Food, Security, Love: Asking the Boyfriend to Cook
While it’s true that most of my
waking hours are spent plotting food and food menus along with what next to put
in my mouth—(Case in point: I woke up
next to the city-dwelling boyfriend yesterday and hazily paged through ideas
for the perfect hangover breakfast undistracted by the man who pressed his case
for a repeat of the previous night’s more torrid events)—it’s also true that it’s
great when someone else drives. Forget
restaurant food. I’m talking about
having the person you’d cross continents for (well, at least a couple of zip codes) cook for
you.
When he was sappy in love with
me, Greg made me sautéed shrimp served with an impressive and lovely green bean
salad with Kalamatas and goat cheese he’d found in a cooking magazine the first
time I visited his tiny downtown Denver apartment. We ate at a small table and drank Prosecco from
cut glass, crammed next to his studio (otherwise known as the living room) and
later retired to the bedroom because it offered the only couch-like seating (convenient). There was also the time he made green curried
shrimp for New Years and still later, memorable, Rick Bayless-inspired pulled
pork taquitos. But besides a couple of
breakfasts or two at my house, that’s about it.
Sunday Morning Apple Galette |
It has been a tiny bone of
contention for me that I am the default cook in what is otherwise a lovely
meeting of the minds and other important body parts with Greg. Okay, okay, I cook professionally. I write about food. I throw epic dinner parties. But I know my man can cook. He talks lovingly about the dinners he made
for his son when he was a stay-at-home dad.
I want in on the action. Food is
love, after all.
But, Greg complains I’m bossy
even when I’m not in the kitchen, that I won’t let him do his thing. I reply that asking him not to put bacon in
the chili because I’m trying to eat healthy is simply a request. Not a few of
my friends suggest it’s intimidating to cook for me, to which I inwardly and
eye-rollingly groan “Get over it'---the outward translation of which is an
earnest: “Anything you make with love is
good for me.” And that’s true. You can taste intention. I’d eat Mac and Cheese from a box if it was
someone’s way of showing they cared.
Perhaps it’s unfair of me to ask
that Greg love me the way I love him. I
plan menus designed to induce mood, cultivate togetherness, and whet our appetites
for other things. I splurge on the Mexican
chocolate we love and stock the fridge with our favorite Cava. Sometimes I make what I know Greg wants and
sometimes I spin that same thing into something new. All the while I’m doing it because I love the
man.
And perhaps I’m not really asking
Greg to say “I love you” with food (though I would be absolute putty in his
hands if he did), so much as I want to feel cared for. MFK Fisher wrote that “our three basic
needs, for food and security and love, are so mixed and mingled and entwined
that we cannot straightly think of one without the others.” “So,”
she concluded, “it happens that when I write of hunger, I am really writing
about love and the hunger for it, and warmth and the love of it and the hunger
for it… and then the warmth and richness and fine reality of hunger satisfied…
and it is all one.”
A good meal draws together many of the frayed bits of ourselves and if not erases, eases some of the emptiness we too often experience.
Pass the Prosecco and the chocolate, baby.
Besides all this big life stuff, sometimes
I just want to be surprised by what’s on the plate, by someone else’s tastes and
sensibility. Most greedily, I want the pleasure of Greg’s palate, too.
He’s Mexican, I’m Italian. In three years, I’ve learned about white onions,
to always have chiles on hand, how to make the perfect guacamole, the pleasures
of pork shoulder dozen different ways and, of course, beer and french fries.
Oven Roasted Potato Chips w/ Gorganzola |
Last Sunday, nearly undone from a
grueling semester of teaching and a higher than average number of needy
students book-ended by family heartbreaks, I asked Greg to make dinner. I did it
in the softest voice I have and gave him a week to think the matter over,
promising I would sit beneath a halo needle-pointing or some activity similarly
docile in nature in the living room while he worked his magic in the kitchen.
The day turned out blustery and wind
scattered a dusting of snow into the still dormant mountain landscape as we
made a fire in the wood stove. We had
just dined al fresco for the first
time the night before and now we were hunkered down on the couch getting ready
to watch an Almodovar movie beneath a down comforter.
Earlier in the week, I’d picked
up a fat roasting chicken and some gorgeous looking sunchokes (inspired by some
I’d had at Gabrielle Hamilton's Prune in NYC in March) and Greg rubbed the bird with a spice
blend of chile, cumin and cayenne he’d toasted on the stove before mixing it
with brown sugar and olive oil. The
house filled with the smoky scent of Mexican spices and I smiled: Clearly, the man can move about the
kitchen. The bird sat seasoning as we devoured oven-roasted potato chips with gorgonzola, drinking mimosas while practicing
our Spanish.
Greg's chile-roasted chicken w/sunchokes & brussels sprouts |
Later, Greg roasted the chicken and
served the perfectly lacquered bird with limes and Mexican beer. I made a chimichurri sauce for the also
roasted sunchokes and Greg pan-roasted the last of the year’s Brussels sprouts.
It was perfect.
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