My grandmother on my dad’s side is French Canadian. She grew up quite poor in Maine, in a household with 7 siblings. Her mom was one of 11. We called her “Mem.” short for. Growing up, we spent many Sundays at her house for supper. Mainers sometimes call it “supper”. Mem was a tough 4’11” woman, who lived alone until 93, and who showed love through food. She would say “l love you” from time to time, but we knew she loved us because going to her house meant a huge spread of homecooked food, and homemade pies. Mem lived on a social security wage after her retirement in her 60s. She lived frugally, yet always provided. She said “that’s what the French do.” She really meant “that’s what the French in Maine do.”
The recipe I learned from her that most embodies this sense of resourcefulness, of love, of care, is what she called “ragout.” I’ve looked for versions of this online, and it’s hard to pin down. But here’s the gist — ragout is what you make with a turkey carcass, if you were fortunate enough to have turkey. You boil down the carcass and pick any remaining meat. Then you brown a few cups of flower very slowly in a cast iron pan. You stir. And stir. And the flour slowly yellows, then browns, and begins to really smell… not a great smell! This takes 1-2 hours. Lovingly slow. This
flour is used to thicken the turkey broth. It’s served over boiled potatoes with sour pickles. It’s delicious, and intensely filling. If Mem made ragout for you, you know it was done with care and love.
Shortly before she died, she gave me a book with some recipes. I cherish this, because in her handwriting and choice of words, I see the ways she taught me to be resourceful, to care for people, and how food and culture and scarcity can be a building block for loving and learning.
