I think we can all agree that Dad, though he has some typical jerky man-traits (selective hearing, followed by selective execution of “unheard” tasks), is about as good as they come. Strong, yet sensitive, goofy yet unfailingly wise, he has pretty much spoiled me on the opposite sex for life. (Thanks a lot, Dad. Sorry, (non-existent) suitors.)
One of Dad’s most endearing quirks is just how much he loves to cook for himself when Mom goes away. Certainly, he doesn’t enjoy extended absences, but I think he secretly likes a two or three day stretch with the house to himself. And it’s not because he can watch all the Monday night football or March Madness he wants, although he does do that—it’s because the kitchen, which is usually her domain, belongs to him.
There are rumors floating around that Dad helped Mom cater some pretty bad-ass parties back in that unimaginable stretch before Mags and I were born. But up until a few years ago, Dad’s culinary quiver contained precious few arrows: French toast, Eggs Nova Scotia, and Graveyard Stew (the latter two will certainly be the topic of future blogs.) These days, his arsenal is far more robust.
When he’s by himself, there is no knee-jerk dinner solution. Each meal is carefully planned and executed. Sure, he’s been known to sear up a steak, simmer a luscious clam sauce, and steam-sauté a mean side dish. But for Dad, dinner is not a one-plate affair. There is always a first course. Sometimes it’s a composed salad starring his famous vinaigrette (extra special when made with shallots and that pear-infused balsamic), or maybe it’s a handful of shrimp sautéed in garlic and butter.
I’ve walked in on him fastidiously arranging his single-serving creations, pouring a glass of wine, and reading a book. I honestly felt like some kind of gastro-voyeur peeping in on someone else’s romantic meal. I’ve got this one unforgettable image of Dad filed away in my head, one that I like to call up during those jerky moments. It goes like this: I came home late one night to find him perched on the couch, cloth napkin in his lap, poised to cut into three little first-course scallops seared to perfection and drizzled with a citrusy, improv pan sauce. All this while watching Ghost on Lifetime. (Future husband, I dare you to top that.)
To say that I have a lot to learn from my Dad would be the understatement of the millennium. But let’s stick to cooking, shall we? I seem not to have inherited my Dad’s careful attention to plotting, cooking, and savoring his one-man meals (nor his furnace-like metabolism, for that matter). But perhaps it’s a trait I need to cultivate.
My first attempt was last night. I had two large eggplants on death row in my crisper and a bunch of cilantro so beautiful it made me want to cry. I’d have gnoshed on that cilantro all by itself, such is my love for it, but that seemed nutritionally suspect. So, I Googled “eggplant and cilantro recipe,” and was presented with a spicy, Indian-flavored roasted eggplant dish. Cumin? Coriander? Cayenne? Sold.
Despite the heat, I roasted those aubergines for an hour, sautéed the rest of the ingredients, mixed it all together and ended up with a bowl full of something that not-so-vaguely resembled vomit. Unfazed, I griddle-toasted some naan, sautéed some red cabbage, lit a few candles, cracked a beer, sat outside, and ate my meal. It tasted…awesome.
This morning, I am covered in mosquito bites. But I feel a little more like Dad, and that’s definitely a good thing. Now, if only I could remember what he’d say about not itching these suckers…
Andy hasn’t quite mastered the art of “frying solo”
I’ll never forget the first time I came back to the US for a two-week visit shortly after we got married. Before I left, we’d gone to the store together and planned out meals for the first week, but by the end of week two I knew the coffers would be empty. I phoned to see how he was doing. After the usual pleasantries and catching up, the conversation went a little something like this:
Me: So how is the food holding up? Do you have enough to last you?
Andy: No, I had to go to the food store.
Me: Oh okay, how did that go?
Andy: Well it went okay…but… I kind of got a lot of meat. I don’t really know what happened.
Me: Well, did you go up and down all the aisles? (The meat section comprises the first couple aisles of our supermarket)
Andy: Yes, but I couldn’t think of what else I needed.
Me: Oh dear. Well, what are you up to now?
Andy: Biff and I are eating steak and watching pro bull riding.
