Good evening, Ladies and Lentil Men

"Are you and your mother very much alike?"

I had to think about it for awhile. My first inclination was to emphatically say no; no woman wants to say that they are like their mother, and I always identified more with my father when I was growing up. At first glance, most people would agree that we are completely different people. But at the back of my head, I had a vision of myself brushing my hair, tossing my head in the exact way she does, or touching my collarbone in the same way she does during conversation. And slowly I came to a precise answer, the brutal and honest truth -- that of her three children, I am both the most like her and the least like her.

"Allycen," my mother said when I told her, "I don't even know what that means."

On some level, I think I'm my mother on a different timeline, a different life path. I am who my mother might have been if she had not had children, or if she had married happily. I am the part of my mother who loved to paint and loved to cook. When she tells me stories about how she used to make graham crackers from scratch for me when I was a baby -- well. I know where I get it from.

And yet, if you could put pictures of our respective living rooms side by side, you'd see two very different women just in our houses. Mine is all mess and color, hers is order and whiteness. My mother vacuums every day. I'm pretty sure I own a vacuum. My mother is a social butterfly, I am a hermit. And my mother -- well, my mother likes to make lentil soup.


I grew up never wanting to hear the words "lentil soup," first, foremost and most specifically in the context of "your mother is making some." There were few foods that inspired more dubiousness within me, and I was a child with a fairly unique palate. I liked tofu, and swiss chard, I preferred nine grain bread over wonder white, but I had no kind words for my mother's favorite dish.

What about it was so loathsome? I couldn't tell you. Maybe it was the celery. Maybe it's that I have never been especially partial to soup. Maybe it was my father's fault, since he hated it too. Quite possibly it was liquid gold. I still hated it, and I shunned lentils until my mid-twenties. And then, as my mother's most-and-least-like-her child, I discovered that I like lentils, too. Just not in soup.



Ham and Lentils

1 lb lentils
1 qt low sodium chicken stock
1 cup chopped white onion
2 Tbsps olive oil
5-6 cloves finely chopped garlic
liberal amounts of pepper, to taste
salt, to taste
2 cups cooked green peas
1 lb cooked ham, cubed

*Wash the lentils and sort through them, removing any dirt, rocks, or damaged lentils.

*In a large pot, combine the chicken stock and the washed lentils. Cover and simmer for about 20 minutes, until the lentils are soft but still have a firm bite.

*Saute the onions in olive oil on medium heat with the garlic, pepper, and salt until the onions are soft. Add the peas and ham to the saute pan and turn the heat down low.

*Drain the lentils of any remaining liquid.

*Combine all ingredients and serve. Garnish with parmesan if desired.