If, like me, your 'family tree' emerged from a pastiche of transatlantic crossings, diasporas, and house fires, heirlooms may be hard to come by. So, the objects I've inherited, I guard like little eggs.
Like this Osterizer, which my parents gave to me when I 'left home' for the first time. Apparently, almost thirty years prior, Lorraine had been daydreaming about making her own baby food (if, someday, she happened to become a mother). Jack, thinking that sounded like a plan, bought her a twenty-speed blender the day she telephoned him to say that she was pregnant.
And did they
ever make baby food. My brother and I ate what they ate: fried eggs, Swiss chard, elbow macaroni - helped along by this shiny locomotive. Later on, the blender was pressed into use as a smoothie maker when the little girl of the family turned out to have a 'sensitive' constitution (and palate).
Now the blender is over 30 years old. And that little girl still loves every single thing about it: the bent faceplate, the powerful motor (encased in that sexy chromed base), its heft, the colors of the plastic buttons, its old-fashioned two-prong plug, the chip in the glass pitcher, the story of its birth, the sound of its churring and chewing, and its unfailing dependability. Adam and I use it every single day.
A long way from home, but not so far when you think about it.
The recipe for Fava Beans with Yogurt and Crunchy Bits called for a few ingredients I didn't have. I improvised with baby soy beans, a teaspoon of homemade masala, and some Pinehedge Farms kefir.
