Vegetables and Friends
Providing for your providers is a worthwhile endeavor.
Olivia and I, while in the afterglow of a smoldering campfire, made dinner in the cast iron pan I’d lugged all the way up from Brooklyn to Delhi, New York. We were staying on Neil and Susan’s property in a converted barn turned antique furniture showroom/apartment and while externally the building was certainly still a barn, the interior had been adorned with Susan’s paintings and was filled with a medley of furniture from different design eras across the centuries. Self-proclaimed former Brooklyn hippies themselves, our weekend neighbors made it a point to let us know that, should we need anything, we’d need only knock.
We’d not the time nor tooling in the barn’s kitchen to pulverize chilis, herbs, and aromatics into a harmoniously spicy Thai curry paste that evening, nor the ingredient availability to properly season and do justice to a nine-gem korma. So earlier that day, we’d opted for a store-bought can of yellow Maesri curry paste, and whatever vegetables looked good/were in-season where we were. Tempeh, spring greens, carrots, sweet potatoes, and a side of rice which we cooked in vegetable stock. A can of curry paste and chili oil to make quick work of the flavor base, while saving us from having to buy and lug home jars of individual spices. Whatever ingredients we could find at Good Cheap Food, a wonderful community market located in Delhi proper, were lovingly thrown together to make something greater than the sum of its parts. And even then, what this delivers dish delivered in physical nourishment, is doubly delivered in emotional fulfillment. All at once comforting, fresh, quick, affordable, nourishing, ~positive vibes ad nauseam~.
(I am hesitant to refer to this meal template as “curry”, a word “that was popularized as a way to make blanket assumptions about a cuisine that’s actually really diverse,” explains Priya Krishna regarding Indian cuisine - it is a similar umbrella term that overshadows dishes in South and Southeast Asian cuisine. So as to not promote additional bastardization and use curry as a crutch word, we’ll refer to our camp/cabin kitchen creation as something Olivia has referred to it as before - “Vegetables and Friends” or V&F for short.)
We roasted our heartier vegetables and tempeh directly in the embers of the fire, and sautéed our aromatics in the cast iron on a grate set above the fire pit. A bottle of Gragnano kept us company, and may or may not have been empty by the time we carried two bowls full over time Neil and Susan’s home a few steps away from our campfire cookout, tenderly wrapped in tinfoil to keep warm as the early spring night came on with quite the chill. After the first few knocks, Neil shuffled over to the door and tore it open, his tall frame obscuring the reveal of his home’s interior, of which we could see stacks of books, sculptures, sketch paper tacked to the walls, and two or more cats scampering away to observe us visitors from a safer vantage point. Olivia and I were given a tour of their cozy abode, very clearly the home of artists - Susan was a painter and curator by trade, while Neil collected and catalogued antiques. A built-by-Neil cedarwood sauna, attached like a sidecar to the living room. Throughout their living spaces were WIP art ventures, one-off furniture designs, and books aplenty. The warmth radiating from their willingness to share a glimpse into their storied lives with a couple’a’kids matched the warmth in our bellies. I knew, then, that we’d make this dish a travel mainstay, and share its warmth wherever and whenever needed.
Just this past weekend, Olivia and I joined my parents for a big double date, a weekend trip up north to Vermont that my mother had planned for my birthday. We’d bike, we’d hike, we’d stay cozy at night, we’d peep leaves and perpetually comment on how beautiful the Autumnal landscapes were (as one is legally obligated to do, I believe). Upon waking the first morning, I realized I’d written in my journal, “Vermont is a painting”, twice.
I’d spent my childhood visiting Bernie’s State to ski, and at one point as a high school junior seriously contemplated spending 4 years of my life at the mercy of Lake Champlain’s cruel, whipping winter winds while touring and applying to colleges in Burlington (and though I didn’t end up there, I did replace those cruel winds with Lake Ontario’s, opting to stay cold and study in Rochester, NY).
My folks have spent much time in Vermont, and pre-Caitlin and I, were avid outdoorspeople, mountain biking around Lake Champlain’s surrounding trails. Thus, this area made for a natural date spot selection. On our first night there, in the spirit of reciprocation, we asked my parents if we could cook them dinner as repayment for their generosity in planning and providing for us this trip. Mom warily agreed. Dad let us know he wanted a snack.
