Snap, Snap

“I think careful cooking is love, don’t you? The loveliest thing you can cook for someone who’s close to you is about as nice a Valentine as you can give.” -Julia Child I’ve been preoccupied with thoughts of my mother lately. They are longing, mournful, yet sweet and snuggly thoughts. It is such a relief to think such thoughts. My mother and I had an extremely complicated relationship. At times, we were best friends. I have never had a friend as solid as the one my mother was during those instances. At other times, we were estranged, me thinking things about her that were surely no worse than the ones she was thinking about me. I think most mothers and daughters function in this way. The only difference in my mother and I is the fact that we were willing to admit it, just not to each other.

Perhaps it is due to the fast-approaching holidays. I am writing to you on the day of Halloween. For the first time since the spring, I felt a sweater was necessary. Coffee is brewing. The smell of baked bread and yesterday’s homemade pumpkin soup linger in the air. Anytime I think of cooking, I think of her, this mother of mine prone to sudden onset baking. We are practically extinct, I often think, we women who truly enjoy homemaking. It is important that we understand how to survive financially and autonomously in this world. It is equally important that we feel capable in a kitchen, able to follow recipes and produce staple dishes, free from micro-plastics and carcinogens. That is how I opine, at least. But please understand, we need more men who can cook, too.

I currently have the pleasure of my middle child, and his family, living with me. Recently, I found him sitting at my kitchen island, intently watching a video on his phone. “Mom,” he says, averting attention away from his phone and toward his mother. “I found something I want to make for dinner. How do you prep a cast iron skillet you’ve never used?” That conversation morphed into a step-bystep guide to seasoning skillets, eventually leading into 1:1 common ingredient substitutions. My high school math teacher would be so proud. In the end, we decided he did not have the time luxury of seasoning a skillet. He should just borrow mine. Except, it is more complicated than that.

You can decorate your kitchen like an Instagram influencer. Stack those wooden cutting boards you seldom use up against your beveled subway tile backsplash. Prop gold frame pictures up to cover the outlets. Set up your hot cocoa bars. Display your fancy hand soap in containers that say SOAP in tall, skinny fonts. In real kitchens, we use cup towels that used to be bathroom hand towels until our medicated face cleanser bleached out the color. We leave our heavy mixers out on the counter because, otherwise, we would have Olympian worthy lat muscles from lifting them onto to the counter daily. We have more than one coffee maker because we are of an age where coffee is the highlight of the day. There are always vitamins out on the counter. We still use canisters for flour and sugar. We long ago embraced the look of a well-used kitchen. In mine, there is one object that hasn’t moved in 5 years. My mother’s cast iron skillet sits at the ready, on the back/right burner of my gas range, like a shining raven in the moonlight.

Sometimes, I am told, I make hand movements like my mother. My sons shriek in elation that borders on cringing. My mom was a full seven inches taller than I. She had arms and legs for days, fingers that were long and slender. She was fair complected with eyes of a green I’ve never quite seen in another person. I am the exact opposite: curvy, stumpy, olive-complected, and with a way more high-pitched voice than her deep, slow one. So, when something I do translates into a Marsha- ism, it causes laughter for days. While I often wish I looked more like my mother, it is nice to know some things were inherited. I love to sing (badly). I am prone to loud finger snapping when I’m in a good mood – often while singing badly. And, I think I am ready to say this publicly, I am a darn good cook, taught by the best of the best.

Last night, we were presented with smoked chicken thighs, expertly prepared on a pellet grill. The skin was crispy and flavorful. The inside was juicy and delicious. That was served with pasta and a sauce made from roasting cheese and cherry tomatoes in my mother’s cast iron skillet. I can only describe it as the Italian version of queso flameado. We told him how delicious the meal was, though we don’t think he believed us as much as felt our compliments were obligatory. Afterward, I walked him through the proper care of a cast iron skillet that is possibly older than his mother. Never use soap. Just soak it and give it a good salt scrub and lotion it down with the bacon grease that is stored next to the range.

Thank you, momma. Thank you for occupying this corner of my mind like only you could. Thank you for showing me that everything in life you love is worth fighting for. Thank you for teaching me how to cook. I will snap extra loudly for you tonight.