“Would you have a bite before you go to work?” I asked.
“No, no. And I’ll never eat another eclair as long as I live. I want to see my plate eclair-free when I come home tonight. I know you are having a hard time at your work and I’m sorry. So give them away or you eat them, but I don’t fancy dessert made on a crisis-control watch.”
I gave most of the êclairs to friends, to staff, and to the soup kitchen at church. But I kept one gargantuan loaf as proof that cooking helps me to write.
I pulled out the stubborn manuscript, which to date had resisted me successfully, and suddenly the words spilled out of my pen and onto the yellow pad.
A few days after my husband had said he never wanted to see another eclair, I offered him a piece of strawberry shortcake. He smiled widely and enjoyed it immensely. He just did not recognize the old eclair simply smothered with strawberries and fresh whipped cream.
Éclairs
MAKES 16 ÉCLAIRS
1 cup water
8 tablespoons (1 stick) butter or margarine
¼ teaspoon salt
1 cup sifted all-purpose flour
½ cup confectioners’ sugar
4 large eggs, beaten individually
Custard Filling and/or Golden Whipped Cream (recipes follow)
Chocolate Syrup (recipe follows)
Preheat oven to 400°F.
In large saucepan, heat water, butter, and salt to full rolling boil. Reduce heat to low, and quickly stir in flour and confectioners’ sugar, mixing vigorously with wooden spoon until mixture leaves the sides of the pan in a ball.
Remove from heat. Add eggs one at a time, beating after each addition until mixture is very smooth. (An electric mixer at a low speed makes this procedure easier.) Force mixture through pastry tube, or shape with spatula into 16 fingers, each 1 × 4 inches.
Bake on greased cookie sheets for 25 to 30 minutes. Remove at once to racks and let cool away from drafts.
Cut the pastries in half lengthwise, spoon onto the bottoms either Custard Filling or Golden Whipped Cream, and replace the tops. Drizzle Chocolate Syrup over the êclairs.
Custard Filling
FILLS 8 ÉCLAIRS
3 large eggs
¼ cup sugar
Dash of salt
2 cups milk
½ teaspoon vanilla extract
Beat eggs, sugar, salt, and milk until blended in top part of double boiler. Put over simmering water and cook, stirring, for about 7 minutes or until mixture thickens slightly and coats a metal spoon. Remove from hot water and pour into bowl. Add vanilla extract. Cool and chill 1 hour.
Golden Whipped Cream
FILLS 8 ÉCLAIRS
2 cups whipping cream
⅔ cup brown sugar
½ teaspoon vanilla extract
Whip cream until it holds peaks. Gradually add brown sugar and vanilla extract. Cool and chill 1 hour.
Chocolate Syrup
6 ounces (6 squares) unsweetened chocolate, melted, or 1 cup cocoa
1 ½ cups sugar
⅔ teaspoon salt
1 cup boiling water
½ teaspoon vanilla extract
In small saucepan, mix melted chocolate with sugar and salt over low heat. Add boiling water, and cook for 5 minutes, stirring constantly. Cool, add vanilla extract, and refrigerate.
A GROUP OF TEACHERS of foreign languages met in Nashville, Tennessee. The Opryland Hotel was the site of the conference. The corridors spiking out from the large meeting hall were filled with conversations in Spanish, French, Italian, Japanese, Russian, and some languages I could not recognize.
I had been the morning lecturer and had spoken on the impossibility of successfully translating poetry, yet the imperative that we continue to attempt its translation. The lecture had been well received.
Afterward my assistant and I headed for a restaurant in the hotel. We found a table and ordered coffee. I am much easier to get along with after a few cups of coffee.
Two couples at the next table recognized me, and we began a light and friendly conversation. They were teachers from Springfield, Massachusetts, but had not been a part of the morning’s conference. The couples explained that they were best of friends in Massachusetts and that they loved the Opryland Hotel and came on vacation together once a year.
One of the women waved her hands around in the air. “Have you ever seen anything like this?”
I admitted that I had not. It was kitsch at its best and had enough elegance to ward off derision. It was one of the largest hotels in the world. Huge fountains of water arched and fell, dancing to music of Bizet and Hayden. Flowers waved everywhere and restaurants rotated slowly while multicolored birds sang.
Doris, at the next table, said, “But don’t order the minestrone. Never order the minestrone.”
She said the four of them were Italian Americans and her husband had a rule. If he had had a little too much wine the night before, he liked a hot bowl of minestrone the next day to set him straight. She said he had just ordered it.
“Look at what they served him.”
She tilted a soup bowl for me to see. The contents of his bowl looked like cooked oatmeal.
Doris said, “Looks like oatmeal, doesn’t it?” I said, “Yes.”
She said, “We’ll be back next year, but we just won’t order their minestrone.”
As soon as she said good-bye, a very trim and handsome young black man came to my table. “Dr. Angelou, we are so honored to have you here in this dining room. Let me introduce myself. I am the manager. Can we do anything for you?”
