Life From Scratch

by Sasha Martin

  But hundreds now click through my blog daily; I don’t want to disappoint our readers. Before we leave, I cram in cooking Cambodia with Burundi.

  I need a few dried, brined limes for a sour chicken soup. I lay the heavy citrus on a scorching patch of driveway. On one 104-degree day, the side exposed to the sun fades from green to yellow, the once glossy skin withering into leathery hide. I flip the limes, and the next day they’re done. They should have taken one, maybe two weeks.

  While Keith packs our bags, I look into Cambodian grilled eggs, street food mentioned in Steven Raichlen’s Planet Barbecue. There’s just one problem: no recipe. I reach out to Karen Coates, the former Asia correspondent for Gourmet magazine and whose blog I follow. She contacts a Khmer friend who helps explain the dish.

  Turns out, it’s no small trick. A dozen raw eggs must first be blown out of their shells into a large bowl. Whip in a few fingers of sugar (palm or brown for depth) and a pucker of fish sauce. Some suggest minced kefir lime leaves, but I don’t have time to scurry over to the Asian market; the empty shells must still be painstakingly refilled with the glop and then steamed. Once firm, the eggs (shell and all) are skewered with bamboo rods and grilled.

  The concept reminds me of Mom’s Jell-O eggs. But unlike hers, which we propped up in an egg carton to fill and set, these eggs need to be steamed upright before grilling. Some Cambodians steam them for eight hours. Finding the right vessel proves to be difficult, and I spill several batches until I discover the sides of a collapsible steamer basket can be lifted and closed around the eggs, then tied.

  But the eggs boil over, coating the steamer in what looks like foam insulation. In our haste to head east, I leave the mess in the sink. It is only when I’m lounging on the beach with my family that I realize I could have probably just steamed them in the cardboard carton they came in. Back home, I tackle the dishes and consider trying again. But the breakneck pace of the blog demands I move onto another country, another meal.

  Cambodian Grilled Eggs

  Despite the challenges I had with this recipe early on, I couldn’t get the brown sugar and fish sauce delight out of my mind. I’ve since made dozens of batches to streamline the process. I’m glad I took the time; with a little planning this popular Cambodian street food will be a showstopper at any barbecue. While I kept the core of the process—steamed, seasoned eggs, served skewered, from a warm grill—I learned three key things: Although some cracking is normal, thin eggshells crack excessively while steaming—opt instead for sturdier organic eggs; instead of blowing out the eggs, create a larger hole so the liquid simply shakes out (this will also reduce cracking); and to avoid stress the first time making them (and allow for backup), steam the eggs one day ahead. Before serving, just reheat them on the grill.

  After mastering the basics, play with the flavors: A few splashes of soy sauce or sprinkles of minced kefir lime leaves, chives, or hot chilies make lovely additions. For a hassle-free option, this egg mixture would make wonderful scrambled eggs for a Cambodian-inspired brunch.

  6 whole, large organic eggs

  1 tablespoon brown sugar

  2 teaspoons fish sauce

  A couple good pinches pepper

  Cut a cardboard egg carton to fit inside a large pot. Set aside. Add ½ inch water to the pot, cover, and bring to a gentle bubble.

  Meanwhile, using a large clean needle or safety pin, carefully make a 1-inch hole in the top of an egg. Flick shell fragments out, away from the egg so that they do not fall inside. Shake the egg over a large bowl to release the insides. Repeat with remaining eggs.

  Rinse the empty shells in hot water, then stand them in the cardboard egg carton.

  Prepare the filling:

  Whisk the eggs with all ingredients, and funnel into the eggshells. There will be some egg leftover. They expand while steaming so leave ¼ inch of space at the top of each egg. (If any eggs do bubble over, the foamy egg easily scrapes off the shell.)

  Right before placing the carton of filled eggs directly into the pot of water, turn the heat to a notch or so above the lowest setting. Cover and steam gently for about 35 minutes without lifting the lid, or until the eggs are cooked through. The water shouldn’t bubble or they’ll boil over, but there should be enough heat and steam in the pot to gently cook them.

  At this point the eggs can be refrigerated overnight if desired.

