A lingua franca is a language that makes communication possible between those who don't share a mother tongue—as when an African and a Swede find common ground in English. Food can also serve as a lingua franca, uniting people in ways that words sometimes cannot. The international expression of delicious is a recognizable closing of the eyes, nodding of the head and slowly-spreading smile. However, one man's delight can sometimes be another's disgust. Just because you can't imagine eating deep-fried water bugs or guinea pig stew doesn't mean they aren't worthy. It can be good to get out of your comfort zone and discover something new. But if you aren't ready to learn a foreign tongue today, you may not want to read on.
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WHAT DID I LOVE
by Ellen Bass

 

What did I love about killing the chickens? Let me start
with the drive to the farm as darkness

was sinking back into the earth.

The road damp and shining like the snail’s silver

ribbon and the orchard

with its bony branches. I loved the yellow rubber

aprons and the way Janet knotted my broken strap.

And the stainless-steel altars

we bleached, Brian sharpening

the knives, testing the edge on his thumbnail. All eighty-eight Cornish

hens huddled in their crates. Wrapping my palms around

their white wings, lowering them into the tapered urn.

Some seemed unwitting as the world narrowed;

some cackled and fluttered; some struggled.

I gathered each one, tucked her bright feet,

drew her head through the kill cone’s sharp collar,

her keratin beak and the rumpled red vascular comb

that once kept her cool as she pecked in her mansion of grass.

I didn’t look into those stone eyes. I didn’t ask forgiveness.

I slid the blade between the feathers

and made quick crescent cuts, severing

the arteries just under the jaw. Blood like liquor

pouring out of the bottle. When I see the nub of heart later,

it’s hard to believe such a small star could flare

like that. I lifted each body, bathing it in heated water

until the scaly membrane of the shanks

sloughed off under my thumb.

And after they were tossed in the large plucking drum

I love the newly naked birds. Sundering

the heads and feet neatly at the joints, a poor

man’s riches for golden stock. Slitting a fissure

reaching into the chamber,

freeing the organs, the spill of intestine, blue-tinged gizzard,

the small purses of lungs, the royal hearts,

easing the floppy liver, carefully, from the green gall bladder,

its bitter bile. And the fascia unfurling

like a transparent fan. When I tug the esophagus

down through the neck, I love the suck and release

as it lets go. Then slicing off the anus with its gray pearl

of shit. Over and over, my hands explore

each cave, learning to see with my fingertips. Like a traveller

in a foreign country, entering church after church.

In every one the same figures of the Madonna, Christ on the Cross,

which I’d always thought was gore

until Marie said to her it was tender,

the most tender image, every saint and political prisoner,

every jailed poet and burning monk.

But though I have all the time in the world

to think thoughts like this, I don’t.

I’m empty as I rinse each carcass,

and this is what I love most.

It’s like when the refrigerator turns off and you hear

the silence. As the sun rose higher

we shed our sweatshirts and moved the coolers into the shade,

but, other than that, no time passed.

I didn’t get hungry. I didn’t want to stop.

I was breathing from some right reserve.

We twisted each pullet into plastic, iced and loaded them in the cars.

I loved the truth. Even in just this one thing:

looking straight at the terrible,

one-sided accord we make with the living of this world.

At the end, we scoured the tables, hosed the dried blood,

the stain blossoming through the water.

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My weekday lunch is never something planned. It's inspired by my mood and defined by whatever is available in the fridge and pantry. Occasionally I will do leftovers, but not very often. Whereas G will often eat for breakfast what we dined on the previous night, I like to eat something different every day and generally keep it light. Soups can be quick, easy and satisfying, and especially appealing when it's cold out, but I also find myself craving salads with bright, bold flavors. I like easy tosses of greens, nuts and cheese; jumbles of quickly blanched vegetables dressed with vinaigrette; combinations of chopped things like fennel, pecorino and hot chile; even mayonnaise-glossed seafood stuffed into avocado halves or piled on top of crisp lettuce. Perhaps my favorite, in the classic tradition of the salade composée, are distinct but complementary elements arranged together in a wide shallow bowl. The composed salad needs an artful balance of textures, flavors and colors, so it demands consideration and creativity, which I'm always willing to exercise when it comes to lunch.
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Almost as elemental as fire is the warming soup we make from it. A big pot, a few gnarled vegetables, a rind of cheese, a crust of bread. From these humble ingredients we can coax something truly sublime and nourishing. The tender green vegetables of spring soften with just a kiss of heat, but winter's sturdy bounty must be stewed into submission. A heap of sliced onions—that mainstay of the cold-weather kitchen—collapses, then caramelizes, turning the rich, burnished brown of aged leather. Once crisp and biting, they develop a sweet and savory intensity that gives a plain broth spectacular depth. The ultimate peasant food, French onion soup is topped with well-toasted slices of rustic bread beneath a bubbling blanket of melted cheese. Time and tender care are all you need to make this simple yet soul-satisfying dish.

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As you may well know from being an Anglophile or watching Bridget Jones, the Brits use "pudding" as a generic term for dessert. It's a bit perplexing given that no shortage of actual pudding is served for pudding there, but it's a rather comforting word and in the end there doesn't seem to have been too much confusion. But to further complicate things, what we call pudding they would most likely refer to as custard. No matter; I think we can all agree that steamed puddings—the stuff of Dickens novels and old-time American holidays—are simply delicious. You don't see them on menus much any more, but with so many traditional folkways and recipes being reclaimed, it wouldn't surprise me if we were in for a resurgence. And we should be. If you've never made a steamed pudding, it will be a revelation. All you do is stir together a batter, pour it into a mold or casserole and steam it. It emerges thick, dense and slightly sticky, ready to be eaten warm topped with a cool cloud of cream. From the rich spices to the stovetop preparation, for dessert or breakfast, steamed pudding is the ultimate winter indulgence.
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