Let Your Inner Child Touch A Hot Stove
Cooking as play in a depressingly adult world
There’s a commercial making the rounds for a prepared meal company called Freshly that needles me more than it probably should. Upon trying one of the dishes in the kit, our beleaguered couple cavorts in a paroxysm of ecstasy upon realizing that “WE DON’T HAVE TO COOK ANYMORE!!” I get it, honestly - cooking must feel to many people like just one more chore, something you have to do so you don’t blow your entire monthly budget on takeout because who the hell has the time or inclination to prepare an entire meal after the day you’ve had, which is always, always harder than it needs to be right now.
Well, I guess I’m one of those people with both the time and inclination. I don’t remember where I read an essay linking cooking to a higher form of recreation, but that’s how and where I’ve always given my inner child free rein to be her truest self - in the presence of a stove, some inspiration and a free afternoon or evening. I generally use recipes as roadmaps - unless baking - and add, subtract, divide and multiply elements like the math prodigy I never was in school. Anything I come across on the internet that looks interesting, tasty or challenging gets bookmarked to try. And I get notions in my fool head to try things all. the. time.
During the pandemic I’ve made:
- tandoori-spiced lamb meatloaf
- low-carb focaccia (with yeast!)
- cauliflower mac and cheese
- chicken adobo
- vegan Gambian peanut stew
- classic french-style ratatouille
- homemade ricotta (this one is almost stupid easy)
- seafood chowder
- eggplant rollatini
- dry rub buffalo wings
along with probably another dozen culinary excursions. And I make and eat them all for myself (and the occasional guest).
Beyond the delight of bringing something new into the world at the end of a workday/week that doesn’t always allow me the opportunity to engage my creative impulses, I am deeply aware of what a privilege it is to be able to cook for myself, in my own roommate-less kitchen, with items I don’t necessarily have to pinch pennies for. In a world that will happily remind me at every turn that I am less than, when I cook I get to lean fully into my economic and cultural capital - the cooking skills I inherited from my grandmother, the ideas I take from my gifted friends, cookbooks and cooking shows, the oversized freezer that lets me store all the leftovers, the wine I drink while I dance around my kitchen, Pandora blasting “French Cooking Music” (that is actually a real station) on the smart tv.
When I cook I get to be elegant, silly, thoughtful, precise or flamboyant, whatever moves me. Sometimes all in the same dish! Sourcing the ingredients is almost as much fun - I live in a particular part of Brooklyn that’s just close enough to (one of) the bougie part(s) to pretend I’m in Paris and take a long leisurely stroll with my grocery bag for provisions. This weekend I found heirloom eggs colored robin-blue, rice made from chickpea flour with half the carb count, and escargots liberated from their shells and neatly packaged in clusters of six. The eggs went into a soft scramble for brunch with copious amounts of buttered rye toast from the local bakery, the rice nestled beneath chicken adobo for supper, and who knows where the escargot will end up? I can’t wait to find out.
My ancestors cooked because takeout and delivery weren’t options, and they wouldn’t have been able to afford it even if it was. They also put love into their meals, as I do. They found joy in the process, as I do. In a time where so much is so deeply uncertain, cooking grounds me, centers me and lets me be fully myself like no other activity does. I encourage everyone to try to find more joy and love in this elemental, fulfilling act - truly feeding yourself comprises so much more than just what goes into your mouth! That said, if Freshly wants to throw me a trial subscription one of these days, I wouldn’t say no - after a workday lasting until 9pm, I wouldn’t kick that corn-black beans-chicken-quinoa medley outta bed.
