn’t died, Lorna wouldn’t be tried for murder, but there was a law against knowingly poisoning food, whether you served it up or not. I thought it a good law. Trust in food was a basic social need, a foundation that helped communities form and sustain themselves and make life feel good. Lorna would be subject to that law, and, in contrast to Peter’s, Lorna’s future looked bleak. It didn’t seem fair. In many ways, after all, Peter had poisoned himself. He’d helped himself to the corn bread that Lorna had decided not to feed to him, and he’d partaken of Syndicon’s pernicious values so completely and for so long that his whole being had been turned toxic. Alma had said that those who live by dog-eat-dog rules often turn on each other—like pigs biting each other’s tails. Peter had shown that they could, unwittingly, do themselves in as well.
The room had warmed and so had I. I would start my day slowly—a long shower, hot coffee, the paper, two poached eggs on toast. The sky dazzled me with blue when I picked up my paper outside, and the air carried the good, earthy smell of fallen leaves. A good day for going on. I would make the corn pudding later, just before I went onto campus, so it would stay warm for the celebration. I would make it in a calm state of mind, and I would taste it carefully. It had a sweetness to it because of the corn and because of the six tablespoons of sugar that made it almost seem like a dessert, but it was not dessert. It was a staple. For many it was the basis of life itself.
I thought about how food, and even ideas about food, connected people. For some Native Americans, growth, life, the feminine were associated with Corn Mother. Navajos believed that men and women were born from ears of corn. For Mayans, too, humanity emerged from maize. Corn was “our mother,” “our life,” “she who sustains us.” Isokana, an African deity of agriculture, was responsible for making corn grow. The Japanese Inari Okami was the god or goddess of rice and of fertility. The Greek goddess Demeter, who was associated with grain, was also a symbol of abundance and plenty. Demeter had descended to the underworld and risen up, bringing restoration and rebirth. It was no surprise that food and rebirth were so often deified. I thought about my frightening encounter with the two men in Peter’s office, about my flight with Teresa, our struggle to ascend the water tower, and about this day of coming back into my ordinary existence. The celebration of El Dia de Los Muertos would be an occasion for my own renewal.
Later that afternoon, I made the corn pudding. There was a simplicity to creating the dish that I enjoyed. I cracked four eggs into the food processor, measured the milk and cream and dumped them in. Then sugar, a bit of flour, a little baking powder, melted butter, and half the defrosted corn. I whizzed it all until it was pureed and then added the rest of the corn and buzzed the processor just to mix. The whole kernels would give the pudding texture. I wasn’t grinding corn as millions of women before me had done—thank God for the food processor. But this labor of planning the dish, gathering the ingredients, mixing the batter, baking—all the while anticipating the pleasure of those I would feed—linked me to women throughout the ages. And also to men, but it was mainly women who had cooked day to day, who had sustained life, solidified family and community ties, marked unifying ritual occasions with special foods, and seen to it that life maintained this form of nurturing, pleasure, and creating solidarity.
Now, what to wear to the celebration? The more color, the better. My colleagues would be wearing their brightest clothes today too. A long wine-colored skirt—I preferred long skirts—a wine-colored long-sleeved T-shirt, a black jacket, and, of course, turquoise earrings. Turquoise stood for strength, protection from harm, psychic sensitivity, and connection to the world of spirits. It brought good luck to the home as well. At the last moment I draped a turquoise scarf around my neck. Dressing up was another way of honoring one’s community and of giving pleasure too. When the pudding was done, I wrapped it in foil to keep it warm, placed it on a jelly roll pan to keep it from sliding around in the back of my car, and carried it out the door. I needed to be with my community today, to feel its healing energies. I had a special pass and could park near Haven Hall. I’d made a double batch of corn pudding, and the dish was warm and heavy in my hands.
