Last week, inspired
by the reading (re-reading for the pure pleasure of absorbing her
mouthwatering writing) of Erica Bauemeister’s marvelous novel of food and love,
The School of Essential Ingredients,
I did something I hadn’t done in a long time—I cooked. I didn’t just throw
something together to satisfy a generic appetite with generic calories, but—taking
in the aroma of oregano, the silky feel of flour on my fingertips , the sound of
whisk against china as I whipped eggs to a froth—I mindfully, happily, actually
cooked.
Within a
single few days, I simmered white chili and stir-fried beef with bok choy. For brunch, I made my daughter-in-law’s crème brulee French toast casserole, a puff of souffléd
challa over a foundation of caramelized syrup. Exquisite, my guests said. I
brewed minestrone. Made butterscotch pudding from scratch. The kitchen gods (sculpted
in stone and enthroned atop my fridge) smiled down on me. It had been a while.
I used to
cook and be cooked for all the time. Ask any woman—having a man cook for you is
a delicious turn-on. I have been wooed with soup, seduced by a stew, soothed with
risotto. And I’ve cooked to express all kinds of love: baked a child’s birthday
cake, simmered a family pot of chicken soup for cold nights. Also, for husbands
and other close friends, made a simple
sauce of fresh tomatoes, garlic and basil that spoke of summer in winter and
asked for a warm embrace in a warm bed. And in
summer, fixed crab cakes, seasoned
with Old Bay—a sexy blend of spices. Crab, some say, is an aphrodisiac. Agreed. Cooking
at its best is an expression of something higher, more abstract than zucchini.
Call it love. Call it art.
Among many of my
midlife friends, it’s become a lost art. “I no longer cook,” says a married one.
“I heat and I arrange.” She buys ready-to-serve dishes from Wegmans or pre-marinated
meats from Trader Joes and saves homemade for when the kids are in from college.
A divorced friend shrugs. “My mother
told me that the fastest way to a man’s heart was through his stomach. Wrong. The
girlfriend followed a different map and snagged the guy. So cooking leaves a
bitter taste in my mouth. ” She dines out often, or scrambles eggs or micros
Lean Cuisines. I understand. I’m guilty myself. Still, reading Erica Bauermeister's
book made me realize how much we-who-no-longer-cook are missing.
Eight times year
I’m reminded of how food and its preparation connect us. Both the gourmet group
and a couples book club I belong to have dinner as the evening’s fulcrum. And
the spouses cook these dinners together, work side by side, chopping, sautéing,
roasting, baking homemade bread. Toba may do the gazpacho and Andy his
incomparable salad, but they’re hip-to-hip in the kitchen. Lenne glazes the cornish
hens while Hal mashes the potatoes. PJ and Hamp work in tandem. These couples
may be past the baby-making stage, but they’re still creating something lovely
together, a feast at least, and taking pleasure in the process.
I know of a
woman who brags that she hasn’t cooked dinner for her family in decades, except
on holidays. Today this social worker has retired to halftime practice and
usually dines early, on whatever, and alone. Her husband, a workaholic, logs in
around nine having grabbed a slice of pizza at the commuter train station or yogurt
from the fridge. Which he eats in solitary silence. How sad, I think. How symptomatic
of a marriage gone as stale as a week-old bagel.
Cooking is
love in the active sense. For lovers, it’s a dance together. For family, it’s glue
made of sugar and butter and cinnamon. For friends it's a gift. Of course I have
more half-baked theories. But right now there’s a meatloaf in the oven I need
to check. It’s my mother’s recipe, with a sauce of tomatoes, mushrooms, peppers
and onions. It will taste of love and
memory, of laughter and lost times. And it
won’t need ketchup.Toby Devens
We would love to read your comments on the joys of cooking—or not cooking—at midife. And please share your favorite recipes. One will win for its author an inscribed copy of my next novel, Happy Any Day Now, coming out this summer.
