Food//Memories
Good food writing makes me want to be in the kitchen the same way a sudden burst of creativity makes me want to be in the kitchen and then write. I have spent a lot of years feeling both shame and confusion for why I can remember some recipes I have created and developed myself while I am half asleep while others I have to reference my phone and sift through my Notes app in order to confirm the number of grams of a specific ingredient no matter how many times I have made it. Anytime someone suggests I go on one of those home-cook competition shows I shudder at the idea of scrambling and sweating to remember how long I usually sear a steak. Steak, can you imagine? Sometimes I still have to check my notes. Do you know how many times I have seared a damn steak? I won’t tell you that I have fully relinquished my shame or embarrassment because then I would be lying. That said, I have (mostly) accepted it as just a part of me and how my brain works. I don’t imagine they allow contestants to reference their own biscuit recipe on their phone despite the fact they have made said biscuits thousands of times.
xxx
True to the memoir I wrote I generally find my way back to a moment in time through food. Like, my first dinner-date with Anaya when he “picked me up” re: parked his car in front of my then-apartment building and we walked around the corner to my favorite Denver restaurant, Cart Driver (the Lohi one). We ordered Messed Up Negronis (Negroni spagliato), and while their pizza is one of my favorites I told him I didn’t want to order it that night for fear of having the black flecks from the wood-fired crust stuck in my teeth. The horror. I can still see his face and the table we sat at that night. The sweater I was wearing and the look of playfulness, not teasing or judgment, when I made said proclamation and he declared, “pasta it is.” That is our softness for one another in a nutshell. When I think about giving birth to my two kids of course I remember the pushing and the sweating. The moments of transcendence only giving life to another human can achieve. But what sticks with me first is the peanut butter and jelly on thick white, crusty bread I ate after having Scarlett- how the crust cut the roof of my mouth and I desperately wished there was more peanut butter. I don’t remember actually eating the weird hospital meal after I had Maddox. I lost a lot of blood and his birth was traumatic for the both of us, but I do remember the vegetables being overcooked and when I had the plastic cup with the foil lid of orange juice, I wish it had sprung from a fountain and would never end. I don’t love orange juice nor do I purchase it albeit when guests are coming for brunch and therefore mimosas. I did, however, want to drink orange juice in that moment until the end of time. I remember the first meal Anaya ever cooked for me and I remember the way I stood in my kitchen in only underwear, eating cheddar Nut Thins and smirking in remembrance and exhaustion the morning after he slept over at mine for the first time. I remember the first soup I made him when he was sick, a recreate of a creamy chicken and lemon soup reminiscent of avgolemono, and I still remember the cherry Popsicle I was eating the day I learned I had a three year old half sister. This is it, you know? This is my food//and.
xxx
When I feel far from myself due to <fill in the blank> the first thing I will do is try to write in an effort to better understand. If that doesn’t help or I feel too stuck, I will go to the kitchen. Sometimes it is to create something solid and sturdy, a go-to like the marinara I will never need to reference my recipe for but maybe that will shift and then I will decide to make homemade pasta as well and then I will absolutely need to reference a recipe. How many egg yolks again? I like assigning factory-like settings, almost auto-pilot, in an effort to create and do something with my hands with minimal thinking required. This generally feels like home and a safe space to return to when I need to do but not do, you know? Now, if I end up fucking something up like the lemon pasta I made shortly after Christmas and cooked the sweet Jesus out of the pasta accidentally (?!), it ends up being the opposite of a church-like setting. I digress.
You get the picture, at least I hope.
Last week I was in the mood for some good ol’ R&D, something I don’t generally flock to as often as I once did when Butter Moon was in production. I have a very hearty list of trusted recipes and sometimes we get stuck on a list of 10-15 in rotation due to time and ease. But that day I wanted to simply let it rip. I was texting with some of our favorite people in our group chat and told them I received the olive oil sent to us by a reader of this publication and a long-time Instagram follower who had offered to send some from their family’s Grecian olive grove. Say less. Of course and Yes, please was all I could muster. It is buttery and floral. I told them I wanted to make something- perhaps an olive oil cake? Something spring? Nic suggested something with pistachio and I mentioned having an unopened jar of preserved lemons begging to be used.
So, there you have it. On a whim and on a particularly warm day, I opened the windows, shelled a bag of pistachios that has been around for an eternity, very thinly sliced a preserved lemon, ground the nuts, got out the good olive oil, tossed in a random and small container of lemon Noosa yogurt (swoon) for good measure, and the rest is history. A lemon and pistachio olive oil cake. I prepped my nuts and dry ingredients, sped off to collect Moonie from school, raced back to the house to finish assembling, adding the olive oil and yogurt and sour cream and heaps of lemon zest, got it into the springform and fifteen minutes into its bake time my phone rings. It’s Anaya.