  Although they can be served straight from the pot, it’s more fun to finish them the Cambodian way: Thread onto presoaked bamboo skewers and grill until hot. Serve as is, letting guests delight in peeling their own eggs.

  Makes 6

  Ava is busy learning to walk and talk. Shortly after she takes her first steps that autumn, I take her to the park to stretch her legs.

  But we don’t stay long. “Papa will be home soon,” I remind her, “and we’re going to eat a special meal tonight, from Chile.”

  She giggles and chants, “Chile, Chile, Chile.”

  At that very moment, 33 Chilean miners are trapped 2,300 feet under the earth. They’d been there for nearly two months.

  Half a world away, at the edge of the playground, I have no idea if they will survive. What I do know is that, as I hold my daughter close, the miners’ families and friends are certainly hugging each other as well, clinging to fraying hope with circles under their eyes. Two months is such a long time to be in darkness.

  I don’t tell Ava about the miners. Instead, I try to make Chile real for her. I tell her about how the Chilean people like to eat much later than we do, between 9 p.m. and midnight, when the moon is already high in the sky and she’s been asleep for hours. Later, I show her pictures of the mountains, and of Chilean children with their shiny, midnight-colored hair.

  Keith, Ava, and I sit down to eat pastel de choclo. The chicken casserole is a minefield of sliced olives, raisins, and chunked hard-boiled egg—all tucked beneath an unassuming blanket of pureed sweet corn. I dig right in. The milky corn slides over my tongue, charming me. Then the mouthful suddenly explodes, turning at once briny and sulfurous. There’s an aftershock of paprika, cumin, and cinnamon. As my lone fork clinks on my plate, I become aware of the stubborn silence around me.

  Keith loathes olives and hard-boiled eggs. He stares at the casserole with a look of panic. I take a deep breath, put down my fork, and reach toward Ava’s high chair, pointing at her plate. “The corn makes the chicken taste almost sweet!”

  I pull a piece of chicken from beneath the squishy mass of corn and chopped egg and present it to Ava. Tentatively, she picks it up and slowly chews. A moment later, she goes back for more. Keith watches her, his plate still untouched.

  “Eat it!” I mouth, catching his eye.

  He extracts some of the chicken, avoiding the olives and eggs. Dutifully, and not without regret, he picks up a microscopic piece of egg, eats it, and downs a half glass of water.

  For dessert we pour homemade dulce de leche all over heart-shaped alfajores, soft orange zest–infused cookies. I make them heart shaped on purpose, as a gesture toward the trapped miners. Keith spreads his alfajores with extra spoonfuls of dulce de leche. Ava licks her lips.

  As I watch my little family finally eat with gusto, I feel solidarity with Chile—a friendship of sorts. Later I tuck Ava into bed and crack the office window, grateful for the fresh air.

  Keith retires behind his laptop and I behind mine. I’m supposed to be transcribing the Chilean experience for my readers, but I’m distracted by the news. Never before has any civilization lived with as much connection to communities outside of their tribes, villages, or towns.

  Yet I know nothing about my neighbors. I glance out the window through the darkness and see the frenzied flicker of television light through my neighbors’ blinds. I realize that although I don’t know the names of the people living next door, I do know Mario’s, the Chilean miner made famous for “starring” in the video updates occasionally sent up to the surface.

  I want to ask Keith if he thinks we know too much
about the world and not enough about our neighbors. But I can see that his eyes are heavy.

  Unlikely connections continue to be forged with each country I cook. The week I cook Egypt coincides with a key moment in the Arab Spring, when thousands of protesters gather in Cairo to demand the resignation of President Mubarak. So, too, Tulsa cracks open, revealing itself to be abuzz with a vibrant international community. The same morning I plan to cook Finland, a mother at Ava’s library playgroup mentions she is half Finnish.

  Though we’d never met before, she cancels her plans and comes over to help me prepare pulla, sweet cardamom bread seemingly made for coffee. When I buy my groceries for Iran, the checkout girl at Whole Foods is Iranian. As she hands me my receipt, she eagerly confirms the menu I selected.

