Jessie Cacciola
I have a problem. I have to buy extra rosemary because I know I'll smoke through at least half a bag before dinner. Like a bushy twig of incense, I light it up on my gas stovetop and walk around the apartment watching its flamed tips curl into embers, releasing that scent I wish I could turn into perfume but know would never be as good because there wouldn't be any smoke to watch.
For the few times I actually held a cig or cigar, the comfort came most in the distraction of the scene rather than the nicotine. I puffed to watch the glow and release of grey brushstrokes wrap up into the air, following any move of my hand. Every time, I’m reminded of when our human brains didn’t have much other than fire to control, or a scene more rewarding.
We no longer need to settle near water for our resources. The river comes up through a pipe. But I won't trade my fire (or tiny gas stove and wood chips) for an electric range.
Click, click the gas stove again for another whiff.
With each combustion, tiny volatile molecules break at the surface, releasing not just disinfectant phenols and antibacterial eugenol, but scents of clove and vanilla, plus whatever’s getting smoked. In the case of rosemary (Rosmarinus, meaning “dew of the sea”), ancient rituals and folk medicine attribute benefits of memory retention, muscle relaxation and migraine relief. Just by smelling released oils off a fresh twig, olfactory nerves are awakened and a compound called 1,8-cineole enters the bloodstream.
*****
The closest I felt to a real roaring masterpiece was two summers ago during Hell Chicken at Achilles Heel. Many things contributed to the magic of those Sundays but I have to think the smoke was a big part of it, watching Lee and Desiree and what I imagined as a tight-knit family of non-family members walk in and out of the screened back door with plates and tongs as if you were at their house, and then you remembered you weren't. Or were you?
You have to keep puffing to keep the fire going. You have to keep your eye on it.
The right combination of layers makes for a chicken that was a chicken like we never had. It was more Peking duck than chicken, pulled down off a hanging hook and cut up into ribs that sunk into dipping sauce when laid on the plate. They gave you forks but we had hands, and soon enough our eyes were too blurry to find the fork. No one was looking passed their plate to watch how you devoured yours, and an endless stream of schmaltz-smeared wine glasses followed, as well as any part of my hair that fell into my schmaltz-smeared face. I should have worn it up. I always forget. This weekly attendance saved me, erased everything the week had done, and I did not ask for forgiveness. Chicken season gave way to fireside cassoulet through winter, and I’m thankful for it all.
*****
About two years before I met this chicken, I had started my first 9-5. How I managed to escape one for this long is a feat but I still never thought I'd have one. One day, sitting there in my post-it laced corner, the same as the one to my left and right, I couldn't take it. I could feel my pupils. I had to leave at least for the rest of the day. So I left, walked over the bridge, got the subway and made it home. I toasted two sides of a hot dog bun and swung open a jar of Piggery pâté. I cut into the fat with a demitasse spoon and smelled the woods beneath, spread it on, tore a piece off and squished it into my gums. Goosebumps, I swear to you, went out through each four of my limbs. I took the next bite slower. When I eat this miracle whip, I can hear the height of the fire when it pops and cracks. I feel as safe as I did in Heather and Brad's basement where they smoke the pigs themselves before cutting them up into bacon, chops, ribs, shoulder, loins and lard for their shop in Ithaca, NY.
*****
The ultimate test of smoke’s save came a week after the 2016 election. I was still as half numb as the week before, with wild existentialism. Should I leave the U.S.? Who are we? Have we been this way all along? My boyfriend and I had planned a dinner at our place for November 13 long before the world got the impossible results, and I thought seriously about canceling. But then, while we were prepping chicharron the night before the party, the apartment started to fill with pork smoke. The windows blurred and I fell asleep steeping in the steam of a chicharron fog.
*****
Here, as in all these moment, I'm reminded of what matters, of our nomadic predecessors who were just starting to learn how to put some clothes on, who figured out a way to feed themselves, discovered the necessary risk of the hunt and the importance of gathering. It reminds me of bigger problems and simpler solutions.
I thought, we will have this party! We have to. We cannot separate and forget who we are, what we love.
Back to my problem. Does anyone know how to make rosemary burn longer? Did you know if you mix it with dill, it smells like Christmas?