The Power of Rest

Oxtail Soup

Grocery shopping with my mom was always an adventure. She planned her days around stopping at her favorite stores. Some days, she had only enough energy for “small shops” (and a little flirting with the local butcher, or a quick stop for soppressata at the deli).

But when she was feeling well, “big shops” made her the happiest. Although I was the last of her brood living at home, she never stopped filling her cart for a boisterous family of seven, so big shops took several hours. We'd spend the better part of an afternoon wandering the aisles of the grocery store together, filling the cart with every imaginable condiment, baked good and cured meat she could get her hands on. And then some.

My mom was well known around town for her eccentric style, and the way she shopped, cooked and dressed made my family stand out even more. We were colorful (in a weird way) before reality TV made being odd and dysfunctional cool and edgy.

But, like most kids, I just wanted to fit in and eat pizza. But my mom hated blending in even more than she hated pizza (unless, maybe, it was topped with eggplant and arugula). She insisted on making Basque pickled tongue and soup with chicken feet. Normal just wasn’t her thing.

Of all the strange dishes that colored my childhood, oxtail soup stands out the most in my memories. Not because it was the strangest dish, but because nothing made my mom happier than preparing that recipe. Oxtail soup was a complex, all-day cooking event that put her collection of Depression Era cooking utensils, meat cleavers and giant cast iron dutch ovens to full use. She was in her glory on oxtail soup days.

Loosely Eastern European in origin, oxtail soup was a thick peasant stew brimming with root vegetables, tomatoes, and at least three pounds of meaty oxtails. Everything was dosed liberally with sturdy red wine, flat leaf parsley and secret pinches of her own special spices.

On those days, my mom imagined herself as Strega Nona, the aproned witch from the children's stories who was armed with a magic soup pot. She’d read to me from a battered copy of Tomie dePaola’s picture book as she was stirring. And true to form, we’d end up with enough bubbling stew to feed an entire village.

As a child, I wanted my mom to be a little less outlandish. She was known for launching into an excellent rendition of Lady Macbeth’s soliloquy while she cooked. Then, if things got dull, she’d recite some Edgar Allen Poe. She couldn’t stomach boring, in her kitchen or anywhere else.

As a kid, I was easily embarrassed, and would retreat into myself,  mentally grumbling that my mom was odd and dramatic. Then I would mope around dreaming of scrambled eggs with mild cheddar. But as I’ve grown older and had children, joys, and tragedies of my own, I’ve come to understand her kitchen madness in a new light.

My mom’s life was no cakewalk. She lost her health, a daughter, and her husband, all before she could pause to catch her breath. Grief made my mom a little crazy, and in many ways her mind and spirit were forever dented by her profound experience of suffering.

But through every sheer cliff drop of grief, she knew what kept her sane and tethered to life. Food and cooking rituals sustained and stabilized her, and were her safety net when everything else in life failed her. The kitchen was her respite from grief, and cooking was connected to a past that was unmarred by loss.

The smell of peppered oxtails browning in flour and butter reminded her of being a child on a farm with a glass of cold buttermilk. Of being a new bride with box full of recipes, or a young mother with a sleepy baby perched on her hip. On those long ago days, she sang lullabies while she cooked, and never felt the need to mutter asides about Don Quixote fighting windmills.

So now I finally understand what my mom was doing with her crazy kitchen theatrics and marathon stew sessions. She knew she’d be gone someday, just when I needed her the most. Then I’d be the one who needed a reliable tether. Thankfully, spending time at her aproned side prepared me. The cooking rituals we shared would faithfully return me to a time when I had few cares in the world.  Just my own simply set table, free from sadness, full of deliciously freewheeling dreams to nurture.

Scrambled eggs just never would have gotten the job done. Not even scrambled eggs with cheese.

Bonnie's Oxtail Soup Recipe

Although my mother never measured anything precisely, this was taken from her handwritten version of Oxtail soup.  It really is fantastic! Sometimes she added potatoes (she really didn't like them, though,  but I did!)

2 whole oxtails (she usually used more)

flour, salt and pepper (for dredging oxtails)

olive oil (for browning oxtails)

Large package celery hearts, chopped fine

8 cloves fresh garlic, chopped fine

1 large onion, chopped

1 cup fresh parsley 

1 green and red bell pepper, chopped

3 bay leaves

1 large can diced tomatoes with juice

Thyme, marjoram, basil (to taste)

6 whole peppercorns

2 tsp kosher salt

Tabasco

Lemon pepper

Freshly ground black pepper

1 cup red wine

Worcestershire sauce(to taste)

2 cans beef broth

1 can chicken broth

1 1/2 C V-8 juice

8 C water

1 c pearl barley

Dredge oxtails in flour, salt, pepper, season with few drops of Tabasco. Heat olive oil till shimmering in large cast iron dutch oven. Brown oxtails on all sides until well browned. Remove oxtails and set aside to drain. Drain excess oil from pan, but save browned bits on bottom of pan. Lightly brown celery, onion, garlic and peppers in oil, then add remaining ingredients to pan (except for barley, wine and parsley). Carefully scrape browned bits from bottom of pan when you add liquids. Simmer all, covered, for at least 2 hours until oxtails are very tender. Add parsley, barley and wine towards end of cooking time, and allow everything to simmer until flavors are mingled. Adjust seasonings to taste. Serve with crusty bread.

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