By then, I’d come to realize that no one was ever going to put my recipes into a book, so I’d have to do it myself…. A food writer who wrote about the book carped that the recipes were not particularly original, but it seemed to me she missed the point. The point wasn’t about the recipes. The point (I was starting to realize) was about putting it together. The point was about making people feel at home, about finding your own style, whatever it was, and committing to it. The point was about giving up neurosis where food was concerned. The point was about finding a way that food fit into your life. (28-29) I Feel Bad About My Neck by Nora EphronI have been thinking about how work can fluctuate between drudgery and delight or stress and satisfaction or mindlessness and meaningful engagement. I don't know of a single job that doesn't come with demands we don't like. I believe the goal is to find the core of the work to be satisfying and rewarding. Often, we also have to struggle through some rough spots to get to a better place and focus on the core. Or, we need to work our way up the ladder to gain the experience and expertise to allow us to do the work we desire. If I can't get to a better place or see a better place in the future, I know that I am doing the wrong kind of work. I need to make a change, if possible now, or plan for a change with a long-term goal in mind.
I find this to be equally true in work on the home front as in professional work. Lately, my writing has brought me unbelievable satisfaction. Actually, I would have to say joy. Successfully, pulling together a post where I say what is truest to myself that day in the most articulate words I can muster within the structural parameters of an essay makes me incredibly happy. I can honestly say that my ability to do so comes from years of practice that taught me how to find my voice, develop the skill and artistry, and build confidence in myself. Now, instead of trying to control my writing, I try to control the context and give myself space, knowing the words will come. Some days are much harder than others and some posts are far better than others. Yet, I have learned to set ideals of perfection aside, put my head down in good faith, and write on.
I find the same is true for me in cooking. Sometimes, I simply can't think of anything I want to cook and need a break from preparing meals for a week or two. Then, food at my house tends toward the most basic like simple grilled cheese sandwiches. Or, we eat plenty of takeout. Or, I find myself scavenging through the prepared and frozen food aisles of the grocery store, looking for something, anything that might fit the bill and not kill us. However, I have cooked enough, just as I have written enough, to know that if I maintain a well-stocked larder, I can pull together a healthy meal from scratch and enjoy cooking, too. I have learned that the more chopping involved, the more vegetables and fruits I prep, the more likely the product is healthy and flavorful. I am in the camp with Nora Ephron: I have found my food style and am committed to it.
Still, cooking is hard work as memories from my childhood remind me. My Midwestern roots are German, and my family tree includes numerous cooks and gardeners (and even earlier, farmers). These are women, who often cooked three meals a day from scratch and fed a house full of hungry mouths, because families were often larger than today. Whoever showed up at mealtime was offered a seat at the table. Your designation as extended family member, old friend, or new acquaintance mattered little. However, a good appetite was of the utmost importance. Food was served in abundance, and eating ample portions of just about everything was expected. I hold this principle of hosting a welcoming table full of good food as a mantra dear to my heart.
I
can remember my aunts making cheese, baking bread, preparing sausage,
decorating tortes, and preserving everything from sauerkraut to dill pickles to
gooseberry jam, usually without a recipe. I remember how they planted asparagus
crowns in their gardens and harvested the vegetable two years later to make the
most delicious cream of asparagus soup. And, given their immigrant roots,
nothing was ever wasted. Food was not to be taken for granted. It was to be
fully enjoyed but respected. These women practiced culinary skills which were
practical from the most simple of foods to the most sublime of flavors. These women worked hard and certainly could not have enjoyed it much of the time. Yet, these women inspired me and nurtured an appreciation for the well-cooked meal that took me time to understand, years to master, and experimentation to personally define.
As in writing, I try to set the neuroses aside. I try hard not to be a control freak (and my daughters will likely note that I have a long way to go on that front!) or aim for perfection and simply cook with health, flavor and variety in mind. I am a cook, a hard working cook in my own home like the women before me, not a chef or Martha Stewart wannabe. As a result, I continue to enjoy cooking, finding the work satisfying and the experimentation rewarding. I am also putting my most trusted recipes together to give voice to those who came before me, to express my food culture, and to compile a food narrative for my daughters, who may or may not enjoy the work of cooking but may appreciate the memories that lie strewn among the recipes.
To read more about how cooking empowers me, see my food blog Gatherings and The Culpable Cook at www.theculpablecook.com, or how cooking empowers others see this perspective.
Cook
Jane Hirshfield
Each
night you come home with five continents on your hands:
garlic, olive oil, saffron, anise, coriander, tea,
your fingernails blackened with a marjoram and thyme.
Sometimes the zucchini's flesh seems like a fish-steak,
cut into neat filets, or the salt-rubbed eggplant
yields not bitter water, but dark mystery.
You cut everything into bits.
No core, no kernel, no seed is scared: you cut
onions for hours and do not cry,
cut them to thin transparencies, the red ones
spreading before you like fallen flowers;
you cut scallions from white to green, you cut
radishes, apples, broccoli, you cut oranges, watercress,
romaine, you cut your fingers, you cut and cut
beyond the heart of things, where
nothing remains, and you cut that too, scoring coup
on the butcherblock, leaving your mark,
when you go
your feet are as pounded as brioche dough.
garlic, olive oil, saffron, anise, coriander, tea,
your fingernails blackened with a marjoram and thyme.
Sometimes the zucchini's flesh seems like a fish-steak,
cut into neat filets, or the salt-rubbed eggplant
yields not bitter water, but dark mystery.
You cut everything into bits.
No core, no kernel, no seed is scared: you cut
onions for hours and do not cry,
cut them to thin transparencies, the red ones
spreading before you like fallen flowers;
you cut scallions from white to green, you cut
radishes, apples, broccoli, you cut oranges, watercress,
romaine, you cut your fingers, you cut and cut
beyond the heart of things, where
nothing remains, and you cut that too, scoring coup
on the butcherblock, leaving your mark,
when you go
your feet are as pounded as brioche dough.
