This Beautiful Cook’s Tour
Chapter One: Cooking in the Dark
My mother hates to cook.
Well, I shouldn’t say that. She thrives on twenty minutes meals and the crock pot, pre-cut veggies from the market, and leftovers four days a week. Really, she hates food prep. But for the sake of the argument, she — for a decade of my life — hated making meals.
And while I loved a good Happy Meal, pizza with coke, or pancakes from the diner — I ate well. My father’s mother, who arrived to New York from Cuba in the fifties, fed us. I ate chicken empanadas. Ropa vieja. Pico de gallo on everything (including Thanksgiving turkey). My brother and I would share a bag of soda crackers — powdery and filled with crunchy, air bubbles — while watching Austin Powers and Adam Sandler comedies. In the summer, my grandfather would grill ribs, barbecue chicken — to be served with arroz y candules and a Corona with lime.
It isn’t all that surprising that I love food. I’m surrounded by people who indulge, devour, and delight in it all. Smoked cheese and sun-dried tomatoes? You bet. At one uncle’s house, we talk about how fucked up the world is next to the growing squash and pumpkins. Bacon egg and cheese (with salt pepper ketchup)? Imagine reclining in your best friend’s car, kaiser roll in one hand, Arizona iced tea in the other. Coquito followed by a gingerbread house? Christmas will never be the same.
If there’s one thing I’ve been taught, it’s how to eat.
There’s a history in my family: recipes written in splashes, how each ancestor got to this country. And, like many, there’s a legacy of darkness.
My mother struggled with an eating disorder through much of her adolescence and young adulthood. Pain, like her curly hair, was passed down. Mental illness doesn’t look the same for every generation, but it sure is genetic.
She had me. After twelve hours of labor, she asked her best friend for pastrami and a Big Gulp. With motherhood comes hunger.
And then? She relapsed.
Before memories started to form, she made a pact: to get better, and to rid my world of toxic attitudes, diet culture, and a fear of food.
So of course, in the early days, she would bring home rolls of cookie dough, and together we’d shove M&M’s into each slice.
It’s not really cooking if it comes in a tube.
I bake when I’m depressed. Which, is often.
In junior high, while trying to find myself, I experimented in the oven. Shoving Skittles into pre-cut cookies*. Finding the right ratio of chocolate chip to banana. Making Pan de Muerto for extra credit and my mother’s glaze bursting into flames.
Nothing I made was perfect, but it gave me a sense of control. When I started college, I learned to make chocolate chip cookies from scratch. When an abusive relationship ended, I learned to make bread. When I didn’t get into my dream grad school, I made two pies: apple and triple berry, soaked in moscato.
I’ve always been a giver. I love sharing my creations with people I love. Making Nutella cookies every Christmas. Baking fat-free brownies when my mother’s gallbladder was bad. Indulging on orange and avocado salad on my front steps, thinking of vegan recipes for a friend.
When I create something from scratch — my grandmother’s picadillo recipe, Half Moons for my partner** — the world makes sense. My anxieties melt away. I no longer feel helpless or in pain. Instead, I can enjoy bruschetta with friends or blueberry scones in the bath.
Which is why, when flipping through hotel room channels, I connected with the man floating in Sicily. His shadow buoyed. He spoke about his birthday. Falling into a pit of despair and rage.
Years later, when I sunk into the darkness once again, I watched a lot of cooking shows. The one that hit me hardest: Parts Unknown.
I never met Anthony Bourdain — though my co-workers often saw him smoking outside our building — yet I felt seen by him. We shared a spirit, in that we call people on their bullshit. Stand up for what’s right. Feel astonished by and respect cultures that aren’t our own. And we both fucking hate Henry Kissinger.
I decided this year to make my way through his book, Appetites. Dish by dish, I plan to execute the recipe as he explains with no modifications. Don’t generally like pork? Too bad. Having difficulty finding daikon? We’ll have to visit three grocery stores. Made this recipe before? Try something new every day.
If you join me on this beautiful cook’s tour, expect burnt tongues and cut fingers. Foul mouths and dirty jokes. Expanding knowledge of the world around us. And of course, lots of great food.
*Hint: they exploded
**Not to be confused with Black and Whites, which are awful. Enlighten yourself. Transcend.
