Life From Scratch

by Sasha Martin

  The table looked naked. For the first time in my life I thought, rather dejectedly, I could really use some place mats. I rummaged around my pantry and closets for some semblance of mature adulthood. I scavenged some yellow napkins from the back of a kitchen drawer and pressed them against the counter to try and smooth out their wrinkles. They’d have to do.

  I found a few lavender candles and a cotton cloth Mom had given me. She said it was like the lavalavas the ladies wear in Samoa. But it looked like a tablecloth, swirling with bold bands of emerald green, white, and navy. I cleared off the plates, draped it across the table, and reset it.

  When the green beans were done, I tossed them with chopped tomatoes, a pucker of cider vinegar, olive oil, salt, and several grinds of pepper, and then popped them on the table with the chicken and rolls.

  “Looks great, Sasha,” Keith said.

  “Did you make this?” Ryan asked, wonder in his voice. He studied the still crackling chicken skin. Juices hiccuped from within the bird and dripped onto the roasting pan. Rosemary bloomed on the air, thyme trailing behind.

  “Yup.”

  “How?”

  “I put it in the oven and baked it for a while—maybe an hour or so. Have you ever had roast chicken before?”

  “Just rotisserie from the grocery store.”

  Mom raised her eyebrows. Ryan leaned closer, “What’s on it?”

  “Just a few herbs … like rosemary. Thyme. Oregano?”

  Keith and Ryan both had blank expressions on their faces. I opened my mouth to explain, then thought better of it.

  “Well, whatever it is, it looks good,” Keith smiled. “I had no idea you could cook like this.”

  “Oh, this is nothing,” I began, “you should see the stuff we made at cooking school.”

  “If you can cook like that, how come you and Dad eat out all the time?” Ryan asked.

  I looked down at the roast, then around the table. “I don’t know … I haven’t wanted to cook much since I got to Tulsa. I’m not sure why.”

  When Mom cleared her throat and lifted her fork, we all followed suit. Bite by bite, the chicken, potatoes, and rolls disappeared. Keith ate three rolls. Between mouthfuls, he praised the soft, doughy interior, marveling that I’d made them myself.

  Then I noticed that Keith and Ryan weren’t exactly eating everything. The skin, onions, and garlic languished on their plates. Neither touched the green bean salad. Keith did a better job of pushing his food around, while Ryan’s scraps were left exactly where they’d landed. From what I could tell, the only thing Ryan did eat was a bite of chicken and half a roll.

  After Keith and Ryan left, Mom busied herself with the dishes. I stood at her side, patting them dry and then placing them in the cupboards. I waited for her to mention Keith. Five minutes went by, then ten.

  Finally, I put down my towel, leaned on the counter, and asked, “So … what do you think?”

  She passed me another wet plate without looking up.

  “About what?”

  Irritation tightened in my chest. When I rubbed the plate a little too hard against the terry cloth, it slipped out of my wet hand. There was a sharp clatter as the ceramic hit the corner of the counter and ricocheted into the thickest part of my thigh.

  “Shoot,” I took a deep breath. “Keith—what do you think of Keith?”

  “Oh. I don’t know …” She hoisted the roasting pan into the sink, scraped the congealed chicken fat into the disposal, and began scrubbing. She peered under the sink. “Don’t you have any steel wool around here?”

  “It just takes a little elbow grease. A regular sponge will get the job done.” I took the pan from her, shooed her away, and started scrubbing. “What do you mean, you don’t know?”

  “I only just met him.”

  “But you knew right away with all those other guys! You’ve never not had an opinion.”

  She scowled. “That’s neither here nor there.”

  “Well, you have to admit, Keith’s a real gentleman. He holds the door open for me and everything—so different from the guys up north.”

  I looked at her out of the corner of my eyes, trying to decipher her expression.

  She shrugged her shoulders. “Sure.”

  “I’ll be honest, Mom. A twice-divorced man with a 16-year-old son wasn’t what I expected, especially at the age of 27. But I’m in love with him.”

