kitchen
Last week out of the blue I was really sick. Who knows if it was a flu virus or maybe just food poisoning, but I thought for a good four hours that I might be having contractions, and I had to call the doctor and there was a lot of suspense and anxiety in our house. I spent about a day and a half in a good bit of pain, then a day and a half recovering.
Rosie and Steve got take-out thai food for dinner while I took some feeble sips from my chicken soup.
Aren’t you lucky I’m sick, you get your thai food, I said to her. She agreed.
Then she said, What, is Dad a bad cook or something?
Not at all. Actually the opposite. She knows that — before I came along, he cooked for her often. They were poor and it was mostly Kroger-brand mac-n-cheese, but still. He’s braver in the kitchen than I am, experimental and forgiving. He seems really happy in the kitchen, really jolly.
So you just like to be in the kitchen because it feels like your place as a woman? Rosie asked. She’s something else.
Actually the opposite, I said. And I really meant that. I usually feel like a man chef. I tried to explain to her what I meant, that for me it’s a place of bravery and creativity. It really feels like the maternal aspect is minimal. I have knives in my hand and I’m chopping and burning things. I’m usually barely referencing a recipe. I feel in charge in that space, and like I’m some sort of director choreographing vegetables. I’m usually listening to NPR, juggling all sorts of thoughts in my brain, learning and learning.
(michael pollan essay on cooking and bravery here.)