  I add up the coincidences, and can only bow my head in humble appreciation. Perhaps it’s not fate. But it is strange to consider that in the almost five years I’ve lived in Tulsa, I never noticed the richness of the community all around me.

  After a life in transition, embracing my community certainly hasn’t been my strong suit. For once I feel like I’m driving a train; I don’t know where it’s headed, or what the voyage means. But there’s no way I’m stopping now.

  CHAPTER 26

  21 Layers of Memory

  IT’S AN EARLY SATURDAY MORNING IN MAY, still not quite dawn, and I’m finally making the German Tree Cake. I haven’t made it since I was a little girl, though I’ve thought of the 21 almond paste layers many times since. Now, well into the second year of the adventure, I’m excited to surprise Ava and Keith with this childhood favorite. After so much foraging in unknown countries, this cake at least is certain.

  Mom mailed me the recipe, an eight-page document from the era when photocopies came out more like smudges than duplicates. As I look over her notes, I realize her overly complex method will create a ghastly amount of dirty dishes: two pots for melting and stirring the chocolate glaze, five bowls for whipping, mixing, and folding eggs, marzipan, flour, cream, and sugar.

  When I ask her about it, she laughs and says that was the point: “How else was I supposed to keep you kids busy? Everyone had to have a bowl and a job and something to wash when the cooking was done.”

  I scribble alongside her notes, crossing out, filling in, and combining steps where I can. When I get the method down to two bowls, I tie on my apron and whip the thick, stiff marzipan into the cream. As the beaters coax the tan lumps into a smooth, creamy mixture, they toss the scent of almond into the air. I fold in the whipped egg whites until the batter falls into velvet ribbons. I turn on the broiler and brush a layer of the puffy batter into my springform pan, place it two inches from the flame, and wait until the gloss gives way to matte, speckled cake.

  I repeat this step again and again until, 45 minutes later, I have 21 paper-thin layers of cake separated by 7 glazings of apricot jam. I set the cake aside to cool and head to the bedroom to find Keith.

  The shower is running. The water sounds like rapids against the vinyl walls. Keith’s up early, I think. I tiptoe into the bathroom and pull back the curtain to give him a good morning kiss. He’s naked, hunched on the shower floor, surrounded by steam and hot water.

  He doesn’t lift his head, and I ask, “Should I call an ambulance?”

  He mouths “no.” I grab him by the arm and help him up, then turn off the shower and wrap a towel around him. He leans on me while I help him step into a pair of sweats. His every movement is slow and brittle.

  I ask him a dozen more times what’s wrong, but all he can manage is “Take me to the emergency room.”

  My heart hammers so loudly, so high in my throat, I feel as if the force might choke me. “If you’re having a heart attack, you need to tell me. I’ll call an ambulance.”

  He doesn’t say anything, but takes the phone out of my hand and slowly shakes his head. “You can drive,” he whispers, “It’s not like that.”

  At the hospital, Keith hunches over the paperwork. I cannot hear what he says to the nurse over the din of Ava’s giddy chatter, but they wheel him to a room immediately. From his wheelchair, Keith asks me to call his son.

  Suddenly I’m 12 years old again, standing in the hospital waiting room, wondering if Michael’s OK. I stand in the laminate glow of the doorway and do as I’m told, too scared of what the answer might be.

  The call doesn’t go through; the walls in the hospital are too thick. As the doctors prepare Keith for an echocardiogram, I approach a window to try again. When Ryan doesn’t pick up, I consider hanging up without leaving a message. I don’t want to be the bearer of bad news. But when the phone beeps, I say, “Your dad is having … trouble with his heart. Give me a call. We’re at the hospital. St John’s.”

  Ryan calls back almost immediately.

  “Is he OK?” I can hear the fear in his voice. I do my best to strangle my own for his sake.

  “The doctors are monitoring his heart. Can you come?”

  “I’m stuck at work.” He works as a pizza deliverer for Papa John’s. Saturday is one of the busiest days of the week.

  “Ryan, I know he would really like you to be here.”

