The Alchemy of Simple Ingredients

Simple food

In the dining room of a small country cottage, a table is set for four. A chequered tablecloth covers a rustic wooden table. Each place holds a cloth placemat under a white plate, with spoon, fork, and a napkin. 

Simple setting for simple fare. Alice looks up as she places a fresh baguette on the table beside a bowl of pasta. The boys enter, carrying a bowl of steaming tomato sauce. 

The smells of cooked tomatoes, garlic, basil and chilli intertwine to fill the air. Alice’s husband, Barry, walks a step behind their son in law, Albert, who is carrying the bowl.

Albert has heard stories from when his wife, their daughter, Emily, was young. Barry would haze any boy she would bring to meet them, testing them with this, his signature sauce, cooked with fresh ingredients, grown in his garden.

Albert wanted to try his hand.

Alice’s eyes meet Barry’s. A private question and answer, passed between them in a fleeting look Albert doesn’t notice. Evidently Alice is satisfied with the response, her pursed lips relax. She takes a moment, inhaling the familiar scent.

She had questioned the wisdom of this little test. The practice had ceased for good reason. It wasn’t Barry’s role to break Emily’s suitors. These humble ingredients have undone Emily’s relationships before. Lately, they have challenged even Barry's years of practice and skill, new balances and combinations not meeting his exacting standards.

Albert had insisted.

With relief, Alice can smell that this is a good sauce. Perhaps this meal can even ease the tension of her husband’s dissatisfaction with his own cooking. The sauce’s scent is a warm hug from an old friend.

She smiles encouragingly at Albert. Albert tries to smile back, but his nerves are evident.

“It smells wonderful Albert,” she says, voice betraying none of her doubts, “Shall we eat?”

First the tomatoes.

Behind the cottage lies Barry’s garden. Nothing ostentatious. Vegetables in rows, functional and useful.

“If you’re going to do something, do it right. Do it well.”

Barry’s mantra as a carpenter. It had served equally well in his gardening. He’d started small, expanding as the years passed, successes and failures fueling his ambitions. 

He’d started with seeds from leftovers. Tomatoes, chillies, pumpkin seeds unconsumed at dinner. As he learned what he liked, his range broadened, with increasing plants and varieties of his favourites.

By the time Alice handed Albert a basket, warily observing Barry usher him into the garden, a variety of tomatoes awaited. Large, photo friendly heritage beefsteaks, vines of cherry tomatoes, perfect Romas. 

“The first step,” Barry had lectured, “is the right tomato. This is your foundation, it has to taste good, it has to carry the other flavours. It has to stick to the pasta just right.” 

Albert listened intently, though he knew from Emily’s stories just what his father-in-law would say. “It needs to be ripe. Firm, give just a little when you hold it, ready to be plucked by a good twist.”

“If you like,” he’d offered with a wave of his hand, “try a couple! Taste them, find what you like.”

That’s how this test originated. Seeking the right tomato. For Barry’s sauce. For Emily’s boyfriends.

Years ago, when Emily had left for college, she’d been excited. About moving out, independence, and trying new things. She’d spread her wings to explore the parallel almost-adult world that College offered.

Alice and Barry had left the suburbs, turned their little cottage from holiday house to home. Her first semester break, Emily had brought a boy named Todd to visit. 

Barry tried to tell Todd about the right tomato. About carrying flavours and sticking to the pasta. Encouraged him to pick a couple and taste them.

Todd had marched up to the biggest bush, with the biggest tomatoes. He’d yanked, without caring the fruit’s resistance meant it wasn’t ready. Todd pulled harder, ripping off a branch along with his prize.

Todd’s sauce had been a little sour, a little runny. 

Todd had turned out as rough and thoughtless in his treatment of their daughter’s heart as the tomato bush. As Alice helped Emily mend her torn emotions, she’d sworn through tears to pay attention to how a boy behaved in Barry’s garden.

“Which one would Em choose?” Albert asked Barry. “Which one would make her smile?”

