Green grapes. A refreshing snack while traveling, especially in extreme heat. And affordable, compared to other fruits of the season. While in motion, sharing a bowlful with one's traveling companion, a workable grab rhythm must be established, since the driver is blindly reaching for his. Because it is possible for a fast-grabbing passenger to outpace a preoccupied driver, it is honorable to be mindful of the universal fair-share code. During this trip I've grown to enjoy green grapes more—to depend on them for succor. We've had a few peaches, lots of apples and some wonderful cherries. But grapes are a staple on this trip.
When I was a kid, cherry was definitely the Lifesaver, lollipop and fruit of choice. Even now, in the baskets of complimentary lollipops at bank tellers' windows, finding a red one is a rarity. Yet every time we had fruit cocktail for dinner when I was young, and the ritual of saving the best 'til last occured, my older sister, Ann, didn't save the pale red maraschino cherry halves like Jeanie and I did. She saved the colorless grapes, which stood out from the peach and pear pieces only because of their shape. Throughout my whole life I have only respected my sister, so it caused me puzzlement each time fruit cocktail appeared on our table and I watched her across from me, finding grapes and placing them safely on the edge of her salad plate, eating her precious cherries as though they were nothing special at all.
She also—oddly—did not put sugar on her cereal. She wasn't driven by a desire for sweets—in fact, she could go without dessert. When we reached for the Rice Krispies or Wheaties and spooned on the sugar, she stayed faithful to her austere Cheerios. I accepted that in her, but it was hard to understand. She did share with the rest of us a love of chocolate cake batter, and wouldn't hesitate to use her superior mathematical skills to divide a cake recipe into sixths so that we could quickly whip up a batch, divide it—fairly —four ways, eat it and clean up before Mom returned from the grocery store.
Much of the richness in my world is due to Ann's choices, her generous sharing, her experiences. My most memorable baby picture includes her. She sits on my right, a big book open on her lap, her head bent over it, deep in concentration, reading. To me. I'm sitting in my bouncy canvas seat, my body turned to her, my eyes on her face—a smile on mine—one of my hands touching her. We were among her first responsibilities in a life that has grown to include many.
She's the one who walked me to my first day of school and nonchalantly conducted me to my kindergarten classroom. It was Ann who, presumably with her baby-sitting money, introduced Ray Charles, Johnny Mathis, jazz, and more, into our home, improving the quality of my time spent ironing there, as well as the rest of my life. She shared what she learned in school, brought succulent unknown details of our family history to light at just the right moment. She pled my case with Mom and Dad regarding junior high school social opportunities. I read her books and still value her literary recommendations. As a writer and accomplished editor, I'm sure Ann would approve of my keeping this list shorter than it should be.
But when it comes to Ann and food, I can't stop yet. After college, she bravely moved to Ossining, New York, and then New York City, living the classic story of the young person with a dream, looking for work in the big city, warming up in coffee shops, finally finding the job that launches her career just before there is no money left even for coffee. When I moved to Massachusetts, I would visit her there. She'd meet me at the train station, or the Port Authority bus terminal, and hanging to her coat tails from subway to sidewalk to her current apartment, my culinary adventures would begin. With Ann, I ate at my first Lebanese restaurant, had taramosalata at the Greek one, dined at a small French place, had crepes at the Brasserie, delicate and wonderful Japanese food, Cuban pork, beans and rice on a busy corner. The list goes on and on, and includes her own kitchen and crosses the country to California.
So if she isn't wild about donuts and cucumbers, it's no big deal. Both of us revel in good food. Like me, she loves variety and will make a meal of carefully chosen appetizers. But this green grape thing; I've always enjoyed them but wouldn't seek them out. The thing about any grape or berry that makes for exciting eating is that each one is so different. Sometimes, for every perfectly fragrant sweet one, many sour or not fully satisfying ones must be consumed. Large numbers can be eaten in that obsessive search for the next good one. As I eat the green grapes, looking out the front window at the clouds above the highway, seeing golden fields out the side, I meet the sour grape, the juicy, the not ripe, and the almost over-ripe. Those taste most like the canned ones—in the fruit cocktail. After the juicy burst, a so-subtle soothing flavor. No added color, no added flavoring—just the grape and its centuries-old power of succor. Although I notice each grape in my mouth, I pause when I find one of those. I think of my family, talking and eating dinner around the white formica table in the kitchen, Ann in her place across from me, with fingers and spoon, picking out the green grapes from her fruit cocktail. Saving the best 'til last.
