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Consuming Passions is Michael Lee West's delightfully quirky memoir of an adventurous life centered around food and family—the story of how she went from non-cook to gourmet of words and victuals by watching a multitude of relatives squabble, prepare sumptuous repasts, and carry on honored traditions. Laced with delicious secret recipes passed from generation to generation, West's irresistible chronicle recalls good times and wild times—mothers swinging from chandeliers, elderly aunts brewing up...
Consuming Passions is Michael Lee West's delightfully quirky memoir of an adventurous life centered around food and family—the story of how she went from non-cook to gourmet of words and victuals by watching a multitude of relatives squabble, prepare sumptuous repasts, and carry on honored traditions. Laced with delicious secret recipes passed from generation to generation, West's irresistible chronicle recalls good times and wild times—mothers swinging from chandeliers, elderly aunts brewing up love potions, a South American nymphomaniac stirring up trouble at a Louisiana barbeque joint, and the spooky hauntings of a cabbage-eating ghost—all in the pursuit of good dining. Thoroughly entertaining, alive with West's distinctive humor and sharp, irrepressible insight, here are incomparable American kitchen tales as warm and tasty as freshly baked bread.
To a foodie, lust comes in two varieties--romantic and culinary.
-- Mimi Little, scratch Southern cook and expert at love
Many hundreds of years ago, when I was a small girl, I used to eat dirt. I would squat in a Louisiana ditch, a dark-haired child in a yellow dress, busily whipping up a mud pie. Using a spoon from my mama's best silver, Francis 1ST, I added a little ditch water. Then I swooned, overcome by the color and texture of the mud. It resembled rich brownie batter. Without hesitation I licked the spoon. My pie tasted sour and felt gritty against my teeth. I ate another spoonful, dribbling mud down my chin. All of a sudden Mama flew out of the house and jerked me up by one arm.
"Stop that!" she cried, plucking the spoon from my hand. "Little girlsdon't eat dirt! And they don't use their mama's sterling for mud pies, either."
Bitter dirt, bittersweet memories from childhood.
My relatives spent the better part of their lives dreaming up recipes. Some were designed to lure men, and in a few cases they were made to repel them. I grew up listening to remedies for a lonely heart, cures for the blues, antidotes for colds and fevers, and how to reverse sinking spells.
Every summer I left New Orleans and went to stay with my Mississippi grandmother, who spoiled me with forbidden foods. Mimi introduced me to coffee, mayonnaise sandwiches, and bacon deviled eggs. Every morning when her soap operas came on, she'd give me a jar of peanut butter and a handkerchief full of apple slices. I would climb into themimosa tree, propped between two branches, and open the jar. There were no other children for miles. When the apples were gone, I'd use my finger as a dipper. In that tree, I invented imaginary worlds, where elves danced under the clothesline and stole human babies from their cribs. My Mimi encouraged me to believe in these creatures. She said that fairies-perhaps even ghosts-existed at the edges of things. I saved leftover biscuits and hid them on the back porch, and by morning they were always gone. "The fairies were starved!" Mimi said.
On Sunday afternoons, when the clan gathered for dinner, my mama and her six aunts used to sit on the front porch, discussing the virtues of spinach, whether mustard belonged in potato salad, and which aunt had the perfect squash casserole recipe. it seemed natural that I would absorb all of this folk wisdom and food talk, but my cooking gene failed to emerge until middle age.
This is not to say that I stayed out of the kitchen-I adore all kitchens. I like the way they smell, and the way people stock their pantries. It fascinates me if they arrange their food according to the alphabet, by food groups, or jumbled together. When I wasn't lingering in strange kitchens, I was in my own, dreaming about food.
In my first kitchen, my culinary preparations were primitive. I did not saute, braise, or roast; I heated food, either in the saucepan or the microwave. The results were usually disappointing, but I devoured them. On this cuisine, I managed to produce a fair amount of cellulite-proof that I was surviving on sub-par food.
