Jaki Jean & Jackson Pollock

Ruth Fremson/The New York Times

A few days ago I read an article by Carol Vollock in the New York Times about Jackson Pollock’s One: Number 31, 1950  (NYT, “A Pollock Restored, A Mystery Revealed,“ May 26, 2013).

Abstract Expressionism is a school of art I adore.  As is Jackson Pollock’s work. 

During my years experimenting with artistic expression on canvas, I threw paint across blank canvases, convinced that Jackson would approve.  I mixed dirt with paint, laid canvases on the ground & tossed the mixture across the page.

Always building on what came before.

Some may argue that I write that way.

In Carol Vollock’s article, I learned that in cleaning & restoring Pollack’s 1950 work, the MoMA in New York discovered that layers had been added by others.  Long after the work left Pollock’s studio, long after Pollock died.

The goal, it seems, was to restore One, Number 31, 1950  to its original composition, removing what was added.  

And I wondered.  

Was One: Number 31, 1950 any less a marvel for the added layers?   Is it any more a marvel for their removal?

If all text is rewoven from bits & pieces of previous texts & music is reformed from the music that came before – does artistic expression in all mediums emerge the same way?  On canvas, on the dance floor, on the stage, on a piece of stone?

On the side of the highway, on a sidewalk, in a quilt, knitted into a scarf, a mosaic,  scrapbook page, an editorial in a high school newspaper, a post on Facebook, a child’s drawing?

I understand the need to preserve a work of art.  To remove the damage done by time & history & soot & smoke & gas lights & neglect & too many flash bulbs.

But what if we stripped all artistic expression down to its origins?  Instead of reveling in the result of reweaving, reworking, rethinking, recreating?

What wonders would we miss?

Jaki Jean on Cooking

Sunday, June 2, 2013

While I realize it is self-absorbed to admit it, I love the way the house smells when I cook.

Today I am making Estofado Verde con Pollo – a green stew with chicken.  Chicken tenders browned in peanut oil, cut up small for Jean.  Pureed tomatillos, a head of roasted garlic, mild green chilies, carrots, green onions, calabicita.  Ginger, lime.  Herbs from my garden –cilantro, oregano, basil. 

 

With her Parkinson’s, Jean cannot navigate tortillas.  So I will make corn muffins to go with her stew.  And for dessert (because Jean loves dessert), we will have melon.

I love soft, warm corn tortillas, with a splash of lime & salt, dipped into the broth of this stew.

Savoring the scent of the stew, I wonder where I can plant tomatillos without them taking over the entire garden.  

I also wonder how I developed this intense connection to cooking.  Jean did not take me into her kitchen & show me how to cook.  I watched from time to time, observing. 

But I never expressed an intense desire to learn how to cook.

During the short duration of my marriage, I perused recipe books received as wedding gifts & cooked because cooking was part of my perception of what a wife brought to the table.

After I left my marriage, my friend Louise, who was a fabulous cook, encouraged me to cook for myself.  Advice given to her by her mother when Louise’s marriage ended.  

At least once a week, cook an entire meal.  Take out the cloth napkins & china & fine glasses & prepare a feast for yourself.

I think that is where it began, my passion for creating in the kitchen.

That & Julia Child on PBS.

When I moved out of singlesville to inside the Loop & Montrose, my friends Marguerite & Richard Pulley introduced me to a plethora of fine cooks.  And what I learned from them was better than attending a culinary school.

From Marguerite, I learned to appreciate the cooks among us.

From Susan Chambless, I learned where to find a wealth of recipes – in the Houston Junior League Cookbook.  Susan also introduced me to a truly finely prepared corned beef & cabbage dinner; the wonder of tamales & champagne; chicken fried dove breasts, surrounding a jalapeno, drenched in gravy. 

From John Chambless, I learned that basil & black olives go well with good tuna salad.  Not to mention how to make nutritious food for geriatric dogs.

From Linda Garren, I learned that it is possible to make an omelet in cast iron, that it is insane to buy canned cranberry sauce when it is so easy to make fresh, that it is ridiculous to buy grated parmesan when you can buy a chunk & grate it yourself & save money.  And that the beauty of a big kitchen is you can assign tasks to the guests, sip wine & share stories.

From my Alpha Son Nick’s father I learned to appreciate green olives in a venison stew, the value of a country pate & how to fry eggs with a bit of vinegar & herbs.  And how to boil & serve lobster.

Of course there are others.  

Rie Davidson who coated a platter of brie with green salsa & served it with chunks of a baguette.  Connie Tuthill who carved out a purple cabbage & filled it with blue cheese dip, accompanied by fresh vegetables resting in carved out bell peppers.

I still use both presentations.

Cooking is a gender neutral passion.  I can recall every meal prepared for me by a man – not just the menu, but the presentation.  Who used cloth napkins, who prepared a vinaigrette for the salad, who served the best wine & the most tempting desserts.

I remember those meals with more clarity than the meals served me in restaurants.  Although the men in & out of my life & my bed fed me very well. 

I learned to eat escargot at a restaurant in Houston, to appreciate Thai & Vietnamese cuinsine in Paris (where I also learned I did not like tripe).  I first experienced Indian food in London.  I tasted vintage port at La Colombe d'Or & Eggs Sardou at Brennan's.

One evening, I learned that you can send the wine back & challenge the wine steward to a test:

Open every bottle in the case.  If every bottle is not bad, I will buy the case.