When I was a kid, cherry was definitely the Lifesaver, lollipop and fruit of choice. Even now, in the baskets of complimentary lollipops at bank tellers' windows, finding a red one is a rarity. Yet every time we had fruit cocktail for dinner when I was young, and the ritual of saving the best 'til last occured, my older sister, Ann, didn't save the pale red maraschino cherry halves like Jeanie and I did. She saved the colorless grapes, which stood out from the peach and pear pieces only because of their shape. Throughout my whole life I have only respected my sister, so it caused me puzzlement each time fruit cocktail appeared on our table and I watched her across from me, finding grapes and placing them safely on the edge of her salad plate, eating her precious cherries as though they were nothing special at all.
She also—oddly—did not put sugar on her cereal. She wasn't driven by a desire for sweets—in fact, she could go without dessert. When we reached for the Rice Krispies or Wheaties and spooned on the sugar, she stayed faithful to her austere Cheerios. I accepted that in her, but it was hard to understand. She did share with the rest of us a love of chocolate cake batter, and wouldn't hesitate to use her superior mathematical skills to divide a cake recipe into sixths so that we could quickly whip up a batch, divide it—fairly —four ways, eat it and clean up before Mom returned from the grocery store.
Much of the richness in my world is due to Ann's choices, her generous sharing, her experiences. My most memorable baby picture includes her. She sits on my right, a big book open on her lap, her head bent over it, deep in concentration, reading. To me. I'm sitting in my bouncy canvas seat, my body turned to her, my eyes on her face—a smile on mine—one of my hands touching her. We were among her first responsibilities in a life that has grown to include many.
She's the one who walked me to my first day of school and nonchalantly conducted me to my kindergarten classroom. It was Ann who, presumably with her baby-sitting money, introduced Ray Charles, Johnny Mathis, jazz, and more, into our home, improving the quality of my time spent ironing there, as well as the rest of my life. She shared what she learned in school, brought succulent unknown details of our family history to light at just the right moment. She pled my case with Mom and Dad regarding junior high school social opportunities. I read her books and still value her literary recommendations. As a writer and accomplished editor, I'm sure Ann would approve of my keeping this list shorter than it should be.
But when it comes to Ann and food, I can't stop yet. After college, she bravely moved to Ossining, New York, and then New York City, living the classic story of the young person with a dream, looking for work in the big city, warming up in coffee shops, finally finding the job that launches her career just before there is no money left even for coffee. When I moved to Massachusetts, I would visit her there. She'd meet me at the train station, or the Port Authority bus terminal, and hanging to her coat tails from subway to sidewalk to her current apartment, my culinary adventures would begin. With Ann, I ate at my first Lebanese restaurant, had taramosalata at the Greek one, dined at a small French place, had crepes at the Brasserie, delicate and wonderful Japanese food, Cuban pork, beans and rice on a busy corner. The list goes on and on, and includes her own kitchen and crosses the country to California.
So if she isn't wild about donuts and cucumbers, it's no big deal. Both of us revel in good food. Like me, she loves variety and will make a meal of carefully chosen appetizers. But this green grape thing; I've always enjoyed them but wouldn't seek them out. The thing about any grape or berry that makes for exciting eating is that each one is so different. Sometimes, for every perfectly fragrant sweet one, many sour or not fully satisfying ones must be consumed. Large numbers can be eaten in that obsessive search for the next good one. As I eat the green grapes, looking out the front window at the clouds above the highway, seeing golden fields out the side, I meet the sour grape, the juicy, the not ripe, and the almost over-ripe. Those taste most like the canned ones—in the fruit cocktail. After the juicy burst, a so-subtle soothing flavor. No added color, no added flavoring—just the grape and its centuries-old power of succor. Although I notice each grape in my mouth, I pause when I find one of those. I think of my family, talking and eating dinner around the white formica table in the kitchen, Ann in her place across from me, with fingers and spoon, picking out the green grapes from her fruit cocktail. Saving the best 'til last.
posted by Susan at 9:52 AM
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