  “He’s been married twice?” she asked, furrowing her brow. “You never told me that.” She paused, considering. “Well,” she tossed her hand dismissively, “those women obviously weren’t right for him. An ordinary girl can’t hold on to a guy like that.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Exactly what I said—he’s different. Put it this way: He’s not going to put up with a bunch of nonsense. He’s serious about you,” she said, drawing out the words slowly. “But you’re in for a ride if you think he’s going to embrace all that cooking you did at the CIA. That’s much too fussy for him.”

  “I had no idea he was picky—”

  “His son’s right. That’s what happens when you eat out all the time. It’s all so … sterile. No one has to order anything they don’t like.” She nodded toward the door, “You’ve got a real Mr. Picky on your hands. The question is: What are you going to do about it?”

  In that moment she gave herself away. I grinned, despite myself.

  She really, really liked him.

  Orange & Herb Roasted Chicken

  I’ve seen many fussy ways of making roast chicken. For me, the only requirement is the crackle and hiss—a refrain heard as much in my mother’s kitchen as Patricia’s. If the orange is particularly juicy, it’ll gurgle through much of the cooking process—a comforting sound any time of year.

  A couple generous sprigs fresh thyme

  A generous sprig fresh rosemary

  2 tablespoons butter, melted

  ½ teaspoon paprika, heaping, plus more for sprinkling

  1 teaspoon salt

  1 orange

  One pasture-roaming chicken, 4 to 4½ pounds, giblets removed

  A couple garlic cloves, bruised but not peeled

  A few drops vegetable oil

  Preheat the oven to 400°F.

  Tear off most of the green matter from the thyme and rosemary, mince, and add to a small bowl (reserve the woody stems). Stir in the melted butter, a teaspoon of salt, a half teaspoon paprika, and the grated zest of the orange. Slice the orange in half, and set aside.

  Rinse and dry the chicken. Sprinkle the cavity with salt and paprika, toss in the woody stems, the garlic cloves, and one of the orange halves (pressing it in the hand to crack it open). Truss the bird, and rub the butter and herb mixture all over the outside. Roast on a lightly oiled V-rack until the breast meat registers 175°F (1 hour for a 4-pound bird; add another 5 minutes for a 4½-pound bird). For well-done dark meat, cook an extra 10 minutes or so—until the thigh registers 180°F. Let rest 15 minutes before carving.

  Enough for 4 to 6

  CHAPTER 19

  All That I Could Want

  AFTER MOM LEFT, I tried to learn how to ride the track, but found my craving for adrenaline had a threshold: I wasn’t built for such speeds. Instead, I spent more time on the sidelines talking with Keith, filling him in on my past. When he asked about my father, I explained that there was a man who fathered me, but whose face and name I never knew. And there was a man whose face I’d seen, but who no longer acted as my father.

  Keith never balked, never judged, and never changed his attitude toward me. He just accepted it all, perpetually focused. I wonder if it came from his job as a 911 telecommunications technician. Sometimes he got calls in the middle of the night to troubleshoot a failed emergency call. While he worked on the lines and computers, he occasionally had to replay the recordings of panicked spouses and petrified children in order to help identify what had gone wrong. He really knew how to listen.

  It’s a rare thing to feel truly heard. Keith teared up whe
n I cried, laughed when I laughed, and challenged me on occasion. It was as if he were channeling my every story—as though he were there with me and had been from the beginning.

  Instead of telling me about his life, Keith brought me to see it with my own eyes. He was raised three hours away in Geronimo, Oklahoma, population 1,282. In all my travels, I’d never seen anything like it. Downtown Geronimo is a glorified crossroads. This is the heart of the Bible Belt; an abundance of steeples inch ever skyward. The people are settled in their homes, in their bones, in their souls. They trust their land and their God. On Sundays, they raise their hands and shut their eyes, giving in with an abandon I can only marvel at. It is the middle of nowhere, but for these people it is everywhere.

  Keith’s parents, Clint and Wanda, hugged me the moment they met me. Acceptance is the Geronimo way. For the last 35 years, the two have lived several miles out of town on a forgotten piece of farmland tucked between the Lawton prison and the old creek. Keith’s younger brother Daniel lives just on the other side of town.

