Rachel here.
So, I thought I had two disparate post ideas for today, but after thinking them over for a while, I've realized that, in fact, they're deeply connected.
As you may or may not know, last week was National Eating Disorder Awareness Week. The goal of the week (helmed by the National Eating Disorder Association) is to increase awareness and, along those lines, this year's theme was "Everyone Knows Someone."
Think you don't?
You do. You know me.
NEDAW has been going on for a while, and every year bloggers stand up and speak out en masse. They write about their experiences, their hopes, their struggles. They chronicle their victories, their defeats, and their gains. They write for themselves, for those who find themselves mirrored back in their pages, against silence and invisibility. They write for everyone.
Every year I vow that I am going to add my voice.
Every year I am silent.
And I was this year, too, though I thought and thought and thought about writing. I piled excuses up against the desire, a barricade against a story who's entirety I have only ever told one person (my holy-crap-amazing therapist), until finally the week had passed. And now it's today, and I'm sitting here after a pleasant but exhausting day at the restaurant I work in, cheeks puffing out with the explosive desire I have to tell my own, small story.
The other post I was considering for today was about realizing during our trip east that, though we share a food blog, I had never cooked with my mother until this past week.
Nope. Never.
We've baked together countless times. Most of what I know I learned at her hip. But not until this past week did we stand side by side, chopping and seasoning and stepping around each other to prepare the entirety of a meal (I'll try not to over-think the fact that she relegated me to salad duty uummm....every night).
It was so, so nice. I hate the word "nice" but this is one of those rare moments where it feels just right. It was relaxed and gentle, a sharing so basic it left me feeling calmly full before the meal even began. Nice. It was really, really nice.
I've been thinking since we came home about why it took so long for this coming together at the kitchen counter to occur. Sure, some of it has to do with not having lived together since I was an asshole teenager, and some of it has to do with the years since being spent thousands of miles apart. But there was something else lurking, something I struggled to put my finger on as I sat at the dining room table with my family, enjoying food prepared by my mom's and my hands.
And then I figured it out. Baking doesn't require eating. Baking, in fact, is the perfect culinary sport for someone who is obsessed with controlling their food. Baking is something you do for other people; it generates a product no one bothers to notice whether you consume or not. Cooking, in that regard, is the food addict's nemesis. People watch you at dinner. They watch you after dinner. Dinner is, if you will, on the table. It is access, particularly in our family where sharing dinner was an important and regular staple in our days. Baking is a way to touch food, to smell it, to take teeny tiny tastes, without ever being expected to actually eat. Cooking is the exact opposite.
So I didn't cook with my mom. I baked and hid and maintained a white-knuckled grip on what went into my body.
It is a bigger story than this. Much bigger. It is the better part of 27 years and, I now know, something that I will never remember living without. It is my albatross.
It's funny--I had this deranged idea that being pregnant cured me of my entanglement with eating disorders. While actively knowing that part of how I maintain a relatively healthy relationship with food is contingent on the fact that I still nurse Maxine--like, there is a voice in my head that says make sure you eat enough or else you won't make breast milk or you will make really crappy breast milk and you have a kid with a weak immune system so don't you dare do that--I still tried to convince myself that I had turned some corner that I could never walk back around. And then we all got the flu and two really terrifying things happened.
The first was that I didn't get the flu. John fell first and, without somebody to eat with--to notice my eating--I just stopped. I didn't even think about it. I ate two peanut butter cookies in as many days. The part that shook me, though, wasn't the not eating. It was that I didn't realize I'd stopped until John got better. It was that effortless, that deeply rooted in my subconscious, still that familiar in spite of years of hard work.
The second thing that happened was that I did get the flu. I should say that what happened to John with the flu was unlike anything I've ever seen. That guy was SICK. Explosively, uncontrollably, every 15 minutes, SICK. It was wild. And then when I got it, I threw up two times. That was it. And I was disappointed. Which, now that I've got some space from that whole debacle, makes me feel really sad. Really, really sad. In a feverish haze I lay in bed considering my turn with the flu a bit of a missed opportunity.
