Old Times, Not Forgotten

I’ve been visiting with an old friend. It’s nice to renew the relationship.

The friend is Robin Mather, and we haven’t visited in person, exactly. I’ve been reading her new book, “The Feast Nearby.” The subtitle, “How I lost my job, buried a marriage, and found my way by keeping chickens, foraging, preserving, bartering, and eating locally (all on $40 a week),” provides a pretty clear description of what Robin’s been up to lately.

Our lives overlapped for a few years back in the 1980s when we both worked for the newspaper in Jackson, Miss. She wrote about food, I wrote about pretty much whatever. We judged chili competitions together, red beans and rice competitions, beer competitions. (Guess which one I conceived and organized.)

Her book is a reminder of the gentle way she has with words, and her affection for food, not just as fuel for the body, but as restorative for the spirit.

I remember in particular a meal of hers, after a long night of election coverage and post-election revelry for the newspaper staff. As she prepared and cooked it, she spoke of the soul-warming experience of being able to provide someone with sustenance.

At the time, my culinary ability consisted primarily of opening cans, and heating the contents.

But the sentiment stayed with me. Bit by bit, I expanded my range. And some years later I did chicken breasts, herbed pasta and ratatouille for a Valentine’s Day dinner. Not haute cuisine, but enough to surprise – and impress - my date.

Robin’s book is a treasure. It almost made me want to move to a cabin on a lake in the Michigan woods, adopt a dog, a kitten and an African gray parrot, and spend a winter around a heating stove while canning vegetables.

At the least, I will try some of her recipes, which I now feel confident enough to tackle. I’ll share them with that Valentine’s Day date, who is now my wife. And who I still try to surprise from time to time.