Is this kitchen a place for caring or an escape?

 

Jean cutting the matzo crack

In my mind, major religious holidays and food are always connected. It has something to do with feeding the body while feeding the soul, with nurturing as a way to express caring and love and, yes, faith. I’m not sure I can put it into the right words, but cooking becomes an altruistic gesture. At the same time, it is, for me, a self-pleasing activity. At least that’s my story this weekend, and I’m sticking to it.

I have been cooking for two days, dishes for Easter and supper dishes for tonight. Sure, I could have ordered much of it online, but that would rob it of its significance. So yesterday, I made black bean soup and salmon rillettes (a spread that mixes fresh and smoked salmon, though I subbed the good canned I get from Alaska for the fresh). I hard boiled eggs to be deviled tomorrow and made crab bites for company last night. Yeah, I was tired, but I was also exhilarated. Cooking somehow frees my mind.

Matzo crack
So rich, so good

Tonight Jean came for supper—the bean soup and salmon rillettes had her name on them, and she seemed to enjoy them thoroughly. When she came in, I asked her if she knew about those parties where you go expecting a nice evening of conversation, but the hostess greets you with “Hi, we’re going to play charades” … or Monopoly or Canasta or whatever and you wish you had called in sick. Jean looked alarmed and said yes, she knew. Well, I said, I have a joint cooking project for us but only if you want to. And that’s how we came to make matzo crack tonight.

Matzo crack, for those who didn’t read last week’s Gourmet on a Hot Plate blog, ends up like good English toffee with chocolate—only with a matzo base. It’s a seasonal thing, because you don’t find much matzo in stores except at Passover. The reason I didn’t make this dessert myself is that it involves the toffee mix of boiling sugar and butter—and my balance is not good enough that I am comfortable going from oven to work surface with that scary a hot mixture. So Jean did the hard parts, while I did the prep and supervised, calling out instructions. It was actually a lot more fun to make it with someone. We refrigerated the finished product for 30 minutes, per the recipe, but the chocolate was still soft and runny, the toffee part congealed nicely. I refrigerated it more after Jean cut it, and now the chocolate has hardened. We’ll offer some with brunch tomorrow.

We’ll go to virtual early church in the cottage—the Easter crowds at our church are difficult for the able-bodied to manage and intimidating if you have a walker or wheelchair as I do. So we’ll stay home.

At noon, friends who usher at the church will join us for brunch—Christian will scramble eggs, and I have made a ranchero sauce. If they’re good, we’ll give our guests some matzo crack. In the evening, Jordan and Christian and Jacob will go to meet Christian’s father at a P. F. Chang’s restaurant somewhere between here and there, and I will go to friends for—wait for it!—grilled salmon. I’ll take a creamed spinach casserole and devilled eggs—finishing those eggs is the only cooking chore I have left for tomorrow. I’m really anticipating a lovely day.

Today in my small writer’s group, one sister was bemoaning that anxiety-laden period between projects when you seem suspended in time, not sure where to settle next. She said she envies me the escape to the kitchen, but I told her not to let me fool her. The kitchen is just a place to hide for a bit, to forestall the inevitable. I know that Monday morning, the real world will pick up again, and I’ll be at my desk, facing my computer, challenged to decide which of the many loose threads I will pick up. These two days of cooking have been a nice interlude, not a long-lasting fix. Still, I’m lucky that the cooking gives me so much pleasure, and that I can escape to it however briefly.

May you each find blessings in whatever faith you celebrate on this historic weekend when the spring renewal festivals of three of the world’s major religions coincide. The stars, you might say, are aligned.

The very fragile Easter egg Jean brought me.
Yes, it's a real eggshell.

Saying you're sorry

No, this is not a lecture on the virtues of apologizing, though we hear that all the time. This is more in line with my post of last night about learning not to beat yourself up for something that isn’t your fault.

I’ve been posting several book manuscripts to Amazon in the last week or two—okay, not that many, but it seems like several to me. This is new territory for me, but since I’m now an indie publisher—Alter Ego Publishing—it’s important that I learn how to do this the right way. As a consequence, I’ve had lots of correspondence with the lovely young (I assume she’s young because she’s so technically smart) woman who formats manuscripts for me. I on the other hand am in my late seventies and a newcomer to all this web stuff.

I clearly remember writing Sunday and saying, “Sorry for the Sunday bother.” Today, I found I’d apparently sent her the wrong file, and we may have to start all over again on one book. I apologized. And then it dawned on me, she might well be tired of hearing me say I’m sorry. She’s always gracious about it and applauds my small victories, but even I think you can overdo apologies.

With me, I think it’s a need to have people like me, to not seem a bother. I know I am a nurturer by nature, but is that driven by a deeper need for approval, even affection? I’m not sure. I just know it’s been part of my nature for years. I apologize when I don’t have to, I accept blame for things that aren’t my fault. All in an effort to be pleasant.

I am learning to stand up for my opinions, even my politics, in discussions. I have a friend who never contradicts or crosses her husband, and I want to shout at her, “Stand up for yourself.” But the kind of apology I’m talking about is different. I’m not a milquetoast, and often I defer to others because the argument is not worth the effort. I can tell when someone is talking from a determined one-sided point of view and not willing to listen. That’s not it.

I’m talking more tonight about always apologizing, even if you’re not wrong. My new resolve is to simply say, “I made a mistake” and move on from there. It’s all a part of self-esteem. Why did I have to get so old to learn these lessons?