I am 27 years old. I am a mother who wants NOTHING more for her daughter than for her to inhabit her body with love. I practice yoga. I work in food. I have a food blog. I love eating. I have spent years and years in therapy. And yet, when the flu comes knocking, I stop taking care of myself without realizing it and feel jealous that I didn't expel as much of my insides as my partner did.
I am 27 years old. I have eaten to numbness. I have binged and purged. I have eaten laxatives. I have starved to the point of fainting. I have pulled out clumps of my hair in the shower. I have bruised. I have bled. I have dropped out of college because I feared for my life. I have stopped getting my period. I have had my husband and brother threaten to hospitalize me. I have known how many calories I consumed in a day, a week, a month. I have avoided social situations for fear that I might be expected to eat bread. I have walked 5 miles to work to justify eating a cup of plain grits. I could go on. The list is long. I am a professional. We all are.
And I have clawed my way out.
And I claw myself out.
One day at a time. A breath. An expansion. A refusal to disappear. Hands over eyes, I part fingers. I peel them apart and make myself peer out at the world. See it. Be in it. Stop hiding.
There is an arsenal working against me. It is social and it is personal and it is unrelenting. I am stockpiling weapons, though, each day stashed aside as MINE.
I am putting cooking with my mother in my pocket. It is a reminder of how wonderfully full a life with food can feel. It is a reason to fight.
Because cooking with my mom? It's so, so nice.
A mother and daughter dish and cook their way through life, one recipe at a time.
Showing posts with label mother and daughter. Show all posts
Showing posts with label mother and daughter. Show all posts
Wednesday, March 7, 2012
Thursday, January 12, 2012
Oh Brother, Mother.
Rachel here.
Ok, so yesterday my mom wrote this post about how she like, doesn't need to follow cooking rules or some madness like that. She claims her cooking is not only fine, but good, rules be damned.
I grew up eating her food. I turned out fine. She rarely repulsed me (except by refusing to believe that I hate broccoli and cauliflower until I was well into my 20s) and some of her dishes remain my all-time favorite meals to eat (her Greek Pizza and granola are unrivaled in my opinion). However, the woman isn't a professional. She just isn't. And, as her concession that letting dairy products warm to room temperature before baking does, in fact, improve the end product suggests, maybe the pros are onto something.
I have spent the better part of the last 6 years in a kitchen. A RESTAURANT kitchen, no less. And while the place where I've worked is no-frills, it's also deeply committed to consistency. The food looks and tastes pretty much the same regardless of who has made it. What's the key? Following rules.
I've also spent the last 6 years cohabiting with a guy who has spent more years in professional kitchens than I think he'd like me to count and announce to you all (ok, he probably doesn't care...I'm just too lazy to figure it out on my own). John almost never uses a recipe and, my inferiority complex aside, I think I've finally figured out why: he knows the rules. There are these hard, fast, reliable truths about food and preparation processes that have seeped so deeply into him that he no longer needs to be propped up by a recipe. A recipe, after all, is basically just telling you what rules to follow.
And here's the thing: My mom is a good cook. I'm an alright cook. John, though, is a great cook. The man throws things together in the kitchen that make my knees weak, and he does it all without breaking a sweat.
One final point before I rest my case. This post might have a bunch of type-os in it that I don't catch. Want to know why? Because I used a too-big knife on a too-small cutting board and hacked off the tip of my finger the other day. THINK ON THAT.
Ok, so yesterday my mom wrote this post about how she like, doesn't need to follow cooking rules or some madness like that. She claims her cooking is not only fine, but good, rules be damned.
I grew up eating her food. I turned out fine. She rarely repulsed me (except by refusing to believe that I hate broccoli and cauliflower until I was well into my 20s) and some of her dishes remain my all-time favorite meals to eat (her Greek Pizza and granola are unrivaled in my opinion). However, the woman isn't a professional. She just isn't. And, as her concession that letting dairy products warm to room temperature before baking does, in fact, improve the end product suggests, maybe the pros are onto something.
I have spent the better part of the last 6 years in a kitchen. A RESTAURANT kitchen, no less. And while the place where I've worked is no-frills, it's also deeply committed to consistency. The food looks and tastes pretty much the same regardless of who has made it. What's the key? Following rules.
