A THOUSAND FLAVORS 
by Gloria Blanchard

 Before long, crunchy bits of chicken meat, shiny with oil and speckled with black pepper, stuck to the bottom of the pan, bits that you could pop into your mouth if you were quicker than Mama's wooden spoon. 

     On special Sunday mornings, I awoke, not to the song of birds, but to the sizzle of roasting garlic. The savory aroma invaded my sleeping form and raised me from my comfortable bed as if I were a puppet on a string.

     Sniffing, smacking my lips, I dressed and followed my nose to the steamy kitchen. Long before anyone had even thought of lunch, there was Mama in her multi-colored apron, organizing the ingredients for that night's dinner. In one hand, she held a chipped and stained wooden spoon; in the other, a fistful of the pungent bulb she called "aglio." 

Mama always began the evening dinner with chunks of garlic put to "rosolare" in a frying pan coated with melted butter and a lashing of olive oil. The garlic stewed until it softened and flushed to a creamy pink and tan. Next came pieces of chicken, browning to an intense ruddy blush that I was sure happened only in this frying pan, none others. Before long, crunchy bits of chicken meat, shiny with oil and speckled with black pepper, stuck to the bottom of the pan, bits that you could pop into your mouth if you were quicker than Mama's wooden spoon. 

     Into the mixture of chicken juices, garlic, and olive oil, my mother often added her own canned, sliced mushrooms. We gathered them in the fall, plucking them out of mysterious places in the deep woods where I was too young to explore alone. As they cooked, the mushroom slices--slippery, black, and as thick as one of my father's hard-working fingers--gave up the aroma of the soil and mould in which they grew, and mingled with the scent of the simmering meat and garlic. 

     The final ingredient was a bowl-full of mashed tomatoes harvested from our terraced garden, plump and juicy tomatoes reminiscent of searing summer sunshine, the opposite of the dark-dwelling mushrooms that flourished in the coolness of the forest.

     When done, my mother set the chicken ragout aside where it would absorb the final seasonings: forceful rosemary, sweetish oregano, flat-leaved parsley, and more. Two hours was not too long. Time enough to make the polenta.

     The ingredients for this old-world staple were simple: water, corn meal, a little salt. When the salted water was singing and dancing in the battered polenta pot, Mama loosened her fingers around a fistful of yellow corn meal. In a steady stream, the tiny grains drifted into the bubbling water while she beat at it with a wooden spoon to keep the thickening paste creamy and lump-free. The corn grains absorbed the boiling water and expanded, burping and spitting thin beams, like lava erupting from a volcano. The brew gradually transformed into a thick, sun-yellow porridge. 

     Now Mama was ready to turn it out, scraping the hot polenta onto a wooden chopping block. The grainy slab, puckered like an orange skin, quivered as she formed it into one smooth, steaming mound. With a sharp knife and two quick slashes, she sliced a sign of the cross into the center: for good luck and thanksgiving. Forget to thank God, and there might not be a meal another day. 

     Wrapping the ends of a thick, white cotton string around each knowing forefinger, she slipped the string under the mound and whipped it upward, slicing the polenta in a way that was as ancient as the food itself. Several times she repeated lengthwise and crosswise slices until she had divided the polenta into neat hunks, enough for all. 

     On each plate, a piece of rosy-brown chicken nestled at the polenta's side. Both were swathed in the contents of the pan, a brick-red tomato and mushroom sauce, thick and satisfying, made more festive by flecks of chopped, green parsley. Flaky shards of white cheese, so sharp that it prickled the tongue, added the perfect contrast to the gentle taste of polenta.

     "Mille gusts," my grandmother would say, raising a glass. A thousand flavors. "Salut!"

© 2006 Gloria Blanchard