Ravioli and Peaches

 This afternoon I was looking at an old thumb drive to see what was on it. I found an old file that was a sort of journal. The entries were sporadic but reading through some of them, I was reminded of things I had completely forgotten about. One of these forgotten things was an essay I wrote about my Nana in 2007 and that was published in Oregon Humanities Magazine. I then went in search of the essay so I could read it again. It was not where I thought it might be and I thought for a while that I didn't have it anymore, but I looked again in a different folder and there it was. I saved it again and am posting it here. I'm glad I found it!

RAVIOLI AND PEACHES

 “Do you want some peaches?” Nana asked after the lunch dishes had been cleared away.  “Yup,” I replied.  She opened the refrigerator and took out the canning jar.  She put a few peach halves in my bowl and then sat down with the jar, spearing peaches with “her” fork—the one with the short handle and the bent tines with wide spaces in between.

    

That’s how I remember Nana, my maternal grandmother—through food.  She was always in her garden or in her kitchen.  The fruit, vegetables, and jam we ate at her house came out of her garden or glass canning jars, not metal cans.  Nana was the producer of most of the food we ate there.  Cherry, peach and apple trees provided the raw materials for jam, applesauce and our lunchtime dessert.  Her large garden served up salads, green beans, marinara sauce, and our Halloween pumpkins.  And that wasn’t the half of it.  The ravioli we ate—my favorite food—came out of her freezer, but each one was made and bagged by Nana herself.  First she made the pasta dough and she rolled it out to be laid in the ravioli form.  A small spoonful of filling was placed in each space and then another sheet of dough laid on top.  She pressed down on the whole thing so that the form cut through the dough and separated the individual ravioli.  Over and over she repeated the process, making eight or ten at a time to put in the freezer so that one day she’d be able to wonder aloud what she should make for dinner that night before turning and asking me whether she should make “raviools,” as she called them.

    

Why did she go to so much trouble?  She could have just gone to the store and bought a bag of ravioli.  There are many reasons for her ideas about food and producing it herself instead of buying it, but I think the biggest reason she did these things was that she cared about the people she was feeding.  This was her way of showing the love she had for all of us around the table.  I learned early on how valuable this kind of work could be.  I also saw how little respect she got for this work.  It was just expected that she would have breakfast on the table at 6, lunch at noon, and dinner at 5.  I could see that everyone just came in and sat down without so much as one word of gratitude.  They thought what she did was unimportant women’s work, but to me she made the world go around.  At a time when women were being urged to leave the kitchen, I was learning how powerful a place the kitchen could be.

 

Because of Nana, I came to understand how important and life-affirming some domestic labor could be.  I saw how food could be many things—a way to commune with nature, an artist’s medium, and an expression of love and care.  I knew early in my life that the work we do each day at home is what is truly important for the planet, our communities, families, and ourselves.  Growing up in a society and family where money was god and used in an attempt to buy security, prestige, and the illusion of happiness, I understood early on that I did not fit in.  The usual pursuits were utterly meaningless to me.  And so, as an adult, I set out not to gather as much cash as I could, but rather to create a peaceful and loving home in which the daily work of living went on.  And mostly, it seems to have worked.  I’ve had more than one person tell me what a peaceful home I have.  I’ve done plenty of other things in my life and even wrote a Master’s thesis on the subject of motherhood and women’s domestic labor.  But no matter what I have been involved in, I always look forward to coming home.  I don’t can peaches or make ravioli, but I do make bread.  When I give someone some rolls or muffins that I’ve made for them and I watch their face light up, I feel the hope that just maybe they feel like I did when I heard, “Do you want some peaches?”   

Nana--photo by Bill Burke

Nana in her garden--photo by Bill Burke

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