Cooking, my body

In “The Taste of Things,” there’s a scene toward the end where Dodin cooks for Eugenie, his cook and lover, as she’s bedridden with illness. There’s no dialogue or music, just him in the kitchen, lifting heavy pots, using his hands, opening a hot oven, sweating, breathing heavily. It’s an immersive experience; he’s using his whole body.

^ This isn’t the scene, but is a similar, beautiful one. The sounds, the choreography.

My most worn pages of Marcella Hazan’s “Essentials of Classic Italian Cooking” are the ones about pasta making. “Because no one can tell in advance exactly how much flour one needs,” she says, “the sensible method of combining eggs and flour is by hand, which permits you to adjust the proportion of flour as you go along.” That way, you can sense the correct texture of the dough right when it happens, “smooth as baby skin.”

“Dough for pasta can be kneaded in a machine,” she says, “but it isn’t really that much quicker than doing it by hand, and it is far less satisfactory.”

It may not be quicker, but it’s easier on your body. When I knead by hand, whether pasta or bread, I sometimes need to pause to catch my breath. I get hot and need to open a window or shed a layer of clothing. I can’t really think about anything else. My right wrist hurts afterward.

Sometimes I don’t trust people who don’t want to use their hands. To cook, to eat, to pick out an avocado at the store. Often these are the same people who are grossed out by food or eating — the sounds, the textures, the smells. It’s hard not to draw a parallel between a willingness (or not just a willingness, but a desire) to get physical with your food and a love of your own body or other bodies. The food…is us. If you don’t enjoy the squish of dough between your fingers or slathering olive oil on a raw chicken breast like a cool baby’s butt, what else don’t you enjoy? Then I have to remind myself to not be so moralistic about everything. Some people want to protect their wrists, and prevent food-borne illness, both valid pursuits. Sometimes it’s not all so philosophical.

I found my first experience with sous vide to be pretty soulless. Put my food in a bag, tell an app what it is; the app took it from there. Actually, I wanted to cook it to a slightly lower temp in order to finish it on the grill, but it wouldn’t let me; the app had a minimum temperature pre-approved by the FDA that was safely above undercooked. I wasn’t allowed to cook it incorrectly. Though I had included garlic and rosemary in the bag with my steak, I couldn’t smell it.

Then I read this Reddit thread from someone with the same gripe, and checked myself. “Get off your high horse, dude. You do you and I'll do sous vide. Wash and reuse your ziplocs if it salves your conscience,” someone says. “Good grief…I bet op has no problem with their microwave,” another says.

Am I reading into things too much? While I am not the OP, I do have a bit of a problem with my microwave. I don’t really like my crockpot, either, now that we’re talking about it.

A little room for error is okay with me, preferred maybe. I like listening to my own cues instead of waiting for an app to notify me when my food is done; to feel for the baby-skin texture and decide for myself when I’ve achieved it. Bodies are messy, humans are inconsistent. I think it’s okay, preferred maybe, for that to be reflected in how we cook.

My defense of the tactile feels related to childhood. Something I was watching recently brought up how, at first, babies can’t distinguish between themselves and their surroundings, their sensations. Playing with Play-Doh. The irresistible desire to eat it. To eat everything. Slime. Those tube-like sparkly things that slipped from your palm. Wandering down to the kitchen when I could smell something cooking. The room I shared with my sister was right above the kitchen; sometimes I’d press my ear to the floor to find the perfect time to make my way down. My cues were the clatter of pots and pans, always stacked on top of each other in a bottom cabinet, my mom hunching down and reaching in to find the right one. A few minutes later, the smell of onions sauteing in oil. Wanting to be part of that, to taste test, to see my mom there, distracted but held in place. A rare time when I could just watch her. Caught, that’s how she seemed. Like my mom was an elusive thing, and if I didn’t make it down the stairs in time, I’d miss her; she’d have already put the roast in the oven and be back in her room, or it’d be time to eat and the chaos would ensue; the uproar of us all descending around the table. She’d be scolding my brother, or hurrying to clean up after us. But before that, if I got the timing right, I could sit at the breakfast table while she moved around the kitchen and just watch. Sometimes her bangs would be all pushed up and crushed on her forehead from steam, sweat, her palm. It was important I didn’t expect to be entertained. It was important that we didn’t really talk. It was okay if I helped.

There’s only one time I can remember seeing my mom’s body. I don’t know how old I was, probably 12 or 13. I was calling for her and wasn’t getting a response, so I entered her room. I guess she hadn’t heard me because she had been in the shower. I walked in right when she was coming out, naked, toweling her hair. She screamed. I screamed. I ran out.

My mom is not grossed out by food. She always had her hands in it. She licked her fingers. Ate off of our plates. Always tasted my younger siblings’ mushy baby food. She didn’t mind if there were crumbs in the butter or if two different casseroles were touching on her plate. I don’t really remember her sitting down to eat with us; if she sat down, it was without a plate, like she was just taking a quick break, brief and quiet, at the head of the table. She’d already eaten, stealing bites while cooking and planning to do the same while cleaning up. Her meals were only for her, private, and at the same time not really for her.

I like to think that more than one thing can exist at once; of me and my mom startled, mortified, facing each other, while at the same time silent and comfortable in a warm kitchen.