* * *
Upon entering the Chicana/o Studies seminar room, I went directly to the table reserved for food to be shared. The surface was already filling with plump, pale tamales wrapped in corn husks, dark chocolate mole, and a salad of black beans, red pepper, corn, and cilantro. Someone had baked a fragrant berry pie with deep purple juice seeping through the crust. I set the golden dish of pudding near the salad because the colors looked so good together. The room had been recently painted, and the resident Chicano artist had mixed the hue of paint himself—a deep Mexican blue. Everyone looked smashing against those walls. I wanted the formula. I wanted my bedroom to look like this. Even my pale coloring must look good against this vibrant blue. I thought of the second time that Wilmer and I had met, how he’d lingered at my eyes.
The students, staff, and faculty were creating an altar at one end of the room. Alma was arranging brilliant orange marigolds in a large rectangle on a red cloth background. The marigold’s strong odor was meant to lead spirits to the altar. Isobel was lighting red votive candles. Their flickering light welcomed the spirits back. Antonio placed medium-sized sugar skulls inside the marigolds. They were elaborately decorated with icing and bits of foil in purples, pinks, greens, and oranges. Frank Walker came next with small plates of salt, representing the continuance of life. Yvonne added pan de muertos, rounds of bread with crossed bones on them, and a student brought water, lest the spirits be thirsty. Sticks of spicy incense already burned to beckon the dead, and in the very center of the table, red-draped steps held photographs of departed relatives and friends.
I saw a tattered picture of a young couple dressed for work in the fields. Were they Alma’s parents? I placed a small photo of Miriam’s delicate face alongside it. The bright colors of the room and of its tables would have pleased her. For a moment, I felt Miriam’s spirit. She’d embodied so many of the things that had come to be important in my life, the sharing of food, the love of color, deep friendships with women and men, a hunger for community and a larger purpose, and an appreciation of the joy they all gave to life.
Isobel, wearing a turquoise shirt and a dark violet skirt—it struck me that my love of color had come from Isobel as well—set a picture of a young man with a long, dark ponytail on the altar. Her nephew, I thought. I went up to her and we embraced. Early November was a sad time for both of us.
“We held a cleansing last night in Haven Hall,” Isobel said quietly.
“A cleansing?” Isobel looked at me as if she were sharing a secret I was a little slow to guess.
“You know, fire, incense, bird feathers.”
“Ah.” I understood that peyote had been involved and that the feathers would have come from a large, predatory bird like an eagle, a bird with the power to protect. My Native American colleagues had come together to purify and protect the community of Haven Hall and would have stayed quite late. I thought about the dove’s appearance on the water tower, about the sudden surge of energy that had allowed me to hang on despite the weakness in my arms. Were the cleansing and that unlooked-for power connected?
The sound of voices rose like a swell of music, reminding me of a party at my house the previous winter when Isobel had brought CDs of cumbia and everyone had danced. Now that memory blended with other memories of Frank’s meditation on community, of the meeting with a view of the treetops at which we had first considered a formal unification, of Isobel standing next to the fire’s illuminating warmth. Those moments merged with this one as the room filled with colleagues, many from outside our six programs. Frank Walker stood in a knot of students, listening and smiling. I walked over to him and touched his arm.
“Emily, I’m glad you’ve come.” He was weari
ng a bolo tie and corduroy jacket, his ponytail tied with a leather cord.
I thought about his talk that night in Bauman Hall. Our community today was an embodiment of what he’d said that evening about the connection of all to all. I saw Ursula across the room wearing gigantic red earrings and then caught a glimpse of Helena’s pale yellow hair. I thought of how relieved Helena would be to hear that, for a time at least, the vandals and their threats had been put to rest. Helena was talking to Callie and Grace. Grace had been right about Mei Lee’s innocence. Mei Lee would graduate in peace. I made my way to the circle they formed, knowing I’d never felt as close to my colleagues as I did that day, knowing I’d never been so happy just standing firmly on a floor. For one moment I remembered how my arms and hands had gone weak on the ladder when the dove flapped past me, how I might have fallen, taking Teresa with me. But I had not.
“Emily,” Helena said, making room for me, but Alma was about to make a speech.
