by Sasha Martin
2 acorn squash
1 glug of olive oil
Salt and pepper
For the vinaigrette:
1 handful fresh mint leaves, finely chopped (about 2 tablespoons)
1 handful fresh oregano leaves, finely chopped (about 2 tablespoons)
¼ cup red wine vinegar
½ cup olive oil
1 teaspoon salt
½ teaspoon pepper
Finishing touches:
1 small bunch (2½ ounces) baby arugula
8 ounces aged goat cheese, like bûcheron
Preheat the oven to 400°F. Cut the squash in half and remove any seeds and strings. Brush the cut ends liberally with olive oil and sprinkle with salt and pepper. Roast for 45 minutes to an hour, or until browned and a fork pierces the flesh with no resistance. Meanwhile, whisk together ingredients for the vinaigrette in a small bowl.
Finishing touches:
Transfer the roasted pumpkin to serving plates. While still steaming, fill the cavities with baby arugula and crumbles of goat cheese. Spoon on vinaigrette to taste, and toss, being sure to scrape the warm squash flesh into the greens. Eat immediately.
Enough for 4
Each country becomes a palpable moment in time, guiding our days just like Ava’s development. Just as we learned to eat with our hands as Ava learned to crawl, we also learn the Austrian art of romance when she drops down to one nap.
Everyone likes to tell new parents to make sure they carve out time for their relationship between diaper changes and all-night croup fests. But no one explains how to do it without child care. Whenever Keith and I discuss hiring a babysitter, I always say the same thing: “No way am I leaving my baby alone with some stranger. She’s not even a year old. She can’t tell us if something goes wrong.”
When I ask Mom what she did as a single mother when she needed a little downtime, she tells me there was no time to date, and she didn’t have friends. But Tim remembers that when Michael was nine and I was seven, she’d put us to bed and then take Tim, Grace, and Connor across the street to the park to blow off some steam, saying of Michael and me, “Don’t worry, they’re good sleepers. They’ll be fine.”
We must have been, because I have no memory of waking to an empty apartment. Perhaps I’d be more willing to leave Ava with a babysitter if she had a sibling closer to her age, a guardian of sorts, to watch over her the way Michael had watched over me. For the time being, Keith and I remain homebound; our romance will have to be kindled within these walls.
Austria turns out to be the perfect catalyst. Austrian romance is epitomized by the Sacher torte, a bittersweet chocolate cake layered with apricot jam, enrobed in a shiny chocolate glaze. One of the world’s first chocolate desserts, it was invented in 1832 for Prince Metternich by a 16-year-old chef’s assistant. The Hotel Sacher claims to be the point of origin, but could only claim this credential after a seven-year lawsuit in a tooth-and-nail litigation that captivated the entire country.
While researching, I learn from Chef Schorner, an instructor at the Culinary Institute of America, that “chocolate is everywhere now, a common thing. But if you go back 200 years, people who made something with chocolate created romance. Today, we have nostalgia for that simple time. Sacher torte represents a way of life without Google or Twitter, when people sat next to each other and simply had a beautiful conversation over cake.” Today, Austrians eat slices of the shiny cake at cafés in a quiet, face-to-face, device-free time.
I spend one day whipping and swirling chocolate into a light, airy cake. The method feels like I’m stoking a fire, willing the batter to inflate, rise. And it does. When I put the cake in the oven, the batter looks so full that I half-expect it to burst into flame. When I place the completed cake under a dome on the kitchen counter, I can almost hear the light glinting off the glaze, crackling.
That night, as a family we eat a simple preparation of schnitzel and green beans cooked with speck, a cured meat product similar to bacon that I found at the local German market. As with the African market down the road and the kangaroo at Harvard Meats, I had no idea Siegi’s Sausage Factory & Deli existed. Tulsa has proved its international mettle yet again. If I can make this adventure work in a small city like this, I realize, people could do it from most any city. I make it official and decide not to order any ingredients online. A motto is born: Cook global, shop local.