I've also spent the last 6 years cohabiting with a guy who has spent more years in professional kitchens than I think he'd like me to count and announce to you all (ok, he probably doesn't care...I'm just too lazy to figure it out on my own). John almost never uses a recipe and, my inferiority complex aside, I think I've finally figured out why: he knows the rules. There are these hard, fast, reliable truths about food and preparation processes that have seeped so deeply into him that he no longer needs to be propped up by a recipe. A recipe, after all, is basically just telling you what rules to follow.
And here's the thing: My mom is a good cook. I'm an alright cook. John, though, is a great cook. The man throws things together in the kitchen that make my knees weak, and he does it all without breaking a sweat.
One final point before I rest my case. This post might have a bunch of type-os in it that I don't catch. Want to know why? Because I used a too-big knife on a too-small cutting board and hacked off the tip of my finger the other day. THINK ON THAT.
Monday, December 19, 2011
Comfort Food
I really miss my mother. And I'm surprised. She's been dead, after all, for 11 years, and our relationship was a complicated one for sure. So I've been touching this rediscovered scab, thinking about how it feel when I scratch certain parts, and I think I've figured out where it's coming from: This is the first Christmas where Peter and I will not see two of our three children. At all. And for the first time, I understand and feel in my very core my mother. I get why she was so (often annoyingly to me) needy at different points — "What do you mean you're not going to spend Mother's Day with me, Janet?" — and why she seemed so desperate at others. She saw the clock ticking and like that Salvador Dali clock knew her time was melting, ever so quickly.
It's not a comfortable place. While I intellectually understand the passing of the baton to the next generation — embrace it even in my most independent moments – around the holidays I want to be surrounded by my children. I don't have taken care of aging adults, I am acutely aware of the few years (God willing) we will all have in this new realm as equals on some level, a time to discover and enjoy new relationships as our parent/child paradigm shifts into something else. As a new grandmother, I am aware as well of the snap-your-fingers-and-it's-gone time to share in our little M's life.
So I think of my mother. I want to tell her "I get it." But I can't of course. Instead, I decided to make a favorite meal of hers and mine. While it's not complicated — what was in the suburban cooking of the '60s? — it does requiring thinking ahead because the chicken marinates overnight. I've served this meal to my children a few times, always thinking of my mother and how happy I was whenever she announced that sour cream chicken was for dinner. For now, that will have to do.
Sour Cream Chicken
serves 4
Cover and marinate the chicken overnight in the refrigerator.
Heat oven to 325 degrees. Uncover and bake for about an hour until the chicken is done.
It's not a comfortable place. While I intellectually understand the passing of the baton to the next generation — embrace it even in my most independent moments – around the holidays I want to be surrounded by my children. I don't have taken care of aging adults, I am acutely aware of the few years (God willing) we will all have in this new realm as equals on some level, a time to discover and enjoy new relationships as our parent/child paradigm shifts into something else. As a new grandmother, I am aware as well of the snap-your-fingers-and-it's-gone time to share in our little M's life.
So I think of my mother. I want to tell her "I get it." But I can't of course. Instead, I decided to make a favorite meal of hers and mine. While it's not complicated — what was in the suburban cooking of the '60s? — it does requiring thinking ahead because the chicken marinates overnight. I've served this meal to my children a few times, always thinking of my mother and how happy I was whenever she announced that sour cream chicken was for dinner. For now, that will have to do.
Sour Cream Chicken
serves 4
Cover and marinate the chicken overnight in the refrigerator.
Heat oven to 325 degrees. Uncover and bake for about an hour until the chicken is done.
Friday, October 14, 2011
Talk Does Not Cook Rice
Rachel here.
This is a tiny post, rendered by tiny toddler hands and mine, come together in the kitchen for the first time.
This is my blog with my mom; this is my first post about cooking with my own daughter.
Maxine is interested these days. She's interested in everything--what's behind doors and under pillows, how things come together and fall apart. She wants to partake, to join, to share in everything. If I open the dishwasher, she closes it. When she comes into our room in the morning after having breakfast with her dad on our days off, she lies down next to me and pretends to sleep. Her fine motor skills are growing stronger by the second. She gets more spoonfuls of food into her mouth now than she misses; she can poke her finger up her nose on her first try.
