Kitchen Kvetchn

A few weeks ago, I helped a friend out at a Halloween party that, it turns out, was not even her idea and the person who's idea it was totally flaked. Being the person I am and finding it painful to watch her flapping around her own kitchen like a freaking fish out of water, I took over. I made the appetizer I promised to bring (caprese salad bites, so delish) and then ended up making the guacamole and finishing off the chili, and a valiant attempt at a creamy frothy beverage who's preparation instructions were: just keep mixing stuff until it tastes good (btw, I tried for an hour, with two kinds of booze, it didn't work - apparently someone added tequila later and said it tasted good, but I think they were probably already drunk). These are not difficult for me, but to hear her flattery you would think I saved her from a night with the guy from SAW.

I feel like when someone is at my house, they will not need for anything, I am a hostess and care about my guests comfort from the minute they walk in the door to the minute I hug them goodbye. I equate this with love. So when I go to someone's house and expect the same treatment from them, and then it turns out that the person doesn't do that, and furthermore, goads me into doing it for them because they hate to do it, well, I feel uneasy. I'm like "Motherfucker, I'm at your house, at your party, you asked me to come and bring an appetizer and be your guest, how did I end up being on the the staff?" I explained to her that I left early because I was so tired from working from the minute I got there until all her guests finally arrived. What I finally had to admit to myself (and to her) was that I was pissed that I had been taken for granted.

I understand that I place a lot of importance on food. I used to not care if I had Wendy's every night for dinner before rehearsal, or Chinese food every Sunday because I didn't want to go to the grocery. But as I have gotten older, I have grown to appreciate what it means to make something for myself. That by taking the time to make a little rice, steam a little broccoli and grill up some fish is to say to myself "Self, I love you, you are worth it to me to take this time for, this effort for." I love to make a dinner for a dear friend when they are feeling overwhelmed or just make brunch on Sunday and have a few friends visit. I love going to the grocery now and trying the sushi, I love talking to the fish guy and the butcher about what's in the case. I have a crush on one of the cheese guys at the fancy grocery store. When I stop to think about it, food is intricately connected to so many different events and adventures in my life. I forget that there are people in the world who are content to just pick up dinner on the way home, every single time. I forget that there are people in the world who don't like to eat, who don't like to eat the same things I do and who definitely don't like to cook. They see the world through a different lens.

I just don't understand them. My Mom was an amazing cook, baker and hostess. She was happy and warm and all of her food tasted like it was made with a bunch of love. It would be quite an accomplishment to be half the lady she was in the kitchen. She was organized, efficient, clean and F.U.N. I loved to come home and help her with the final preparations of our big holiday family meals (when she would let me or if there was even anything left to do). My memories around the holidays (and her friends all say the same) was of my Mom on the phone with her girlfriends, cooking, talking about cooking, sharing recipes, trying new ones, who's' doing this, how are their kids, and so on. I would sit and watch and listen and eventually was put to work either making the whipped cream for her fabulous pumpkin pie or slicing the brisket for dinner at Rosh Hashanah, sometimes just filling the glasses with ice, but I was part of it. We were one of those families that had dinner together all the time - NO TV. The kitchen was where everyone ended up in my house, didn't matter which holiday or who was over, even if it was just me and her, we seemed to always gravitate to the kitchen.

As the second Thanksgiving without my Mom approaches these memories become just a touch more poignant. I will be going back to my hometown for the holidays. My Dad, Sister and I have been invited to a family friend's house. I didn't go back last year, just couldn't do it, didn't make the plans, didn't buy the ticket, so this will be our first time doing this together, without her, not even in our own house. It's not like my Sister or I are married with kids where we could create our own new traditions amongst ourselves. I mean, we could do it at our house but did you read my previous post? I'm flying in Thursday morning, I know there will be drama, and I know that my Mom and I will not be watching the Macy's parade all cuddled together and take breaks for pie (to "even out the edges"). It just breaks my heart a little bit each time I think about it....