Over dinner, Keith and I talk. “I don’t know why I never saw all the culture here in Tulsa,” I say. “I’m sure Mom would have discovered these markets years ago.” I remember how she dug up the German Tree Cake recipe all those years ago at one of the many folk dancing festivals she took us to. I watch Ava gum her green beans for a moment and sigh. “I wish our families could share some of this with us.”
Keith jumps up and grabs my Canon Rebel. He points it at Ava, peering over the lens at me. “They might not be able to fly here every week, but we can make all this real by filming. For my parents, too.”
In his footage, nine-month-old Ava looks like a cherub while she eats, all rosy-cheeked. “I can do this every week and post it with your meal reviews,” Keith says.
I love the idea. After dinner I tuck Ava into her crib with a kiss, then lift the chocolate cake from the darkened kitchen. Since Keith and I cannot gallivant around to cafés, I invite him into the backyard for our first date since Ava was born. Under the balm of night, we enjoy one enormous slice, nearly a quarter of the cake, with two forks. I serve it with Austrian hot cocoa thickened with whipped egg yolk.
The cake is soft, chocolaty, but not cloying or particularly moist. What makes it memorable is the layer of tart apricot jam—a flirty little tease peeking out from between the two cake rounds. The bittersweet glaze drapes each bite like a satin sheet.
When we get down to the last few morsels, I slide the cake over to Keith and let him finish it. I pull out two poetry books Mom once picked up for a quarter at a yard sale, and we take turns reading from them.
A line from the Austrian poet Georg Trakl speaks to me most forcefully: “A smile trembles in the sunshine / Meanwhile I slowly stride on / Unending love gives escort / Quietly the hard rock greens.”
“You know I couldn’t do this without you, Keith,” I say, turning to face him. His skin looks silver in the moonlight.
He nods and holds my hand.
“Thank you for not giving up on me,” he says. “I know I’m a picky eater, but …” He smiles a sheepish sort of grin and points at the crumb-laden plate, “This cake was delicious. Who knew a tiny country in the Alps was holding out on us all this time?”
I laugh. “Well, it’s not like I’ve always made the adventure easy for you.”
“Seriously, Sasha, I guess I didn’t realize …” he bites his lip, “how much of the world I was missing out on, you know, by only eating hamburgers.”
I nod, leaning into his embrace. “Austria came along just in time. When was the last time we did this together? No laptop, cell phones, dirty diapers?”
We’re both quiet. Somewhere in the shadows, the cicadas and crickets are in a humming, clicking frenzy. Fireflies puncture the darkness. I stare into the light, but soon I’m distracted, thinking about how to describe all this for the blog. I release my breath slowly and linger in that space so rarely visited, between yesterday and tomorrow, for once truly present.
We sit together for hours. At the end of the night we slip to the bedroom and once again consume each other like new lovers. When the passion we tended so carefully before parenthood rises up in me, I find it older, wiser, as resonant as a well-aged violin.
Over the next days, the warmth of Keith’s touch stays with me, as a hot cup of cocoa leaves the table beneath it warm.
Sacher Torte
For romance to reach its full potential, the very notion of perfection must be tossed aside. Like the bitter note in chocolate, struggles draw out love’s sweetness in a more sophisticated, less cloying way. When we come back together after challenges, we reveal what
we—and our relationships—are made of. In the Sacher torte, one of the world’s first chocolate cakes, dark chocolate is combined with a moderate amount of sugar to make the perfect bittersweet blend.
For the cake:
12 tablespoons (1½ sticks) unsalted butter, softened, plus more for cake pan
1 cup confectioner’s sugar, sifted
A good pinch salt
8 large eggs, separated (reserve the whites in a large bowl)
A good 1½ teaspoons vanilla extract
7 ounces dark chocolate, melted
½ cup sugar
1⅛ cups cake flour, lightly whisked to remove lumps
Finishing touches:
Apricot jam (one 9- or 10-ounce jar)
¾ cup heavy cream
3 tablespoons light corn syrup
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
1 cup (6 ounces) semisweet chocolate chips
For the cake:
Preheat oven to 350°F. Grease and line a 10-inch springform pan with a round of parchment paper.