One thing to know about my mother is that she doesn’t let anybody go hungry. The most selfless social worker in Southeastern Pennsylvania never shows up anywhere empty-handed. Entirely-too-much snack spreads, budding chrysanthemums, or a handwritten card seem to somehow appear alongside my mother, to be handed off to whoever she’s visiting. She ensures that everybody she connects with is reminded of their worth and humanity. Lucy is a caretaker, a provider, and an unrelentingly kind soul. Providing for others leaves little room for self-care - as a child, I noticed mom would often return home with take-out food for the family, though take only a handful of nuts and Cheez-Itz for herself, eaten beside her laptop - a byproduct of the mountain of social work documentation, and the exhaustion of providing for those who can’t or won’t provide for themselves.
I used to feel embarrassed whenever we’d be buying our weekly groceries, as she’d lean over the rice and fruit, getting a bit too close to the high school cashier so she could scrunch up the porous nose that we share, adjust her tortoiseshell glasses and say, “…Anjelica! What a great name. Thank you so much for helping us out today!” Eight-year-old me would be red with embarrassment, but I like to think that Anjelica, Ryan, or whoever was manning the checkout conveyor belt, felt seen, heard, and loved if even for a brief moment.
When I butt heads with my mother these days, it’s usually about her over-providing, overwhelming others with generosity, while not allowing said generosity to be returned to her. I seek not to put down my mother’s unwavering selflessness - but goddamn does that woman deserve reciprocity for the love she gives so freely.
Olivia and I entered the abbondanza of Middlebury Natural Foods Co-op’s locally-grown, organic produce section and looked at each other with silent understanding - Vegetables and Friends it was. Lengthy chestnut mushrooms, delicate-skinned delicata squash, pre-seasoned tofu (hell yeah), a head of purple cauliflower sharing a hue with the potatoes beside it - thrown into the cart with fervor (along with sugar-sweet gifts of Vermont maple syrup and honey for friends back in New York, because, of course). Seasonal abundance. I could’ve lived in that place. As my mother entered the store, she saw what we were doing and swiftly began to add things to our trove, perhaps in competition with our provision - who here would prove themselves the ultimate provider?
At the checkout line, a clash ensued. I had stepped in front of my mother in the checkout line. She saw what I was doing, and stopped loading the conveyor belt - I pulled out my debit card.
“NOOOOOOO!”
She dove forward to challenge me. “Get. out. of. the. way.” the woman who gave me the gift of life hissed through gritted teeth now armed with a card of her own (it’s giving I brought you into this world and I can take you out!). Too much for her already was it that we would attempt to feed her that evening - she would not allow us to pay for the meal-enabling groceries too. I watched dad outside the window, leaning on his e-bike, scrolling Twitter.
I made light of the situation, not recognizing the full tidal wave of intensity behind her need to provide for us at that moment. “Nah, ma, it’s fine. I got it,” I said, smiling. Another affront. Her offense was unrelenting. People began to watch. We sparred with our forearms, trying to tap or insert our cards before the other had a chance. Our wallets became our shields and debit cards were swords slashing through the air, as Olivia and the surrounding Vermonters looked on in horrified or bewildered amusement (which one, though, I couldn’t tell, as I was locked in an all-out duel with my mother). It was too late. My RFID was faster, as my tap card hit the reader with a satisfying beep. Look at me… look at me! I’m the provider now.
The dust had settled and we returned to the cute af farmhouse (replete with Live, Laugh, Love paraphernalia adorning most every corner). Olivia and I immediately got to prepping; it’s a familiar dance at this point. Veggies and their friends are chopped. Some things might get roasted. Some type of spicy stew (not curry) emerges from their combination. A starch is set over the stove. Then, the table is set, or perhaps a neighbor’s door is knocked on.
Dinner was lovely, and much needed after our chilly afternoon bike ride. Mom and dad enjoyed V&F, and mom was even able to provide some of the soup she’d prepared ahead of our trip and frozen for the drive up as a welcome appetizer.
Vegetables and Friends is less about having a go-to meal format when coziness is required on the road (though that’s exactly what it achieves). If you ask me, it’s more about well-being. Yes, it’s got to be flavorful, a little spicy and warming, and texturally interesting, but most importantly, it’s got to be shared (which’s gotta be where the “and Friends” part comes in). And the act of providing for providers, whether it’s a couple of old hippies sharing their land with us for a weekend, or my parents wanting to host my partner and me for a big double date in a different state, nourishes completely.