“We come together today,” Alma said, dressed for the occasion in a traditional white Mexican blouse with flowers and vines in red, blue, and yellow, “to remember those who have left us, but even more to celebrate the joy they brought to our lives, to know that we too live in the face of mortality. Let this knowledge make us mindful of how we treat each other, of the blessings of this world, of our communities, and of the community we make together.”
El Dia de Los Muertos took such a positive approach to death and to the world of spirits. It welcomed the spirits, celebrated them, affirmed mortality, and made something positive and grimly humorous of it all. It reminded people that the dead remained with them. What Miriam had stood for lived on in me, just as Isobel’s nephew lived on in her and Alma’s parents in her as well. The table held sugar skeletons dressed in traditional Mexican costumes. A bride and her groom, a dancer in a flaring dress of red, white, and green, her partner in black and silver. Polly would have liked those skeletons. I would ask if I could take one back to her. I thought of Wilmer, of how I wished he could share this moment too. I’d invited him, but he hadn’t committed, had talked of his need to work, and said he’d think about coming near the end. I wondered if he’d bother to show up.
“I have an announcement to make,” Antonio said as Alma ended. “I heard from the administration today that our petition has been granted, at least in part. We’re to become a separate, named unit in the Division of Humanities. Vice Provost Vogle had opposed this, as some of you know, but late last week, she changed her mind.”
Well, I thought, a good way for Lorna to go out. I wondered if our encounter in her office had brought about this change. Lorna, however momentarily, seemed to have reverted to the woman who cared about collectivity, the woman who’d studied migratory birds. Now she’d made it possible for our community to continue on firmer ground. I looked at Callie in her gold hoop earrings. She was one of the younger generation who would inherit the outcome of our collective work.
“Let’s have a toast,” Antonio said. “There’s wine and juice here and atole, which, if you haven’t had it, is made of masa and cinnamon and sugar. Here’s to our new life together, the beginning of a new era.”
Glasses were raised and liquids drunk. Isobel approached and took my hand.
“We’ve done it,” Isobel said.
It was a rare moment of feeling fully joyful and triumphant. I thought of how pleased Isobel would be when she heard of Lorna’s confession. Now, Frank would no longer be a suspect, and Yvonne’s employment would be safe. The people she’d been so determined to protect had escaped significant harm. From a distance, I could see Alma’s face, lit like one of the candles. The idea of formally uniting had come from her. We had arrived at this place together, each doing a part, and, for a moment, though I knew such times were fleeting, our connection to each other felt utopian.
“Have you heard,” Helena asked, “that Lorna Vogle has gone on extended leave? Her office was apparently cleaned out over Halloween weekend.”
After the celebration was over, I would have to tell Lorna’s story to Isobel, Alma, Helena, Grace, Ursula, Callie, and Wilmer too. I would have to tell the story of the two men and the gun and the climb on the water tower. Peter Elliott would have to face the music and so would Lorna. Teresa and Juan Carlos would need to figure out their lives. I imagined they would figure out their lives together. But that was for another day. This moment was for healing, for reaffirming our ties to each other and our ties elsewhere, a time of recalling the many kinds of communities that are possible, for celebrating the idea of community itself—as a bulwark against loss, mortality, and despair. It was a time for resting and breaking bread and for filling up the reservoir of trust. We would need that reservoir, I was certain, in the times to come. I clinked my glass against Isobel’s. Neither of us knew what the new millennium would bring, and at that moment, Wilmer Crane, tall, bespectacled, and smiling, appeared at the door. Perhaps he, too, would be part of my future.
Blue Corn Atole
1 cup milk
2 teaspoons piloncillo (Mexican sugar cones) or ¼ cup brown sugar with 2 tablespoons molasses
4 teaspoons roasted blue cornmeal*
1 stick cinnamon (canela) or ¼ teaspoon ground cinnamon
1 vanilla bean split lengthwise or 2 teaspoons vanilla extract
Add milk and cornmeal together and stir until combined (can be heated on stove or with cappuccino or espresso steamer).
Heat it just until it begins to thicken.
