Pam Linn
There’s nothing like a free book exchange to clear the shelves of old volumes catching dust but not the imagination. The kind of light fiction read once, no need to go there again. It seems I’ve taken cartons of old books to every one of these events, and yet my library is not visibly smaller. That’s because I always find a dozen or so of those books I missed but always wanted to read.
So last Sunday, I hauled two full canvas grocery bags to Pine Mountain Club, promising myself I would return with at least one empty bag. What I brought was a dozen biographies and memoirs, mostly of film folks, two-dozen paperback spy and mystery novels, and 10 hardcover nonfiction for the “Self-Help” table.
Part of the fun is watching to see who takes the books you’ve brought. My favorite local writer made a quick pass by the “Self-Help” section and made a beeline for the eclectic table where my biographies were laying cheek-by-jowl with cook books, poetry and kiddie lit and such. The first book he picks up is one I donated, “Inside the Third Reich,” by Albert Speer (Hitler’s architect). History is what I read most, he said. I probably should read the self-help books but I just can’t get into it.
I was looking for a cookbook. An old one with traditional recipes that don’t call for mixes or Jell-O or canned soups. What I found was a slender spiral-bound volume, copyright 1969, by the International Committee of the Southern California Symphony/Hollywood Bowl Association. “The Cook & the Cadenza” is an annotated cookbook, all proceeds from the sale of which go to the Operating Fund of the Los Angeles Philharmonic Orchestra. Recipes were contributed by eminent musicians, distinguished citizens, wives of the Consular Corps and members of the International Committee. The title warrants an explanation: cadenza being a musical passage in the style of a brilliant improvisation that shows the skill of the performer. The dishes, the editor writes, were “the inspired … masterpieces of an artist. Rich not only in calories, but in tradition.”
The connection between food and music has a history of its own, and these are mentioned in vignettes with the recipes about the background of a dish, anecdotes about the individual who created it or the occasion made memorable when it was served. Many artists were also great cooks, which probably accounts for their ample girths. Rossini, it is rumored, became so fat from his own cooking he could no longer get through his own doorway. The table of contents draws the association between food and music thusly: Hors d’oeuvres … Preludes and a Few Hot Fugues; Breads and Pasta … Concerto Grosso; Desserts … Suites, etc. The afterword is, of course, the Coda.
The directions in some cases reflect the persona of the chef. As composer, conductor John Green’s instructions for Popovers. He assumes nothing about the expertise of the cook preparing his recipe. Hence many asides, all in caps, such as “Beat the eggs until they are light, very bubbly and full of air. DO NOT LET THEM GO CREAMY OR LEMON-Y OR YOU’VE WRECKED YOUR POPOVERS! Close the oven door gently … DON’T YOU DARE OPEN THE OVEN DOOR TO PEEK THROUGHOUT THESE FIRST 30 MINUTES! If you do you’ll have pancakes.” In contrast, Maestro Henri Tamianka’s instructions for making Wiener schnitzel include musical references. “Beg, borrow or steal choice filets of veal (European meat market preferred) and have them pounded. Dip in beaten egg and bread crumbs, repeat this process da capo and ad libitum. Allow to simmer 30 minutes sotto voce… squeeze fresh lemon juice over them and sprinkle with fresh ground pepper, allegro con brio. Zubin Mehta once appeared on TV wielding a wooden spoon instead of a baton demonstrating his Shrimp Patia with yellow coconut rice. His instructions in the book, however, are straightforward with no embellishment. Possibly because the recipe was contributed by his mother. It should be noted that Mehta’s girth is moderate as is the fat content of the recipe, which uses oil instead of butter and coconut milk instead of cream, a nod to Indian tradition. Opera diva Mary Costa’s Crab Casserole is simplicity itself. Given a pound of fresh crabmeat, crumbled saltines, mayonnaise, milk, Worcestershire sauce, mustard, lemon and a bit of butter, anyone could do it. I plan to try as soon as I can locate some really fresh crab. And I will resist the impulse to substitute vegannaise, low fat crackers and soymilk, at least the first time. Nancy Reagan gives her personal permission to make substitutions to her Strawberry Angel Food Delight. “This can be made with dietetic ice cream and Jell-O, and you’ll never know the difference, and angel food is made with only the whites of the eggs … not the fat loaded yolks.” Judging from her slender girth, she knows from whence she speaks.
So my book exchange find will lend an upbeat to my culinary arts for a while, and Julia Child will get a well-deserved rest. The spine fell completely off her book last week but I hadn’t the heart to give it away. Perhaps my girth will shrink along with the load on my bookshelves.