My favorite line was, “I don’t really know what happened.” Like he’d lost all conscious thought and memory from that traumatic supermarket experience. I couldn’t help but laugh.
And while I’d like to think my love of food and cooking has rubbed off on Andy, truth is only the eating part has. When I come home from a weekend away with the girls, the recycling and garbage are invariably topped with empty pizza boxes (he has Dominos on speed dial), take out containers, and jars of ready made curry sauce.
He appreciates an amuse-bouche as much as the next guy, but he can’t see to making it. And for now, I’m okay with that. I love that Andy is my personal sous chef and dishwasher, that he’ll chop onions, dice chicken and wash dishes until his fingers go pruney, and that’s more than some spouses ever get. I don’t expect he’ll be mulling over which citrus to use in a pan sauce or whipping up souffles, but I do hope he acquires a few signature dishes over the years.
In my late 40’s I finally figured out how to take better care of myself. I run, meditate, do yoga. I keep my nails manicured and hold the gray at bay with frequent salon visits. I try to eat healthy, well, and often—three meals and three snacks a day—but cooking up a personal prix fixe is not my idea of healthy self-love.
As a food professional and the lead cook in our family, the last thing I feel like doing on a night off is cooking! On those evenings, good self-care means nibbles and drinks out with a friend or a night in with a movie and something a little junky
People are always giving me cookbook ideas. Now that I’m an empty nester, they frequently suggest cooking for one or two. Eyes squinting, head cocked and nodding, I give the impression it’s an idea worth considering. All the while I’m thinking, “Why would I ever cook for one? Double (or quadruple!) the recipe and there’ll be another meal or two for later.”
There are legions of leftover loathers out there (my father among them until he started cooking more). First, my guess is that most of them don’t cook much. If they had to start from scratch every time they fed their brood, they’d start to appreciate the square of leftover lasagna, that chunk of broiled chicken breast, those leftover grilled veges. Have they ever considered nearly everything we eat— gourmet take-out, frozen dinners, packaged foods—is leftover? The way I see it, better mine than theirs.
Not sure if it’s my catering days or learning to cook from my Aunt Juliaette who grew up cooking for twelve, but I’m just too practical and efficient to cook for one.
As you contemplate your new life, I think I make a good case for learning to cook like me, but when it comes to eating, I think you should learn to dine like your father.
I love this article and I’m completely in agreement about leftovers. Cooking from scratch every night is just too much, but sometimes it’s hard to convince the kid that this dish is just as tasty if not tastier than it was the first time. Of course, there is the fact that I am, apparently, incapable of cooking for fewer than 10 people. Maybe something of an exaggeration, but not much.
I also would have possibly gnawed on the cilantro by itself..this is a great story and so sweet!
dear three,
i have so enjoyed visiting with you all! you made me laugh, appreciate good food and good writing and good friends. i heartily endorse the leftover thing. we have a freezer full of them and it’s great to pull out some carrot-ginger soup or thai seafood soup or meatloaf when you’re tired from work or fishing or building the new kitchen. you know it’s going to be nutritious and delicious…and you can always use a paper plate 🙂 love to all of you, sandy ray oldfield
Great post, Sharon! That image of your dad eating solo while watching Ghost is great!
Terrific article. There has always been a special challenge to creating something from who-knows-what is left around the kitchen. It takes a bit of bravery to wander into this realm (which in my house) is definitely not MY realm. The satisfaction of creating in this way often outweighs the taste of my concoctions but it doesn’t matter to me, thats what hot sauce is for:) Really enjoy your writing styles and as always my best to all three cooks as well as Dad!
A lovely image of a man cooking for himself and enjoying the process and outcome. My husband does not cook but my boys have always helped out in the kitchen and my older son cooks with his buddies on Sundays while he is at school and occasionally with his brother at home. Hub is content with leftovers while I despise them so there are frequently only enough leftovers for one lunch — his. We all find what works for us. Really nice blog, ladies.
Oh, the leftover struggle!! I’m all for cooking large meals to feed you lunch thru out the week! Only problem is I work with my live-in Boyfriend and he WILL NOT eat leftovers! I still have yet to learn to cook smaller meals since it will just go in the trash the next day no matter how much he promises he will eat it. One day he will enjoy them!