So the other day was my mother’s birthday; every year, I struggle with what to give her, because, since she doesn’t cook, it can’t be anything at all for her kitchen. And as a former model, she’s completely in-the-know about What They’re Wearing, and I don’t want to mis-hit either style or size-wise. One year I gave her a jacket — a cool, caramel brown safari jacket made out of butter-soft leather — and it was a medium. It might as well have been a tent for the way it hung off her.
“You must think I’m really big,” she said to me, although she did quietly confess to loving it. She returned it for an extra small, and on my birthday bought me a sweater that appeared to be cut for a Biafran six year old. “Hope it fits,” she said. “And happy birthday.”
More problematic is where to take her for dinner because, speaking generally, she doesn’t much like food. She likes crowds–or at least the right crowd–and certainly being seen, but food? She’ll push it around her plate like a maid rearranging dust. When I comment, she’ll say, “Must I eat fast? I eat slowly. S-l-o-w-l-y. Like most people.” And then they come to get her plate and it’s still full and she just smiles and nods yes, I’m done. We could be at Le Cirque and she could be eating an entire boned quail stuffed to its eyeballs with a brain-sized white truffle from Alba. But when you’re done, you’re done. My mother is a tough sell when it comes to food. And gifts.
Things were a little simpler when I lived in Manhattan, where shopping for interesting and unique things in almost any category was easily accomplished and there were virtually no mall stores; now I live, at least for the moment, in suburbia, where the nearest shopping is the mall and the nearest restaurants sometimes all blend together in a big preservative-laden, acid-washed amalgam of homogeneity. You can go to a mall in any part of my state and if you walk into Williams-Sonoma or The Gap or Banana Republic or Pottery Barn, you’ll be faced with not only the same items for sale; you’ll be faced with the same displays, right down to the faux autumnal leaves. Likewise, go to a McDonald’s in Dubuque or Denver, Dallas or Des Moines, and it all tastes exactly the same. It’s meant to. And this is exactly the place where the fast food model has draped itself over general retail, from clothing to cookware.
What’s left for the imagination? What ever happened to finding exactly the right gift for the right person, and that feeling of delirious excitement when you know that it’s one-of-a-kind, and that you picked it–a 1938 child’s cream pitcher from an England on the cusp of war — specifically for them, and that they’ll likely cherish it forever? What ever happened to the not-crazy-overpriced local restaurant that’s in fact not owned by a gigantic conglomerate (and therefore a sort of furtive chain)–a place where you know the chef, and he knows that your son is allergic to peas and that your mother-in-law is a diabetic and yet he still manages somehow to make her favorite passion fruit
macarons without sending her into a coma? Are those experiences gone forever from everyday life? Maybe it’s just me, but it certainly feels that way.
And now, it’s getting worse: we’re heading into the Christmas shopping season, which means that when I come home every day, I have to use a crowbar to remove the vast amount of catalogs stuck in my mailbox, proclaiming “This season’s must-haves! Give them the gifts they want!”
Who is they? Will they want the All Clad Ultimate Chicken Roaster which cantilevers the bird over the pan and looks like (with good aim) you could put it on the stove and catapult your roaster through the room, over the heads of your guests, and onto the platter waiting in the middle of your table? Will they want a must-have table-top tomato slicer? What ever happened to a knife? Or how about an electric vacuum marinator? Wouldn’t a zip lock bag and time in the fridge work just as well? Or how about a Handpresso, which looks rather like an enlarging device for men, and for $99 will allow you to create creamy espresso whilst on the hiking trail? Merry Christmas! Where will these gifts wind up on January 21st? Either back in the box and being returned, or in the FOR TAG SALE bin you have set up in your garage for next spring.
Of course, there are big box companies out there who have managed to make the leap from pointless, single purpose items to one-of-a-kind collectibles meant for well-meaning shoppers who want to give incredibly unique gifts to the right people, but just don’t really have the time, energy, or will power to get out there on foot and search for that perfect thing; if you’re one of these people, you can buy a vintage
Rajasthani butter churner from CB2, the hip and modern catalog arm of Crate & Barrel. But hurry…only 250 of them are available, and when they’re gone, they’re gone.
For some reason this year, I was feeling really peevish about my mother’s birthday, about taking her to some uptown well-draped dive where the food is expensive, tall, and vile, and you get to trip over voluminous Goyard shopping totes carried by all of the cherry tomato-pushing patrons who, because they all see the same plastic surgeon, appear to be related. I just wasn’t having it. I didn’t even give her a choice. We went to
Il Buco–loud, crazy, wild, and serving the best non-tall Umbrian food I’ve had this side of Perugia. We ate cauliflower and gorgonzola croquettes, polenta with butternut squash and sage, lasagnette, and ricotta dumplings. There was a great bottle of tannic Montefalco. By dinner’s end, my mother had managed to inhale a cocktail table-sized veal Milanese, the greens that were sitting on it, and a slice of a dense, walnut chocolate torte stuck with a candle. “
Per mamma,” a black-clad waiter said, as he plunked it down in front of her.
She blushed and flirted.
“Much better than uptown,” she admitted. She loved the short, black A-line wool gabardine jacket we bought her.
“Very Audrey Hepburn,” she said. “Banana Republic says it’s this season’s must-have.”
“Well mom,” I said, “now you have it.”
Polenta with Butternut Squash and Sage
Unfancy, cheap, and delicious, this is a great dish to serve as a side during Thanksgiving or Christmas. Better still, do what I’d do: dollop it into a bowl, light a fire, put up your feet, pour some wine, and eat.
Serves 6
1 3 pound butternut squash, halved, seeds removed
2 garlic cloves, halved
1 tablespoon extra virgin olive oil
salt and black pepper, to taste
1 teaspoon fresh sage, minced
3 cups vegetable stock
2 cups water
1-1/2 cups polenta
1 cup freshly grated Parmigiana Reggiano
1. Preheat oven to 400 degrees F. Rub the squash halves with the garlic cloves, drizzle with the olive oil, sprinkle with salt and pepper and the garlic clove halves, cover with foil, and roast until the squash is tender, about an hour. Remove, let cool, and scoop out the flesh. Puree in a food processor together with the sage and roasted garlic cloves, and set aside.
2. Combine the stock and water in a medium sauce pan, and bring to a boil over medium high heat. Slowly whisk in the polenta, stirring constantly. Reduce heat to medium low and continue to cook until the mixture is creamy, about 20 minutes; fold in the squash puree and the cheese. Season to taste, and serve immediately.
