It is a gray and rainy morning on the farm. The skies match the mood. It was a solemn day yesterday, and I am concerned about Heckle. She is out in rain, instead of holing up in the garage that I left open for her, or in the barn where she is supposed to be on vole-patrol.
 
I am a little jet-lagged from the time in the car-it will be six hundred miles in three days- and the addition of the artificial acceleration of the clock mandated by the Congress. “Spring ahead!” they say, and I say leave the damn clock alone.
 
But it is now eight-thirty, though it is not, and the steady rain makes me think of staying inside right where I am and let the Capital take care of itself. I heated some of the left-overs for breakfast, a hearty and comforting break to the fast.
 
It is nearing the end of the cooking season, and I saw the Spring coming as a gentle hazing of the bare dark branches of the trees along the two-lanes in North Carolina heading northwest from The Triangle.
 
After the funeral and the reception, I hit Rt 29, and the road north to Virginia after winding through some old mill towns that aren’t anymore, and gentle fields and old houses far back from the road. The way of life here goes back to the Colonies, and the beginning of the Industrial Revolution.
 
Burlington is where Patti was born, and her Mom still lives there. There is nothing sadder than a mother burying her child. It is why Patti came home, after the end, to be part of it forever.
 
Burlington is holding it’s own, barely. The cemetery is full now, or at least sold out, and the population has increased by a few thousand since LabCorp, a gigantic clinical laboratory company stayed put, even if the hosiery mills have all been killed off by the enterprising Chinese of Guangdong Province. Once this was the socks capital of the world, though no longer.
 
Part of the town is frozen in time. The Burlington Stadium is where some scenes in the movie “Bull Durham” were filmed, so there is a certain 1950s feel to the place. Honda Aero is coming into Alamance County Airport, and the regional fast-food chain
Biscuitville has its headquarters there.
 
Mom is the only one left from her generation, so she would be the matriarch of my cousin’s side of the family. She can’t travel at the moment, since things are complicated back home. So it was important to be here to ensure that the family feels the loss of her sister’s son’s wife profoundly.  
 
My cousin is my running mate in the Baby Boom- both of class of ’51. There is a special bond between the families, always has been, since Mom and her sister Hazel had their children in parallel, three the same age, almost.
 
My cousin had been with his wife for 42 years, and the grief was so deep as to surpass any attempt by me to describe it.
 
We stood in knots on the lane between the fields of stones. I stood with my other cousins, the lovely sisters and their handsome offspring. The widower arrived presently, accompanied by his three children, a son that is his spitting image, and two lovely girls.
 
Talking before the service at the graveside, he said that there were only a couple plots left in the sprawling graveyard, and I think he had secured one for him, too, since the family is spread all over. We buried his Dad, First Marines, in the old graveyard on the hill above sorry little Bellaire, Ohio, last year. His Mom is there, too, over on the Catholic side of the road, near Grandma and her wild Irishman.
 
There may be a God in heaven that takes an interest in these things, since the rain came in sheets on Friday, and resumed with a vengeance as I blew through Charlottesville on 29, hoping to get in before the ominous dark mass came in from the West.
 
For the funeral, the skies opened and the sun poured down in solemn golden dignity. It was pleasant, almost warm, as the crowd gathered at the graveside.
 
The next generation handled the remarks, and they were passionate and emotional about the goodness of their mother. The Pastor was dignified and comforting about the certainty of the Life Everlasting. The flowers were pretty, and the crowd large to honor her memory.
 
The reception afterward was at the Emmanuel Methodist Church, one of four congregations of that denomination in town, and the seven grandchildren ran and played, not knowing the larger sorrow that caused the event.
 
I stayed as long as seemed appropriate considering the length of the drive north. There was nothing I could contribute except witness.
 
I kept the window down on the Bluesmobile as the clouds gathered and the rain returned, putting the reprieve to rest. It is a good car to drive when you are a little distracted, and the world is not quite right, poised halfway between one thing and another thing.
 
I thought something hot for dinner might be good, something with comfort in it that would dispel the lingering sadness.
 
My pal Matt had stalled for a while, maybe because we are going to move from the cooking to the grilling season shortly, but I searched the e-mail for a recipe he sent along that epitomizes the notion of comfort.
 
