cooking to impress
Nick swooped into my life in 2008 and saved me from what looked like certain New York induced starvation. Through San Francisco, France, North Carolina, Massachusetts, and Vermont he cooked. And I washed up. And we were grateful for the other's compliance.
There has been a lot of indoor-time for me lately. Nick has been working twice as hard on the farm, and I have been told by my midwife to lay off the heavy lifting. So, no hay bales, no feed bags. As I sit here in farm exile, growing ever more pregnant, I contemplate, often, the thousand ways I wish and want to be a better woman for my son. I want my son to think of his mother as a cool cucumber, not one with a fiery temper. I fantasize that I'll play him bedtime lullabies on the piano. When we brake bread around the breakfast table I want it to be of my own creation. The chocolate caramels that he requests for his birthday will be my special recipe. I want my son to see me change the flat tire on the side of the road in lieu of AAA. I want him to think I am the fastest runner in the land. When we go for walks through the back forest I need to be able to tell my son which tree is a hophornbeam and which is yellow birch. The lasagna that I layer ought to be made with the cheese I made and the spinach and tomatoes I grew.
In short, I want to be my son's superhero. I want him to think of me as the most capable of humans. Just as much as any mother or father has before me. I have one thousand flaws. My inability to cook is just one of them. But it has the most obvious and straightforward fix. So, I am cooking, baking, steaming and souping. I made the aforementioned lasagna yesterday. I've put a couple of quiches under my belt. I tried, and failed, making a dutch baby and then a pfannkuchen. I've made a good lentil stew. I baked my first two loaves of whole wheat bread this week. On the same day that I made a meltinyourmouth cream caramel. Tomorrow I am baking challah for shabbat.
I am learning. And by the time this babe is off breast milk and into the wild world of food he will at least be able to turn to his mother for something more than a steamed bowl of edamame and a plate of toast.
Posted by kate at 10:29 AM