So, last night, we made rice together. I filled measuring cups and she dutifully poured their contents into the pot. She stirred everything up and then hung out on my hip declaring hot hot hot as I set the burner to its proper heat. When the rice was done, and came out perfectly (not always the case when I'm at the helm), we high-fived and she clapped.
It was a tiny moment. But, as we separate physically more and more, as she ceases to viscerally carry the days when we were bound, here was a tiny reconnection, a new site of unity.
And I thought of the many afternoons I spent in the kitchen with my own mother as a girl, and of our coming together in this space across time zones and kitchen tables, and I smiled.
Someday I will pass down to her the recipes I have from my grandmothers and my mother. Maybe Max will love cooking; maybe she'll be the take-out queen. There's a Chinese proverb that says something to the effect of talk does not cook rice. Whether she seeks the kitchen as much as her dad and I do or not, I hope she knows that she is always welcome alongside me there, that we can come together silently in the simple act of cooking rice.
This is a tiny post, rendered by tiny toddler hands and mine, come together in the kitchen for the first time.
This is my blog with my mom; this is my first post about cooking with my own daughter.
Maxine is interested these days. She's interested in everything--what's behind doors and under pillows, how things come together and fall apart. She wants to partake, to join, to share in everything. If I open the dishwasher, she closes it. When she comes into our room in the morning after having breakfast with her dad on our days off, she lies down next to me and pretends to sleep. Her fine motor skills are growing stronger by the second. She gets more spoonfuls of food into her mouth now than she misses; she can poke her finger up her nose on her first try.
So, last night, we made rice together. I filled measuring cups and she dutifully poured their contents into the pot. She stirred everything up and then hung out on my hip declaring hot hot hot as I set the burner to its proper heat. When the rice was done, and came out perfectly (not always the case when I'm at the helm), we high-fived and she clapped.
It was a tiny moment. But, as we separate physically more and more, as she ceases to viscerally carry the days when we were bound, here was a tiny reconnection, a new site of unity.
And I thought of the many afternoons I spent in the kitchen with my own mother as a girl, and of our coming together in this space across time zones and kitchen tables, and I smiled.
Someday I will pass down to her the recipes I have from my grandmothers and my mother. Maybe Max will love cooking; maybe she'll be the take-out queen. There's a Chinese proverb that says something to the effect of talk does not cook rice. Whether she seeks the kitchen as much as her dad and I do or not, I hope she knows that she is always welcome alongside me there, that we can come together silently in the simple act of cooking rice.
Wednesday, October 20, 2010
Cookie Discontent
Hi Rachel: I've got a confession to make. When I saw your chocolate chip cookies last week, I had a little freak-out moment: They looked better than mine. This, of course, is not the way the world order is supposed to go. The mother is supposed to be the superior cook until she dies; then the daughter can become better at something. Didn't you get this memo?
While my cookies are pretty damn good, yours, which you posted about here, look lumpier and thicker while mine have been a little flat lately, as this photo attests.
Don't get me wrong. Mine are more than edible (added cranberries this time, which was a nice contrast to the dark chocolate). But they're not lumpy and thick the way they once were. It's that "once were" part that's so annoying. Am I losing my chocolate chip cookie grip? Is this the first sign of the beginning of the end?
I suspect the flatness is because I've gotten kind of lazy and microwave my butter to soften it rather than really plan ahead and let it soften naturally. But still, it's bugging me and I just want you to know that while you're busy going to school and taking care of M and becoming a new mother and all that, I am plotting my cookie revenge. (Any readers who want to offer me advice should feel free to weigh in. We all know you want me to win.) Some day, when you least expect it, there will be a chocolate chip cookie post and I will be the cookie queen again.
While my cookies are pretty damn good, yours, which you posted about here, look lumpier and thicker while mine have been a little flat lately, as this photo attests.
Don't get me wrong. Mine are more than edible (added cranberries this time, which was a nice contrast to the dark chocolate). But they're not lumpy and thick the way they once were. It's that "once were" part that's so annoying. Am I losing my chocolate chip cookie grip? Is this the first sign of the beginning of the end?