Barry considered pushing Albert to choose himself, but reminded himself, this test was not an attempt to demoralise Albert. Barry guided the younger man to a bush dangling long, skinny red fruit.

“Emily brought me the seeds for these,” he shared, “San Marzano. Like a Roma, only sweeter, if you can believe it.”

When Alice peeked from the cottage window, she’d seen Albert quietly and respectfully plucking San Marzano’s to fill his basket, and felt a surge of hope.

What level of spice can you handle?

Just past the tomatoes are the origin of Barry’s green thumb. His chillies.

“Do you like spicy food?” Barry had asked, and watched Albert weigh his answer. 

Barry can tell Albert wants to ask what Emily likes again. 

“Don’t try to match Emily,” he warns, anticipating Albert’s question, “She grew up popping peppers most people haven’t even heard of!”

Albert had learned that the hard way.

He’d seen her eat hot chillies and smile in response. A smile that starts from her eyes with a crinkle, but finds its home in her cheeks. A single dimple in her left cheek which creates a charming asymmetry. It would draw his eye, make him want to share the joy which inspired it. 

Those peppers did not bring Albert joy. They brought pain.

“Tomato and chilli are great friends,” Barry had continued, “sweet and spice are a perfect couple. But it’s easy to get wrong.”

“I don’t mind some spice,” Albert said, a little defensively.

“Here are some Thai chillies. You could go for Jalapenos. Most people eat them pickled, they’re surprised to learn how sweet they are. Then you get into your habaneros and hotter peppers.”

A rainbow of peppers of all shapes and sizes dangle from small bushes. They’ve started at the left where some of the milder ones are, and are slightly past halfway as Barry gestures to the habaneros.

Albert stands to the far right of the bed.

“Careful, those are much hotter! Be sure before you pick any of those!”

Hot chillies are why they stopped this test.

Barry thinks back to poor Tyler. Sincere, soft spoken, but wanting to prove himself. Barry had stood by as Tyler bravely - foolishly - selected a ghost chilli.

Tyler couldn't finish his meal. His attempt to win respect became embarrassment, overcome by the intense heat of the extreme pepper. 

Tyler and Emily broke up less than a week later. Barry couldn’t be sure the sauce was the cause. He certainly hadn’t meant to embarrass the kid. Barry had learned a lesson. Whatever this test meant to Albert, Barry wanted to know his son-in-law better, not drive him away. 

Barry leaned forward, plucked a pair of milder, bright red bird's eye chillies. 

“People underestimate these because they’re small,” he said, “try one, see what you think.”

Albert watched as Barry popped one in his own mouth. Crunched three times, swallowed. He’d watched Emily do the same thing. Three casual crunches, releasing the seeds’ fire as if an invitation to a good friend.

Albert tried to replicate Barry’s approach. He crunched three times, then tried to hide his discomfort. The seed's fire on his tongue was tolerable. Barry didn’t call further attention to it.

“A couple of these will sort you out. ”

Peeking from the kitchen window, seeing Barry save Albert from himself made Alice smile.

Get the right garlic

At the back of the garden is Barry’s shed.

In some lost incarnation of the old whitewashed wooden building, a previous owner must have worked on his car there. Inside, the floor was a solid sheet of concrete. Against one wall was a workbench, above which hung Barry’s gardening tools.

Beside it, seven braids of Garlic hung in a row.

The shed smelled of garlic, soil, and maybe, if Barry’s really honest, a little bit of dry sweat from honest hard work.

Barry walked past the bench, to a small bar fridge. He produced a pair of beer bottles, handed one to Albert, and smiled inwardly. If Alice could see this she’d be surprised. He knew she worried he’d turn Albert into another Tyler. 

“Ever had garlic that didn’t come from a supermarket?” Barry asks him. 

“I haven’t.” Admits Albert, contemplating the braids.

“There are as many kinds of garlic as chillies, or tomatoes. All different. ”

“Really? How do I choose?”

