It's In The Onions

It's in the Onions

It's odd, the things we remember. I can remember cooking with my grandmother, and while the smells of the meals fill my brain, so does the image of her hands.

Her hands were strong. She'd grip a raw chicken in her hands and detach the pieces, dislocating the joints with a firm and practiced movement, her fillet knife severing the meat easily before sliding it into the pot of boiling water. Those same hands peeled the paper skins from the onions, rubbing her palms together before sliding them over the dry surface and parting the layers. These were the same hands that could gently caress the warm cheek of a child, of a younger me, stroking across the flesh to dry tears after a fall. This, with a static version of Lawrence Welk on the tv in the next room was the background to my happiest childhood memories.

Now the same talented hands sat loosely in front of her on the table, near her tea cup to catch the warmth while I fumbled at tasks I had watched her do a million times.

The bird didn't cooperate with me, the onions slid and did not uniformly piece themselves apart under my knife as they did for her – the slippery, disobedient buggers.

The spice and herb jars sat silent before me, keeping their contents secret as I filled the stock pot with water, sliding the meat into it's depths as the onion bits floated at the top, swimming. None of the jars spoke to me the way she said they spoke to her. Maybe I didn't know the language yet.

“You just know...” she used to say when I asked how much of each we needed to add. This was a recipe never written down; a recipe from the heart.

“A lot of it is in the onions,” she'd say. I didn't know what to do with that. Onions didn't seem that important to me, not so game-changing. They were just a ground vegetable that made your eyes sting.

I grew up in a house where onions were yellow and came in a mesh bag that we kept hung in the closet. It was only at my grandmother's house that I was introduced to the varieties to be enjoyed in the world.

The green soda-straw tops of the tiny, bunching sort grew anywhere and could be dug out of the ground or trimmed off in the garden out back. These were the onions that got chopped with scissors and gave her mashed potatoes and subsequent potato soup their flavor. Having spent years cooking for eight, nothing was made in small portions and nothing went to waste.

The big red ones were for eating raw and tossed into salads, meaning they didn't feature in our family menu much but often found their way into potluck offerings. The larger, sweet white ones and smaller shallots were what rich people used. Yellows were fine for us, we didn't need any of that fancy nonsense.

The chicken began to boil, the water clouding as bubbles of poultry oil and fat danced on the surface in delicious, golden hues. Salt and pepper were a given, even I knew that much, but four containers still taunted me from the counter, all filled with similar shades of green and dried leaves.

“How do you know which is which?”

“Bring them over to me.” Her hip was bothering her enough to keep her seated it seemed.

Taking the lid from one, she sniffed it and offered it to me. Skeptical, I took a whiff and was met with a flood of nostalgia.

“What do you think it is?” she asked.

I began to shrug as she rephrased, “What do you smell in that jar?”

“Stuffing,” I said simply. “It smells like Christmas and Thanksgiving dinner.”

The smile on her face grew wide enough to make her glasses slide down her nose.

“Poultry seasoning – it's for turkey, but it takes to chicken as well. Be generous with it.”

I shook the bottle over the steaming pot, watching as the onions chased each other between the cooking pieces of meat. Now we were getting somewhere.

I pried the lid from a small round container, an old margarine cup with daisies on the sides. She gestured to me to explore the contents. Dried prickly leaves and stems filled it, the scent hinting towards the same holiday dinner but without as much conviction. Taking a pinch between my fingers, I recognized the leaf shape as the one I usually had to pry from between my teeth, the same that floated in the gravy of my favorite meal – the one I was attempting now. The old faded label was taped to the side, but teased me further.

“Camlachie dirt?” I asked.

Again, I was rewarded with a grin.

“I grow and dry this one myself – it's better than from the store.”

“I don't get it,” I said, stuck on the dirt piece of the label.

“I brought this plant with me from the old farmhouse when we moved here.”

