I don’t have time to write and cook today because I’m half way down I 95. Instead, I pulled from the archive a post about politicians campaigning at state fairs.
I wanted pudding. I don’t know why. I’m not a big pudding girl. Perhaps it’s because you can’t gobble your way through a bowl. You’ll give you a stomach ache. And that’s the point–spoonful by spoonful, life has to pause.
If the virus doesn’t get us, our hippocampus will. And with that I forced myself to get up and head to the kitchen. Maybe I could find an alluring recipe.
I rarely comment on her posts but this one was so admirable and meaningful to me that I told her she was my hero. She wrote back, “I’m jonesing for lemon meringue pie!”
As we enter our third week of confinement, I have to be honest and tell you we’re pretty sick of one another in this house. And so we had a virtual dinner party.
Food is the one elementary need we all have, feeding a comfort we can share, especially in troubled times. I finally remembered this and slapped myself out of isolation funk. Then I pulled a large bag of bones from the freezer to make beef stock.
It’s not hyperbolic to say the world shifted a little in having to contemplate the possibility that a recipe core to my identity, that was passed from one woman’s hand to another and then another could not be the total of its sum.
The son recently told me that he tasted his first burrito in a small storefront restaurant on Fourth Avenue. He and his friends were out gallivanting, up to no good, which can make fifteen year old boys very hungry and grateful to find a restaurant still open pass their curfew. That first burrito was buried under a salsa verde and he can still taste its fresh savory heft.
Last night I made them for the eldest but we all sat around the table too long and I wasn’t into writing until 2 AM to make my deadline.
Mom heard what went into a dish and immediately knew not only how to cook it but how it should taste, a talent she expected everyone to have and was appalled when she found otherwise.