I suspect the flatness is because I've gotten kind of lazy and microwave my butter to soften it rather than really plan ahead and let it soften naturally. But still, it's bugging me and I just want you to know that while you're busy going to school and taking care of M and becoming a new mother and all that, I am plotting my cookie revenge. (Any readers who want to offer me advice should feel free to weigh in. We all know you want me to win.) Some day, when you least expect it, there will be a chocolate chip cookie post and I will be the cookie queen again.
Thursday, October 14, 2010
Dinner with Both Hands
Hey Ma-
So sorry that G devours vegetables at my house. S also eats rice when he's in our vicinity. I'm thinking that perhaps we can credit the bay breeze instead of my sister status or cooking prowess.
Yeah, I'm feeling confident that it's not my cooking prowess. Particularly these days when I churn out a pretty consistent rotation of sausage and beans, quesadillas and beans, stir-fry...and delivery pizzas. I'm not knocking these dishes (way to be bean-centric though, no?), just acknowledging that they hardly amount to recipes and that it's been a while since I've cooked in a way that's exciting to me. I am, you know, just getting back into baking. Having a baby seems to mean baby steps back into the kitchen as I've known it.
Right now, in a rare moment, I am eating WHILE I blog. Sure this means I'm not being a particularly present eater, but most importantly it means that I AM EATING WITH TWO HANDS.
This is so rare.
So, so, so rare.
John is an amazing partner. We take turns tending to M's needs while we eat. But the reality of it is that neither one of us eats with two hands for a whole meal with much regularity. In fact, absent grandparental visits and this one night a few months back when she was asleep during dinner, John and I have not eaten a single meal at home in which we were free to employ both of our hands for the duration. I wouldn't call this depressing, since it is simply the byproduct of the arrival of our incredibly wonderful baby, but I do want to mark this moment, to appreciate it for what it is: a dinner for me in which I am my only concern.
Awesome.
And, on that note, while I love the blog, I'm off to finish eating, to relish the two-handedness of this meal.
xxoo
-R
So sorry that G devours vegetables at my house. S also eats rice when he's in our vicinity. I'm thinking that perhaps we can credit the bay breeze instead of my sister status or cooking prowess.
Yeah, I'm feeling confident that it's not my cooking prowess. Particularly these days when I churn out a pretty consistent rotation of sausage and beans, quesadillas and beans, stir-fry...and delivery pizzas. I'm not knocking these dishes (way to be bean-centric though, no?), just acknowledging that they hardly amount to recipes and that it's been a while since I've cooked in a way that's exciting to me. I am, you know, just getting back into baking. Having a baby seems to mean baby steps back into the kitchen as I've known it.
Right now, in a rare moment, I am eating WHILE I blog. Sure this means I'm not being a particularly present eater, but most importantly it means that I AM EATING WITH TWO HANDS.
This is so rare.
So, so, so rare.
John is an amazing partner. We take turns tending to M's needs while we eat. But the reality of it is that neither one of us eats with two hands for a whole meal with much regularity. In fact, absent grandparental visits and this one night a few months back when she was asleep during dinner, John and I have not eaten a single meal at home in which we were free to employ both of our hands for the duration. I wouldn't call this depressing, since it is simply the byproduct of the arrival of our incredibly wonderful baby, but I do want to mark this moment, to appreciate it for what it is: a dinner for me in which I am my only concern.
Awesome.
And, on that note, while I love the blog, I'm off to finish eating, to relish the two-handedness of this meal.
xxoo
-R
Tuesday, October 12, 2010
Who Wants Vegetables When There're Cookies in the House...
Hey Ma-
I think I was supposed to write about how I served G eggplant and other--as he put it, "funky"--vegetables for dinner the other night (recipe here) and he gobbled them down (ok, maybe he didn't gobble...but he certainly ate 'em). I'm too delighted, though, by your cake pop adventure not to relay to you all the baking I did this weekend.
First of all, my hat's off to you for even endeavoring cake pops. They're the kind of thing that I look at and immediately decide requires more patience than I'd ever be able to muster. My only lament is that I wasn't there to eat all of your rejects because, you know, I like to support you in your times of need.
