Dinner has recently become an area of angst in my life. The constant question of what I will cook, how long it will take, and how many dishes will be left at the end to wash, consumes me before I even enter the door most evenings. Cooking used to be a point of solace at the end of the day. At twelve, when the natives were restless and trying their darndest to bring the English teacher to tears (good luck with that one, kids), I would lazily picture the contents of my cupboards, a slow smile spreading across my face as I mentally laid out the ingredients, placed the pots and pans at the ready on the stove, and filled the house with smells of garlic and thyme.
My cupboard, once a shelter to bags of dried lentils, whole wheat pasta spirals, and sun-dried tomatoes, is nothing now but a fortress of cardboard and tin, glued papery labels that boast nutritional value right next to the preservative count. No wonder that on my ride home from work lately, I look longingly into the cars on the freeway and dream of their drivers rolling down their windows to invite me over for dinner (hasn't happened yet, but I'm perfecting the starving orphan look).
If I can't have a built in chef, or follow one home, I would like to be a woman who loves to cook. I have fantasies of wearing a striped apron, unpacking a cloth sack full of herbs and fresh bread, and chopping vegetables in my candle-lit kitchen to opera and a glass of $20 Cabernet. The truth, the horrible truth, coming from a woman who is wanted for serial murders of even the hardiest of houseplants (it's true; I'm hopeless), is that while I dream of being domestic, I simply am not. I don't garden, I don't save old toothbrushes for cleaning grout, and I often forget which day to recycle, so my back porch is a bit Sanford and Son. Domestic challenge aside, I have two and a half hours from the time that I pick up my daughter to the time that I turn off her light for bed. Two and a half hours to feed, clean, bathe, cuddle and read to, so even if I had the desire (the abstract is there, the reality is not), forget the daily trips to the corner market. And if I bought fresh herbs on the weekend, to use for some future delectable dish, they would rot and slime on a shelf in my fridge, much like the green onions that I saw peeking out from underneath the tortillas this morning.
But still…how much of our quality of life is based on the quality of the sustenance we provide for our bodies? Is my constant restlessness and irrational despair tied to the four boxes of Annie's Mac and Cheese and the frozen package of tofu dogs hunched over somewhere in my kitchen at this very moment? My daughter, a very picky eater who prefers her chicken nuggeted, doesn't mind my temporary culinary downfall. But a part of me wonders as we race around in the morning, barking and bumping into one another in our maddened frenzy to find socks, shoes, and sweaters, if it wouldn't be different if tonight I dimmed the lights, added music for ambience, and did something astounding with a piece of salmon. Would we smile indulgently at the dog, rinse out our juice glasses and "Excuse me, Mother," and "Most certainly, daughter," tomorrow morning instead?
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