IT WAS RATATOUILLE, the southern-French compote of eggplant, tomatoes, zucchini, onions and peppers, that taught me the which means of “umami.” I did not know the word as a 10-calendar year-previous initial encountering the dish, but when I came across it yrs later on and had to glance it up, I assumed: That is ratatouille, a deeply ruddy alloy of flavors fused together to grow to be some thing irresistible.
I will constantly bear in mind the to start with time I tried ratatouille, on a muggy July night, on the side of a crab-grass-included hill overlooking Burial Hill seaside on the littoral of Extended Island Seem, in Greens Farms, Conn. The dark sky erupted in red comets and golden blossoms I winced every single time, waiting to sense the fireworks’ explosion in my rib cage. I bought an occasional whiff of gunpowder, but, a lot more than anything at all, the lazy, briny breeze brought the scent of charred meat from a dozen barbecues.
Far more thrilling, having said that, was finding the contents of the Birkbee family’s woven-spruce picnic basket. The item itself was alluring, reliable and so tidy. Inside was true silverware rolled in napkins of the purple-and-white verify cloth I would afterwards associate with Paris bistros.
My mother and Mrs. Birkbee experienced grown up jointly in Boston, but somewhere along the way their thoughts about what constituted a fantastic picnic had diverged. We fulfilled just about every calendar year to look at the fireworks, the Birkbees driving up from Stamford with their son, Dana. On one of these situations I initial sipped gazpacho, poured chilled from a thermos into a stout glass. At other picnics I sampled fleshy inexperienced Sicilian olives, scarfed down as considerably fennel-seed-flavored salami as I could in advance of my mom glared at me, and warily nibbled a small piece of pâté studded with dazzling-inexperienced pistachios.
My family’s cherry-crimson Coleman cooler normally held onion dip for chips, hen marinated in bottled Italian dressing for barbecuing, potato salad that smelled slightly sulfurous, and possibly some grocery store coleslaw. “Why do the Birkbees eat this kind of intriguing points?” I requested. “Mrs. Birkbee doesn’t have 4 children to feed,” my mother replied crossly. Mr. Birkbee was a gentle person, a textile designer his tennis-loving wife was small and lean. They shared a appreciate of vacation and superior foods.