A great question. 

After Tyler, Emily had stopped bringing boys to meet Barry. 

Instead, she started bringing garlic. Barry hadn’t realised how many types of garlic there were. It had been Emily’s discovery. She brought some for Barry, so he’d planted it, cultivated it. He’d made a sauce with it which she’d declared was the best he’d ever made.

She’d taken to bringing him a new garlic each year. The seven braids hanging in the shed were a measure of how long their adventure had lasted.

Before Emily got sick.

“How adventurous do you want to be?” Asks Barry.

Albert paused.

“Which would Em choose?”

Barry considered making Albert choose again. Like the chillies. But here, in the face of his seven year dialogue with Emily, he can hear the words behind Albert’s question.

“Can you help me to know her? Just a little bit better?”

Each of these braids are memories. Experiences shared growing, cooking and experimenting with his daughter. 

The first braid is delight and discovery. The second confirmation they’d found something special. The next few are increasingly exotic explorations. Black garlic, Creole garlic, elephant garlic.  

The last pair came after the diagnosis. They were attempts to refine what they’ve learned. To perfect their flavours, before running out of time.

Which one would she choose? Which garlic would Emily want Barry to offer to this man she’d decided to marry in the last months of her life?

Barry reaches for the leftmost braid, pulls off a whole bulb. The variety which had started the collection. He will open the door for Albert, the other man can decide whether to walk through.

“Purple stripe, hard neck garlic.” Barry declares, “stronger flavour than you’ll be used to, even a little spicy. It’ll go really well with those chillies.”

Basil and salt

By the backdoor of the cottage, Barry built an outdoor kitchen. Benchtop, sink and hotplate, everything he needs. A space where he can cook the food he grows on the hotplate he built to share with people he loves.

“Don’t be shy with basil and salt.” Barry instructs, pointing to the herbs growing beside the bench.

Once this hotplate prepared many foods. These days, it is exclusively for Barry’s alchemy of sauce.

Barry works hard to keep the hotplate clean. The centre gleamed where Albert deposited olive oil on its silver surface. Somehow, the edges always seem to rebuild layers of charred tomato and garlic, symbols of the work Barry puts into perfecting his sauce.

While Emily was ill, the garden was Barry’s refuge. He couldn’t cure cancer, couldn’t provide medicine. What he could do was try to make his daughter smile.

And when Emily had gotten so sick she had to move in with Barry and Alice, the one way he seemed able to bring joy was food. So as the drugs attacked her taste buds, took her hair, and dulled her smile, Barry had warred against the tide of inevitability using flavours from his garden. 

He had fanatically reduced tomatoes, enticing sugars to dance on her tongue. He balanced spices till delicious fire erupted on her lips. He caramelised, fried and sauteed clove after clove of garlic, layering earthy pungence into umami bliss. 

It wasn’t enough.

As Emily’s sense of taste waned, his last stand was made at this hotplate with the simple aniseed and peppery flavours of fresh basil. His final ally was his salt shaker. He learned it was difficult to go too far with either of these things when battling Emily’s cancer drugs. 

Barry extracted every last moment of culinary joy which he could to offer to his dying daughter.

Now, he pretended not to notice as Alice peeked with concern at him from the kitchen window as he watched Albert cook. This hotplate had become a place apart. Here, he had pushed these flavours so far to let Emily taste them, and now she was gone, he couldn’t find his way back.

“How far do I take the garlic before I add the tomatoes?” Asked Albert.

“Play it by feel. This is your sauce, not mine, you’re doing well.”

The truth was Barry didn’t know anymore. Once, he wouldn’t have needed to look at the ingredients to answer. He would have smelled the moment the garlic caramelised. Could have heard it in the sizzle.

Now he was unsure. Hold some in reserve? Or fry it all hard, on a high heat?

“Trust yourself.”

