Aphrodite, A Memoir of the Senses
I love the writing of Isabel Allende. In 1998 when she published Aphrodite, A Memoir of the Senses, a book that combines artful storytelling and food, I couldn’t resist. As the book jacket describes, Allende takes “a highly personal a charmingly idiosyncratic look at the intertwined sensual arts of food and love.” In the introduction, Allende explains it this way:
“The fiftieth year of our life is like the last hour of dusk, when the sun has set and one turns naturally toward reflection. In my case, however, dusk incites me to sin, and perhaps for that reason, in my fiftieth year I find myself reflecting on my relationship with food and eroticism; the weaknesses of the flesh that most tempt me are not, alas, those I have practiced most.
I repent of my diets, the delicious dishes rejected out of vanity, as much as I lament the opportunities for making love that I let go by because of pressing tasks or puritanical virtue. Walking through the gardens of memory, I discover that my recollections are associated with the senses.”
The first 200 pages of this book are memories, folktales, historical accounts of great loves and great meals, but mostly of great loves sharing great meals. Allende proposed to create a cookbook of aphrodisiacs, recipes compiled and tested by her mother, and serve them to her husband and guests. As she admits, her best successes where when she not only prepared aphrodisiac meals, but told her guests they were being served aphrodisiac meals. When people know you are putting in the effort, they respond in kind.
The question in testing this book was never to decide if it was staying or going, but to decide if it would live on the bookshelf or in the kitchen. Is it truly a cookbook, or just a lovely book on sensuality, both physical and edible?
Before going into the recipe descriptions, I must admit that I am a romantic. I swoon. I blush. I am easily won over by dashing charm. My husband is not. He is sweet, caring, compassionate, tender, and infinitely practical.
I began with a simple hors d’oeuvre called Frivolous Prunes. These were easy to put together on a week night, and my husband and I could munch on them while the kids started on their mac and cheese. They also contain bacon, which to my husband is the most singular of ingredients. They are, simply, pitted prunes stuffed with chopped pistachios soaked in sherry. The prunes are then wrapped in bacon and baked until the bacon is crisp and the prune is soft. They are hot, sweet and succulent. I adored them! Cris was lukewarm. He felt the prunes really distracted from the bacon. Again, not a romantic.
Next I tried a simple pasta, Noodles with Artichoke. Marinated artichoke hearts, roasted red peppers, tomatoes and olives are gently heated and mixed into pasta then topped with goat cheese and basil. Allende recommends this dish, “for reconstituting exhausted and ravenous lovers.” My husband’s critical commentary was that it needed more artichoke and less red pepper.
Next I made Saffron Shrimp. To me saffron is a heady, luscious ingredient. It smells earthy and rich. It imparts an extravagant golden color to whatever it touches: cheese, rice, one’s fingers. In this dish the saffron is whipped into mascarpone cheese and tossed with warm pasta and shrimp cooked in butter. The dish is lovely to look at and smell. We both liked it, although it was a little subtle for our American palates. I might suggest using goat cheese instead of mascarpone to give a little more tang to the dish.
At this point I began to sense that my husband wasn’t as enthralled by this book and recipe testing as I was. I found myself rereading sections, pouring over erotic ingredients, lovingly concocting each recipe. My husband was eating dinner, thoroughly enjoying himself, appreciating my time and effort, but basically eating dinner. I took the opportunity of several nights of his having late meetings to cook for myself.
When cooking for myself, I always turn to soups. They had to be quick and easy because I’m making them while preparing kid dinners by myself.
I first chose Consommé Bacchus, “so named because it is recommended for restoring well-being after a night on the town and for fortifying lovers at midnight.” Or perhaps for revitalizing a solo parent after a long day with her kids. It calls for beef stock. I don’t keep beef stock in my freezer, and it seemed inappropriate to use anything from a can here so I opted for my famous fowl stock. I make this from all the carcasses of the various birds (duck, chicken, turkey) that are smoked at our annual barbecue. It is very rich, and I think, stands up to beef stock any day. The stock is poured into a pot of onion and garlic sautéed in butter, brought to a boil, topped with sherry and then poured into a warm bowl over a raw egg. This is a classic Italian style soup as well. The egg poaches in the hot broth. When broken open, the golden yolk thickens the soup. I’d never had it before. I also rarely add alcohol to my soups. Why not, on both parts I ask you. This soup was so yummy! I was full. I was satisfied. I was warm and content. I was ready to snuggle with my kids as we read bedtime books. Love has many forms.
The next night I made Rise and Walk Soup, “also called Lazarus’s Lifeblood, this is the consommé we use in Chili to cure colds.” Here the stock is mixed with curry powder, Tabasco and sherry and served with rice. Despite the heat, even my daughter liked this soup. It was tasty and cleared my head. I felt invigorated and not so full as to be bogged down.
So where does this book end up? I think it lives in the kitchen where all love starts. Our mothers feed us and send us off into the world to feed others. My kitchen, the center of my home, the center of my life, is the place where book bags get dumped, mail piles up, friends congregate and my family eats. Allende says, “…if eroticism is to flourish, stimulating edibles aren’t enough; also essential is an atmosphere where spirits rejoice and there is no place for negative words or melancholy humors.” That place, for me is my kitchen, and that place is where this book belongs.