He had raved about the Shepherd’s Pie after a great weekend with a Sunday meal that everyone liked. It kept the kids occupied right through dinner. He said got the recipe from his wife, who in turn got it from a (gasp) Rachael Ray magazine.
 
He wrote that “It is a very earthy and stick-to-your-ribs dish but the texture and spiciness of the parsnips are what makes it especially good.  Enjoy.”
 
I don’t care where good things come from if they are good.
 
I stopped at a roadside produce market south of Culpeper, and was able to secure the key ingredients, which are parsnips, potatoes, carrots, spinach and onion. The rest were in the freezer at the farm, or canned in the pantry. You can add peas, if you want, but I don’t care for them.
 
The parsnips are what connect this dish back to Cornwall, and thence to Michigan, where the immigrants came to hack at the rock for the rich copper deposits of the Upper Peninsula. One of their things was the fabulous Pasty; which was composed mostly of lard and flower as a wrapper and filled with all sorts of things.
 
The miners could take them for lunch in their pails and eat with their hands, obviating the need for utensils.
 
I pulled into the farm as the last rays of light were fading. I fed the cat first, then thought about myself.
 
If the occasion calls for a classier look, you can divide the filling and arrange it on the individual plates before topping with potatoes and popping it under the broiler for browning. I have given up caring about how clear the oven is- no one is going to inspect it before I move out or on, so the hell with it.
 
If you hit a spot where you need a comfort meal, this is a pretty good bet:
 
Matt (and Rachel’s) Shepherd’s Pie

Serves: 8
Preparation Time: 45 Minutes
Bake Time: 25 Minutes
 
Ingredients:
2 lbs small Yukon potatoes, halved
2 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil
10 ounces mushroom slices, Rachel likes cremini, but portobello will do
2 carrots, cut into 1-inch pieces
2 parsnips, cut into 1-inch pieces
1 onion, chopped
1lb lean ground beef (or substitute firm Portoellos for a vegetarian version)
1/4 cup flour
1 1/2 cups beef broth
1/2 cup canned crushed tomatoes
Salt and Pepper
3/4 cup 2-percent milk
1 1/2 pounds baby spinach
 
1. In a large saucepan, combine the potatoes and enough salted water to cover by 1 inch. Bring to a boil, then lower the heat and simmer until tender, about 15 minutes. Drain and return to the pot; cover.
 
2. In a large, deep skillet, heat 1/2 tablespoon olive oil over high heat, add the mushrooms and cook, stirring, until browned, about 5 minutes. Arrange in a greased 9-by-13-inch baking dish in an even layer.
 
3. In the same skillet, heat 1 tablespoon olive oil over medium-high heat. Add the carrots, parsnips and onion and cook, stirring, until crisp-tender, 6 to 7 minutes. Add the beef and cook, breaking it up, until no longer pink, about 4 minutes. Stir in the flour. Add the beef broth and tomatoes and simmer, stirring, until thickened, about 5 minutes; season with salt and pepper. Ladle the meat mixture over the mushrooms. Reserve the skillet.
 
4. Position a rack in the upper third of the oven and preheat at 400 degrees. Add the milk to the potatoes and mash. Season to taste with sea salt and fresh ground pepper.
 
5. In the reserved skillet, bring 1 cup of water to a boil. Add the spinach and cook, turning, until wilted, about 2 minutes; season with salt and pepper. Transfer to a colander; press to extract any liquid.
 
6. Arrange the spinach over the meat mixture, then spoon the potatoes on top. Drizzle with the remaining 1/2 tablespoon olive oil. Bake until golden, about 25 minutes.
 
I have found this is also a meal for improvisation, just like a Michigan Pasty. While ground beef is fine for a casual meal, you can also use leftover steak or roasts. I can imagine a leftover Prime Rib diced up small contributing nicely, or you can make it richer with half n’ half if you feel like it.
 
This is strange season when it is good to have a comfort recipe handy if you need it. I might cook it again if we have a reception after Fred’s funeral next week, though with Saint Paddy’s day coming, maybe it should be a boiled corn beef.
 
Copyright 2010 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com
 

Copyright 2010 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com
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