LETTERS From CAMP Rehoboth |
BOOKED Solid |
A Review byRebecca James |
Toast: The Story of a Boy's Hunger Nigel Slater, 2003
My mother's family is Italian and for many Italians, food equals love. Of course, my mother is only half Italian, so she is frequently confused and often forgets that if the food presented is not something the food receiver likes or even eats, then the point of the ritual is lost. I vividly recall bawling at the dining room table as a small child because the wonderful dinner my mother had slaved over for the entire afternoon and set on the table as a virtual monument to her unspoken love for us was chock full of onions, shredded crab, and numerous other items I would never in a million years have allowed to pass my lips as a child. Since I grew up with this behavior, it no longer shocked me. When I took my partner home for Christmas dinner the first year we were together, however, and my mother carefully placed an enormous tray of pot roast in front of me, Beth was taken aback. I hadn't eaten red meat in years, and Beth was amazed at the calm with which I reheated leftover vegetable lasagna. Hunger comes in many forms, and it is satiated in many different, often surprising, ways. British chef and food writer Nigel Slater has spent decades creating new ways for readers to satisfy a sweet tooth, impress a guest, or express love in a flaky, warm concoction served with stiff meringue. When he set out to reflect on his own emotional connection with food, however, the result was somewhat different than readers expected. Far from being a tribute to a wonderful mentor in his family, Toast is a very subtly written exploration of a hunger that runs much deeper than that of the physical. Instead, this "nancy boy" very slowly unveils his own childhood memories, some obviously very painful, in a way that makes a reader wonder if he even knew exactly what the story would reveal when he started. The format of the book is intriguing in its simplicity. Slater lists a food, often processed, pre-packaged concoctions only a child could like, then begins to describe memories that particular food can spark. The memories quietly move through time, however, instead of being randomly executed. The pieces of Slater's life, far from being overtly described, form a dim shadowy bulk of knowledge until at last readers understand. It's almost as if readers grow up with Slater. If you think about it, the meaning of the details of our own lives are never really clear until much later. For example, Slater recollects a childhood favorite of his, mince pies at Christmastime, one of the few times his mother's cooking was truly successful. As he relates the process of making pastry, he mentions his mother's wheezing in the background as she supervises. Readers learned early on that Slater's mother was an asthmatic, and he casually mentions, as a child might notice without thinking more of it, that there seem to be inhalers or "puffers" all over the house now, more so than ever before. This year, their pastry making is interrupted halfway through. Slater's mother claims she forgot to buy the mincemeat and says they'll have to finish their pies later. The ensuing battle between the budding chef and his mother end with a typical, thoughtless, childlike tantrum that includes, "I hope you die." Slater ends the memory at this point, but two entries later, readers walk through the mystified reaction of a child to his mother's death. What makes the subject more difficult is that Slater's family is not exactly demonstrative or even very good at communicating at all. The entire time that Slater is describing tinned fruit, sherbet fountains, and apple crumble, he speculates that his mother must be pregnant, have the flu, or be extra tired this time of year. No one ever discusses that his mother is dying. Slater conveys so well the dark, confusing process of accepting first grief, then later changes in the household. Yet, his father has such beautiful little symbols and rituals of love for his youngest son. For almost two years following his mother's death, Slater finds marshmallows on his bedside table, a sticky sweet he mentioned once before as reminding him of a kiss. Of course, like any slightly dysfunctional family, Slater's father has other rituals and idiosyncrasies as well. Fully convinced that eggs are the food of manhood, he has long proscribed a daily ration of eggs for his spindly, effeminate son. Without his mother's help, Slater's egg-hater conspiracy falls short and he now regularly endures hours at the kitchen table, picking at various egg concoctions created by his well-intentioned father. Along the way, readers also discover Slater's early revelations about his sexuality. Some foods are wrapped in the memory of the affectionate gardener, others with playing around with his classmates. Whatever the taste, Toast is not simply a collection of favorite foods, and clearly is not filled with only happy memories. But Slater makes it clear that his memories are the only ones he has; he cannot invent a magical folk tradition of excellent cooking skills from his very non-domestic mother's clumsy burned attempts to feed her family. This chef's talent was born from decades of tinned ham and cheese and pineapple cubes on toothpicks for hors d'oeuvres, take it or leave it. Rebecca James divides her time between Rehoboth Beach and Allentown, Pennsylvania where she teaches high school English. |
LETTERS From CAMP Rehoboth, Vol. 14, No. 15 November 24, 2004 |