In the bowl of a standing mixer fitted with a whisk attachment, cream softened butter at medium speed until light and fluffy, gradually incorporating confectioner’s sugar and salt, scraping as needed. Incorporate egg yolks, one at a time, and then splash in the vanilla extract, scraping again. Whisk melted chocolate into butter mixture, taking care that it is warm, not hot. Scrape.
In a large bowl, beat egg whites on high speed with a hand beater. Gradually add the sugar and beat until medium peaks form. Fold both the cake flour and the egg white mixture into the butter mixture, alternating in thirds—starting with the cake flour and ending with the egg white mixture.
Pour into a prepared springform pan, and bake 30 to 35 minutes or until the cake springs back when pressed with a finger and an inserted toothpick comes out clean.
Let cool completely. Slice in half, making two evenly sized discs. Warm the jam in a small saucepan, to spread easier and soak into the cake better. Working on top of a cooling rack set over a sheet pan, spread the bottom disk with half the jam. Top with the second disk, and cover the top and sides of the cake with the rest of the jam to seal in the crumbs.
Finishing touches: In a small pot, heat the heavy cream, corn syrup, and vanilla until the first few bubbles break the surface. Remove from the heat, add the chocolate, and whisk until smooth and glossy. Cool about 10 minutes to thicken the glaze and ease its application. Pour over top of the cake and spread over the sides. Refrigerate to set glaze. Serve cool, but not cold.
Enough for 12 to 14
CHAPTER 25
The World Close By
YOU LOOK STRESSED,” Mom declares, glancing at my sweats and low ponytail.
We’re on our way home from the airport. She’s here for Ava’s first birthday party—her first visit since the blog began six months earlier.
“Things are different now. With the blog there’s a lot to do, and not a lot of time to do it in,” I muse. “Keith’s videos add a whole other element. He’s up every Sunday night until 2, 3, 4 a.m.”
“But that’s worth it,” Mom interrupts.
“It’s all worth it,” I snap, but I wonder if I’m saying it for her benefit or mine. Ever since Austria, 15 countries and four months earlier, Keith and I have redoubled our efforts. There’s been some media attention—mostly local TV—and I feel increasingly in the spotlight, with a heightened need to “perform.”
As soon as we get home, Mom shoos me away. “If there’s that much to do, make good use of my time here—get caught up!” She plunks Ava and the books down on the living room carpet and settles in for an afternoon of play.
When I hesitate, she says, “We’re fine,” her chest puffed up with grandmotherly importance. She’d never admit it, but I can tell she’s glad to be needed. And I’m relieved to have her help. I thought her mission was to spend time with Ava, but I notice her eyeing me from the sidelines, as though she’s keeping her finger on my pulse, too.
I pile my cookbooks on the dining table and flip through them in search of Bulgarian recipes. Then I watch as Mom teaches Ava to feel the warm sunshine on the carpet, to tear sheets of paper, to throw balled-up socks into a laundry basket. Mom’s ability to transform everyday objects into toys reminds me that it was her creativity that kept me from realizing we were poor all those years ago.
Mom pulls several books out of her suitcase and starts reading them to Ava. Suddenly, some of the words sound familiar.
“I don’t mind a dragon THIS size,” said mother. “Why did it have to grow so BIG?”
“I’m not sure,” said Billy, “but I think it just wanted to be noticed.”
Intrigued, I come over and see that Mom is reading my old copy of There’s No Such Thing as a Dragon. I pick up a few of the other books: These are mine and Michael’s.
“Mom, I can’t believe you saved our books all this time—what, 20, maybe 30 years?” I hug her to my side. “Wow.”
“I hope you want them, because if you’re just going to donate them, I’ll ship them back to Boston myself.”
“Don’t you think,” I begin carefully, putting my hands on her shoulders, “that Ava can have more than one set of books—that she can have the old and the new?”