Words he’d used as he taught Emily his tricks for turning five simple ingredients into a wide range of flavours. And she had. Even at the end, she’d trusted herself to marry this man, with months left in her life.

“Tell me about her.” Barry asked Albert. Forcing the words past his clenching throat. 

Albert started softly.

“Em and I knew each other from when we were kids.” He adds the tomatoes with a sizzle and a puff of smoke as he starts to speak.

The heat is probably a little high. Barry reaches and turns it down, just a little. Albert lets him. 

Barry vaguely recalled Albert had lived in their old neighbourhood. 

“We went to the same college. We ran into each other occasionally. Did a group project together once. We weren’t close then though.”

Albert starts adding chopped chilli, bit by bit. Barry doesn’t do it that way. Either fry up front or mixed with the tomatoes. He doesn’t interfere.

“We reconnected online a couple of years back.” A couple of years. After she got sick. “We really talked. About everything. About anything.”

“Near the end, when I would visit, she would always smile when I walked in. Right up to the end. We’d talk online, and she’d sound so sad, tired. When I’d see her, she’d always smile.”

“I would have done anything to keep her smiling.”

Barry could relate.

Back at the table.

Albert deposits his bowl of sauce on the table. Alice and Barry move to their chairs. Albert looks uncertainly toward the two remaining places.

“She sat there,” Barry gestures to the empty place at Alice’s left, his voice tightens, “you can sit there if you like.”

Albert understands this is not an offer Barry wants him to accept. He moves to the place at Barry’s right.

“Thank you for this,” Albert says quietly as he sits, “today helped me.”

Barry leans forward and starts serving. 

“Thank you. For letting me get to know you better.” Says Barry.

“I understand it must have been a shock for you both, us getting married.” says Albert.

“No.” Says Alice at the same time as Barry says “Yes.”

Alice and Albert almost laugh. A ghost of a smile tugs Barry’s mouth. The room’s mood eases, though tension remains in Barry’s shoulders.

“You helped more than in Em’s stories.” Says Albert eventually.

“Yes,” Alice chimes in, “you were very helpful today Barry.”

Barry knows what she’s really saying.

“You must like this boy. You never helped the others.”

He grunts his reply. 

“What did you think, Alice? Is he good enough for our girl?”

“What do you think of the sauce?” Albert asks, oblivious to the subtext flying around him.

Barry grunts again.

Alice answers, “It reminds me of the sauces Barry and Emily used to make together. Come on Barry. Give the poor boy more than a grunt!” 

Through the playful words, Barry hears the unspoken demand.

“Enough deflecting Barry, you put your heart into helping this boy today. He put his heart into this food. He’s searching for connection. Tell him if he found it.”

Barry hesitates. 

“I think,” Barry says slowly, staring into the sauce as if it contains words he lacks, “that this sauce is delicious. Best I have had in a long time.”

“I think,” he continues, “the tomato is everything it should be. Sweet and thick, with a kick from the chilli and garlic. The basil and salt are just right.” 

“I think,” he pauses, “I think Emily would have loved it.”

He looks up, locks eyes with Albert.

“And I think that for the man who could make my daughter smile at the end, I would be glad he was here, even if it weren’t.”

Barry looks back to his food. Silence reasserts itself, but the tension has left the room. The sound of clinking cutlery is companionable. 

Albert feels relief settle in his chest. Unable to parse the silent second conversation, he can still sense that somehow, he has passed this old test. He feels welcome, close to Emily. 

He observes Barry as he eats. The man looks peaceful, weighing flavours, lost in his alchemy of simple ingredients, decoding the language of tonight's sauce.

He turns to Alice, and as she eats Albert sees an expression he hadn’t thought to see again. On Alice's face, a smile is breaking out. It starts from her eyes with a crinkle, but it’s in her cheeks it really finds home. A single dimple in her left cheek offers a familiar asymmetry, drawing his eye. Making him want to share the joy which inspired it. 

And as he tastes this pasta and sauce, this signature food of the family he has married into, he does.