I said, “No, thank you.”
He said, “I want to bring Mr. Williams, he is my manager and manager of the other restaurants here. He’ll be so glad to welcome you.”
I had finished breakfast, but courtesy kept me in my seat.
The young man returned with an older, elegant black man. He was introduced.
The man said, “We are honored and would love to have you visit some of the larger restaurants, but would you please come to this kitchen and let the workers see you. They will be thrilled.”
I followed him into the kitchen, met and shook hands with everyone. My host said, “Now, this is the steam table. Here we keep food hot that has already been cooked.”
I looked into the pots. One was filled with something like oatmeal. The contents were so thick, the ladle stood straight in its middle.
I asked, “And what is this?”
He said, “Oh, that’s Minnesota wild rice. It’s very popular at lunchtime, but they even had a call for it this morning at breakfast.”
Indeed. That was what the woman at the next table had showed me. My impulse was to tell him that my friends from Springfield, Massachusetts, had not meant to order Minnesota wild rice and that maybe what he needed was a good recipe for minestrone for those who might want it on a given morning. I could have suggested that his Tennessee waiters’ ears had misunderstood accents from New England and that New England ears did not completely understand Tennessee drawl, but Mr. Williams’s smile was so nice and his attitude so welcoming, I didn’t have the heart.
Minestrone Soup
MAKES 2 QUARTS
1 cup dried lima beans
2 quarts water
¼ cup olive oil
3 stalks celery, diced
1 medium onion, minced
One 19-ounce can crushed tomatoes
2 cups shredded cabbage 2 garlic cloves, minced
1 teaspoon salt
¼ teaspoon freshly ground black pepper
1 teaspoon chopped fresh parsley
½ teaspoon dried basil
½ teaspoon dried oregano
½ cup (dry measure) elbow macaroni, cooked al dente
Grated Parmesan cheese
Pick over beans, discarding stones and debris. Wash and drain, then put in large pot with water to cover, bring to boil, and boil for 2 minutes. Let cool for 2 hours.
Heat oil in large skillet, and lightly sautê celer
y, onion, tomatoes, cabbage, and garlic. Add to beans along with salt, pepper, and herbs. Cook covered, over medium heat, for 2 to 3 hours.
Before serving, pour cooked macaroni into soup. Bring to a boil, and boil for 4 minutes. Serve garnished with Parmesan.
Minnesota Wild Rice
SERVES 4 TO 6
1 cup uncooked wild rice
2 cups chicken stock
½ teaspoon salt
1 teaspoon minced onion
4 tablespoons (½ stick) butter
¼ teaspoon freshly ground black pepper
Wash rice, drain, and cover with water. Bring to a boil, then reduce heat to low immediately. After 20 minutes, add 1 cup of water, and cook for another 20 minutes. Then rinse and drain again. Pour in chicken stock. Add salt, onion, butter, and pepper. Simmer covered until tender and all liquid has evaporated, about 45 minutes.
LEE GOLDSMITH OWNED a chic cookery store on New York’s Upper West Side. She was a striking woman with a sharp wit who knew a lot about cooking. I often found myself in her store either buying a cooking tool or just talking about food and its preparation.
I passed her shop one morning, and through the window I saw her perched on a stool, bent over, her head in her hands and her shoulders heaving. Obviously she was crying. I opened the door. “What’s the matter?” She did not lift her head. “Lee, what’s the matter?”
She sat up and I saw tears on her face. I also recognized that she wasn’t crying. She was caught up in paroxysms of laughter.
I had to wait until she could find and hold a full breath of air. Finally, after many false starts, she said, “A customer came in here, cursed me out, and said she was going to sue me.”
Here, laughter took over her again so completely that her body shook.
The story came out in pieces between laughing interruptions.
The woman had come two days earlier and asked if Lee had a heavy black pot for sale. She showed her the item.
The woman asked, “Could you cook a pot roast in this? I have a recipe that I had to steal to get.” When Lee answered in the affirmative, the customer asked, “How do you use the pot? Do I have to wash it first?”
Lee explained that any pots or pans sent from a factory must be scrubbed thoroughly to remove a film, which is put on to prevent rust.
The customer asked, “I should wash it?”
Lee said, “Get a Brasso scourer, use a little Ajax, and scrub the pot inside and out. Wash the pot again, and then use Brillo soap pads to scrub it again. When it feels smooth, wash it with regular dish-washing liquid. Dry it with a soft towel. Put some vegetable oil on your hands. Rub that all over the pot and the lid. Put the two into a very slow oven, about 150°F, overnight. Next morning, take it out, let it cool, wash it again lightly, and then continue with your pot roast recipe.”
I told Lee that sounded about right. She said yes, except that the customer came into the shop screaming, “You have ruined my life. I followed your instructions and my fiancê brought his parents for dinner last night. His mother makes a killer pot roast and I paid somebody to get her recipe for me. I followed hers as I followed yours, but when I served it they all began to frown and then giggle, and finally they all started laughing. Some of them said they had to pick steel wool out of their teeth.”