Add vanilla seeds (scraped from inside the bean) or vanilla flavoring, piloncillo or brown sugar, and cinnamon stick or ground cinnamon. Serve hot in mugs.
Adapted from The Cooking Post: Traditional Native American Recipes at http://www.cookingpost.com/recipes.htm.
*Roasted blue cornmeal available from The Cooking Post at http://www.cookingpost.com/viewItem.asp?idProduct=27
More Food for Thought
Blue Corn Bread
1 cup Tamaya brand blue cornmeal*
1 cup all-purpose flour
2 tablespoons sugar
1 tablespoons baking powder
½ teaspoon salt
2 large eggs
1 cup milk
¼ cup butter or margarine
Preheat oven to 400°F.
Combine dry ingredients.
Beat eggs with milk and blend in butter or margarine.
Stir liquids into dry mixture—just to moisten.
Spoon into muffin cups (2½-inch size).
Bake on center rack in the preheated oven for 30 to 35 minutes, until the edges of the corn bread pull away from the sides of the dish and a toothpick inserted into the center comes out clean. Let cool 10 minutes before cutting.
Adapted from The Cooking Post: Traditional Native American Recipes at http://www.cookingpost.com/recipes.htm.
*Cornmeal available from The Cooking Post at http://www.cooking-post.com/viewItem.asp?idProduct=28
Savory Corn Bread Muffins with Jalapeños and Corn
1 cup yellow cornmeal, preferably organic stone-ground
1 cup whole-wheat flour
¾ teaspoon salt
2 teaspoons baking powder
1 teaspoon baking soda
1 tablespoon finely chopped fresh sage or 1 teaspoon rubbed sage
2 eggs
1½ cups buttermilk
¼ cup canola oil
1 tablespoon honey
1 cup corn kernels
2 tablespoons minced jalapeños
½ cup grated Cheddar or Monterey Jack (optional)
Place rack in the upper third of the oven and preheat the oven to 400°F.
Oil or butter muffin tins.
Put cornmeal into a bowl, and then sift the flour, salt, baking powder, and baking soda into it. Add sage and stir.
Beat eggs with buttermilk, oil, and honey in another bowl.
Stir, but do not beat, the dry corn bread ingredients into the liquid ingredients. The resulting mixture can have some lumps, but do not leave flour in the bott
om of the bowl.
Add corn kernels, jalapeño, and cheese.
Spoon the mixture into muffin cups about 4/5 full.
Bake 20 to 25 minutes. They should be lightly browned and well risen.
These will last for a couple of days in or out of the refrigerator and for several in the freezer.
Adapted by permission of Martha Rose Shulman from http://cooking.nytimes.com/recipes/1013497-savory-cornbread-muffins-with-jalapenos-and-corn.
Corn Pudding
4 cups frozen corn kernels (about 19 ounces), thawed
4 large eggs
1 cup whipping cream
½ cup whole milk
6 tablespoons sugar
¼ cup (½ stick) butter, room temperature
2 tablespoons all-purpose flour
2 teaspoons baking powder
1 teaspoon salt
Preheat oven to 350°F and butter an 8 x 8 x 2-inch baking dish.
Using half of the corn, blend all ingredients in processor until almost smooth.
Add remaining corn to the processor and process briefly to mix.
Pour batter into the buttered dish. Bake pudding for about 45 minutes or until the top is brown and the center is just set. Cool ten minutes and serve.
Adapted from Epicurious http://www.epicurious.com/recipes/food/views/sweet-corn-pudding-102683.
Aterword
Although Oink: A Food for Thought Mystery is a work of fiction, some elements of it are based on my own experience. In the 1990s, the state was imposing budget cuts on my university, and the continued funding of the women’s, American, and four ethnic studies programs was frequently in doubt. In response to the threat of being defunded or merged into large departments, the six programs formed a unified community in which reflection, struggle, friendship, food, and pleasure were key to the organizing process. Women in science on campus were also suffering many inequities in hiring, promotion, and access to resources, and a group of women were writing grant proposals for money with which to address those issues.