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ADVICE: MAKE SURE YOU SEE THE GRAPES
Barbara Parent
http://www.myrecordjournal.com/opinion/columns/barbaraparent/article_6481757a-bb04-11e1-8999-0019bb2963f4.html
Posted: Wednesday, June 20, 2012 2:18 pm
"Make sure you see the grapes," my mother would caution whenever I
went to pick wild grape leaves.
The wild grape leaves were essential for sarma. Ever since my
Armenian grandmother died, our family did not have sarma made with
grape leaves. My mother would make sarma with cabbage, which was
very good but not as good as the sarma made with grape leaves. The
same ingredients went into both sarmas - ground beef, onions, rice,
crushed tomatoes and lots of fresh mint. Perhaps it was the memory of
childhood and my grandmother watching over the pot of sarmas made with
grape leaves that brought hunger for them. My grandmother would gather
the wild grape leaves, but from where? My mother didn't know where
her mother got them. I was only 12 when my grandmother died. Would
I have thought to ask?
Yet the memory is sweet. My brother and I could hardly contain
ourselves as we waited for the sarmas to cook. They were piled in a
large pot, and I can still see my grandmother standing by the stove,
her full-length apron covering the front of her house dress and tied
at her ample waist. Her salt-and-pepper hair is pulled back off her
face and wrapped in a bun at the nape of her neck. I see her lift the
cover from the pot and carefully remove the heat-proof plate that is
on the rolls to keep them in place.
I see her put a large spoon into the pot and pull out a sarma and
place in on a plate. My brother and I must wait as the steam curls
upward and is joined by another stream after she cuts the roll in
half. She cautions that if we bite into the sarma too soon, we will
burn our tongues.
There were times in the years since my grandmother died when I would
eat a sarma made with grape leaves. I could guess that it was at the
Armenian picnic that was held each summer at Batterson Park in New
Britain and that I would attend with my mother. My memory is fuzzy
and perhaps it is due to so many years passing.
I do remember in later years eating stuffed grape leaves on a salad
bar. However, they are not like the sarmas that my grandmother made.
They are filled with only rice and are served cold. They are available
fresh in specialty food stores, usually garnish Greek salads and are
also sold in cans at most supermarkets.
A well-meaning friend once brought me a jar of grape leaves - not
stuffed, just the leaves. I made the sarma with them, but they did
not taste like my grandmother's sarma. I figured that the grape leaves
had to be wild grape leaves and that was all there was to it.
I did not have to go far in my quest for wild grape leaves. A keen
Armenian eye such as mine sees them along the roadside working their
way up the trunks of trees and just hanging all over the place. Ah,
but my mother's warning is there: "Make sure you see the grapes!"
The first time I picked wild grape leaves I may have seen tiny green
grapes that were yet to become ripe. Then again maybe I didn't. It was
over 30 years ago, so who can say for sure. In the years since, I have
made many batches of sarma with grape leaves I have picked at various
spots along the roadside. I think that the art of gathering wild grape
leaves wasn't as intricate as my mother may have believed. My mother
was a worrier.
My grandmother was born in Armenia in 1894. Her family escaped to
America before the Ottoman Empire began the campaign to rid their
borders of the Armenians. Yet, it is said that all generations of
Armenians carry the scar of the 1915 genocide. It is their nature,
Barbara Parent
http://www.myrecordjournal.com/opinion/columns/barbaraparent/article_6481757a-bb04-11e1-8999-0019bb2963f4.html
Posted: Wednesday, June 20, 2012 2:18 pm
"Make sure you see the grapes," my mother would caution whenever I
went to pick wild grape leaves.
The wild grape leaves were essential for sarma. Ever since my
Armenian grandmother died, our family did not have sarma made with
grape leaves. My mother would make sarma with cabbage, which was
very good but not as good as the sarma made with grape leaves. The
same ingredients went into both sarmas - ground beef, onions, rice,
crushed tomatoes and lots of fresh mint. Perhaps it was the memory of
childhood and my grandmother watching over the pot of sarmas made with
grape leaves that brought hunger for them. My grandmother would gather
the wild grape leaves, but from where? My mother didn't know where
her mother got them. I was only 12 when my grandmother died. Would
I have thought to ask?
Yet the memory is sweet. My brother and I could hardly contain
ourselves as we waited for the sarmas to cook. They were piled in a
large pot, and I can still see my grandmother standing by the stove,
her full-length apron covering the front of her house dress and tied
at her ample waist. Her salt-and-pepper hair is pulled back off her
face and wrapped in a bun at the nape of her neck. I see her lift the
cover from the pot and carefully remove the heat-proof plate that is
on the rolls to keep them in place.
I see her put a large spoon into the pot and pull out a sarma and
place in on a plate. My brother and I must wait as the steam curls
upward and is joined by another stream after she cuts the roll in
half. She cautions that if we bite into the sarma too soon, we will
burn our tongues.
There were times in the years since my grandmother died when I would
eat a sarma made with grape leaves. I could guess that it was at the
Armenian picnic that was held each summer at Batterson Park in New
Britain and that I would attend with my mother. My memory is fuzzy
and perhaps it is due to so many years passing.
I do remember in later years eating stuffed grape leaves on a salad
bar. However, they are not like the sarmas that my grandmother made.
They are filled with only rice and are served cold. They are available
fresh in specialty food stores, usually garnish Greek salads and are
also sold in cans at most supermarkets.
A well-meaning friend once brought me a jar of grape leaves - not
stuffed, just the leaves. I made the sarma with them, but they did
not taste like my grandmother's sarma. I figured that the grape leaves
had to be wild grape leaves and that was all there was to it.
I did not have to go far in my quest for wild grape leaves. A keen
Armenian eye such as mine sees them along the roadside working their
way up the trunks of trees and just hanging all over the place. Ah,
but my mother's warning is there: "Make sure you see the grapes!"
The first time I picked wild grape leaves I may have seen tiny green
grapes that were yet to become ripe. Then again maybe I didn't. It was
over 30 years ago, so who can say for sure. In the years since, I have
made many batches of sarma with grape leaves I have picked at various
spots along the roadside. I think that the art of gathering wild grape
leaves wasn't as intricate as my mother may have believed. My mother
was a worrier.
My grandmother was born in Armenia in 1894. Her family escaped to
America before the Ottoman Empire began the campaign to rid their
borders of the Armenians. Yet, it is said that all generations of
Armenians carry the scar of the 1915 genocide. It is their nature,