My unusual culinary habits caused quite a stir in the family. After all, I'd descended from generations of scratch cooks. My mama was a self-taught gourmet, and I needed Fannie Farmer to wash lettuce. Since I was a registered nurse, some of the aunts blamed my profession, saying it had robbed me of a healthy appetite. 'All of those hysterectomies and lobotomies and tonsillectomies," said Aunt Dell, shivering, as if I myself had endured these procedures rather than assisting with them. "It's a wonder she can eat anything."
Aunt Tempe disagreed. "Nursing is the perfect career for a young lady. Think how versatile it is! With all that surgical training, she can bandage burns, truss turkeys, and debone chicken."
While I had a keen interest in eating, I just wasn't interested in complicated cookery, especially if it made a mess or required long stretches of time. Like most every woman I knew, I was juggling twenty things at once--diapering a baby, rushing to soccer practice, wheeling a cart around Kroger, vacuuming, teaching myself how to write between five and seven A.M. I didn't have time to deal with puff pastry, and I hated sifting flour. Deep in my heart, I feared the seamy side of food: weevils, hot grease, and botulism.And it seemed to me that good cooking demanded time. I told myself that I didn't have it to spare.
Still, I loved food talk. It was the next best thing to eating. At family dinners, we examined each dish, critiquing and consuming. The gumbo was superb, but it would have been divine with more oysters. If only we'd wrapped bacon around that salmon before we smoked it. A stick of butter would have transformed your icing, dear. We adored discussing pit barbecue, homemade ice cream, and how to make Fourth of July cake, which is a simple, yet eyecatching dessert: a frosted sheet cake decorated to resemble a flag, sliced strawberries for the stripes, blueberries for the stars.
Before I was sent out into the world, my mama taught me the ladylike, company side of food--a refrigerator stocked with two kinds of wine, red and white, to be served with assorted crackers, cubed pepper cheese, and seedless grapes. I learned how to throw a tea party: cucumber sandwiches, hot and cold chicken salad, cheese wafers, and a lip-smacking tea punch that called for large quantities of vodka. By the time I acquired a husband and children, I had developed a repertoire of speedy, but savory, entrees. My most successful recipes included No-Peek Pot Roast, Creamed Chicken, and Smothered Pork Chops-all borrowed from other working mothers.
After my fortieth birthday, I attended six family funerals. Our clan was shrinking; the aunts were getting old. Pieces of our culinary history were vanishing. Food had ruled our lives, dominating all holidays and reunions, lending spice and eccentricity to our dinner table. Why, recipes were like kinfolk. Mimi's mashed potato salad reminded me of a pale, plump cousin who avoided...
The reader is transported from West's first attempt at "No-Fail Rice and Pork Casserole" to her "internship" in Miss Johnnie's kitchen, as she launches on her own food explorations, making croutons, bravely frying, ordering exotic spices and taking cookbooks to bed to "read, study, and dissect. I knew my kitchen, perhaps my life, would never be the same. I had a destiny, a food obsessed life."
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Posted May 7, 2012
Posted December 14, 1999
Mix one part clean MFK Fisher culinary insight with an equal portion of sweet Laurie Colwin's best-friends in the kitchen advice, season with Nora Ephron's searing Heartburn humor and top with a good grind of The White Trash Cookbook's spice and you get...a boring old hash of reheated leftovers. No one could have approached this book with more enthusiasm and good will then I did; I love all of the above writers, and their style and wit have had a profound effect on me. Cooking compared to love! Cooking in which even the smallest ingredient deserves your undivided attention! Southern eccentricities! I was more than ready for my next folksy food fix, so I feel especially disappointed to have encountered so many ripped off ideas, so much unoriginal and embarrassing stylizing, and so little real substance, not to mention contradictions (see the chapter about mayonnaise as a case in point) and typographical errors (at least I think that referring to food that could 'feed a thong of guests' was an error?) If you are hungry for a good cooking read, check out any of the authors in the ingredients list above. If you've already read them once, take my advice: skip this book and read them all again. I wish I had.Was this review helpful? Yes NoThank you for your feedback. Report this reviewThank you, this review has been flagged.
Posted April 19, 2010
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