All of your talking about baking, though, left me feeling a little bit inspired. Did I bake anything new? Nope. I did, however, churn out banana bread (it was only pretty good because--in a truly rare moment--we were out of yogurt...the key ingredient, evidently, after the bananas) AND chocolate chip cookies (really, this recipe is just perfect...G can testify on my behalf if you have doubts). In a fun twist, M and I did it together. She's become such an alert little person and she's really interested in what we're doing in the kitchen these days. The only problem arose when she wanted to put a cookie in her mouth. Soon! But not yet...
Anyway, I know I can't go on and on about M and not let you see her, so here you go:
(In case anyone's paying attention, yes she's wearing a Yankees tee from her Pamp and, yes, John felt the need to represent the Phillies by standing in the background lest anyone believe M's allegiances lie with New York...)
She's grown that belly all by herself without a single cookie or slice of banana bread (ok, I've eaten my fair share, but still)! Go, M, go! Someday all three of us can bake together and that will be really, really nice.
Alright, off to school. I love you.
xxoo
R
I think I was supposed to write about how I served G eggplant and other--as he put it, "funky"--vegetables for dinner the other night (recipe here) and he gobbled them down (ok, maybe he didn't gobble...but he certainly ate 'em). I'm too delighted, though, by your cake pop adventure not to relay to you all the baking I did this weekend.
First of all, my hat's off to you for even endeavoring cake pops. They're the kind of thing that I look at and immediately decide requires more patience than I'd ever be able to muster. My only lament is that I wasn't there to eat all of your rejects because, you know, I like to support you in your times of need.
All of your talking about baking, though, left me feeling a little bit inspired. Did I bake anything new? Nope. I did, however, churn out banana bread (it was only pretty good because--in a truly rare moment--we were out of yogurt...the key ingredient, evidently, after the bananas) AND chocolate chip cookies (really, this recipe is just perfect...G can testify on my behalf if you have doubts). In a fun twist, M and I did it together. She's become such an alert little person and she's really interested in what we're doing in the kitchen these days. The only problem arose when she wanted to put a cookie in her mouth. Soon! But not yet...
Anyway, I know I can't go on and on about M and not let you see her, so here you go:
(In case anyone's paying attention, yes she's wearing a Yankees tee from her Pamp and, yes, John felt the need to represent the Phillies by standing in the background lest anyone believe M's allegiances lie with New York...)
She's grown that belly all by herself without a single cookie or slice of banana bread (ok, I've eaten my fair share, but still)! Go, M, go! Someday all three of us can bake together and that will be really, really nice.
Alright, off to school. I love you.
xxoo
R
Monday, September 20, 2010
A New Format? Let Us Know What You Think...
Hey Ma-
You're in my kitchen right now cooking dinner for Dad and G and John and me (which, I guess means you are also indirectly cooking M's dinner). You flew out for just a few days and, in this little window, you have fed me in myriad ways. My laundry has been magically folded, my dishes done, my fridge and belly filled and I have felt myself relax for the first time in weeks (ok, maybe for the first time since you were last visiting). You are a phenomenal nana to baby M, kissing her and playing with her and tucking her into bed. Nothing makes me feel more sated then watching my mom and dad with my baby.
We've decided to explore a little bit more of the life side of our lives as they're told in recipes and this is the post that kicks it off. How perfect that what you're cooking is one of your favorite recipes of your mom's right now (in this way, Grandy is feeding M, too, and that is just kind of mind-blowing and awesome). I'll let you share the recipe some other day, but I do want to say that I--like you--have fond memories of eating this chicken dish while growing up. I'm excited to eat it in my house in California, feeling grateful for the continuity of and across kitchens and generations.
As you did last time, you are leaving us with a bounty of chocolate chip cookies (last time they were mookies, this time chocolate chunk...which you made without a recipe which totally impressed me). Every time I eat one, I will think of you and I will feel strong and supported and loved. This is the best kind of food.
Thank you for crossing the country for just a few days. The impact will reverberate in my belly and my heart for weeks to come.
Love,
Rachel
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