  Then I call Keith’s mother, three hours away in Geronimo and about to head to church. She listens carefully and then asks me to let her know what the doctors determine. There are so many heart issues in the family, including her husband’s four stents and her own pacemaker, that they don’t exhaust themselves with worry until they absolutely have to. As she hangs up, she adds that she’ll say an extra prayer for us in church today. She’s the essence of calm.

  I thumb through my contacts for someone else to call.

  If I could just find someone to watch Ava, I could be there with Keith and listen to the doctors to get a grip on what’s happening. Ava is nearly two years old, and I still haven’t let anyone babysit.

  I try Vanessa: No answer. I consider Leona briefly. Our motorcycle days seem like a lifetime ago. Connor, Grace, Mom, and Tim are an airplane ride away.

  I don’t know who else to call so I put my phone away. As I stare at my lap, I realize I still have my apron on. I tear it off, and then realize the hallway is too quiet.

  I find Ava squatting in front of an electrical outlet down the hall, peering at it as though it were a work of art. I scoop her up and sprint back into Keith’s room. The only doctor left is looking over Keith’s ECG.

  He explains that Keith is experiencing a severe case of atrial fibrillation. His heart was beating so slowly that he couldn’t breathe, so even the smallest steps left him winded. The doctor keeps talking and talking.

  Ava starts chanting, “Eat, eat, eat.”

  “So, it’s not a heart attack?” I say over her.

  “No, but we told your husband this sort of episode is a sign of bad electricity in the heart. We can go into his heart with a laser, essentially burning a small section of it to get it in order again. There’s not much else we can do.” He pauses. “An episode like this may never happen again. But if it does, each one puts a strain on his heart. And in the long run, it will put him at an increased risk of stroke and heart attack.”

  The doctor refers Keith to a physician who can give him a heart monitor. He’ll have to wear it for a week to find out if he needs the surgery.

  For the first time I notice the sanitized, plastic hospital smell—the stench of death. I bite my lip. The diagnosis isn’t terrible, I tell myself. It’s the rest that I don’t know how to deal with.

  I don’t want to tell Keith that Ryan isn’t coming. As I smooth over the stiff cotton sheets at the edge of his bed, I find myself desperate to run away, as far and as fast as my feet could take me from this sanitized room where even the doctors have no control.

  When we get home, I coat the German Tree Cake in another sheathing of apricot jam and, finally, the chocolate glaze. I am on autopilot, unwilling to reveal my fear to Ava, unwilling to add to Keith’s stress. As I work, I realize why Mom always had us make this cake, even though we weren�
��t German, even though the ingredients were expensive. This cake was a walking meditation. Step-by-step, one foot in front of the other, it was a sheer exercise in willpower—an edible prayer.

  Like Mom, I crush the almonds and press them into the sides. I can still see her small hands pressing them over the smooth chocolate and then slicing the cake into wedges, revealing the 21 layers beneath. Michael and I ate that cake with the kind of hunger that comes from waiting for a good thing a little longer than expected.

  Later, when Keith and Ava eat it, I smile, knowing that I have not only fed them: I have kept going.

  Within the month, Keith has worn the monitor and seen the specialist, who determines that he doesn’t need surgery. In fact, the doctor doesn’t detect any atrial fibrillation. He’s lucky, she says: This episode might have been his last. She even cancels Keith’s prescription for Lanoxin, a drug sometimes used to treat abnormal heart rhythms. Friends tell me I should have called, that I could have called. Even my family halfway across the country tells me I should have called. I want to believe them, but I find myself shaking my head: “Don’t bother, I’ll be fine.” A veritable martyr in training.

  But the hospital visit shows me the reality of living without a support system. In hindsight, my reluctance to bother other people feels foolish, and I wonder if it’s the reason that in the six years since I moved to Tulsa, I’ve met a lot of people but not made many close friends or taken the time to meet my neighbors.

  “I’m not going to hound someone with my problems,” I tell Keith. “People get tired of problems.” It’s easier not to make friends than to risk rejection.

  A couple months later, Keith and I are sitting in the living room, each on one end of the couch, facing each other. Ava is dancing around the coffee table. When she slips in the narrow alley between furniture, I declare that it’s high time for us to move. I try to make my voice enthusiastic and controlled, the same way Pierre did years earlier when announcing each of our new destinations.