Sustenance

Last weekend I sat outside sipping my after-dinner glass of 2004 Fess Parker Syrah rescued a few months ago from a liquor store bin for a song.  Anymore, I open good wine whether or not there is a special occasion; every day is a celebration in my book.  What am I saving this for?  In this case, it wasn’t a minute too soon.

As the cork rose out of the bottle I thought this wine may have passed its prime, the watermark at well over 50%, staining its tip a deep and seductive crimson. But after a breath of fresh air in my stiletto-stemmed wine glass with its bulbous bowl; I was pleasantly reminded that aging can be a good thing.

Caught in the nick of time, this wine paired perfectly with my summer meal. Nate and I sat down to a feast of grilled flank steak marinated in cherry rosemary vinaigrette, baby thin asparagus steamed to crunchy bright green perfection and lemon pepper linguine.  While Nate romanticized the scent of his pee after consuming asparagus, he confessed he doesn’t care for the tips.  Secretly hoping there is sufficient nutritional value in the stalks alone, I gave him permission to drop the guillotine and abandon the severed heads at the side of his plate.  He was thrilled, and ran for the bathroom shortly thereafter.

Sometimes it surprises me that we dine this divinely at my own hand. Cooking was one of the bigger gaps left in the wake of my broken marriage.  It was never my responsibility, and never a place I wanted to go. 

I fought it tooth and nail.  We spent the first several years existing on grilled cheese sandwiches and breakfast food. While I had children to feed, it was months before I myself was truly hungry, sustained by the enormous pit of guilt and self-pity that had taken up residence in my stomach.  Followed closely by the dawning awareness that my dance card would not be filling up anytime soon and the shiny new party dresses in my closet would likely be renewing vows with their price tags.  I was certain I’d never eat again.

Donning the chef’s hat and giving cooking serious attention was akin to admitting defeat, my ineptness at attracting a mate who could do this for me, or any mate at all for that matter.  If I mastered the art of cooking, what other gaps would I start to fill and what space would that leave for a new partner if he somehow managed to fall into my lap?

But having dinner with my boys mattered to me, I desperately needed some familiar element of family to ground my new world view. Eating dinner together was a mainstay growing up.  Dad would walk in the door sometime shortly after the whistle blew signaling the start of the 5PM daily episode of the Flintstone’s, Fred flying out of his crane at the rock quarry, hopping into his car and shooting home to shout “Wilma!” as fast as his fat feet would take him.  We dined at the round table Dad had crafted out of wood to accommodate our growing brood of seven. And if you wanted any mashed potatoes, you needed to get to the bowl before my brother Mike did.

I started replicating the meals I had eaten at home all those years ago, religiously following the recipes transcribed in my mother’s loving hand.  The outcome wasn’t always pretty, particularly when I realized she had omitted a key ingredient, like water, and I ended up with pasty sauce for my beloved meatballs and noodles because I was such a novice I didn’t even realize the obvious was missing. 

But I figured it out, and have expanded my repertoire considerably.  I taught myself how to grill so that my carnivorous tastes could be satisfied outside of a restaurant.  And as I’ve incorporated running into my life, I find myself gravitating toward healthier and eclectic choices, creating a whole new vocabulary for comfort food that is completely my own.  Nate exhibits culinary skill, too, often requesting to be the guest chef, creating his own surprisingly tasty albeit obscure concoctions. 

Dinner at my house is no more than ten minutes some nights. Moments after I finally get settled, boys are asking if they can be excused.  “Of course you can” and “It was a pleasure dining with you” is my pat response.  It’s not the length of time I get with them. It’s the time itself.  And more often than not, they’ll linger long after their plates are empty, chatting with me as I work through mine.

Sometimes when I haven’t seen my teenagers in what seems like ages, I’ll send a text message announcing I’m cooking a meal and would love to gaze at their handsome faces across the table.  It’s not an order to come home for dinner, although they always obey.  I like to think that on some level they enjoy the time as much as I do.

Upon finishing a virgin dish I always ask if it was good enough to make again.  They are very honest in their assessment but appreciative of the time I’ve put in, thanking me for making it.  We’ve been through some tough times together, the three of us.  They’ve never said it, but they know how hard I’ve worked to hone this skill, and how difficult it was for me to take those first steps beyond the refrigerator and microwave.

I see now that cooking is another creative outlet for me, and a surprising form of power, moving me deeper into the realm of independence.  Maybe that guy I meet someday will want to stay home and cook a meal with me.  I could even cut the tag off one of those dresses and wear it in the dining room.

I can be a little hard-headed.  I can think I know exactly where I’m going and believe I’ve plotted the only sensible course.  I’m glad I finally acquiesced with this one.  It’s one of the accomplishments I’m most proud of.  Not because I wanted it so badly, or worked so hard to get here, but because I’m enjoying it in ways I never thought I would, and I took on something I was afraid of out of love for my children and what is best for them.

And I ‘m not really sure I’m talking just about the food, anymore.

At the end of day, we want them to come willingly to the chairs, whether they are of the folding, dining, deck, arm or lounge variety.  We start in the kitchen because we think it’s the food that gets them there. But I’ve learned, like all of us, they’ll sit just about anywhere love is served.