See, he had forgotten that he had taken the carseats out of his car and arrived at Maddox’s daycare to attend the STEM event for dads (and moms! The invite stated) and was going top bring him home afterward and could I pretty please bring the carseat and he was SO SORRY. I told him repeatedly that he had nothing to be sorry for, that it was a parental right of passage to forget carseats one time or another (or several, if you’re me, and that I would quite literally race to drop it off before getting Moonie to her dance class on the opposite side of town.
I quickly collected Moonie, filled her water bottle, slipped on my shoes and as I was walking out of the kitchen I noticed the time on the stove was weird and instead of the time it said “15:00.”
Fuuuuuuuck. The cake. I didn’t have time to sort through what to actually do so I simply turned off the oven and cracked the door just a bit, feeling sad and concerned but knowing I had no time for either. I would deal with it later.
When we all arrived home with carseats and children and one missed dance class (we were too late), I assessed the damage and immediately felt as deflated as that cake looked. It was, in fact, deflated and still rather wiggly in the middle. I didn’t have much hope but I did close the oven door and set the temp to 350, crossed my fingers, assured Anaya for the tenth time that I wasn't upset with him, shit happens, and that I was just little bummed about the cake I was initially so excited to simply wing on a whim. When the timer went off 15 minutes later I could barely open my eyes to take in what was waiting inside of the oven. To my surprise, it has bounced back well, quite literally, rising to the occasion, a gorgeous crust that no doubt formed from the olive oil/overall fat content on the edges, and left the house smelling citrusy and savory and sweet all at once. I couldn’t believe that it has risen as wells it had. Dense in a gorgeous way and moist to boot. I haven’t been this proud of a recipe in a long time if I’m being honest. We had leftovers that night and while Anaya made us Negronis, I mixed a bit of Campari with lemon zest, powdered sugar and lemon juice to make a glaze. I don’t know about you but I am a sucker for bitter and Negronis and/or Campari spritz have become my drink of choice. Leaving my trusty, salty, dirty (vodka) martini in the dust. For now, anyways.
Dear reader, I don’t have a cake recipe for you yet. I couldn’t possibly publish a recipe that I don’t know the accurate cook time for, you see, and expecting someone to have a random lemon Noosa lying around feels absolutely fussy what with already suggesting you have top-tier olive oil, a bag of pistachios, and for fucks sake, preserved lemons just sitting about. That said, maybe you begin culling these things the next time you go to the store because I promise to deliver post-wedding as I will be making the cake for our beloved friend and officiant upon their arrival. On this note, if you’ve never had lemon Noosa, there’s never been a better time. It’s decadent.
That day I know has become a core memory. The impulsiveness, my specialty, and excited creativity that poured out of me. The way the house was just a bit chillier than Anaya would ever appreciate if he were home, but how I closed the windows and turned the heat back on for him just before I left. My simultaneous frustration about the cake and softness for my partner that had made an honest mistake, and how I wanted him to feel said softness. The way the light danced with and through the sun catcher on the window, Anaya’s hands mixing a drink while I assembled plates for hungry kids, the way Moonie’s face looked when we let her have ONE bite of glazed cake, thinking, “surely our seven year old won’t appreciate the bitter profile” nevermind a cake that is hardly what I imagine a seven year old to think of as “cake.” But she loved it and we listened to music over dinner and I snuck off to take a photo of a glazed piece cake just before we lost the rest of the good afternoon light. That is my food//and.
I am often my most creative self as spring returns and again in the fall. If the kitchen has ever been a respite of yours, may I encourage you to step into it this weekend and just see what happens? Make something on a whim that you never have before. Find a recipe with obscure ingredients and go with it. Make dumplings with your own dough or pasta even. I wish I could tell you off the top of my head how many yolks to use.
A wedding? Two weeks from Saturday?
Time flies.
Biggest love,
AT
Currently Reading: still making my way/listening to A Ghost in the Throat and my TBR pile is… unwell
Currently Listening To: very quiet classical music and the men outside drilling into the street in an effort to remove lead-ridden pipes.
Currently Cooking: I haven’t decided yet. Perhaps I’ll bake something? We are going to Cart Driver for the first time in a very long time as our favorite Lohi location has been indisposed due to remodel/repair since last fall. We’re going to the one across town, their flagship, that has less nostalgia for us but still a damn fine pizza and gorgeous oysters. I even eat the pizza with Anaya these days.