On Saturday night, a family friend came for dinner, and as I cooked for him, I was reminded why one finds such comfort in the kitchen. For the past several months, the kitchen has lost its appeal, because the other adult with whom I share meals is absent, and while my children are open to many kinds of food, their palates are certainly not advanced enough to appreciate good cuisine.
My own childhood was filled with such flavor. My mother was a self-taught cook, never afraid of experimenting beyond the pages of Betty Crocker, and while there was occasionally a misstep or two (anything containing raisins or curry will always be a misstep for me), dinner was a consistently pleasurable time for our family. Each member had their self assigned seats, and we spoke of our days over steaming platters of artichokes, or clams with melted garlic butter. I have many memories that still bring me laughter- my sister stuffing peas into her tiny nose like pistol bullets, my mother serving me detestable brussel sprouts covered in chocolate as a cruel joke.
I really cannot remember much of what we discussed in those days. It was before my parents' divorce, and while there was most certainly tension, what I remember is the bright little breakfast nook, and chipped plates, the dog pattering beneath our feet, and chatting between mouthfuls. At holidays, my mother often hosted the festivities, and our guests were treated to appetizers, feasts and cascading desserts. No one left hungry, no one left empty.
As an adult, I catch a whiff of certain aromas, and I am quickly brought back to this childhood, the childhood that contained its share of trauma (as many do), but that I remember with warmth and peace. My grandmother's spaghetti with braciole , slow cooking all afternoon- she would let me dip a chunk of bread in after lunch to taste test, crockery with piping hot french onion soup, and heavenly chocolate mousse, a specialty of my mother's...these are the scents that fill me with nostalgia, and oddly enough, hope.
Those who know me, know how particular I am about my kitchen. I don't like having help with meals I am preparing, and I prefer you not try to clean up once the dinner is through. I have an absurd amount of tools and appliances for my culinary experimentation, and I enjoy plating the meals rather than serving buffet. There is no greater compliment to a cook than when a guest, for whom a lavish meal has been lovingly prepared, asks for seconds, or pauses after the first bite because they are stunned by what they have eaten.
I do not cook low fat foods, though I know I should. I liken myself to Paula Deen because I, too, love rich, thick, bubbling tastes. While quinoa and alfalfa most certainly has a time and place, I prefer Hollandaise drenched salmon or pesto mixed with cream cheese. I warn those partaking in my food that if they were to eat with me often, they would find themselves chunky and perhaps someday needing bypass, but sometimes, it is both deserved and necessary to allow yourself such luxuries.
On Saturday, with our guest watching me prepare his dinner, I felt most at home. As we spoke, I sprinkled pieces of our conversation throughout the food. He spoke of his love for his wife, and the amazing hand with which she raises her children, and I took those words and poured them over the sauce. He spoke of disappointments with work, and I crumbled in an extra dash of hope in with the cheese. My ego, my narcissism emerges only with my food, for I believe that while it may not be a refined talent, and certainly nothing unique, it is my one true talent. I learned it from my mother, who during our times of poverty, could pull scraps from the refrigerator and combine them in such a way that we felt like kings.
If you are ever in my area, soon to be a completely different area, please stop by and let me cook for you. We can talk about old times, or times to come. If it is cold outside, I will wrap you in a thick soup, if it is warm, I will douse you with sorbet. But when you leave, you will leave full, and I will sleep well. Food is love.
My own childhood was filled with such flavor. My mother was a self-taught cook, never afraid of experimenting beyond the pages of Betty Crocker, and while there was occasionally a misstep or two (anything containing raisins or curry will always be a misstep for me), dinner was a consistently pleasurable time for our family. Each member had their self assigned seats, and we spoke of our days over steaming platters of artichokes, or clams with melted garlic butter. I have many memories that still bring me laughter- my sister stuffing peas into her tiny nose like pistol bullets, my mother serving me detestable brussel sprouts covered in chocolate as a cruel joke.
I really cannot remember much of what we discussed in those days. It was before my parents' divorce, and while there was most certainly tension, what I remember is the bright little breakfast nook, and chipped plates, the dog pattering beneath our feet, and chatting between mouthfuls. At holidays, my mother often hosted the festivities, and our guests were treated to appetizers, feasts and cascading desserts. No one left hungry, no one left empty.
As an adult, I catch a whiff of certain aromas, and I am quickly brought back to this childhood, the childhood that contained its share of trauma (as many do), but that I remember with warmth and peace. My grandmother's spaghetti with braciole , slow cooking all afternoon- she would let me dip a chunk of bread in after lunch to taste test, crockery with piping hot french onion soup, and heavenly chocolate mousse, a specialty of my mother's...these are the scents that fill me with nostalgia, and oddly enough, hope.
Those who know me, know how particular I am about my kitchen. I don't like having help with meals I am preparing, and I prefer you not try to clean up once the dinner is through. I have an absurd amount of tools and appliances for my culinary experimentation, and I enjoy plating the meals rather than serving buffet. There is no greater compliment to a cook than when a guest, for whom a lavish meal has been lovingly prepared, asks for seconds, or pauses after the first bite because they are stunned by what they have eaten.
I do not cook low fat foods, though I know I should. I liken myself to Paula Deen because I, too, love rich, thick, bubbling tastes. While quinoa and alfalfa most certainly has a time and place, I prefer Hollandaise drenched salmon or pesto mixed with cream cheese. I warn those partaking in my food that if they were to eat with me often, they would find themselves chunky and perhaps someday needing bypass, but sometimes, it is both deserved and necessary to allow yourself such luxuries.
On Saturday, with our guest watching me prepare his dinner, I felt most at home. As we spoke, I sprinkled pieces of our conversation throughout the food. He spoke of his love for his wife, and the amazing hand with which she raises her children, and I took those words and poured them over the sauce. He spoke of disappointments with work, and I crumbled in an extra dash of hope in with the cheese. My ego, my narcissism emerges only with my food, for I believe that while it may not be a refined talent, and certainly nothing unique, it is my one true talent. I learned it from my mother, who during our times of poverty, could pull scraps from the refrigerator and combine them in such a way that we felt like kings.
If you are ever in my area, soon to be a completely different area, please stop by and let me cook for you. We can talk about old times, or times to come. If it is cold outside, I will wrap you in a thick soup, if it is warm, I will douse you with sorbet. But when you leave, you will leave full, and I will sleep well. Food is love.
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