Lee asked the woman how she had prepared the pot roast.
The customer said, “I did what you suggested. I took the meat and scrubbed with a brass scourer and Ajax. Then I washed it and dried it and washed it again with a soapy Brillo pad. I washed it finally with dish-washing liquid and patted it dry. I put the oil on my hands and rubbed it and put it in a low oven, 150°F overnight. Yesterday morning I took it out of the oven, and when it was cooled I washed it again and then followed my pot roast recipe.
“I served it last night and they laughed so hard, I put them out of my house— my fiancê and his parents and some friends they had brought with them.
“I’m on my way to send my ring back to the jerk. I never want to hear his name again.”
Lee said, “Wait at least a day. No, better wait a week. Do you love him?” The customer started crying. “Yes.”
“ Then wait a week. If you can bear to see him, bring him here and I will explain how we miscommunicated.” The customer dried her eyes and was a little mollified and said, “I’ll think about it. But if I can’t forgive him, believe me, I won’t forgive you. I will sue your ass.”
When Lee and I stopped laughing, she invited me over to her house for pot roast. Hers was delicious.
Black Iron Pot Roast
SERVES 10 TO 12
5-6 pounds rolled boneless beef chuck
Salt and freshly ground black pep-per, to taste
3 tablespoons all-purpose flour
1 tablespoon vegetable oil
1 large onion, studded with 5 cloves
3 carrots, peeled and cut into large pieces
1 stalk celery, cut into large pieces
1 cup water or beef stock
3 tablespoons cornstarch mixed with 3 tablespoons water
Preheat oven to 350°F.
Season meat with salt and pepper; then dust lightly with flour.
In Dutch oven with tight-fitting cover, brown meat slowly on all sides in hot oil.
Add onion, carrots, celery, and water.
Cover tightly, and bake for 2 hours, or until meat is very tender. Check pot every half hour, adding water if needed. Do not allow meat to burn.
Remove meat. Thicken liquid with a cornstarch-and-water paste for gravy. Serve with boiled and buttered potatoes.
I GAVE A SERIES OF SEMINARS at a university in Maryland. On my last day, a fifth request for an interview was about to receive the same negative response I had given the other four.
“I appreciate the request, but I have a plane to catch …”
The voice said, “Doctor, I only need five minutes of your time. You have my word you will be free to go in five minutes.” She sounded so cool and definite. I asked, “Do you want me to come to your studio?”
“No, Dr. Angelou, I will bring my crew to you and I won’t disturb you until we are set up and I am ready to shoot. I give you my word.”
I was won over. Anybody can find five minutes in a day despite its other demands. The reporter told me her name, but it didn’t catch in my memory. I said yes and gave her a time.
When I informed my host at the university that I had agreed to give an interview, he asked why after having refused the other requests. I answered, “I rarely find young people today (and she sounds young) who know that one’s word is a powerful thing and that it can be given or it can be withheld.” That television journalist had impressed me enough to make me curious to see how good her word was.
The next day when I concluded my seminar, an attractive young woman opened the classroom door. “Dr. Angelou?”
“Yes.”
“I am here to do the interview. My crew is set up. We are ready if you are!” I followed her to the next room and she pointed out a chair. She had put a pillow in the chair so that the camera could be level to my face. I sat. She looked at her watch and automatically I looked at mine. She nodded and the crew leapt to attention. She asked one question, and I was so surprised at its complexity and relevance that it engaged my total attention. She really listened to my answer and her second question stemmed from my response.
She looked at her watch and said, “Thank you, Dr. Angelou.”
My watch told me that exactly five minutes had passed.
I told her that because of our hurried telephone conversation the day before I had not really caught her name. She said, “Oprah Winfrey.”
I said, “Young woman, you will go far. I hope to be around to see your success.”
A few years later I attended a social affair in Chicago and I saw her standing on the side. I walked over and said, “Hello, Oprah Winfrey. How are you?”
She said, “You remember me, and you remembered my name.”
I said, “Of c
ourse. You are going to do wonderful things in your lifetime.”
She had been offered her own show in Chicago and had accepted. She knew that Phil Donahue was the most popular daytime host in the nation and that he also broadcasted from Chicago. Donahue would be formidable competition.
I gave her my card and invited her to come and visit me in North Carolina.
One month later, she came and brought her gentleman friend. I served smothered chicken and rice, which was well received.
After dinner the first night we sat on the floor and read poetry. Her delight in the beauty of the spoken word pleased me. I told her that all poetry was music written for the human voice. We recited long into the night.
The next morning as I was planning breakfast for my houseguests, she came pajamaed into the kitchen.
She said, “Your house feels like home.”
I said, “I hope you will always think that.”
I told her that the poet Robert Frost had said, “Home is where when you go there, no one can put you out.”