stuffed cabbage: my own private grandma

I want to think of my grandmother as a short, stout woman people could not help but gravitate to. She’d be a constant bustle of energy, always with a smile, her glasses unable to keep up with her pace, they’d slip, slip, slip down the bridge of her nose, only to be impatiently shoved back up to their appointed place. She’d wear a thin paisley blue dress, which would sit proudly on her, unashamed of rolls or bulges that refused to be tamed. There’d be a thin gold chain with a quiet pendant hanging from her neck, nothing flashy, but rather a quiet amulet of her past: a place of comfort I never dare ask about but feel safe and secure to see there. “Come here, Pushka” (she’d call me pushka, which was Yiddish for “Little Box”, a nickname that didn’t quite make sense to me but grooved its way through me nevertheless) and her tiny but fleshy body would embrace me in a quick burst of zealous love which I’d happily swim in.Of course, she’d be in the kitchen, but not in that traditionalist 1930′s kind of way, more so as the conductor of an orchestra of many lives: weaving memories, nourishment, and love in her unforgettable brisket or chickpea soup or ropa vieja. She’d cook a mold of the different cultures and foods that have become my culinary language today. Sopa de Mondongo, because it is hearty and complete, and because she believes, as I do, that consuming soup for lunch should be required by law, now matter how hot it gets in South Florida. Rosemary Crusted Lamb would end the weekend, served au jus with a deep brown gravy (always scrape the bits on the pan with a fine red wine, she’d teach me), and flaky eggplant bourekas would lift my spirits in the middle of a slow week.I’d be her taster. I would have always been. From the time I was little until even now as an adult. My phantom grandma would always want my feedback on her recipes and concoctions: more salt, less garlic, a squeeze of fresh lime juice to bring out the flavor: she’d listen intently to my advice as if world peace depended on it, and in between slurps and commentary we’d gabble about life, oblivious about the generation separating us.This would be my grandma of choice. Of course, we all know we can’t pick our family, and as far as grandmothers go, fate was not on my side. My Canadian-born paternal grandma, who emigrated to Palestine as a young teen passed away when my father was a teenager himself. My mother’s mother, a tall woman from Irish stock, died when I was barely three, leaving me with only fuzzy memories of my one encounter with her. She had brilliant blue eyes, and as far as I can make out, she did not really cook.Of course, the mind is a spectacular thing, and, even though I may not remember where I put my keys five minutes ago, I am able to create, nourish, and feed off my own private grandma. She has no name (wouldn’t want to offend Mildred or Agnes) but she has zest, and most importantly, she has great dishes. Her stuffed cabbage, by the way, is stellar. It may take a bit of dedication, but wrapping each cabbage leaf can serve as a form of therapy and the end result is well worth the trouble. The best part is that you’ll have enough left over, that, if your memory works like mine, you’ll be left wondering when grandma had time to sneak in and leave such a fabulous dish.