  Wheat fields, emerald green in the winter and barren in the summer, line the quarter-mile drive that curves up to Clint and Wanda’s one-story brick house. They lease the land beyond their windows to farmers, never once sinking their teeth into bread made from that red soil.

  Eight plum trees grow crooked in the south winds that push across the land, stubborn survivors of heat, hail, and whirling-dervish wall clouds (those testy harbingers of tornadoes). But the trees haven’t fruited yet. There’s no fresh produce in sight, save for the remains of the tomato bed Wanda once shackled over the cracking clay.

  There’s a waiting in Geronimo, a settled acceptance that all things bear fruit with time. Baseball-size hail, howling tornadoes strong enough to flatten a town, and minor bouts of indigestion are waited out with equal patience. There’s no pining for anything more than the sun to rise, catfish to bite, dinner to be hot, and smiles to be quick and frequent.

  Keith is the salt of this land.

  Okie Catfish

  I don’t like catfish, but I love the Martin family recipe. In Clint’s hands, the muddy fillets become mild, the crisp coating sweet. It’s not just that he catches the whiskered fish fresh from nearby lakes. It’s that, even before mooring his boat, Clint and Wanda rinse and pack the fresh-gutted flappers with salt and ice. Although I could add bells and whistles, there is something beautifully Oklahoman about the simplicity Clint’s recipe offers. The creole seasoning is a nod to Keith’s Louisiana-dwelling aunt—if this or the Jiffy Mix is unavailable, try the substitutes provided for an equally delicious meal.

  1½ pounds catfish fillets

  Salt

  For the crust:

  ¾ cup flour

  ¾ cup Jiffy Mix (or substitute ½ cup yellow cornmeal, 3 tablespoons sugar, and 1 tablespoon baking powder)

  Enough Tony’s Creole spice blend to make the flour blush (about 2 teaspoons) (or substitute ½ teaspoon cayenne pepper, ½ teaspoon black pepper, ½ teaspoon garlic salt, and ½ teaspoon chili powder)

  Vegetable oil, for frying

  Cut the fish into 2-inch-wide sections. Sprinkle both sides with salt. Refrigerate overnight (no more than 24 hours). The next day, whisk together the flour, Jiffy Mix, and creole spice. Rinse the salt from the fillets, and dredge their wet flesh with the flour mixture. Deep-fry at 350°F until golden brown, turning once after 3 to 4 minutes and cooking for 6 to 8 minutes total. Drain on paper towels and eat immediately.

  Enough for 4

  There’s something mandatory about experiencing a buffet in Oklahoma. Aside from the depressing chain restaurants, of which there is no shortage, every small town seems to have at least one quiet gem. Although I wasn’t specifically seeking one, I did find it in Talihina, a town of a thousand in the hills of southeast Oklahoma, 150 miles from Tulsa.

  Keith and I planned the motorcycle ride with a dozen other members of Tulsa Sportbike Riders. We’d been dating almost a year; it was our first getaway since I began my new, laid-back job as a marketing coordinator for the Girl Scouts. The group would stay two nights at Queen Wilhelmina, a lodge founded in 1898 and once dubbed “Castle in the Sky.” Keith reserved the King’s Suite, assuring me with a wink that we’d have plenty of alone time. During the day, we’d rev along ribbons of cloud-capped roads, flanked by lush forest. At night, we’d sink into the lodge’s extensive buffet. As we packed, Keith described green bean casserole (topped with crunchy onion strings), biscuits cloaked in woolen sausage gravy, and a tender slump of roast beef or ham. I could almost hear the steam table hissing, beckoning.

  But the morning of the trip, I woke up with a pounding, clogged sweatiness between my temples. When I told Keith I didn’t think I’d be able to make the ride, his eyes darkened.

  “Do you think some medicine would help?”

  Between his allergies, high blood pressure, and atrial fibrillation, he had a full medicine cabinet.

  “I’m sorry.” I shook my head. “Are you upset about the room fees?”

  “No, no.” He patted my leg. “You need to rest. I’m sure we can get our money back.”

  While he retreated to the kitchen to make me a cup of tea, I dragged myself to the bathroom and splashed cool water on my face. I got dressed slowly, through bone-deep shivers, hoping to hide my misery.

