Love, Loss and What I Cooked

Campbell's Soup Cans by Andy Warhol, 1962. Displayed in Museum of Modern Art in New York.

I love to cook. I do it well. Tonight I had tuna fish on matzo for supper but I could easily go chicken scallopine if the energy and the pantry permit- even if it's just me. It's not about hunger- though usually that is a component. Cooking for me is a meditation- with three dimensional "here and now" results. If I am angry the smell of cinnamon baking on apples in the oven calms me, if I am tired or weary in my soul, the steam wafting from a pot of homemade chicken soup heals- and not just me. When I roomed with my best friend Miriam in the 80's- though we loved each other we were not ideally suited to live together- I was very- twenty-something and too wrapped up in my own stuff to live that close to anyone who wasn't related to me and was required to live with me. But when we couldn't talk out what bothered either of us- dill, carrots, onion and chicken simmering on the stove said things I was too proud to say- like " I'm sorry"- like "I love you".

When I bring a date home for the first time, or even after the first time, I lose my voice for speaking- if the feelings are strong I will either babble meaningless things- or spend a lot of time fidgeting and looking at my feet. It's partly shyness, part fear I will slip up and say something I mean and scare both of us. So I cook. And the person I want to be- secure, graceful and skilled appears- and to more than one of my gentleman callers- a woman who knows her way around the kitchen is sexy as all get out- or so they seem to think. Of ME. Holy Cow. A man who will hug me when my hands are covered in garlic and hoisin marinade and not be concerned for the well being of his clothes- or whether dinner burns while he smooches me is smitten indeed.

After love ends- I still remember the things I made. And the appreciation I saw- the rave reviews- and more than compliments about my appearance, or my skill at any one of the things I might do well. I remember the raves over simple eggs, or kasha varnishkas experienced for the first time ever from my hands, or the board of cheeses and fruit thrown together for a simple get to know you praised as part sustenance and part still life art. I remember these things, I think because I can more readily accept that I am a good cook- the rest may all be true but of this one thing I have a blessed certainty. The ability to cook and the joy that comes from it are soul-deep. I own them. And the compliments given remind me in their way that I, myself, was appreciated, and in that moment in time, loved. Maybe even after.

I cook to make the world around me more pleasant too. Lately I have walked around my office, in the midst of some tumult and hugged people- trying to shift the energy a little. A selfish thing as mostly I do it so a.) I can be soothed and b.) If the folks around me are happier I just find it easier to focus and be productive. Not everyone is open for hugs and in the modern workplace the political ramifications are to say the least, dicey. I do not wish to be the woman known to have hugged her way to the top- here I will rely on more conventionally appreciated charms. But I can give someone a scone (which I did today) and call it- an anti-depressant, reminding people that it is to be taken with coffee- or tea and repeated as necessary until shoulders ease and twisty stomach abates. The way I touch people is not important, but doing so, for me- connecting daily with people- is critical. It is the connecting- not the food- which feeds me.

There are people who should not cook. If you do not enjoy it, there are plenty of ways to hold meat to skin and bone- take-out, cans, great restaurants- peanut butter and jelly, exist to support and sustain you in your nutritional needs. But it is a major MAJOR kick to bring something somewhere and say "Here, I made this for you" It should taste good and if it includes a talking point to allow you to draw people's attention to it (Something other than I made this- it's good- eat it, which reeks of insecurity and scares people.) so much the better. A weird ingredient helps. Not TOO weird- making frog's legs or escargot will not endear you to the American eating public and you may wind up the pariah dish on the buffet languishing untouched and unloved at the fallen flan and limp salad end of the table. The following cake is the perfect rookie bring-a-dish. It is easy to make. It doesn't have anything hard to find at the supermarket (or emergency midnight bodega). It tastes delicious. It smells great while baking AND it has a weird ingredient. Campbell's tomato soup. Tastes like carrot cake without the loss of blood that comes from grating carrots by hand.


TOMATO SOUP CAKE

Ingredients needed:
2 cups sifted all-purpose flour
2 teaspoons baking powder
1 teaspoon ground cinnamon
1 teaspoon grated nutmeg
One-half teaspoon ground cloves
2 eggs
Three-fourths cup sugar
1 (10 3/4-ounce) can tomato soup
One-half cup chopped walnuts

Confectioner's sugar to dust over


Preheat the oven to 350°F. Sift the flour, baking powder, cinnamon, nutmeg, and cloves together and set aside. In a large bowl, combine the eggs, sugar, and tomato soup. Gradually stir in the flour mixture. Stir in the walnuts. Pour into a Bundt pan that has been sprayed with nonstick spray. Bake for 25 to 30 minutes. When cooled, and just before serving, sprinkle with powdered sugar.

I read that Sylvia Plath loved cooking this cake using the recipe from The Joy of Cooking. That recipe calls for organic tomato soup, demerara sugar and sultanas- which are yellow raisins or maybe in England just raisins- I'm not sure which. I wonder if making simple things more complicated was part of Ms. Plath's sadness. In the end- the kitchen, for me, is a place to create, to connect and to give and receive love. That seems a very simple recipe for being happy. Demerara sugar be damned.


:) X