When the doorbell rings, Mom answers. A few moments later, she leads a tall, lamppost of a man into the house. He looks young, perhaps 20, but has the long face and sunken eyes of someone much older. I cannot imagine why Mom would have invited him in.
“Sasha, this is Nick—from Bulgaria.”
I furrow my brow, wondering what kind of joke she’s pulling.
“Where did you find him?”
“I didn’t—he just rang the doorbell!”
He says “Hello,” but the word comes out all chewed up. He’s clearly not from Tulsa.
Mom laughs with delight. Nick’s in town to sell educational books—his summer job. “Come in,” she says, pulling him right up to the dining room table to my teetering cookbooks. “Your timing is impeccable; my daughter is cooking Bulgarian food this week.”
Now it’s his turn to look surprised.
For the next 30 minutes, I quiz him about the traditional food from his homeland. He laughs at some of the recipes I’ve dug up, claiming they’re out of date or, worse, that he’s never heard of them. He says I absolutely must try a dried fruit drink called kompot, a chilled cucumber soup called tarator, and a snail-shelled cheese pastry called banitsa. In appreciation, I buy a set of science books for Ava and invite him to dine with us. He declines with a bashful shrug.
After he leaves, I show Mom the glittering world map above the dining table, now studded with gemstone stickers on the 26 countries we’ve cooked so far: Afghanistan to Azerbaijan; the Bahamas to Brunei. All in all, six months have passed. It feels like a lifetime.
“Ava might not remember any of these meals, but some things you just have to do, even if the purpose isn’t initially clear. I have to believe it will be worth it.” I glance back at her stack of books on the living room floor. “Like how you saved those books all those years. Who knew that you’d be reading them today, with my daughter—your granddaughter?”
Mom softens. “You’re right. And how amazing that Nick showed up today—what are the odds of that? Something’s going on here.” She laughs like a giddy schoolgirl: “This project, it’s not just helping your family.” She glances over to the front door and shakes her head. “It’s like you’re pulling in the whole world, Sash! No wonder you’re stressed. That’s a lot of responsibility.”
I wonder if she’s right. I wonder if, after Nick, the doorbell will continue to ring as we let in someone from Burkina Faso, then Burma, and so on, until the entire world is sitting around my dinner table. An enormous global table. No arguments. No food fights. Just people there to share a meal. What could I learn from them? What could we learn from each other?
I think back to my rough-and-tumble childhood and try to imagine all the players of my own life coming together around such a
table: It’s a motley crew, to be sure.
Mom’s flight is scheduled before I serve the Bulgarian feast, but I make her a glass of kompot anyway. The Eastern European Christmas drink is inky with currants, prunes, and scattered sparks of dried apricot. The fruit plumps agreeably when simmered in sugar water, clouding the pot with a brown plume of sticky syrup.
I dig my spoon into my glass and lift one quivering prune to my lips.
Kompot
Kompot (also known as Oshav) is a glass of summertime for all seasons. In the winter, Bulgarian children enjoy kompot as part of the Christmas celebration. Most any dried fruit will make a lovely addition—especially apples, pears, and cherries. When serving, be sure to give everyone a few bits of fruit at the bottom of their glass!
10 cups water
1 cup sugar, or to taste
1 cup prunes
1 cup dried currants
1 cup dried apricots
Add all ingredients to a large pot. Cover and bring to a bubble. Cook until the fruit is well plumped, about 15 minutes. Serve chilled with several lumps of fruit in each glass. Although a straw isn’t necessary, a long-handled spoon will be much appreciated.
Makes 3½ quarts
I never considered the question of taking a vacation when I decided to cook my way around the world. Then in August, my brother Connor invites us to spend a week with his family in Virginia. I cannot pack my suitcase with all the cooking paraphernalia I might need. Keith isn’t set up to edit a video on the road.
“Why don’t we just take a week off,” Keith suggests. “Isn’t the blog about the journey, not the destination?”