  “I think I can make it, Keith. I just—”

  “Great! I’ll get the bikes ready.” He grinned and squeezed me tight.

  I winced, but when Keith looked at me again, I made it into a smile.

  We zigzagged through the countryside for two and a half solid hours. The long line of motorcycles ahead shimmered and blurred. I lifted my visor, but still had trouble seeing. Even over the engine, I could hear my breathing, short and shallow.

  When we arrived at the lodge mid-afternoon, I slumped over the bike, my head on the gas tank, helmet and all. My limbs continued to vibrate, as though the road was still moving beneath me. Finally I hauled myself off the bike, leaning on the metal frame for support. The next thing I knew, I was on the ground with the bike on top of my legs. Keith rushed forward.

  “Are you OK? You forgot to put the kickstand up.”

  He half-carried me to our room; I had a 102.6-degree fever. He filled a champagne bucket with ice and sat by my side, holding my hand.

  As my eyes fluttered shut, I heard him whisper, “I’m so sorry, Sasha. This is not what I planned.”

  I woke up a few hours later. My temperature had dropped to 101.4°. After the afternoon’s inferno, the fever now felt like a cool breeze. I could hear the group outside, laughing. I felt badly that Keith was missing the fun. “Let’s go outside to get some air,” I offered.

  Once outside, Keith waved but led me past the group, toward a weathered bench at the top of a remote, grassy slope. We sat side by side looking out across miles upon miles of forested hills.

  “Sasha?” he asked, a slight strain to his voice.

  His eyes were cast downward, toward a black velvet box cupped in his palm. He held it toward me, his temples tinged with red. “Would you do me the honor of spending the rest of your life with me?”

  Suddenly, I knew that his hasty behavior that morning had nothing to do with lost deposits, and everything to do with this moment. I didn’t need to ponder my decision. “Yes!” I cried, hugging him. “As long as you do one thing …”

  “What’s that?”

  “Get down on your knees,” I laughed, pulling him down off the bench and letting myself tumble down into the grass with him. I lay my head on his chest, listening to his heart beat.

  “Your heart is racing, Keith,” I murmured.

  He smiled and brushed the hair out of my eyes. “I guess I can get nervous after all.”

  We lay there a long while, watching the sun dip quietly into the darkness, serenaded by the rising chatter of crickets and winking fireflies.

  “Did you talk to my mom, your parents … Ryan?”

  “Yup.” He smiled. “I called your mom first. She wa
nted to know what my parents thought. I told her that I had to get by her first.” He chuckled. “She liked that. Everyone else was good.”

  “Even Ryan?”

  “Really.” He squeezed my shoulder. “They want us to be happy.”

  I took a deep breath and smiled.

  “I love you.” I pressed my lips against his, as I had so many times before. This time, though, my kiss became a laugh.

  That night, when we approached the much anticipated buffet, the ring gleaming on my finger, I found something much sweeter than the green beans, gravy, and roasts I’d expected: hot peach cobbler. Hundreds of wedges, deep orange like the sinking sun, nestled in the hotel pan beneath buttery rubbings of crust.

  Softened from cooking in their own molten juices, the wedges sang of brown sugar and cinnamon. They whispered of the tender pink blossom and rich earth from which they sprang. The hot peaches sank into our shared scoop of vanilla ice cream, their warm nectar flowing like honey.

  A Quick Peach Cobbler

  I’m of the mind that a cobbler should be “cobbled.” There’s no peeling of peaches or fancy equipment here; just fruit passed quickly from bushel to table with a touch of cinnamon and a generous crust. Look for peaches with good blush that give slightly—but if they are hard or tart, there’s no shame in using frozen. I don’t care for candy-sweet cobbler, but I’ve known many who would add more than a half cup of sugar to this recipe—especially if the peaches need a little coaxing to draw out their natural sugars. Although I like my cobbler wet (the better to sauce my ice cream), very juicy peaches will want a tablespoon of flour to thicken the mix.

  For the crust:

  1½ cups all-purpose flour

  ½ teaspoon salt

  1 teaspoon sugar

  8 tablespoons (1 stick) unsalted butter, cubed