The entire case of wine was flawed.  The wine steward paid for dinner.

But I only remember snippets of those meals.  Snippets of the conversations that took place. 

Not like the detail I remember of the meals a man prepared for me.  I can visualize how each of them moved in the kitchen, creating.  The dishes each used, the pots & pans & utensils & wine glasses.  And the conversations that took place on those evenings.

Perhaps I paid more attention, recognizing in those chefs something of myself.  I am comfortable in the studio of a kitchen, confident of the creation that will emerge from my efforts.  

All of which is rather dramatic, isn’t it?  After all, it is only food.

Food that nourishes, food that satisfies, food that touches & stimulates & heals.

Hell, yes, it is dramatic.  And fierce.

In my youth, I cooked to impress or seduce.  To provide the most spectacular stuffed mushrooms, the perfect soufflé, Coquilles Saint-Jacques à la Parisienne, Spinach Fettucine with Artichoke Mushroom Sauce, amazing quiche.  The perfect filet mignon with béarnaise sauce. 

Anything Julia Child cooked.

Raising my sons, I still cooked spectacular stuffed mushrooms, many a soufflé, scallops & mushrooms in white wine sauce, amazing quiche & that famous artichoke & mushroom sauce over fettucine.  I also served macaroni & cheese.

My Alpha Son Nick told his kindergarten teacher that lobster was his favorite food.  He also refused to eat sandwiches until he was five.  Omega Son Sam refused almost anything without ketchup.  Eventually he grew out of the ketchup obsession.

Today both of them cook.  For themselves, for & with others.

I wonder if it feels for them the way it feels for me.  If they sense its meaning, the providing others with something important to our survival as civilized beings.

Now I cook for Jean, focusing on protein & Vitamin C & antioxidants & iron & calcium. 

The focus has changed, the passion moving from creating something impressive to creating something healthy, nourishing, satisfying.  Something that stimulates & heals.

El Estofado Verde con pollo estaba delicioso.

Dinner with Richard

Last week I met my friend Richard Pulley for dinner at Spanish Village.

And for a brief moment, time stood still.

In the ever changing landscape of Houston, Spanish Village has survived for over fifty years.   

I first went to the Village when I was married to Mr. Barnhill.  The garage doors opening onto Almeda Street were open.  Accustomed to El Paso Mexican cuisine, I was appalled when my chile relleno came out in a green bell pepper instead of a poblano.

A few years later, after I left Mr. Barnhill, I rediscovered Spanish Village.  I can no longer remember if I first re-visited the Village with Richard’s wife Marguerite for a working lunch or if it was the day Marguerite found me an apartment in the inner city.  That day, John Chambless drove us to the Village in a very cool car.

What I do remember are the conversations & companionship, the insane consumption of margaritas, the waiters recognizing us by name & knowing our standard orders.  And Richard cutting us off, because he said he could handle one of us, just not both.

So Richard was in town on business, preparing to go to Iraq, assuring me it was in the no-fly zone.  And we met at Spanish Village.

Richard was raised in Houston & first went to the Village in 1958.  I know this because he told me the story of how his father & mother went with Richard & Marguerite for dinner at the Village.  The waiters waxed poetic over Richard & Marguerite.

Dr. Pulley’s response:  I brought you here in 1958.

This is what happens at the Village.  People share stories.  I spoke of my efforts at a garden.  Richard spoke of gophers, & his frustration at gardening.

Sitting there, sampling the salsa I remembered, talking with Richard, I was happy that the Village is part of my past & my present.

For Richard, it was a taste of home in a city that changes daily.

For me, it was a part of my experience, my history, my story that I refuse to let go.

 As are Richard & Marguerite.

Jaki Jean, Heroics, & Sainthood

The other day my sister said You are my hero.

Months ago my friend Marguerite you are a saint.

I am, of course, neither.   Hero(ine) nor saint.

My friend Shirley says it is a blessing, what you do for your mother Jean.

I agree that it is a blessing & a privilege to have this time with Jean.  But it is a blessing grounded in my sister’s generosity & support & her love for our mother, not in any propensity on my part toward heroics or sainthood.

Last Saturday, my sister & her husband David came over.  David to help my brother Jason hang a door & my sister to hang.  She asked me what I had done that morning.

I washed the dishes.  I replied.

From the look on her face, I do believe that my hero status fell several notches.

I didn’t explain that after the sun woke me, I took care of Jean’s morning toilet.  And I made breakfast:  Fresh orange juice, an omelet with potatoes, scallions & tomatoes, accompanied with a side of sliced avocado.  I made sure Jean took her meds & finished all of her protein drink.  And I fed Eli & let him out for his morning toilet.  I started a load of laundry, folded a completed load resting in the dryer, took a shower & saw to Jean’s post-meal toilet.  And I cut two roses to put in a vase in Jean’s room.

And then I washed the dishes.

Washing the dishes seemed a heroic accomplishment in the midst of Jean’s breakfast, Eli’s breakfast, an omelet for myself (with fresh jalapenos) &  accompanying side but no freshly squeezed orange juice, Jean’s toiletries,  Eli’s morning ritual, the laundry & my shower.  And remembering my own meds.

But then my propensity for heroics & sainthood has been greatly exaggerated.  

But my appreciation of the wonder & joy to be found in accomplishing the minutiae has never been exaggerated. 

Even washing dishes.