A hungry ghost no more…
I am not a very domestic person. For my first few years in New York, I ate canned soup and frozen veggie burgers and sandwiches from delis. I would eat cereal straight out of the box until the contents of said box (usually some bullshit like Kashi) were gone. And still I would be hungry. I was kind of vegan, kind of fat, always cold, always hungry. Always. I think it’s safe to say I did some time in the realm of the hungry ghosts, y’all.
The first time my husband Markus ever made food for me, it was risotto with a balsamic vinegar reduction. A BALSAMIC-VINEGAR REDUCTION. I had never heard of such a thing being made by an actual person. For breakfast, we would eat granola with milk and yogurt. Milk AND yogurt. Full-fat, cream on top, swoon. Around that time, I stopped needing sugar in my coffee, I stopped drinking Diet Coke, I stopped getting Famous Amos cookies out of the vending machine. I didn’t know it then but I would never eat another frozen veggie burger again. Instead, I would eat the occasional hamburger. And realize how much my body needed it. Like, really, truly, I-still-don’t-want-to-admit-this-because-I-am-a-dedicated-yoga-practictioner, needed it.
There is a reason I’ve never felt fully comfortable cooking, lots of reasons, actually, but for now, let’s just say that my fear of cooking looked a lot like my fear of failure. And my fear of failure also looked a lot like laziness.
I am super good at coming up with creative ways to disguise my laziness. For example, a typical night at home involves Markus cooking and Sarah singing ridiculous homages to Markus and his cooking that are like Kate Bush meets Cole Porter meets the Wu-Tang Clan. Followed by Markus cleaning while Sarah claims to have a Very Important Thing to do on her novel which always weirdly seems to involve more searching for the perfect Pandora station than actual writing.
Several viewings of the new television series the New Girl has taught me that this kind of aimless quirk is actually much more annoying to behold than to participate in and so I figured while Markus was away I would channel all that creativity into learning how to cook. I would still sing the Kate Bush meets Cole Porter meets the Wu-Tang Clan songs, but I would do it while whisking eggs.
And not only would I do that but I would clean the dishes after every meal (not just rinse them and wash the rest later) and I would even put the dried dishes away promptly instead of never putting them away and just taking dishes from the rack. Because this is not my old Manhattan basement apartment whose kitchen cabinets I avoided because they had been patched together by some previous tenant with an ob tampon box (yes). This is Brooklyn where one can for the same money live the dream of kitchen cabinets without tampon box triage. Basically, after six years of living with a man I might not totally deserve (cue Wu-Tang joint that samples “Somewhere in my youth or childhood I must have done something good” from the Sound of Music), I have decided that it’s time for me to step it the fuck up.
And so, I have cooked two weeks worth of meals at home, eating out only a couple of times during that period. I purchased a lot of stuff at the farmers market, as well as at the lovely little market in Clinton Hill called Victory Garden, and the rest at the health food store on Fulton whose name I can never remember, and our local supermarket Met, which has a nice selection of organic produce. Almost everything was vegetarian, which is what I might still be if my B-12 levels weren’t so dismal and if I didn’t so love the taste of seared animal flesh.
I still don’t trust myself enough to cook meat (Tackling one’s fear of failure is easier when said failure will not result in salmonella) but… I’ll get there someday.
Here’s what I made. Pretty much everything was good.
—Sautéed swiss chard with lemon and basil, side of polenta
—Quinoa with homemade bouillon, served with sautéed mixed greens and basil
—Miso soup with kale and carrot
—Leek omelette with nutmeg and crumbly cheddar
—Frittata with leftover swiss chard and mozzarella
—tomato, basil and mozzarella salad with balsamic vinegar (not a reduction, but someday)
—sardines over salad of tomatoes, carrots, avocado and fresh herbs
—fresh radishes with salt
—Steel cut oats with maple syrup, milk and apples
—Gluten-free pancakes
—Millet breakfast cereal with milk and honey
—milk with anise seed and cinnamon (sore throat remedy)
—milk with turmeric and black pepper (sore throat remedy)
—fresh ginger tea with honey (sore throat remedy)
—strawberry, pear and yogurt smoothie
—other various smoothies
—Homemade chai with black tea, cardamom, cinnamon, and vanilla
Looking back on the last two weeks I cannot help but realize:
I know how to cook.
And not only that, but I like to. Maybe as not as much as I like singing songs or making Pandora stations or writing, but enough to stop being such a lazy jerk (albeit a charmingly gifted one) who lives off the cream-top fat of her husband’s kindness.
