Featured Nonfiction

• Puttanesca

  Kerry L. Malawista

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  When my nephew, Dan Barber, a well-known chef, was asked the question, “Does food taste better when it’s made with love?” he replied with a laugh, “Food with love! I’m a very angry cook in my kitchen! I yell a lot . . . I hope not, because I’m really in trouble.” The interviewer wisely replied, “Maybe we can call it passion.” Passion sounded right to me. Suddenly I was reminded of eating puttanesca.

  It was during those first days after my daughter’s death, when I vacillated between numbness and overwhelming grief. I remember little from that time, other than being surrounded by family and friends. One by one they arrived in a steady stream, shedding tears, bearing hugs and platters of food. Each bringing me sustenance, yet I had utterly no appetite. To appease my family I dutifully tasted each new dish, never swallowing more then just a few bites. It was as if I could neither chew the food in my dry mouth, nor allow it past the lump in my throat that would not go away.

  Then my friend Tom arrived with two enormous pots, one with polenta, the other brimming with chicken in a puttanesca sauce that he made using skinless thighs, crushed tomatoes and garlic, Kalamata olives, capers and what tasted like an extra quantity of anchovies. There was an eye-opening hint of a flavor I couldn’t identify. Was it basil or thyme? Yet, here was the first aroma that sparked hunger in me. I took a bite. I swallowed. Suddenly, I wanted more. In that moment, my numbness was replaced by a craving that originated from somewhere deep inside of me. Did somehow this complexity of flavors capture something about my daughter, both powerful and exotic? Was this dish suffused with her or was it just that it lifted me away to a faraway place?

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