Beet soup
Becky boiled beets recently. After the saucepan cooled, she was about to dump the vibrant red water. “Don’t,” I said. “I can use it in a painting.” She didn’t believe me until I reminded her I had used coffee grinds in another painting to achieve the warm brown tones I sought.
The world-famous restaurateur, George Mardikian, tapped by President Harry Truman to upgrade soldiers’ meals in the Korean conflict, wrote about how wasteful it is to toss the water from boiled vegetables and pasta. That’s where the nutrients and flavor lie, he claimed.
Chef Kevork would be proud of me, though I certainly can’t cook like him. I also can’t paint like Winslow Homer. But I can imagine my two-year-old grandson, Bedros, lapping beet soup like his dog, Tess. Honestly, I’m not a fan of beets. Maybe it’s because I’ve never had the borscht that Jews, Eastern Europeans, Georgians, Armenians and, I presume others too, rave about. Perhaps I need an Armenian Weekly reader to submit a must-try recipe.
This is not so much a story of chorba, as we called soup growing up, but one of opportunity. I’m in my third year as a painter, though I hesitate to use the moniker “artist.” My paintings depict family and friends and something from my father, Abraham’s metal art collection.
In my accompanying close-up painting with Bedros, the “bowls” are two of several nickel-alloy pans Dad made from scrap. See them in detail here. Why would he create pans when he could easily have bought them retail? That’s too long a story, and one for another day.
Somehow, people like my paintings—or so I think. I’ve not sold any, just as Dad never sold any of his 400+ artworks. All I know is that when I paint at my Methuen Senior Center class, classmates with decades of painting experience tell me they’ve never seen anything like what I’m doing. Who am I to argue? My objective is to paint as many of Dad’s 400 works as I can; so far, I’m at about 200.
Each week at the Center, I present my latest artwork, which my instructor, Lisa Buglione, dutifully shows off to the class. They laugh. I’m pretty sure they’re not snickering. I tell them I’m in production mode and now consider my paintings to fail if they don’t at least elicit a smile. (Note: Dad presented family members with his artistic gifts at a pace of about one per month for 30 years.)
I’ve exhibited several times, with the subjects being Bedros and Dad’s art. Lisa also brings to my attention forthcoming exhibits. They may have no entry fee, or they might—meaning that cash prizes would be awarded. Imagine me, with only two years of painting experience, winning even an Honorable Mention, money and an “atta, boy” that would come with it. I’d be over the moon. It doesn’t hurt to dream.
All this imagining and dreaming confirms that I’m in a different place and time than in earlier careers, but I still have the same aspirations for success, achievement, recognition and accomplishment that I’ve always had. I’m just a bit older and, I’d like to think, wiser. No, it’s not time to relax, rein it in and take up some hobby. Just the opposite. I’m trying to do as much as I can, as well as I’m able, while mixing it all up and exploring new, unfamiliar paths.
As Dad would have asked, “Who would have thought?” Well, I, for one.
Not sure how many descriptors I can fit on one business card, but I can now add “columnist.” What a great privilege! What fun it is writing for the Armenian community and beyond about that which comes so naturally.
Hopefully you, my reader, will like my stories, paintings and haikus. Let me know and I’ll fill you in on how Bedros likes the borscht.
