Meals
Meals are hard for me.
I remember a time; I was about sixteen, when all I would eat were hostess Suzy-Q’s.
I remember the last time I sat down to a dinner at which I was expected to eat meat. It was at a friend’s house. His mother served a full ham. I can’t even begin to describe how awkward that meal was.
There is something about eating that is very personal to me. Meals will linger with me for weeks, months, even years. I can remember a cheese dip I ate at a church social I had twenty years ago. Most of the food was fruit suspended in a Jell-O compound. The dip was exceptional. I have thought about it so often I can tell you exactly what it was made of.
My greatest memory of food is my grandmother’s apple pie. She died, taking the recipe with her. But through trial and error, I am very close to recreating it. Some meals demand perfection.
The other day my wife gave birth to our fourth daughter. Almost immediately offers of food began to pour in.
Questions were asked. What do you eat?
How do I begin to answer?
I will eat a sunny side egg, but only if it is cooked for 3 minutes and 45 seconds. Any longer and it is burnt. This is a bit of an exaggeration, but you get the idea. I am a sane man living in a crazy persons body.
I eat fish. But I abhor river fish.
Beets are evil. Sushi is good.
Salad is safe.
One friend offers her famous chicken Parmesan. My reply “that sounds awesome.”
How can I explain that while I will never eat this dish, I love the idea of it, I know my wife will love it, and I especially want my children to have it.
Once, at a restaurant, I ordered an appetizer. I took a bite and discovered it was full of lamb. Rather than spitting it out, I finished it. My wife looked at me. “What are you doing?” she asked. I didn’t know. I spit out the bite and struggled to finish my dinner.
Tonight I cooked Chinese for the family. Sweet and sour chicken and beef with broccoli. I will never taste the meal I have prepared. Self-consciously I ask. “Was it any good?” Everyone raves. I cannot be so sure.
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2 comments:
I think I can say honestly -- without sounding like I'm sucking up --- that if you made it, it was probably excellent, especially since J said so.
At your church potluck 20 years ago, somehow I picture a rainbow-colored gelatin fortress housing gummy arms, marshmallow ammo, and megalomaniacal leadership.
I spent about an hour Saturday night discoursing to the poor Brujo (trapped with me at our fabulous neighborhood Indian restaurant, where the service is slower than cold lassi) about the first korma I ever had, in the UK. And the cherry-studded coconut-scented naan that came with it. I was reading Hanif Kureshi and feeling awfully grown-up, out to dinner in an Exotic Restaurant by myself.
Do you like MFK Fisher? Surely you must. The Gastronomical Me is, I think, one of the best books of the twentieth century.
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