I thought about the old farmhouse in Camachie, the living space below ground and always cool, even on the hottest of summer days. The building had the same white brick façade as others from the era; unknown to her, all had been condemned or torn down in the last decade, leaving the plant as the only thing left standing from that chapter of her life.

“Winter savory – two or three pinches is enough.”

I followed her advice and replaced the cover. Stirring the pot, I found the chicken white, it's skin greying in the process. The scent made my mouth water. It took me back to every visit I'd ever made to her home.

She surprised me, reaching to take the wooden spoon from my hand. I hadn't heard her get up from the table. With an expert glance she inspected the progress and nodded, settling the spoon gently at the edge of the sink.

She shuffled to a nearby cupboard and collected the flour cannister, an old olive green Tupperware classic, and with a keen estimation scooped out the right amount into a bowl. She only added two further ingredients and quicker than I would have expected, was mixing it with a fork into a cream-colored ball of dough.

She then tossed flour onto the glass cutting board that lived on the countertop, using her newly manicured fingertips to spread it out carelessly before depositing the ball into the center of her workspace. I passed her the rolling pin, predicting the next step but still in the dark for how we had arrived so quickly.

“You scoop out the bird, put it into the dish there while I do this part.”

I was simultaneously glad to be included and disappointed – I didn't want to miss the magic, but did as I was told.

The pieces tried to fall apart as I moved them from their seasoned bath, cooked through and juicy, into their temporary home. I folded a layer of tinfoil over the dish before placing it in the oven. Meanwhile the ball had been rolled flat and she had taken up the paring knife before I could grab it. Knives in her hands made me nervous.

Starting at the top, she cut strips through the thin layer she had rolled, the metal scraping against the dappled glass with a sound that inspired warm feelings and delicious-ness in my ears, where others may have covered theirs in straining discomfort. When top to bottom was done, she went from left to right, leaving her with a selection of tiny square dough pieces, and no cuts on her skin for which I was doubly grateful.

“Turn up the heat there,” she instructed without a look, gesturing to the stock pot. As bubbles began to break the surface, she approached with a hand draped in dough squares ready to take a bath.

“Look for the bubbles and go one at a time.”

She dropped each piece gently into the bubbles, the soft onions seeming to rush up to grab them and pull down into the depths. Every so often she would pause and stir gently with the wooden spoon, waiting for the bubbles to return.

“You grab the next ones,” she invited. I copied her routine, a single layer along my hand. She stepped aside as she released the last piece into the water. I could see it had begun to thicken from the flour already.

With her spoon at the ready, I began to place my precious pieces into the slurry while she stirred and kept the onions, and tiny leaves at bay.

“It doesn't take much from here,” she said, stirring and turning the heat down low.

The potatoes had come to a boil while we worked and I got to mashing them with their green counterparts, milk and butter. Good mashed potatoes were essential.

It wasn't a meal a person could small-batch. It was meant to be shared. Between the two of us, we would have leftovers that were just as good the second time around.

I placed the chicken on each plate, and flattened the center of the potato mountains in anticipation.

She ladled out the freako, the sauce and flat dumplings we'd created, onto the potatoes, coating everything adequately until our plates almost overflowed. We sat silently enjoying the dinner – quiet except for the clash of forks against the good china she insisted we use. It was a meal I'd grown up with and a recipe that would eventually be lost as her dementia marched forward and stole her memories, though it had survived longer than most. For her, cooking this was the same as breathing – it just happened, naturally, without doubts or questions. She had so few of these left; these moments and tasks where she was sure and free from frustration and anxiety. I wanted it to last as long as possible, to spare her that. I had to catch myself so many times, to not slip and call her the name I knew her by.

It pained me to introduce myself everyday, knowing it would never stick even though she'd known me since the day I was born. But I refused to do anything to cause her stress if I could help it.

She ate eagerly, clearing her plate and asking for seconds. Her appetite hadn't abandoned her either.

“Yes, you see, it's in the onions. That's what makes this special.”

I put my hand on hers for just the briefest of moments and smiled at her.

“Yes it is,” I said. “Definitely.”